Proper Etiquette

I’ve been through these woods many times in my lifetime. I’ve watched how the leaves turn golden so gradually that you don’t notice until it’s mid-October and half of them are crunching under your feet. Like clockwork each spring, the trees start budding and showing off how they’ve survived the harsh winter. Those same trees mourn their neighbors that have been lost, feeling the emptiness in their roots. In summer, branches sing with cicadas that have taken refuge for the season. Then back to fall when every step echoes and crunches around the trees slowly revealing themselves once again and preparing for the cold about to take place.

But I’ve never seen this trail before.

This was new. Its dirt was uncovered and recently overturned, snaking its way between roots as if trying to hide its presence from passerby. But it’s obvious to those who were just here yesterday and every day before that for decades. It was new.

Normally trails are developed naturally via human use. You can always tell which ones are used most from how they’re nothing but dust. The less trodden upon tend to be disjointed and interrupted by pebbles and roots. But the used are smooth and expertly avoid roots. They leave the prints of shoe treads as clear as a crisp, fall day. A lot of the time, us park rangers will ensure that the used paths don’t extend their reach too much by placing wooden beams down as borders. The steep inclines will get beams imbedded in the side of them so people looking for an easy walk through the woods don’t have to worry.

Not this trail, though.

Its borders were bleeding into its surroundings. Stretching to the edge of roots long established and trampling the saplings. The smell of wet earth permeated the air after the rain last night. While the rest of the woods seem to have dried off by midday, this new trail remains a dark contrast to the bright green of its surroundings.

I grab my walkie-talkie that rests on my shoulder, and speaking into it, ask, “Was a new trail approved that I didn’t know about?”

Static. Then, “Not that we know of. Are there signs of patrons making a new one?”

“Not just making. Made.”

“What? Where?”

“Quadrant 4B. I’m 0.5 miles into the Maple trail.”

A pause, then a hum, “Strange. Looks like that quadrant should’ve been sectioned off from idiots so we could watch for flooding. You know how the river likes to bite back.”

I look to my right where the river moves steadily down the bank. Despite all the rain, it hadn’t even tried to reach past its perimeter. That’s why I came out here to begin with; this time of year always leads to someone getting overconfident and falling into the grasp of the river that got too greedy after guzzling up the heavy rainfall of mid-April.

“The river hasn’t changed.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“I mean,” I sigh and turn back to the trail looming on my left, “that something’s going on here that we don’t know about.”

“You wanna call it in?”

I contemplate for a second, just staring and recreating the park in my head, trying to puzzle out where the mystery trail might lead, “Nah. I’ll check it out real quick. Keep the walkie on though, in case I fall on my ass and can’t get back up.”

That gets a chuckle, relieving some of the tension I knew he was feeling, “Alright old guy. Don’t forget that you’re not in your twenties anymore and rush in all stubborn like I’ve heard you were.”

“No promises.”

That’s the last thing I tell Gerald the newbie. No promises. I can’t keep a promise. I didn’t have a say in the matter though. The new trail was far more than expected. It was wonderful.

The earth compacted under my feet with every step and each step brought another waft of the wet earth up to me. Looking back, I could see the imprint of my boot, but each ended up sprouting small white capped mushrooms. When I first noticed them, I tried to grab one, but my hand kept missing it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t grab onto the small stems.

Another odd thing was that I couldn’t see the river. Only a few steps onto the trail and I couldn’t see the river that was visible from anywhere in the park. The gentle burbling of it was gone, as w the fish that would splash around.

I heard nothing and could only see what was directly adjacent to the path. If I looked further than the first row of trees surrounding me, my head spun and the fog enveloped me until I was picking myself up from the ground and moving forward again.

Time was nonexistent. I forgot where I was, where I was going, why I was there, who I was. All I knew was to keep following the path. Keep moving forward. But which way was forward eluded me. My feet kept going but my mind wandered astray.

Eventually, I stopped thinking at all. Just breathing in the thick fog that started to smell less like earth and more like coming home to baked goods. It smelled like being a child again. I didn’t care that I had strayed so far from what I know. I was going back to what I knew. Back to when I didn’t have responsibilities. No bills. No insurance. No rent. No grocery lists that plague me day and night.

My steps became lighter. I didn’t sink down into the earth as much. Or maybe I did, maybe that’s why my feet became so warm and squishy. I couldn’t really tell anymore. I kept walking.

Eventually the trees got closer. I don’t know how long I walked for, all I know is that the earth is warm and comforting. It welcomes me back. Back to what? I don’t need to know that, the earth does all the knowing for me. All I need to do is keep moving toward the trees in front of me and down the hill. That’s what the earth says at least. Keep going until I see the mushroom house.

It looms out of the fog. It looks squishy and delectable, like somewhere you could stay in forever and know that you’re safe. The house is red and white; the stalk sits short and squat to better support the looming cap that hangs over. The gills ruffle in the breeze, some of them scattering and falling on my face as I reach for the door.

It’s a very pretty door. Carved out of maple and glistening in the moist foggy air. Golden leaves are engraved, falling to the bottom, and I think some of them are moving. The door handle is an enticing and warm gold, beckoning me to grab ahold and enter without permission. But the shining silver knocker—a circle of toadstools—argues against it. The knocker hopes that I request permission, if I trespass then they get to keep me for as long as they like, those are their rules of hospitality.

But the gold is so warm. And I am so cold.