The Metamodern Way of Trespassing

In opposition to fences, with love for the land: a story

“The poet owns all.” — Emerson

Photo by Joshua Rodriguez

They can seem like messages from the great beyond. From God, universe, source, or what have you. Simultaneously, they can seem to bubble up from the abyssal reaches of your subconscious. Do they come from out there or in here? Is out-there and in-here one and the same? Dreams are funny things.

Suppose you dreamed of a large black bear charging at you looking like it wanted to rip your face off. Then right before it reached you, the bear transformed into a majestic mustang, long mane flowing. The horse, a palomino, passed you, made eye contact, and snorted powerfully. Then it galloped on into the misty wood. This is the dream I had one night in January. It is the basis for me telling you this story.

I ask only that you keep an open mind. That you consider the possibility that messages come to us from somewhere. They most assuredly come to us from inner realms but quite possibly from outer ones too. Consider if you will that the inner and outer could be the same.

~~~

Winter is the season of dreams. It is the time to turn away from the sun and to ponder the dark star-lit side of nature. In winter, deep in sleep, I live in dreams, and for some reason, can remember them more thoroughly than I can in summer. Summer is lush and vivid to the daylight senses, but, at least for me, clouds the inner moon-lit eye.

The night of the dream mentioned above, I had been thinking of taking my annual trespass, which I do each year just after deer hunting season ends as a kind of ritualistic homage to my younger, more anarchistic self. In younger years, I trespassed frequently, not necessarily out of disrespect for private property, although I’ve never been too crazy about the idea of fencing in creation, but only because I refused to let someone’s land ownership stop me from exploring places I was interested in. The map was the worst thing ever invented for my curiosities.

I disregarded many fences in those days in my leaping over them. When I saw a “no trespassing” sign, like Woody Guthrie, I read the other side, which said nothing.

~~~

As a slightly more mature adult, one with a daughter to raise, I stopped trespassing as frequently. Once annually, though, I would take short little ganders over the fence line north of the farm we live on. There, where a small brook I call Brock Creek (because it begins on Brock Farm) runs out of the cow pond and into the woods north of the farm, lies an extensive wilderness that stretches for several miles before meeting another road. This land is as wild as a place can be but just happens to be owned by people.

In the dream that January night, I was unmistakably in this place. Seeing what I had seen of it in the mini-forays I had taken over the years, I knew it well in my dream. I was standing on a hill covered in the waxy, heart-shaped leaves of wild ginger looking down into a winding rocky stream bed, two hills on either side of the creek, a seraphic stand of gold-leafed beech trees.

In the dream, I knew that I was fulfilling my annual rite of passage. Deer season had ended, the hunters had gone home, and now it was my time to discover where Brock Creek led.

I know where it leads when I am awake. I have followed it on a computer screen with my mouse cursor many times. After two miles of winding between a few dwelling places, which, judging from the map, seem far enough above the creek not to be visible from the forest below, Brock Creek meets a much larger stream, one with a truly inviting name, Murder Creek.

~~~

Murder Creek is Jasper County’s longest watershed. Its waters arise from a series of springs on a nature preserve to the northwest of Brock Farm and meander from there through wooded areas and around the edges of fields. The creek falls gracefully over rock outcrops, quartz monadnock faces, until, after fifty plus miles, it meets Lake Sinclair in Putnam County.

The other main watershed in Jasper County is the Ocmulgee River, which defines part of the county’s border along with Jackson Lake. Georgia Highway 11 runs south to north on a ridgeline (this is one reason for the name of the town, Monticello, which means “little mountain” in Italian). The highway separates the two watersheds. To the west is the Ocmulgee, to the east, Murder Creek.

Murder Creek never joins a river but becomes as wide and deep as one before meeting its lakeside resting place. In the part of the county near Brock Farm, north of Monticello, Murder Creek is as picturesque a piedmont waterway as one could imagine. It is rocky, sandy, and clear—largely untouched by people. It is touched by a few cows, among other animals.

The idea that I could potentially walk to Murder Creek by way of the stream running out of the cow pond, a stream born from a series of springs in the middle of Brock Farm, always enticed me. Previous to the dream that January night, I had decided to try to make it much farther, to trespass much deeper this year than I had ever gone before. Once deer season had ended and the hunters had gone home, I planned to follow Brock Creek as far as I could, at least until its junction with Murder Creek. Wildernesses like this one, even if “owned,” have often called to me. The fact that such an untamed stretch lay just north of the farm lured me in in the way a spin bait lures a hungry fish. I had to check it out.

