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American Hiker
The magazine of
American Hiking Society
Walk
with Me
Walk with
me. Let me show you the trail as I see, feel and hear it.
This is the way I heard the beauty and grandeur of the Shawnee
national Forest in my days there. And on other days, at other
times it may be completely different. It will always be new,
somehow it will always be different, as nature shapes it as
days, seasons and years endow it with an everchanging character,
just as it makes its subtle changes in me. I invite you to
come walk the trail, to truly experience the beauty of Southern
Illinois. Perhaps you’ll hear the music, as I have. Walk
with me. *
By Zola Van
The Shawnee Forest has always been a part of me. Long before
I realized this forest has a heart that speaks to those who
listen, I had been drawn into a connection with it that I
carry with me wherever I am. I find that when I visit other
places, I catch myself comparing these new locations to the
forest, and no matter how beautiful, I have none that compare
to the Shawnee. Its very heart has spoken to me in its language
of beauty, solitude, and timelessness, and when I am out there,
I own a personal claim to my connection with it. Each visit
is a filling up of thoughts, sights and sounds. I can touch
what is untouchable. I can move slowly through the place and
hear voices of the past speak in whispers of wind. I can fill
my soul as the forest speaks to me and return to my home content
and connected to my past and present. I leave the forest,
thankful that I can feel so passionately for it and with a
sense of peace, knowing that it is always waiting patiently,
changing as it must, and awaiting my return.
How can one ever share these feelings with another? Are there
words enough? Gifted poets perhaps can put thoughts into words
and emote to another such feelings. I could explain the beauty
of an elegant, lonely wildflower, but how can I make someone
understand how it felt to see it there surrounded by gigantic
magnificent bluffs? How can I convey how it felt to find a
butterfly with a broken wing when I, too, felt tired and broken
fro my hike?
As a young girl, I spent many summer days in the Shawnee Forest.
My mother would load the car with picnic supplies and swimsuits
for our favorite summer days at Pounds Hollow. My twin sisters,
my best friends and I would paddleboat, hike, swing from grapevines
and swim to the point of sweet exhaustion while my mother
sketched with charcoal. With the forest as our backdrop, my
best friend and I envisioned our futures, shared our most
secretive of secrets and dreamed our dreams to the rhythm
of the water moving our paddleboat through the hot summer
days. These are some of my favorite memories of childhood
and youth.
In the fall my grandparents would take us to see the Garden
of the Gods. Here we could scamper the soft trails and enjoy
the beautiful color of fall in southern Illinois before winter
came and put the landscapes to sleep. My mother would begin
speaking of ancient seas and glacier action, and my sisters
and I would look at each other with the usual rolling of eyes
at yet another boring geology lesson. As she would speak,
my thoughts would drift, and I would look out at Camel Rock
and wonder past the vista, “What is down there? How do
I get there?” The roads in the Shawnee Forest led to
only the most prominently known spots and were primitive to
say the least. I knew then that someday I would explore beyond
this vista out into the forest. The forest was speaking to
me even then.
Before my husband and I were married, he’d often ask
me what I wanted to do. I would suggest that we visit the
forest, and I was delighted to be able to introduce him to
some of my favorite spots there. We began to explore and hike
out to some of the more remote and obscure spots. We learned
of the River to River Trail and began hiking, exploring, and
developing a connection together to the forest. The trail
took us out past Camel Rock, and I learned what was beyond
the vistas of my youth. It was such a delight that he shared
these passions with me.
One Sunday afternoon we hiked to Millstone Bluff. The soft
and very upward grade was taxing that day. It was winter,
and we hadn’t been on a hike in a while. The grade and
cold were humbling, and we were looking forward to getting
back in hiking shape. Here was a Woodland Indian settlement.
As I walked past the stone graves, which had been looted many
years before, I was filled with such a sense of these people.
At the top of the bluff were the petroglyphs. The view was
spectacular. Standing in the midst of their stone foundations
and empty graves at this vista, I wondered what had happened
to this thriving civilization that disappeared, leaving no
answers. I wondered about the artist who created this Thunderbird
in stone. Did he recreate something he had seen, or was he
merely copying a deity? How long did it take him with crude
instruments to create something that I could stand here hundreds
of years later and admire? Who was he? Perhaps he had been
keeping a watch for attackers and idly whiled away the hours.
For the next weeks I carried Millstone Bluff, the empty graves
and the Thunderbird with me throughout my days. It was just
a feeling but it was intense.
It was in those next weeks that the greatest passions in my
life converged into one. One afternoon my daughters and I,
as usual, were competing for space in the living room. I needed
to play piano, while they needed a dance floor and some music.
We came to an agreement that I would play something special
for them to dance to. They whirled and choreographed as I
created melodies and rhythms for them. They asked,
“What is it called, Mommy?’ I quickly coined the
fitting title, “Angels’ Dance,” and they requested
it over and over, enough times for my fingers to become comfortable
with the new music. “Play another one, Mommy.” My
fingers grabbed a motive I had been toying with and I began
to play. It was at that moment in my living room that the
giant Thunderbird rose before me, flying over millstone Bluff,
casting his shadow. He soared effortlessly before me, and
I had become the artist who painted his flight, not in stone
but in motives and rhythms. My heart raced, and his magnificent
flight soared through my fingers. It then came to me that
“Angels Dance at the Garden of the Gods,” and the
River to River Trail called me in a way it never had before.
And so it is with motives and rhythms that I can share how
it feels as the forest speaks to me softly through time, and
how it calls my name and touches my soul. There is a heart
in this forest, and the trail leads me on toward it.Zola Van,
composer, pianist and a former music teacher, lives in Herrin,
Illinois, with her two children and husband, Jack, who is
a retired English teacher and a new member of the Board of
Directors of the River to River Trail Society. They all love
to hike.
Fore more information about the River to River Trail, visit
http://rivertorivertrail.org/ and the American Discovery Trail
at http://www.discoverytrail.org/*From the CD insert, River
to River Trail: The Hike through Shawnee National Forest,
a collection of piano solos by Zola Van.
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