Walking through Woods on a Summer Evening

The other day was scorching hot with a sky so blue and cloudless that the Sun was left alone to brood over his devices. I was out for a walk with my four legged comrade early in the evening hoping to beat the onslaught of excessive UV exposure. Unfortunately, it seemed that the air was just a smidge too stifling for us to be wandering about directly exposing ourselves to the Sun's invisible fiery bullets, so we ducked casually into a stretch of woods owned clearly by the city.

As I walked with Boston by my side (both of us unleashed and free), I made a stop at a particularly uninteresting looking tree. I don't know why I stopped but my little dog made clear that to stop was not what I was meant to be doing here, especially when there were quite a few kilometres of woods left for us to trek through. He whimpered at me signaling that he'd like to continue on and because of the way I trained him so well, he would not go ahead without me. I looked at him, and then back at the tree to give my silent goodbye and continued on across the creek to the path we usually walked through.

It was here that Robert Frost appeared so suddenly in my mind, reciting the few lines I could remember from Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village though

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow

Though I could only remember the first stanza and bits and pieces of the rest of the poem, I was encapsulated by being in the woods with visions of Frost reciting his poetry to me. I felt as if I was being hypnotized by the woods and Frost’s words, and felt compelled again to make a stop. I began feeling a strong desire to be lost in these woods forever; in the silent, dark beauty of these deeply ominous woods. But I knew I was on a time limit. I could only afford to walk my dog for a couple of hours before I had to return to my life, but in that moment I didn't know if I cared so much to go back to my man-made obligations. I wanted tranquility and the woods were giving it to me in abundance. I could have fallen asleep for eternity on the soft forest floor with the sound of water soothingly running down a creek beside me. I would have been fine to sleep forever in these woods knowing that if there came a time when I must wake I would open my eyes to complete serenity.

My thoughts began to stir in a debate on how long a walk I had left to go or if I cared much to go at all. To be in these woods was pure fulfillment, as if I were an infant tucked away warmly in my mother’s arm locked in that bond of feeding by breast. Yet on the other hand, just beyond the trail a few kilometres away, was a place where to some people I was the woods. Could I really take that away from them? I knew what choice I had to make, confirmed by every sound Boston would shake out of his clanky metal collar.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Now if you've never been inside a forest, go right now and find a patch of woods to get lost in. You’ll find that once you enter that wall of trees and take that first breath, you become lost in time in a limbo between past and present. The forest becomes your sanctuary, and you are no longer just an inhabitant of the Earth, but the Earth itself. You lose the very thing that makes you human, but gain the very thing that makes you a soul. You’ll see trees stretch up towards the skies and explode in fantastic shades of green leaves and tangled rigid branches. Its canopy becomes your ceiling and even the strongest of the Sun’s rays barely pierce through its protective shell. You’ll inhale the sweet smell of pine, sap and earth combined: a unique scent that no incense could ever match. You’ll hear the serene melody of slow running water making its way through a small, bending creek harmonizing with the rustling of leaves and the low whistling of the wind. And when you make your way out of the woods, you’ll understand the difficulty of the choice I had to take.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

(R. Frost, 1923, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)