~~~

In the dream, the woods were beset with a mysterious fog. It wasn’t a gloomy fog; it was bright and golden (yet still opaque) as if the sun shone directly from behind it.

For some reason, I found myself on a hillside, clawing my way up a steep embankment. The roots I used to sturdy myself appeared to be breathing. On top of the hill, which looked more like a mountain vista than anything from the piedmont woods, I could see the stream flow into a far forest, lush and verdant, jungle-like, past the golden fog. This, I felt, was my destination.

Above me and behind me, on a series of rolling hills, was an ominous, dark set of woods. Witchy moans wept from twisted trees. I felt dreadful looking into those trees, as if something were in there that I didn’t want to meet. I tried to look away but found my body paralyzed. A terrible growl began growing in the shadows. I heard sticks breaking under the weight of large feet. A giant beastly figure emerged from the edge of the darkness, as tall as the understory. It walked on two legs and gave another mighty roar. As it moved toward the light, I could make out that it was a huge black bear with its eyes locked on me. As soon as I made eye contact, it fell on four legs and began to run toward me. I twisted to make a dash but could not move.

Just as the massive bear reached me, its cruel gallop transformed into a graceful stride. Its snout extended and its eyes blackened. The spiky hair of its head grew long and beautiful. Suddenly, what I had been afraid of was such a magnificent sight that I felt moved. When passing me, the graceful palomino, golden coat and mane, looked into my eyes and nodded. It raised its exquisite head high into the air like the great guru of horse-kind and gave a thunderous blow.

The horse was a wild mustang, an expression of this place I felt. Free to move, I turned to watch it disappear into the fog.

I awoke shaken and breathing hard. The dream had been so real I was confused to find myself in bed.

~~~

About a year ago, a retired sheriff from Florida who lives at the end of a long private drive that runs on the farm’s western edge, closer to the area bordering Murder Creek, drove up to my father-in-law’s barn one day and hopped out of his truck excitedly.

“You’ll never guess what I pulled off the trail cam this morning!” he shouted.

He hurried up to the barn where a few of us stood. He held out his phone screen to show us the image of a massive beast, a big male black bear, standing next to one of the deer feeders on his property.

“Holy shit,” I said, “This is back at your place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I think this SOB lives on the creek back there.”

~~~

Black bears, while not all too common in this part of the state, do migrate through the area at times. Sometimes they stick around for a while. Last fall, a young roving male was seen in several yards nearby and became a local facebook celebrity.

Most of the bears moving through this region travel up the rivers from an area just south of Macon, where a substantial population exists. The mass of bears in that area, northeast of Warner Robbins, is so dense that the state Department of Natural Resources has set up a permanent study site there.

