This land has a hold on me. Back before the Munger Trail was paved, when it was still abandoned railroad tresses in disrepair, it was August, and I left my childhood backyard, walked past the willow tree, the wooden swing set, and the tiny orchard. My young body moved as breeze, drawn forward by sensing. The thin path was etched into tall grass, and my hands extended to brush against soft prairie flower. This place still speaks to me in between dreams.
That day, this small path led me to the Munger Trail. To my left was the old train bridge over 93rd, the far end of West Duluth, Minnesota. Its wooden tresses were graying and uneven. Old graffiti marked the iron walls, but I rarely saw anyone else here.
For a long moment I looked down the trail to my right, and saw only the green canopy of birch, maple, and elm, leaning and swaying in the breeze: a kaleidoscope with the late morning light.
Then there she was: the solid form of a woman, rooted on the path before me, not a whisper of movement, about halfway between me and the creek.
I began to walk toward her.
She moved slowly, in the timing of trees. I saw that she wore a loose garment of dark fabrics.
I stepped carefully over chunks of rock and strewn tresses.
When we came upon each other, her greeting was also in the language of trees. Not a word was spoken between us. I looked up at her, comfortable in the silence. A long, loose silver braid hung down her back. She stood tall and relaxed, leaned back into the earth. If she were a color, she’d be deep purple. Her silver eyes had a knowing look, one that assumed me part of that knowing. She nodded gently and continued on her way.
~
It was a month later that I saw her again. The afternoon was light misty gray. Bright orange and yellow leaves twirled to the ground, and the air smelled of water. She was already there when I entered the trail, as I hoped she would be. I was happy to see her full figure moving slowly toward me. Where did she come from? Did she live near me?
She was holding something in her left hand, and when we met, I simply stood below her, looking up. She smiled warmly and held out a white washcloth with a deep purple flower unfurling from the center. The color of purple that she is. I brought it home and put it on my dresser. In our big clawfoot bathtub, I brushed it carefully across my skin, soft and soapy.
~
The last time I saw her, it was nearly winter. Late November, the world in grayscale. A few stray snowflakes glittered on her silver hair. I felt uplifted by the warmth of her ageless eyes. She reached into her robe, then extended her strong hand toward me. My eye caught the glistening of silver, and I paused — the light fizzy feeling of delight in my collarbone. I understood immediately that it was more than a ring. The tiny embedded turquoise was a gateway, an initiation. The ring fit perfectly on my left middle finger. Thirty years later, as I push the ring onto my pinky, I feel this land calling me home.
