Music in the Woods By Roy Kain
As Mountain Man tries to take some well-deserved rest in the woods after spring planting, his solitude is interrupted in a most delightful way.
The green canopy of ash and beech provided a cooling umbrella
over my open camp. It would be another hot and sticky day outside
the woods of Morris Run. The vegetable garden at my homestead
had been chewing away at my time, blistering my bark-covered hands,
and turning my skin the color of iodine. I was in dire need of
a respite in some patch of woods. With the satisfaction of knowing
the kitchen garden was finally planted, along with my haversack
and bedroll, I spent a woodland getaway just a pistol-shot from
the sleepy village of Morris Run.
Once again I was in my element. The small fire I struck sent
a curling shaft of blue-gray smoke up to the treetops. I watched
it crash into the awning of branches and leaves and disappear
into the beyond. Leaning against a hemlock, I sipped my morning
ration of tea and took in the glorious sound of my solo camp.
That sound was silence, the kind of quiet that only deep and
dark forests can manufacture for the lone camper. It is one thing
to be alone, and altogether something otherwise to be lonely.
In the woods on a solo trip, I am perfectly content with the former
and totally unfamiliar with the latter. The time becomes my own,
a sense of genuine freedom prevails, and time according to the
clock is irrelevant.
Wandering through this haven of greenery, or “scouting,”
as we backwoodsmen call it, took up most of the morning. Padding
through the woods in formless, elk-skin moccasins and chamois-soft
buckskin leggings appeals to me immeasurably more than trudging
behind the five horses that power my bone-jarring tiller. The
woods are like an ointment, a green salve for the soul, and provide
a hushing of societal noise. It is a golden thing when one finds
his place on the planet and can go there and be himself. I have
been outside all my life and I’m not coming in.
I ate when I was hungry and slept when I was tired. The plush,
soft moss on which I reclined somehow wouldn’t let me up.
I dozed off, awoke only to doze again, finally stretched lazily
and propped myself up against a nearby hemlock. The sun had passed
its zenith and was beginning the dip westward when I heard music.
Barely. Surely it must be loud at its source in order to reach
my ears deep in the woods.
The upbeat rhythm and loud singing were blurred somewhat by the
trees and brush; nevertheless, I could make out clearly the direction
from which it originated. It would be exciting to track the music
to its source. I departed my secluded hideaway and aimed myself
toward the seemingly out-of-place “noise.”
Sneaking through the woods as if stalking a deer, I felt the
loud and quick melody leading me on. Closer and louder, the music
became distinct; there was laughing, riotous laughing, shouting,
and out-of-tune singing.
I stepped from the woods onto a gravel road where a white, vintage,
convertible vehicle awaited its passengers. There was a church
and a makeshift chapel set up outdoors. Alongside the building
were a man of the cloth, Bible at his side; a lovely young lady
in a snow-white gown dragging a matching train behind her; a gentleman
bedecked in a royal tuxedo and top hat; and a party of young men
and ladies, also dressed in tuxedos or gorgeous gowns of satin,
milling around the couple.
Was I still dozing on my bed of moss or was this a real, live
event I was witnessing? I found myself in the thick of it, receiving
pats on the back and gratefully accepting tankards of ale. There
was dancing and laughing, handshakes and kisses, and tables weighted
with mounds of mouthwatering vittles. I knew this was no ordinary
frolic. This was a wedding. And me, Red Moon, an eighteenth-century
backwoodsman, was in the middle of it. The closer I got to the
happy pair, the more apparent it became, and likewise with the
crowd of celebrants, that I knew these people. Yes, I knew them
well. I wasn’t sleeping on some patch of moss in the woods;
I was at the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Bonham, of Morris
Run.
My camp in the woods grew more and more remote as I found old
friends and acquaintances throughout the celebration. To see the
happiness beaming on the faces of the bride Kim and Matt, and
the joy and pride of Candy and Vern Nybeck, mother and stepfather
of the groom. Watching that retired Air Force master sergeant
escort his lovely new daughter down the woodland aisle, she in
wedding gown, he in full-dress uniform, was a memorable sight
for all. I couldn’t help but notice, while carefully scanning
the wedding party, one particular beauty well known to this mountain
man. It appears my very own daughter-in-law, Brandy, sister of
the groom, was in that spectacular lineup of bridesmaids.
I’m glad I followed that music in the woods on that sunny
afternoon and left my camp behind for a while. I believe there
will be other solo camps for me, but for Matt and Kim, this was
a once-in-a-lifetime celebration.
I never did get back in the woods that weekend. I would have
probably stumbled around and got lost, as darkness in the woods
will do that to you. There may have been other factors that would
have caused me to stumble, also.
Keep your powder dry till next time we come together at this
same place.
You can contact Roy at mountainman@mountainhomemag.com. Someone
will walk up into the hills and make sure he gets the message. |