Georgia is home to a few isolated populations of black bears. One is in the river bottoms and black water swamps of far South Georgia, particularly near the Okefenokee Swamp. The largest population by far is in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Georgia, where, thanks to national forest lands, bears have room to roam. The Middle Georgia population is teeming but not too large area-wise.

~~~

The next day, I thought all morning about how strangely real the dream had been. Though the charging bear had been frightening, the dream had inspired me to take my annual trespass. Deer season had just ended, and the days were clear and crisp, perfect for woods walking.

Usually Saturday would have been a good day for that but Jenna was working, which meant I was hanging with Lula. Her grandma was set to pick her up at 3pm but that wouldn’t leave me much time to make it to Murder Creek. The light vanishes from these piedmont woods in winter quickly after about 5:45 in the afternoon. I reasoned that I would need at least four hours or so for the trek.

Selfishly, I was frustrated that I couldn’t just break out into the woods that morning. I always love spending time with my daughter, but I had been carrying around a lot of work-related stress as well as a lot of worry about the direction of my marriage. Things had not been going great to oversimplify it, and I needed the tonic of wilderness. I needed some quiet soul-searching and exploring time for myself with no one but tree-people around.

After Lula’s grandma scooped her, I thought of getting a quick writing session in. I sat down at my desk and shuffled my tarot card deck, a deck called Woodland Wardens. Each card contains messages based on the symbology of certain plants and animals. I shuffled the cards with my creative work in mind, having abandoned the idea of making it to Murder Creek that day. Typically, I take a few minutes to mix up the deck while either focusing on a specific question in my mind or while trying to quiet my thoughts. Often I ask for what to expect in the immediate future.

I pulled the first card, which had the head of a bear in the middle of it. I stared for a moment into the animal’s eyes. The card is called the bear and the cedar. On the way into the woods where Brock Creek flows out of the farm, there is an abundance of red cedar trees. I call the place Cedar Grove. This particular card represents leadership and tells the reader to let the spirit of the bear guide them toward finding a way for themselves.

I reshuffled the deck thinking I would pull again. When I did, I pulled a card with a horse’s head on the front. The horse and the bluebells. This card represents fortitude and tells the reader to trust in their own instincts and processes. I was stunned. The message was clear. In two pulls, a bear and a horse.

Both cards signified being led toward a path that was made for me. I abandoned my writing session, grabbed my hunting knife and went outside to cut a new walking stick from the shaft of a young cherry laurel. I did this quickly, wondering if I had enough sunlight left to make it to Murder Creek.

~~~

No living person seems to know where Murder Creek got its name. Local historians have searched for specifics to no avail. Online, there is a story associated with a Murder Creek in Alabama—some folks here tell that story trying to make it fit with our creek, but it’s the wrong story for the wrong place. In Alabama a long ways back, a band of outlaws robbed a group of British merchants travelling from Charleston to New Orleans. British officials caught up with the wily gang and hanged them on the banks of the creek. Murder Creek.

The name for our creek probably stems from a time in the early 1800s when this area served as the borderlands between Creek Nation territory and white settlers. Previous to the Treaty of Washington in 1805, in which the Creeks ceded land between the Oconee River (east of here) and the Ocmulgee, white settlers had inched for decades into tribal lands where they often, and in my opinion for good reason, met trouble. Many of the skirmishes between Creeks and white folks during that time are well recorded. There was a fort on the banks of Murder Creek, north of the farm, burned by Creeks at least half a dozen times. White folks are nothing if not persistent. They loved fences then and they still do.

