Perhaps it was because I’ve been reading Aldo Leopold. Perhaps it was the movie I just watched about John Muir. Perhaps it was just the beautiful day and the desire to re-enact the summer that I just can’t seem to let go of. Maybe it was all of these things plus a few more that led me to walk into the woods barefoot. The soles of my feet touched the ground and felt the unfamiliar dirt. I took one step and a beautiful black swallowtail butterfly landed on a jewelweed flower right in front of me. It fluttered around from flower to flower, paying no mind to my attempts to capture a decent photo of it. It was not there for me, it was simply there. It fluttered away, and I moved along.

I have to walk on about 100 yards of rocky path on the way to my spot. I picked my steps very carefully, slowly, adjusting as necessary. Every movement was deliberate. I thought about my friend Julia, who basically lives barefoot. She could walk on anything as if it was a bed of clouds. I once ran 3 miles with her (barefoot) down the gravel C&O Canal towpath. She’s been walking without shoes for so long that she doesn’t have to think about how she steps anymore, and I realize that I have forgotten how to walk. I suppose I never really learned. Yes, I can physically walk, but usually I rely on shoes for help. As I cautiously take each step (and wish that I had Julia’s feet), I think that walking barefoot is an interesting metaphor for our society’s need to return to simpler times. Shoes serve practical purposes, but we don’t need them all the time. All it would take is some practice. This is like all the chemicals and plastics and disposable everything we use. Yes, it is possible to live without these things. Yes, it’s going to be uncomfortable at first, but it will teach us to take our (metaphorical) steps very deliberately. We will have to think about our decisions instead of just blindly relying on our technology to keep us comfortable, ignorant of what we may be stepping on. Slowly, but surely, we will get there. Even the rocky places will get easier, and not every place we have to walk will hurt, as I found out next.

The soft grass of the meadow meets my feet kindly. I look up and see the beginnings of what I like to call an autumn sky. It is still a summer sky, but the richness of the blue autumn sky won’t be long. There’s a sweet, light breeze blowing through the trees. I walked through the field, newly aware of how awkward and heavy my steps were. Some leaves have already started falling, and they crunch without mercy under my feet. “I’d make a terrible predator” I thought, “if I were a wolf, pre-conservationist Aldo Leopold certainly would have shot me by now.”

As I walk down the creek, frogs jump from all directions in front of me. One even squeaked, a final warning of my approach to its comrades? Maybe it was just surprised. Most jumped into the water and disappeared before I could see them clearly. I was able to observe one that had sneakily hidden itself under a leaf in the water. When I removed the leaf it stayed perfectly still, still enough for me to take pictures. It had a bright green back with warts all over: a Green Frog, according to the internet. I wondered if it thought it was going to die then. I gently placed the leaf back over it.

My thoughts turn back to Leopold while looking at the trees. They seem to be almost entirely sycamores and tulip poplars. Blue Jays dance through their branches. Minnows wiggle in the creek. Every so often a frog splashes into the silent stream. I think about how interesting it would be to listen to the history the trees have seen and lived through. If we could understand them, what would they tell us? What did this place look like before the stilt grass invaded? I think of the story of Sky Woman, and try very hard to come up with an example of how humans have helped nature. It’s not hard when I consider those people who were raised on Sky Woman and similar creation stories, but draw a blank when it comes to those, like me, who were taught the story of Adam and Eve. Sure, we’ve helped things, but usually (if not exclusively) they’re things that we damaged in the first place. I will have to bring it up in class.

I stand up to leave, but a rustling in the undergrowth across the creek from me stops me in my tracks. It’s getting closer, and I am frozen. I now have an idea of how frog must have been feeling. I am just about to accept my inevitable doom to the hidden beast when I see a frog no larger than my big toe jump. How the tables have turned! As the terror leaves my body and my muscles relax, it is time for me to leave. “One foot in front of the other,” I remind myself. I focus on the controlled placement of my feet the whole walk back.