The rainstorm ended before we began the hike. An intermittent breeze set off bursts of falling rainwater here and there which had been trapped in the canopy above, reminding of us of the intensity of what had come and gone. The sky began to clear. It was unseasonably hot when we started and the sun made it so much hotter. The air felt jungle-like thick with the smell of rotting leaves and earthy dampness. Mist rose from the rocks in the clearings. My clothes stuck to the sweat on my back and thighs. We barely spoke on our walk to the lookout.
Still we would have loved to share this hike with you. We would have shown you in the way we had shown our very own children that nature is generous with her gifts. Some of them so small and fragile you really have to look closely to find them. And for us, well, we would love this seeing nature’s wonders as if we had never seen it before, through your eyes. I have always loved this. I would have told you the myth about why the trail is called Penguin. The story that, when you cross country ski on this trail, the trail is so steep, steeper than stairs, you end up walking up it in your skis, plopping your weight from one ski to the other, waddling all the way up to the lookout like a penguin. I would mimic the motion to make you laugh. I might have told you too the real story about why the trail is called Penguin, but I don’t think it’s nearly as much fun. Besides it was your dad who told me the fun story first–and it made me laugh.
I would have explained the squawking/croaking we heard was from a raven and not from a crow. That the other song was that of a red cardinal. That yet the other pretty song was from a bird I couldn’t recognize or maybe I would tell you, as I told your father when he was a boy and I couldn’t name the bird, that it was Big Bird from Sesame Street, something you and I could laugh at years from now.
I would have told you too the three bluejays that swooped in front of us, appearing and vanishing as fast as thought, looked like a mother, father, and a grown offspring.
If there were any chance you didn’t spot it before I did, I would have taken you off the trail a bit to marvel at the “Chicken of the Woods” fungi. Amazing what can flourish from something that was once was alive. New colour and vibrance. How would you describe it for me? What do you think of it? Nature is crazy. Or what would you think of the tree pushing against the rock, how some living things are forever shaped by chance, by things that are in their way? Or the red baneberries almost hidden…you have to look very closely to see them among the dead and rotting branches.
When we reach the bench at Penguin Lookout, we sit and I catch my breath from the climb. It’s a beautiful place to view the expanse across the spread of forest and hills. This is where I share with you the joy of your cousin who was born just a week earlier. A beautiful baby boy. You would have loved him. After some moments, I think I can share with you some of the old and worn writings carved in the bench. They seem to be about other people’s ashes and memories that are scattered in this special place.
One of the writings on the bench seems like a kind of message you might have felt.
Your mom and dad thought this would be a perfect place for you. It is. You’ll always have company here.
Spending time with you at Penguin Lookout, I feel that, regardless of all I could have taught you on hikes like this or during anytime we could ever have been together, I have learned so much more from you. Of how much your mother and father love you. Of how you’d never know what great parents they are. Of how we loved you without ever seeing you. Of how we need to appreciate all the little things just a little bit more.