Bagpipes in the Forest

My alarm clock announced, seemingly to the whole world, that it was time for me to wake up.  Thanks to the shades in the bedroom I would not have known whether it was high-noon or midnight. Luckily it is not mid-day, well, not quite.  I looked down at my clock, remembering that I had set it to ring at 10 am.  I hadn't arrived in Massachusetts until 1:30 in the early morning, if it can be called morning.  I had traveled from Salt Lake City, via Chicago, to Manchester, New Hampshire where my friend Joey had kindly picked me up from the airport at midnight to take me to his home in rural Massachusetts.  He was getting married just a few days later to a wonderful girl he had dated over the previous year in school.  I felt it my duty as a friend and roommate to attend their wedding. Indeed, I wouldn't have missed it for anything.  Despite the official reason for my visit, I was in the Northeast on vacation.  In the hours that I wasn't helping prepare for their wedding I intended on exploring.  I've never been one to sit idly in a new location, willing to waste precious hours reclining on a lounge chair, poolside, sipping some kind of drink with an umbrella in it. No, I love to move. I love to be a in state of constant motion on my travels, soaking in as much as possible.

So, it came as no surprise to me that I soon found myself exploring, literally on foot, the morning I arrived in Massachusetts.  After staggering out of bed, showering, and getting dressed, I realized that I was the only person in the house.  Joey's parents had already left for work. His little brother and sister had long since left for school.  I did not know where Joey was, but he wasn't in the house, that much I knew.  I debated with myself about what I should do.  I was scheduled to pick up a rental car, but not until the next day.  I had planned on being at the mercy of my hosts on this Wednesday, after which I would be freed by my rental car.  However, as I sat in the dining room listing my options for the morning, it became clear that I couldn't just sit in the house and wait for someone to come home and entertain me. I decided that it would be best if I took a walk.

I once heard that the best way to truly learn about a destination is to go for a run.  I hadn't brought any work-out clothes with me and didn't really feel like a run, but I thought that a nice walk around the area would do just as well.  Joey's family owned a home on a country road amid acre after acre of forest.  Though they technically lived in Groton, they were in reality far from the town itself.  Nevertheless, I closed the front door behind me. The air was cool and humid. Really humid.  Dripping-sweat-inducing humid.  The sky was overcast and the trees and shrubs in the forest were blanketed in a small film of moisture. I walked down their country lane until I came to my second decision of the day: left or right?  I remembered seeing some sort of town on a map south of their home, so I chose to turn left.  The asphalt road had two brilliant stripes of yellow paint down the middle, but there was no sidewalk, and very little shoulder.  The forest crept up to the edges of the road, following its curves as it moved from north to south.

I walked and walked.  And then I walked some more.  Aside from the occasional cottage there was very little that diverged from the road.  As I walked I gazed into the forest, amazed at how lush it seemed. I had been to Massachusetts once before, but as a teenager and not entirely observant.  Back then it seemed as if all of Massachusetts were Boston and her many suburbs. Instead, now I was strolling down a country lane surrounded by verdant forests.  As I stared out into the woods I noticed two amazingly parrellel lines appearing and disappearing in the undergrowth.  As I looked closer I was surprised to see the rusting rails of an old railroad.  Sometime in Groton's illustrious past there had been a narrow-gauge railroad that passed through this way.  Today, however, the railroad only occasionally peeked out from the bushes, as if trying to hide in solitude but constantly remind those who pass by of its glory days.  I was thoroughly impressed.  As I continued down the road I would glance to my right, checking to see if my metalic friends were still there.  They always were.

After 20 minutes I began to question the wisdom in my decisions to, first, go on a walk, and second, turn left.  I had seen the random cottage here and there and a lot of trees, and not much else. I began to wonder just how far this town was that I supposedly saw on the map. Clinging to the side of the road and debating myself in my head, I was suddenly jolted by a loud noise. A frighteningly loud noise in fact. A noise that I would not have expected to be ringing out from the endless forests around me.  Blaring from somewhere in the woods came the sound of bagpipes. You know, the Scottish instrument that one wouldn't expect to hear miraclously playing in the woods of the Northeast.  Yet there it was, unmistakable.  I looked all around me. I tried to pinpoint the direction the bagpipes were coming from.  My question would be answered for me as I came around the bend in the road.  Suddenly appearing two hundred yards off the road on the left was a tall colonial church.  The foundation and walls were made of stone, but the butresses and ceiling were built out of wood.  Perhaps most startling was the contrast between this stone church and the numerous BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis parked outside.  A line of people slowly poured out of the front doors, almost all wearing black, as a casket was loaded into the back of a hearse.  I had stumbled upon a somber funeral, on an overcast Wednesday morning, in the deep woods of Massachusetts.

As the bagpipes continued to play, I stood and watched as mourning family members and friends slowly made their way into their luxury automobiles, ready to follow the hearse to the cemetery.  Though looking back it was a little morbid, I found it interesting to watch the funeral procession move from church to cemetery. Eventually the bagpipes stopped, the hearse pulled away, and vehicle after vehicle followed behind.  Soon I found myself alone again, walking down the road.

That morning became one of my favorite memories from that trip.  It was unplanned. It was not entirely eventful or exciting. However, that hour long trek down the asphalt road left me with a better understanding of Massachusetts than any other experience.  I could feel the moisture in the air. I could smell the pines of the forest. I discovered a small piece of the state's past sitting forgotten in the forest along the roadside.  Although for just a small moment, I witnessed an every-day event common across the state.  And most of all, I was startled by an unexpected rendition of Amazing Grace. It was memorable.
      

An Invitation

I've often heard it said that once a writer finds that all-important first sentence the rest will write itself.  I don't know how true that maxim is, but I do know the difficulty of finding words that accurately convey your thoughts, feelings, and impressions. I am not a author, nor do I claim to be a particularly adept writer by any means.  However, as I wander through life, meeting new people and exploring new places, I frequently feel the urge, "the Call," to write down what I see, what I hear, and what I feel.

This blog is meant to be an empty canvas, waiting for my thoughts to spew forth.  The primary subject of this blog will be my travels: the places I go, the foods I try, the people I meet, and the impressions I have along the way.  I cannot promise that you will find the subject matter especially insightful or worth your time, or that I will even frequently post on this site, but I do promise that the words you will read will be heartfelt and, to some degree, inspired. When I feel "called" to write, I will.  I've been extremely blessed in life to travel.  I believe that my explorations have shaped me into the man I have become today.  I also feel that it would be very selfish of someone so blessed to be so secretive and closed about what he has experienced.  So, come along with me, have your eyes opened to the world around you, as I begin Retracing My Footprints.