Chapter 1: A strange encounter and a long walk

A strange thing happened to me today, and I must write it down before I forget any of the details. It is New Year's Day, 2024, evening. 

I was walking in Breithaupt Park this morning, near the highway. There was snow last night, after weeks of rainy weather. Leaf mold, damp bark, mud and moss were covered in soft white; the sky, still dim, was more white than grey. The trees stretching high above me and the path winding out before me seemed no more the haunted ruins of an ancient abbey, but a soaring ice palace from a northern fairytale. 

While I was craning my neck in all directions to drink in this crystalline beauty, and breathing in deep gulps of cold air, I failed to notice a person coming towards me over the crest of the path ahead.

She was nearly upon me before I looked down, and I jumped to see her only a few paces away, my body preparing itself unconsciously for impact. However, she was fully aware of me, and making rather direct eye contact, such that I was never in any danger of a crash. I stopped short, feeling my eyes widen and my shoulders draw involuntarily back, and returned her gaze. 

There followed more than a reasonable amount of silence between two complete strangers in a dim white wood; it should have been eerie but was the opposite. I find myself now unable to remember if her eyes were blue and clear like the newly fallen snow, or brownish-green like the moss and mud. They seem to be both at once - clear as the most articulate thought leading to the most decisive and excellent action, earthy as the deepest love rooted in the bowels of earth, leading to the dissolution of all boundaries. 

She spoke first. 

"You're far from home," she said, in a tone that was deeply praising, almost as one would say to child taking their first steps

With these words, I felt confusion - despair - resistance - peace - and a thrill, all at once. I wanted to push her away, and I wanted to follow her. I want to retreat, and I wanted to run forward. 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know what I mean," she said, "By any reasonable standards, you are not truly far from home. You live not far from here. Perhaps you drove - yes - but again, not far. You could walk home, and you are aware of that. You're dressed as though you're going on an Arctic expedition, but it cannot be more than a few degrees below zero, only enough to hold this snow for a few hours. Your footsteps are tentative, and your eyes overly resolute. You look too often at the horizon, and then force your gaze to the earth, or it turns inward, and you must wrest it outward again. You were, while enjoying the beauty of this woods, also deciding whether to turn back at the next path."

I felt a surge of panic over take me, and she saw this in my eyes, and then suddenly it dissipated, rapidly, too rapidly, as though I was under the influence of a drug, though I had taken none today. I felt not - nothing - but a sort of bodily tranquility connected with a gentle clarity of mind, in which I accepted each object in my view with utter equanimity.

"You need not turn at the next path. In fact, I will walk with you and together we will go further."

With this she took my hand and turned around to face in the same direction as me, and together, we moved forward, I saying nothing.

I should describe her more fully. Though my recollection of her eyes is unclear, I can recall easily her other features and accessories. She was shorter than I, and I am not tall - she was under five feet. She had a round face with a small mouth and nose, ruddy from the cold. I could see a few wisps of soft brown hair coming out of her toque, and she was wearing a generic synthetic winter coat and leggings. She wore comfortable walking boots and had a long grey scarf. In every way she looked like the average woman out for a winter walk and if I had seen her in passing in a crowd I would not have remembered her.

She walked lightly and methodically and did not speak. Her hand was small in mind and covered by a new-looking mitten. 

We walked slowly but steadily in silence and crossed  the next two adjoining paths without comment. We were nearing the back of the park and I realized I was waiting for the early flash of fear in my chest that arises as I get farther from my car. Although I've left the park from the back and walked around to the parking lot along the street many times, to challenge myself with the distance, the pangs of fear are common at this point, and I must always make a choice to face them, or not.

We were now leaving the park by the east exit, where the treed area narrowed such that the path ran right next to the tall corrugated metal fence sheltering us from the highway to the north; there was a large suburban house to the south. We exited the woods but continued down the path as it crossed Edwin St. and ran along between the metal barrier and another house.

My mind was simply taking things in. I recalled a thousand memories of this liminal space, recalled the joy of moving further away from home and the fear of it and the curiousity. 

