A WALK ON WYE ISLAND

The Eastern Shore of Maryland, where I live, is endowed with an abundance of beautiful waterways, mainly cove-lined creeks and large, peaceful rivers that wend their way through a gentle landscape to the Chesapeake Bay. Understandably, it is a haven for sailing enthusiasts, many of whom retire in this area to pursue their passion.  For avid walkers, however, the Eastern Shore presents considerable challenges.  Since most large parcels of land are held privately, without any public footpaths or rights-of-way such as one might find in England, walkers are usually consigned to the narrow shoulders of country roads or the backstreets of small towns.  These walks have their charms, of course, but the soul also needs to immerse itself occasionally in wilder, untamed places, which are free from the din of traffic and other menacing sounds of civilization.  As Thoreau reminds us:  "Life consists with wildness.  The most alive is the wildest.  Not yet subdued to man, its presence refreshes him."

Yesterday, in search of a little wildness for myself, I headed up to a place called Wye Island, which is located in the county just north of mine.  Surrounded by the tidal rivers and wetlands of the Chesapeake Bay, Wye Island is a 2,450 acre reserve of fields, meadows, and old growth forest that teem with an amazing diversity of wildlife.  For more than three centuries, it was privately owned and used for agricultural purposes, primarily for growing tobacco and wheat.  In 1976, however, the entire island was purchased by the State of Maryland and opened for public use.  It's a fine example of what I spoke about in my last posting, specifically, the small efforts that can be made by governments and and other organizations to bring people closer to the mystical, healing powers of nature.

As I embarked upon my hike around the island, my initial goal was to walk about fifteen miles, in keeping with a training regime that I have been trying to maintain in preparation for a coast-to-coast walk across England in early June.  After the first mile, however, the Zen spirit tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that good walking is about mindfulness, not mileage.  Thus prompted, I slowed down, discarded the judgmental chatter in my brain, and began to focus all of my senses on the then-present moment.

It was magical, of course, as it always is when one removes the cataracts from one's eyes.  The thick woods -- filled with ancient oaks, maples, hollies, sweetgums, and other trees too numerous to mention -- were bathed in glimmering shafts of sunlight. Small white butterflies danced above patches of yellow dandelions and violets; birds darted across the path in every direction -- warblers, goldfinches, bluebirds, cardinals, bluejays, even a couple of wild turkeys; and Delmarva grey squirrels, unique to this area, could be seen scampering to higher elevations as I made my way down the path to a small open area on the riverbank.

Stopping for lunch, I spent a while just watching the amazing variety of movements in and on the river that surrounds the island.  Blue herons stood feeding in the shallows; a few mallards could be seen in the coves; and the water created a small fence of white foam as it lapped on the small sandbar. "Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour," asks Emerson, " and is not reminded of the flux of all things."

At the end of the day, I had walked about half of the distance that I had envisioned earlier.  As Robert Frost reminds us, however, "happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length."