The Path

The Path

The ground slides underneath my feet. It’s hard to get any traction on the muddy trail so I run slower than usual, knowing I won’t make my goal time. But hey - I’ll sacrifice a good lap time to avoid a sprained ankle any day.

It’s quiet in the park this morning. There are none of the dog-walkers and joggers I normally see. Instead of snippets of chatter and the occasional dog bark all I hear is the squelch of my runners and the chirp of a bird too stubborn to fly south for winter. I’m surprised I haven’t seen any of the run crew yet - Vicky, Jay, Ben. They rarely miss a morning run. Last night’s rain must’ve kept them away, too.

Their loss, I think. Yes, the trail is muddy and the trees are dripping so much it might as well still be raining. But the sight of the park in the morning, light filtering through branches in glowing beams, striping the forest in gold and green, is more beautiful than any man-made cathedral. This is nature’s church, and I’m here to worship.

My feet and breath settle into a slow rhythm, a tidal ebb and flow. I let it carry me along the path. On a normal day, I sprint through my morning run, trying to gain the most distance in the least amount of time. Today’s slower pace is a new experience. The forest isn’t just a blur of greens and browns as I run past. I can see the details. See where new saplings sprout from fallen trunks. Spot the bare deciduous branches hidden between the evergreens’ thick fronds. I’d always thought of the forest as empty in winter. The dead space between fall and spring. But now I can see the space isn’t emptiness - it’s breathing room. Winter lets you see the places between the trees, the parts of the forest normally hidden from view.

I stop at the top of a hill, my usual resting spot, and check my time. Only a few minutes off pace. Reaching my hands above my head, I stretch side to side, working out some tension in my oblique muscles. Suddenly, a blur of grey swoops past, inches from my face. An owl perches itself in a tree to my right, black eyes unblinking. It tilts its head to the side. Assessing.

“Hey,” I laugh. “Little late in the morning for you, isn’t it?”

The owl responds by flying further into the trees, smoothly gliding down a clear channel between the branches. I blink. There, just off the main path, is the entrance to a trail I’d never noticed before. I pull up a mental map of the park. The trail looks like it heads south, which should take me towards Lost Lake at the centre. I check my watch. I’ve got time.

…

It’s drier on this path compared to the main trail. I move quickly, following the narrow track of dirt bordered by ferns on either side. It’s brighter here, too. There’s an open swath of blue sky overhead and this part of the forest is lit up like a summer day.

I run faster. My stride lengthens to the point I feel like a deer leaping across the forest floor, feet barely touching the ground before I’m soaring through the air again.

The path continues straight ahead. I can see the clean line of it cutting through the ferns, golden light glinting off their fanned leaves.

Something else glints in the distance. Rippled light bouncing off water. Lost Lake.

With a grin, I sprint. Pumping my arms and legs as hard as I can. Blood rushing to my limbs, powering me forward to the finish line. I can see more of the lake now, framed in the feathery limbs of evergreens. One last push and I’m there.

The ground disappears. I have that split-second of weightlessness, the confusion that comes when your body is no longer supported, and I fall. My seat hits hard dirt and suddenly I’m sliding uncontrollably downhill. My hands grab at the ground, searching frantically for something to hold on to. My heels dig in, trying to slow my body down, sending sprays of dirt into the air.

The momentum is too much. I roll, my body tumbling sideways, shoulders bumping against the ground in a painful rhythm as I try to keep my arms tucked in. Crash position.

When I stop, I’m tangled in a mess of scrubby bushes. Their leafless branches jab into my skin even through my clothing. I gingerly roll myself away, cringing at the dry crack of sticks breaking, and then ease myself to all fours. Then to standing. The world spins for a moment but quickly rights itself. I feel soreness along my back, shoulders and tailbone. Nothing that indicates broken bones. I’ll have a few bruises to deal with but I seem to be OK.

Brushing off the dead leaves and twigs, I step out of the underbrush. I landed just a few feet from the gravel trail that surrounds Lost Lake.

The lake water sits still and glassy in front of me. The golden shimmer I saw from up on the trail is gone. It’s dark down here, despite the clear open sky overhead. While up on the trail the forest seemed light and airy, the trees here stand close together, a protective wall around the lake. I shiver. Without the sun, it feels very much like winter down by the water.

Pulling up my mental map, I remember that the proper trail entrance is to my left. I take a few steps on the gravel path and wince - my right ankle is throbbing. I avoided the sprain on the muddy trail only to get one tumbling down a hill.

“Great,” I mutter, slowly hobbling towards the trail entrance on the east side of the lake.

When I look up to see how much farther, I see that I’m not alone. There’s a man standing at the trail sign, his tight leggings telling me he’s another runner. At this distance, I can only make out his dark hair and broad shoulders, but he’s definitely familiar.

“Ben!” I shout, raising my arm to wave. I wince again. My shoulder took more damage than I thought.

He raises his hand.

I try to walk faster but the pain in my ankle screams at me to slow down.

“I’m hurt!” I call.

He doesn’t move. His head tilts to the side, like he’s analyzing what I just said. I think about shouting again, but realize he may not be able to hear me, only see me. So I keep walking, as quickly as my ankle will let me.

The lake path veers away from the shore, weaving between a cluster of tall evergreens and blocking my view of Ben. When the trail bends back to the shore, Ben is gone.

“Ben! Ben, goddammit!” I yell. I’m at the trail sign. I’d only lost sight of him for a minute.

A splash in the water pulls my attention to the lake. Small, concentric circles ripple the surface close the edge. I shuffle forward, enough that I can see my wavy reflection.

There’s a stick caught in my ponytail. I pull it out and toss it out into the water. As the water stills, I lean closer to my reflection, checking for any bruises or scrapes on my face. My skin looks clear but my eyes - my eyes seem dark, like the whites have disappeared. I feel myself blink - but my reflection doesn’t. Its black eyes stare at me, unblinking. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

When I open them again, my nose is nearly touching the water. Black eyes bore into mine as strong hands clasp either side of my face, pulling me headfirst into the shallows, the sound of squelching mud the last thing I hear.