Exploring my surroundings, slight or vast, to gain a deeper understanding of my relationship with them has always been vital to me. The consequences of this practice are many: frequent wandering through both charted and uncharted places, questioning the influence things (including myself) have on one another, and wondering if there was any controlling cause over all of it.
On a hike not far from my home, one such exploration became tangible when
I discovered a note someone had placed among a bundle of sticks at the
head of a trail. Fragile with weather and age, the scribbled markings
fragmented as they unfolded. They read:
sompem happen … i caint splane it …im gonna go look see if anybody else made it … id advise you not come after me … best wait till i get back
The condition of the manuscript led me to believe that the writer had either forgotten about the note or had not returned. Had it been months, years, decades? Was the note merely a farce placed by a prankster, a warning to keep unwanted hikers off the land, a desperate plea written to an expected visitor?
