My Walkabout

I didn’t know that the poet Robert Frost had one of his homes in New Hampshire, or that most of his poetry was written about life in New England. Akin to his infamous poem, it seemed that the road not taken by myself led me to an unknown destination that made all of the difference.

I wake up in Manchester and wonder what to do as I try to navigate my way to Portland, Maine. I see a few possible routes, and with a pointing of the finger upon the map, I decide to go through the White Mountains and Franconia Notch State Park. I pay the entrance fee and start hiking, not knowing what I may find….

Glacial boulders seemingly placed by Giants are among the greenness and trees. Old World covered bridges bring to mind simpler times in America.

The waters flow over moss strewn rocks, caressing with a loving Mother’s touch. Sitting on the banks of the river, I contemplate jumping in to feel that again.

The wooden steps start to ascend, the rocks grow in canyon walls, and The Flume appears before me.

With each step, I climb into cascading wonder. Hanging ferns tickle the hair on my skin, light water spray drips from the eyelids, giving the appearance of sadness.
Oh contrare…..

The Flume’s walls get narrow as I reach the top, the sun sparkles with brilliance on the slippery rocks, revealing hidden gems in granite and limestone.

At the summit, the waterfall showers you, cleansing sweat and sin. A baptism by Nature, leaving one feeling free to live a new life if you choose as you descend down the opposite side.

More contemplation to be found on the descent, as the canyon opens itself to you, speaking in the light breeze and rustling leaves.

Temptations on the spiritual hike also are found, as a Bear Pit calls my name, a Wolf’s den beckons me to explore it’s interior. Shrooms grow and invite me to eat them for hallucinogenic dreams.

In the end though, I come out unscathed by these, purer in thought from the Road Not Taken.
Perhaps that is what Robert Frost had in mind.