I typically have a deaf ear when it comes to poetry. In fact, just about anything classified as literature.
But recently, I ran across a passage from English poet William Wordsworth that resonated:
There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct preeminence retain
A renovating virtue …
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen
OK, I didn’t quite grasp the meaning of “spots of time” in its context, which is part of Wordsworth’s poem, “Prelude.” Rather, it took an interpretation by author Alain de Botton in his book, “The Art of Travel” to explain that “spots of time” are those instances in nature that leave a lasting impression. Those times when nature leaves an indelible impact that carries you through those low, or at least melancholy, moments in life.
Over the years I’ve had several such moments, reaching back to my youth in Colorado and continuing through two weeks ago. Here are five I tend to lean on:
Treehouse in a cottonwood. I spent part of my childhood in a new housing development on the outskirts of Denver. Mine was a typical ‘60s childhood, with more time spent outside than in, and significantly more time spent beyond the reach of parental influence. The place where my grade school buddies and I found the greatest escape was an ancient cottonwood that grew a stone’s throw from Cherry Creek. From a ramshackle treehouse midway up the tree we had a sweeping view of the creek as well as the front range of the Rocky Mountains some 25 miles to the west. I could sit in that treehouse for hours and just stare. I didn’t truly appreciate this “spot of time” until a few years ago when I was revisiting the area, now completely developed. I rounded a bend on a paved greenway and — Bam! — there it was, not 20 feet ahead: that grand old cottonwood, the giving tree of my formative years. Ever since, I revisit that tree in spirit on a regular basis.
The Reservoir. In college in the late 1970s I had occasion to attend summer school. It was an idyllic time: I worked a part-time job three mornings a week, took three classes, and spent my remaining waking hours at a reservoir on the edge of town. Horsetooth Reservoir was fed by mountain runoff, its waters not long removed from ice. Take a dip, climb out and lay on the warm rock slabs that contained the reservoir; slowly dry off and day dream. One July afternoon a small jet flew surprisingly low overhead; for some reason that conjured the realization, at 21, that this was as good as it was likely to get.
Hunkered down in a storm. About a decade ago I lead a backpack trip into the Joyce Kilmer/Slickrock Wilderness in the Nantahala National Forest. We established basecamp in a gap pocked with rhododendrons that provided privacy and protection from the elements. One day we took a rigorous 10-mile day hike that proved exceptionally challenging to one of our hikers. I stayed with that hiker, coaxing him up hills as we raced an incoming storm. Exhausted, we got back to camp in time to crawl into our tents just as the rain started. The storm lasted for an hour and a half, and while there was wind and some lightening, the tent offered a safe cocoon. I remember drifting in and out of sleep, about as relaxed as it was possible to be.
Coming down Hump Mountain. I’ve lead dozens of backpack trips on that magical stretch of the Appalachian Trail between Carver’s Gap and US 19E, and honestly, there’s at least one scene from each that will make my EOL (end of life) highlight reel. But one always bubbles to the surface. It was a summer afternoon and we were coming off of Hump Mountain (pictured above) headed to Doll Flats. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, it was a perfect 70 degrees, we had just had a long lunch of tuna packets and sunshine atop Hump, where you can see deep into Tennessee to the west, all the way to Grandfather Mountain to the east. What wasn’t to like? Perhaps the reason this spot of time sticks is because I had the presence of mind to take a picture coming off the mountain, a picture that, to me, captures the best 13.7-mile stretch of trail in the Southeast.
The Appalachians in the Piedmont. I wasn’t playing hooky, really; I was checking out potential sites for a work-related event. But the feeling of getting away with something permeated my first visit to the Hickory Creek Access of Mayo River State Park, a segment of the park I’d only become aware of that morning. It was cold (in the low 40s), it was sunny, it was mid-afternoon during a work week. And it wasn’t like I was in the Piedmont; rather, like I was hiking an old roadbed in the Appalachians, a surprisingly high ridge on my left, the rocky Hickory Creek well below on my right. I could have been on one of a hundred trails I’ve hiked in the Pisgah National Forest, yet I was only a 20-minute drive from my Piedmont base camp. The memory will stick, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be returning to refresh all the same.
Embrace your spots of time. They are, as Wordsworth wrote, “A renovating virtue.”