I Took the One That Didn’t Make Sense
Unforced Movement
Moving without trying to improve anything.
I layered up today before heading out.
It was colder than almost any day this past winter.
I didn’t mind.
Cool air without wind feels easier.
I planned to walk past the still closed trailhead and go to the other entrance.
The one I usually end up at.
I keep seeing people head toward the closed side from there.
They never seem to turn around.
They just disappear.
I wondered if there was another way through.
Or if I just wasn’t noticing them come back.
As I got closer to crossing over, something shifted.
My anxiety rose.
I was right there.
All I had to do was cross the street.
But my body didn’t move.
My legs just… didn’t go.
Instead, I noticed another path.
Down inside a cut in the ground.
I could see part of it, but not where it ended.
That felt easier.
I took that instead.
At the bottom, I saw a chunk of a brick wall.
About three by three.
Just sitting there.
It looked new.
Out of place.
I wondered how it got there.
I kept going.
Further along, I saw a large metal container.
Heavy.
Bolted down.
It looked like something that should have a warning on it.
Something you’re not supposed to touch.
I walked closer.
The label wasn’t a warning.
It just showed what kind of trash could go in it.
In English and Spanish.
With pictures.
Milk cartons.
Dog waste.
It felt more serious than it needed to be.
Like it didn’t trust anyone to figure it out without instructions.
I moved on.
The path curved and began to rise.
I saw two options.
A longer, sloped way back up.
And a shorter, steeper one straight to the sidewalk.
I wasn’t sure I could make it up the steeper one.
I tried anyway.
At one point I used my hands to steady myself.
Almost like crawling.
It wasn’t far.
But it felt like something.
When I reached the top without slipping, I felt it.
A small sense of pride.
Like I had done something I hadn’t planned to do.
I thought for a second:
I walk.
I hike.
I climb.
Then I kept moving.
I took the longer way home.
