Archaeology

The air was thick and moist. Through the foliage that was closing in like the clenching teeth of pinking shears, there was gray: endless, monochromatic gray. It wasn’t terribly warm, mid sixties perhaps, but the humidity would cause me to sweat. I learned last week that a leisurely pace would increase my distance with little effort, so I started off at a casual jog.

I didn’t think it was possible. It had only been a week since I’d passed by the primordial pond, the prehistoric water that hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed in hundreds of millions of years: the ancient stew with the impenetrable surface that takes life without conscience, yet provides it with the means to flourish.

I thought at first I was mistaken, that the surface wasn’t reflective, was never reflective, and had never mirrored the world above it. But I wasn’t mistaken. Just last week, when the two women had allowed their dogs a brief respite by the water’s edge, it was reflective; I know it was. The entire surface of the pond, aside from the beaver lodge and the trees that had fallen victim to the water’s corrosive powers, was, in fact, mirror-like and perfectly still.

Today it was very different. The surface was opaque, covered in a layer of grayish-green oddly shaped discs. They’d all come up during the six days of my absence. A few small, untouched areas remained: uncluttered patches where insects could alight, creating concentric rings of gentle movement. As I passed I imagined my feet evoking the same response. When each touched down, circles traveled slowly outward from their center, as if the ground was smooth and coated in a thin layer of glycerin. I could feel the pond’s surface and was tempted to veer onto it, but logic kept me on course.

Looking ahead along the trail, slivers of hazy sun made their way to the ground, creating a series of illuminated portals, giving added perspective to the narrowing path and shrinking foliage.

On my return trip past the pond, more signs of life revealed themselves. A tree, freshly gnawed but not eaten through: its flesh still warm, still fibrous, meaty and the color of fresh mango. Then two others flanking the first only inches away. They were reduced to stumps, but with the distinctive conical shape capping them both. Further along, the remains had weathered and grayed, but the evidence was the same. Just then, toward the end, another beaver lodge. Evolution continues: a world exists here, an entire civilization whose story is told by what can be seen of what once existed, and what was here only moments ago.

I felt comfortable. Despite my somewhat brief encounter with sleep last night, I knew I would go on today: how far was a subject I knew as little about as I did the fragile eco-system occupying the ooze a couple of miles back. Gnats and mosquitoes were out in force and much as I tried to forget my physical presence, the couple of bites on the back of my legs wouldn’t allow it.

The trail gave way to the wooded parking area, and then to the asphalt path that is open to the sounds of traffic and nearby homes. This was territory I’d covered dozens of times last year, before deciding to risk the hazards of the dark and sinister looking path through the woods. I would be adding; building up to whatever might be next. I began to think about a marathon again and wondered if I shouldn’t go to the end, take the morning out to eleven miles: but as before, I wasn’t properly equipped for the distance, not even thinking to place bottle of water in a strategic location.

I would turn around just beyond the bridge, a mile or so short. Although I could see what looked to be the upper lot from my position, I knew it would be unattainable. As I headed back along the farm toward the guardrail that always seemed to signify the end, I knew I’d made the right decision. I hadn’t noticed the breeze on the way since it was at my back, but now it was hitting me directly in the chest, making the last mile or so that much more strenuous. I put what I had into the dash for the center lot, ending with enough left to walk it off for a half-mile or so. Perhaps next week I’ll be better prepared, and not shy away from those two other miles, those sirens who tried their best to lure me to their rocky coast.