The name no doubt comes to the modern age from some obscure, violent history when the law of this land was bloodshed. When I am in the woods here, I often think about what the lives of Native Americans must have been like before the intrusion of Europeans. Though I am a descendant of those intruders, I am also someone who despises what the brutal wheel of civilization has done to indigenous cultures around the world. Murder Creek calls to me for this and other reasons. Also, if I had been paying attention, the name might’ve served as a proper warning.

~~~

By 4pm, I had traversed the farm’s wiry stands of privet and chinaberry and crossed its largest field headed into the woodland that dominates the property’s north end. This is where the place I call Cedar Grove begins. The cedars stand as a kind of mystical doorway into a deeper, more mature and more mysterious wood. Within Cedar Grove, a series of springs bubble up from the earth and erode the clay hill, forming deep ravines. Once the spring waters converge, the stream they form falls through the prettiest part of the farm, a chasmic gully beneath large oaks and hickories, on its way to a flat wetland at the mouth of the pond. This is the birthplace of Brock Creek, and on this holy day, the ritual day of trespass, my intention was to walk from its alpha to its omega.

Would I make it? I knew I only had about an hour to get as far as I could one way. On the map, I had worked out how to ramble back up the hill between two houses to the closest road if I ran out of daylight.

The dam on the north side of the cow pond is basically a woody hill of poplars that falls sharply into the watershed below. This is where big woods, a valley of old majestic trees, stand above the creek. There in the entrance to the forest, our little stream falls over exposed clay and into a pool before running onward. Naturally, I call this Brock Falls.

Beyond Brock Falls, just a few feet beyond, is where every year’s trespass begins. I stand there at the entrance to the unknown considering all the dangers but also all of the possible rewards. I inhale deeply and belt my most barbaric yawp, crying out to the woods gods to guide me safely on my passage. Also, I am sending a warning that a wild man is entering a wild kingdom.

I made it through the first of five properties that, according to an online map, I would have to cross to get to Murder Creek. I wasn’t interested in knowing who owns the places. I’m sure Charles knows them all. Perhaps this is a good time to admit the degree of privilege in my little walk about. I wouldn’t recommend randomly trespassing in this area to just anyone. Two things, or perhaps more than two things, served to protect me from harm in this endeavor. One is that Charles Brock is well-known in this community. I have always planned to, if caught, explain that I was bird-watching with permission on Mr. Brock’s farm and got terribly off trail. The other thing is that I was able to map out a course to Murder Creek, even if I had never been there on foot. I knew the turns of the creek and where each house stood above it. The other factor of my privilege of course is that I am a white man, and fortunately for me, despite the fact that I usually look like a hippie hobo rambling through the woods (guilty as charged), my skin color might earn me some safety points out there. I’m not saying that’s right or good; it’s just the truth in this part of the world.

~~~

Winter is a great time for walking in the woods. For one, there are far fewer insects present—no mosquitos looking for an easy meal—and the threat of venomous snakes is diminished. In winter, especially around here, the foot traveller can see much farther and can picture the contour of the land more clearly. The ground vegetation is suppressed, which allows the walker to move about freely, up the sides of hills or along the banks of waterways. The downside of this for trespassing purposes is obvious. It is lovely to fully picture the woods but the trespasser seeks to be absent from the frame of an onlooker. It was easier for me to see the roof of the first dwelling place, but, even as I was adorned in earth-tone clothing for my adventure, it was perhaps easier for the landowner to see me due to the lack of foliage.

The other real danger of trespassing these days is that every fucking person in rural America seems to own an all-terrain vehicle. In recent years, side-by-sides have become nearly a debt necessity of the country dweller. They are everywhere, even on the roads. They account for the deaths of several young people in the area each year. As they pertain to trespassing, they make it more difficult. There was a time when even if a man was spotted out there, he could slip away through the trees before anyone could get to him. Now it takes mere seconds before one of these grotesque gas-guzzlers is on top of you. The only hope for the trespasser is that these machines are basically as large as small cars. There are surely places I can go on foot where they can’t make it on wheels.

When I saw the rooftop above me to my right from the brushy creek and heard the first bark from the occupant’s dog, I scrambled up the opposite hill. I saw a young thicket of planted pines toward the top of the hill above me and thought the jagged trees would supply sufficient cover as I passed the view of the house.

This plan began fine, but I soon discovered that in the openings between the pines, briars grew like crazy. The pines were so densely packed that I lost sight of the creek and the house I was avoiding. My walk became a trip through a maze of lush needles, an attempt to avoid patches of razor thorns. At times, there was no way around, so I had to knock briars down with my stick and stomp them as I crossed. At other times, there was nothing I could do. Though I fought them off half successfully, the briars were in such abundance that they grabbed at my legs and slashed my arms. My pants ripped thorns from their stalks and they tormented me with each movement.

