Springer's Journey

Yesterday, I couldn’t do it.

There is a trail here where one of the park employees told me I could find beautiful quartz. He had picked up a gorgeous little cluster himself and said there were specimens just lying on the ground.

Just lying on the ground.

For a woman who likes rocks, those are dangerous words.

There was only one problem.

SNAKES.

I am from a part of Oregon where venomous snakes simply aren’t part of my everyday thinking. I have never seen a venomous snake in the wild.

And apparently Arkansas has decided to make up for this deficiency in my education. There are 6, YES 6, venomous types of snakes common to this area.

I know the sensible things. Stay on the trail. Watch where I put my hands and feet. Don’t step over logs without looking at the other side. Don’t reach blindly under rocks.

And, most importantly, if I see anything that looks even remotely like a snake, I don’t need to identify it.

I don’t need to know its genus.

I don’t need to know its species.

I don’t need to know whether its pupils are round, elliptical, rectangular, or shaped like tiny portraits of Elvis Presley.

I need to LEAVE IT ALONE.

This is excellent advice.

Yesterday, it did not get me up the trail.

I started.

I looked at the leaves.

I looked at the sticks.

I looked at more leaves.

Every stick began looking suspicious.

Mayday Murphy, my resident catastrophizer, apparently opened a branch office specializing in Arkansas reptiles.

I turned around.

But this morning I was sitting there drinking my coffee and thinking about those rocks.

Those beautiful rocks.

Those beautiful, sparkly, completely defenseless rocks just lying up there waiting for somebody who was apparently braver than I was.

And eventually curiosity won.

Not by much.

I took Stick.

Actually, I took reinforcements.

If you’ve ever seen a blind person tapping a cane from side to side to navigate what lies ahead, you have a general idea of what I looked like—except I was carrying enough lumber to construct a small deck.

Tap left.

Tap right.

Tap ahead.

Rustle the leaves.

Tap.

Tap.

ANNOUNCEMENT TO ALL SNAKES: LORRIE IS APPROACHING. PLEASE MAKE YOUR TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS ACCORDINGLY.

I must have looked absolutely ridiculous.

I didn’t care.

And then I saw one.

Not a snake.

A ROCK.

Then another.

Quartz.

Little crystals catching the sunlight. Rust-colored iron staining. Clear points. Milky white pieces. One strange specimen with long layers and structures running through it that I promptly attacked with a chisel before Professor Headquarters could tell me not to.

Oops.

Science occasionally moves faster than peer review.

I didn’t hike very far.

That’s important.

I didn’t conquer the mountain. I didn’t suddenly become fearless. I didn’t march triumphantly through Arkansas announcing that snakes and I had reached a diplomatic agreement.

I was still afraid.

I simply wanted to see what was around the next bend in the trail a little more than I wanted to turn around.

So I went a little farther.

And then I came back.

With rocks.

Some of the larger ones I’m going to leave around my campsite when I go. Maybe somebody else will find one. Maybe a kid will pick one up and think they’ve discovered the greatest treasure in Arkansas.

They don’t need to know it was delivered by a woman accompanied by a walking stick and an improvised snake percussion ensemble.

They can have the adventure.

I’ll keep a few of the smaller specimens for myself.

They’re not valuable. At least I don’t think they are.

But that’s not really why I want them.

I’ll remember exactly where they came from.

I’ll remember being afraid.

I’ll remember turning around the first time.

And I’ll remember going back.

Which seems to be something I’m learning on this journey:

Courage apparently doesn’t always look like fearlessness.

Sometimes courage looks remarkably like a woman walking very slowly through the woods, whacking the ground with three sticks because she really, really wants the rocks.

And now I have returned triumphantly to my campsite to admire my treasures sparkling in the sunshine on my picnic table.