By Josh Katzman
". . . To think clearly we must avoid narrow interests or entrenched opinions . . . Being regional, being in place, has its own sort of bias, but it cannot be too inflated because it is rooted in the inviolable processes of the natural world. Philosophy is thus a place-based exercise. It comes from the body and the heart and is checked against shared experience."
-Gary Snyder
It is impossible to ignore the "shared experience" collectively engrossing most of the world in the past months. Indeed, COVID-19 has provided many a new understanding of "being regional, being in place." For some, it has come with "its own sort bias," forced to stay home, with many new worries. As runners, we are not immune to these worries. At least around Boston, trails are now more crowded as people flock to the woods for a respite, compelled into "a place-based exercise."
Personally, I have found myself searching for places I think few others will venture, trying to find solace in freedom of movement. As I've done this, all places I am easily capable of reaching on foot, out my door, often with a Buff folded over my mouth and nose, it has changed how, and why, I run. Places I have run through for nearly twenty years, places I've long taken for granted, have been reborn in my mind, in my experience, fueled by a nuanced appreciation for the ability to explore, and a lingering worry of what could be lost. I've spoken to friends living in Europe who are unable to access the trails outside their home. In hearing their experience, I have learned to appreciate my own backyard, watching it transition from winter to spring, "rooted in the inviolable processes of the natural world."
Each day, as I step outside, staying within my "backyard," I hope to "avoid narrow interests or entrenched opinions" about my own experience. About this global crisis. For that time, I look to let running be a way of "being in place," of filling "the body and the heart" so that, when this is all over, I will be more grounded in the never-changing "processes of the natural world," and more open than ever to our shared experiences.
At first I ran by this plant, just catching a glimpse of it off on the side of the tight single track. Perhaps because it was one of the first days when school was not open, I felt compelled to be inspired. I turned around, crouching down on the trail, watching this plant shake off the night’s frost, caught between winter and spring.
On a cloudy day, I invented a story of how this shell came to be in this spot, imagining a young child, probably in kindergarten, oblivious to the impending swell of COVID-19, at home with her parents, encouraged to make a “treasure” that could be left for someone to discover and smile.
Access denied, it is difficult to not consider what will happen when this is all over. My first reaction was annoyance at the inconvenience confronting these signs had caused me. I considered ignoring them, disregarding the rules and doing as I wished. I chose not to act on that instinct, yet remained disappointed in myself that it had been my default response, hopeful that the future will help us all make wise decisions.
As closure signs became more common, I found myself more accepting. Almost exactly one year before, just beyond this sign, I had experienced a moment of clarity about what running has provided to my life that I still get goosebumps thinking about it. The trail beyond this sign will be there in the future. I will be sure to visit again.
How many times had I run within feet of this spot? How could I have missed it all these years?
Several years before I’d come across this same spot, boggled by the colors that appeared from the dried leaves. On this run, it was the furthest I’d get from my home, but I wanted to return to see if the flowers had returned, convinced I’d be too early in the year. As I crested the hill, to the section exposed to the sun, the flowers were there, just as they’d been years before.
Seasons have a way of holding fast. Frost covered the ground, yet the sun, even early in the day, had made even a light jacket unnecessary. I had knelt down to take this picture, and as I stood up, frost clung to the knees of my running tights.
While I like to imagine I am an “expert” about all the trails within a large radius around my home, I am humbled to think about the real experts and visionaries who were able to piece together networks of green space, in a region that is home to millions of people, and design the trails that I now enjoy. I wonder if I will be able to contribute, even a little bit, so that years from now, other people will have the joy to “discover” the gems in their backyards.
This field, sometimes home to grazing cattle, host to a solar array on the far end, sometimes laced with shoe-sucking mud. I had run around its perimeter many times, once with a friend on a frigid, frigid morning as we tried to share a mostly-frozen water bottle full of coffee and maple syrup. This was the first time I had seen this bench. Too worried about COVID-19 to sit down, I still paused for a minute, accepting its invitation for reflection.
COVID-19 has become a near-constant presence on my runs. Worrying about passing other people and the trail of respiratory droplets they might be leaving (and that I’m leaving for them). Wearing a double-folded Buff over my mouth and nose, my hot air quickly soaking the cloth. And now even the trees won’t let me forget, even for a moment. I’m grossed out by the reminder about ticks as well, but manage a smile. Not only is the scene beautiful, the water calm, and, even with this relatively late start to the run there is no one else to be seen, but because this sign serves to remind that nature does not stop because of COVID-19. I wish ticks did.
Wet. Morning frosts seem to be being replaced with showers (although, unknown to me at this point, we will still get a mid-April snow). A section of trail that usually required a “civilized” bushwhack. A dark morning brightened by a freshly cleared trail, footfalls muffled by the damp ground.
Water and rock. One is soft and flows. One is hard and immovable. Water wears away at rock.
April showers. Uninspired by the dreary weather, I stepped outside and saw this. Inspired to capture the image, the moment. Exploration and discovery can happen anywhere. I just need to look for them.
We need fertilizer to grow. There is beauty and grace in the places and things we do everyday. As I’ve explored the backyard more closely these last many weeks, it has helped me remember this. I could explore these trails for the rest of my life, and in each season, on each day, discover something new and inspiring. If I look. I wonder how this will “check against shared experience” when I share these trails with friends once again.
About the Author
Josh Katzman is a Boston-based runner who has learned to embrace the adventure on his run-commute almost as much as his adventures on the trails. He is the co-founder of the Trail Animals Running Club (TARC) Trail Series and lives with his wife, two sons, and their dog (all of whom he has roped into helping with TARC races one way or another).