A thousand times - maybe more. I have been a agoraphobic my entire adult life. My capacity shifts and changes, like a dream - I've cycled kilometers into fields and laid in wild streams; I've crept carefully around city blocks only steps from my door. I've been up dancing all night in damp old buildings with bright lights deep downtown; I've lain paralyzed with fear in my own bed while a friend came to watch over me. I've moved hundreds of kilometers to start a new life in this now old city which I can't leave. I've experienced the joyful thrill of driving into a new town nearby, breaking new ground, only to know the horror of returning home so quickly my speed is a danger to others. And more than anything, I've walked these transitory spaces near my home over and over, each times feeling as though I've discovered something new, each time wanting to push further, and so many times, returning home again in acceptance, or shame, or defeat, or satisfaction, but always in fear. And always, always, the drive to try again; to break free of my horizons and my fears, to see the world clearly and with new eyes.

We were now moving steadily along the path, passing Union Lane Green and more houses, crossing Oxford St. and then curving into a scrubby woods, beautiful in the snow. I continued to notice everything from within a strange state of clarity and calm. I felt like myself, but with something removed. We reached the end of the path as it came out next to a small apartment building on Lancaster St and then we crossed through the parking lot and turned north to go over Highway 85.

It was noisy and colder up here, snow beginning to hit us in the face, swirl around us as the cars sped underneath, and I was exhilarated. I turned to the woman next to me and we smiled at each other and started to run. It was a spontaneous, wild run, as though we want to match the speed and frenzy of the cars and the snow; as if we wanted to outrun fear, but then didn't need to, since fear was not present, and found we were only running with joy. Over the bridge now, we ran across six lanes of traffic, happily empty this morning while people slept off their celebrations, and followed a path between the gas station and the highway. It had been about 20 years since I'd been down this path, and about two years since I'd felt able to come to this area of the city with ease. 

The path was strewn with garbage and there were tents alongside it. We passed through the encampment and the woods beyond filled with car parts and cambered through a hole in the fence, without releasing our hands, to come out on a long winding Bridge St E, which we began to follow southerly, the occasional car going by.

As I write this now, I feel a thrill of fear. How was it possible I was walking, with a stranger, so far from my home to a place I rarely come to without some anxiety? Even in a car this was a part of town that I found difficult to get to these days. With my husband, I could manage it, but even then, not without some trepidation. How was this possible?

We moved off the road onto the Walter Bean Path, high up next to the river. I looked through the snowy trees, far down the hill to the water below, moving swiftly. We continued along, sometimes with the river in sight, sometimes moving further off. It was cold and damp out here, but I felt nothing of it. We reached the valley and crossed a bridge where a creek met the river, and continued on, on and on through hills and trees and snow. We occasionally saw other people, who smiled and nodded; we returned their smiles, sometimes patted their dogs. The forest turned coniferous, deeper, darker, bright snow on dark needles. Signs indicated that the path was unstable; it was falling into the ravine. I have had dreams of this area - deep dark dreams of losing a loved one in the woods and finding a mysterious house. Those were dreams, and not real, but this hardly felt real either - and yet it was, brilliantly real.

Deep crags with trickling icy streams, a deepening cold in these arcane woody spaces. We continued on until we reached a place I was more familiar with, from driving practice trips with my husband. We had reached the outskirts of Bingemans Conference Centre and we were coming upon Flag Raiders Outdoor Paintball's abandoned staging area, with its postapocolyptic zombie world buildings and burned out cars. Very strange, but hardly stranger than what I was experiencing. The path turned uphill, with rushing rivulets of water crossing it, and we had to be careful getting past it, and then we were suddenly in the parking lot of the conference centre.

"You did a wonderful job," she said, stopping suddenly.

"I did," I said, in a dream.

"It's time to go home now," she said, "We've come a long way, but its very little to go back."

I nodded, bemused, strangely unconcerned, more curious with observing the people coming and going into the conference centre, noticing the most mundane details of their clothing or conversation.

She led me back to the path and we began to retrace out steps. We followed the entire path we had taken back all the way to back Breithaupt Park, in complete silence. It was as beautiful going back as it was coming, and if anything I enjoyed it more the second time. I experienced no sense of fatigue, mental or physical.

When we got back to the spot we had met, she dropped my hand and I immediately felt myself again. It wasn't a crashing in sort of feeling, but rather like waking from a dream, but retaining the best parts of the dream, even as they were slowing flitting beyond reach.

"I'll walk you to your car," she said, so we started uphill.

Finally we stood by my car with the warming sunshine of later afternoon peeking through clouds. She reached into her pocket and gave me a card. On it was an illustrated picture of hiking boots and a web address.

"I hope you will walk with me again," she said. I nodded, dumbly, and she walked away back into the woods. I got in my car and somewhat distractedly drove home. 

Now here I am, holding her card, and ready to type in the address.