After far too long in the pine maze, I finally emerged beyond the house in a stand of young maples.

~~~

Planted pines always irk me. I know they are necessary for regenerative purposes, but when I am out in such a wild place, I don’t enjoy seeing them. They provide cover, yes, and wood, but that’s about all. Other trees can do that same job. Pine plantations, as they are adequately referred to, stand as reminders of how civilization creeps into sacred spaces, of how nature can be dominated and transformed into a money-making mechanism. These stands hold little value—virturally none for wildlife—other than the strictly monetary. Worst, they are invading, dare I say colonizing, spaces where a truly unique and wild nature might otherwise flourish. Pine stands rob wildlife of mast production and rob those like me, the spiritual seeker, the aesthetic warrior, of a truer, more connected experience.

Looking back into the pines after I emerged from them sweaty, disturbed, and briar-slashed, they reminded me of the dark beastly forest of my dream. They were the dark stain on these native woods.

I continued through the maples on the hilltop above the creek making my way gradually downhill. The maples were nearly as thick as the pines but not as full of briars. Then I came to a strange circular opening in the trees. There was a presence there, a dark one. This might be the place where a coven of local pagans meet for their moonlit ceremonies, or for their baby eating. But no, this looked to be like more of a natural disturbance. All the vegetation under me was pressed to the ground like a crop circle. I was standing in someone’s bed.

~~~

I remembered that, before heading into the pines, I had jumped a fence. Why had there been a fence, a newly fashioned one, in the middle of the woods?

Though I was spooked by the den-like features of the opening, I was thirsty and briar-torn. I scanned the area for signs of a beast then took my water bottle from my backpack for a swig. I paused, cherishing each gulp and catching my breath. I glanced around at my feet and was shocked by what I found on the ground. No more than a few feet in front of where I was standing laid clumps of black fur, shedded bits from the unmistakable wiry coat of a bear. Across the opening lay a big pile of scat, a black mound that, upon investigation, contained pieces of seeds and insect parts.

Of all the monsters of the forest, I believed then that I was standing in the bed of the mightiest. I chunked my bottle back into my bag and began to stride. When I got to the edge of the maples, I heard a terrible noise behind me. It was a crashing, thudding sound, the kind a large animal makes, and it was coming from the edge of the pines. It sounded for a moment like I was being stalked. I thought that I was about to be mauled or even eaten, scarce as food is in winter, by the king of these forbidden woods. My sense of adventure dwindled. “Why the hell am I even out here?” I wondered.

When the creature stomped again with a mighty thud, I started moving faster through the trees down toward the creek. When I picked up speed, the crashing sound of an animal picked up speed behind me. Terrified, I scrambled down the hill, nearly falling off a steep embankment. I turned to look behind me and the thing bursted out of the trees and bellowed toward me. I ran beneath a beech tree and grabbed hold of its trunk as the palomino of my dreams galloped in my direction. As it passed, its golden mane flowing, the exquisite horse looked me in the eyes and kept on roaring by.

“Holy hell!” I yelled, clinging to the side of the tree.

The horse ambled downhill and disappeared into the woods.

~~~

I remained beneath the beech tree gathering myself. What I believed was death coming swiftly to harvest my soul turned out to be beauty just passing by. This massive beautiful animal could’ve also killed me of course, but the threat had not been as awful as what I had imagined. It did not come in the ghastly form of a bear, angry at me for occupying its bed chamber, ready to make a meal of me or to eat my face for the shit of it.

When my heart settled, I thought of my dream—how real it had been. I thought about the cards I had pulled at my desk. Were they somehow in reverse order on the living side of wakefulness? Was the bear still to come?

Why had I been called out here to experience such a thing? My mind was boggled by this series of events. I had in fact been, at least I believed, in the den of a bear. Or did the place belong to some other creature, perhaps a family of wild pigs?

Soon after, I realized that I was inside of a fenced area. On the other side of the creek, back toward the house, I saw a big pile of hay and the tail of another horse on the hillside. It would be impossible for wild pigs to be bedding here, right?

I hopped the other side of the fence and came into a peaceful, undisturbed piece of earth.

~~~

By this time it was at least 4:45pm. The sun sank further beneath the treeline. Still, I thought, with enough focus, if I could shake what just happened, I might be able to make it to Murder Creek and back to the closest road before total darkness.

I did try to focus on my destination, but my intent soon drifted. What is meant to happen, must.

