First Day hike offers a clean start

Nearly three weeks later, the hike still resonates.

Maybe that’s because it’s a bit of a ritual, one of those actions that gain meaning because we repeat them, finding within that repetition some comfort and grace.

The first time I woke up on New Year’s Day and announced that I wanted to take a hike, my family thought I had lost my few remaining holds on reality.

It was bitterly cold that morning, well below zero. It was the kind of morning you want to snuggle down deeper under the covers, the kind of morning where the biggest challenge ahead of you is whether to have coffee or cocoa.

And yet there was something about it.

The sky had that brilliant blue that matches the cold of the wind out of the west.

Not surprisingly that year, no one else wanted to go along.

So I made the drive up to the Loblolly Wetlands Preserve and walked by myself, almost as if I were on a pilgrimage. And where was the pilgrim going? Good question.

Maybe just to a place where there was no chatter, no static, no noise.

Whatever it was, it seemed to work.

A First Day hike hasn’t been an every year ritual since then. But I’ve taken one more years than not, and each one seems to cleanse the detritus and junk from the old year out and provide a clean slate for the year ahead.

Not all of the hikes have been alone.

Sometimes my wife and I have made the trek together. But when that has happened, we tend to be so silent — so connected with our surroundings — that we might as well have been the only beings on the planet.

This year’s hike was different, precisely because my wife was on the other side of the world. I knew she’d be back in a couple of weeks. But I felt alone when I awakened, and I knew I’d be alone the whole day, hike or no hike.

The weather, by Indiana standards in January, was mild. And the sun was out.

It wasn’t quite photographer’s light, that golden time just before the sun goes down or right after it comes up, but it lit the day in a special way.

Over breakfast alone, I weighed my choices.

I’d hiked the Bibler Preserve in the late fall, flushing a few deer. And my wife and I had hiked the Bell-Croft Preserve about the same time.

So it was back to the Lob.

A few birders were there when I arrived, but they seemed content to stay in their cars. Parking in the paved lot, I set out on the trail to the east, the one that takes you back to the pond and the woodlands.

One of the attractions about the Lob is how different it is on each visit. Depending on rainfall or snowmelt, you never know what might be inundated, where the ducks might be floating, or where the heron might be fishing.

This time around, the water level was low. But the pond, covered then with a thin layer of ice, was still full. The birds seemed to know I was coming, and they didn’t seem to want to be bothered.

Instead of a raucous chorus, I mostly found myself walking in silence.

And that, in and of itself, was beautiful.

I’d walk about 30 yards then pause and listen.

Traffic on Indiana 18 could still be heard in the distance, but it was a bit like white noise. The woods and wetlands themselves were silent.

Thirty more yards, another pause, another dose of silence, and repeat.

By the time I’d taken the Woodland Trail and the Upland Trail and found my way back to the wetland, I felt as if the old year had been washed away and a new one was in front of me.

And nearly three weeks later that still resonates.