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A glowing full moon peaks through the clouds. The temperature plummets. I rummage through the coat closet in search of mittens, hats, and winter jackets. I pile my family into the car for the hour drive to Westcave Discovery Center near Austin. I have been looking forward to the December Full Moon Hike for months. I am writing about listening and seeing, about silence and darkness in karst, and I am curious about nocturnal sounds. I hope we are able to descend the steep and winding trail that leads to the canyon and the grotto and the cave, but I think the afternoon rain will make the stone steps too slippery.
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This morning a flutter caught my eye. On the driveway, I found an enormous polyphemus moth, one of the largest silk moths. I called to my son to join me. He is obsessed with Greek mythology and this gorgeous creature was named for a giant cyclops. The two owl-like eye spots on the hind wings scare away predators, I'm sure. As I gently lifted the moth, its wings covered the span of my cupped hands. I moved it out of the driveway into the leaf litter nearby. Lost in the fallen leaves, we marveled at its ability to camouflage itself. “. . . all of my life I have hungered for wild places and all of my life wild places have fed me . . .” This summer we won’t be able to make our usual trip to the Maine Coast due to the pandemic. In my forty-seven years, I have only missed one other summer there. ( I was pregnant with our second son.) I wrote about the Maine Coast in a recent essay: Although I live far away now, this is home. This is where I come from. When I need to remember who I am, this is where I return. This is the place where all of my stories begin. Instead, I think this will be a good time to gather those stories — to remember those special places when I can’t physically be there, hiking along the forest trails and beaches. |