The creekbed shown in the amber wonder of evening. The stream widened, took deep pivots, and I made my way to a place where its waters rushed through a field of small boulders surrounded by a family of beech trees. There is much granite in this region—remnants of ancient mountains that once towered above the rolling hills. I tried to keep steadily moving but the slowly gloaming woods transfixed my senses. I couldn’t stop thinking about the dream, the cards, and how the horse from my nightmare had shown itself to me in waking hours. Had I been here before? What had led me here? Great cosmic arms opened and welcomed me to a new and blissful scene.

There is no heaven like a beech grove at twilight. The earth lingered there with the fresh frozen scent found only in mid-winter. Besides the babbling stream, nothing spoke. But the spirit of the living earth stirred in my chest and I knew myself as connected to all of it. I felt that what had happened there was a sign of something beyond the normal mundane world speaking to me, reminding me of the magical possibilities of life. All the problems I faced at home felt then like necessary steps on a path leading to some other mystical grove. Though I had my mind set on a destination, the earth or God seemed to mock my plans. You are already in paradise, the universe said clearly.

Sometimes when we’re on a journey, we find a new destination. Yes, I wanted to see the deeply wooded convergence of the two streams and maybe if I would’ve had more time, I would’ve continued my trespass. But sitting there on a rock beside Brock Creek, I felt that I had reached the place that I was meant to reach. I felt at peace with my journey, and that my worries had been diminished—I felt at peace with my larger journey through the wilderness of life.

I kept following the stream for a little ways until I reached a cow field, the edge of which, I remembered from the map, led to the closest road. Up on the hill was a narrow neighborhood drive behind an old church with the name Shady Grove.

It was near 5:30pm then. With the little light that remained, I wandered into the thick dark creekbed beyond the field for one last view of a place undisturbed by people. In the darkness of that wood, I heard nocturnal things beginning to creep about. I heard sticks snapping under feet and thought again of the bear. I was not out of the woods yet. After such a beatific feeling of connection, these sounds and the impending darkness frightened me. The bear, after all, might lack appreciation for my spiritual gnosis.

As light left the landscape, I skirted the fenceline of the cow field. No farmer and no other people remained on the land. I found my way to a long driveway at the top of the ridge and walked briskly to the road ahead. Though I did not reach my intended destination, I felt that I had found what needed to be found. The trespass ended safely, and I was grateful for that.

~~~

I regret to inform you, albeit with premature feeling, that my trespassing days might be over. As Carl Jung said, “Life begins at 40, the first 40 years are just research and development.”

It isn’t that I dislike that idea of trespassing to find beauty, only that I have realized since that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Like Emerson noted, you can travel the world looking for beauty, but unless it travels with you, you won’t find it. Perhaps in my older age, I am letting things that bother me roll off the shoulder a bit more. I do think it a tragedy that more wild spaces are not open for public foot traffic—that so much of the planet worth discovering has been fenced in and made unfindable. But maybe I am learning to accept what I cannot access.

The dream, the cards, and the experience of this day affected me deeply and still do. I believe that life is a teacher, and that the teacher only needs us to listen so that valuable information can be delivered. I got the message loud and clear that day. Sometimes the end we have in mind is the one place we don’t need to go. Sometimes, on the way there, we get re-routed by a higher intelligence. We get what we need, not necessarily what we want.

Everyone worries about the destination, but every living thing has only one destination, at least in this world. None of us know what follows. Death terrifies some people—I am not claiming to be wholly immune to its sting—but also, death is a doorway to freedom, to living life fully while we have it, to following our hearts completely, to keeping our minds open and expectations limited while we are walking through life. Our problems often seem like bears but looking back on them, they are often more like palominos. At least we should see them that way. What feels like tragedy in certain moments are typically doorways to new, more wonderful places.

This isn’t to say that life is not scary, that we can’t be mauled in the den of some monster. Monsters exist. But even they are ordained by the light of a conscious universe.

I am not sure I will ever see the meeting of the two waterways, but I can imagine it, and it is glorious.