I wasn’t promised anything. Not explicitly.
But it was implied in not so many words or contracts, that the walking trail at the end of my street was actually mine. It was because of that trail that my husband and I signed our lives away to the bank on a 200 page stack of mortgage papers because we knew it’d be worth it.
When we were asked why we didn’t live closer to friends, or in a trendier part of a town, or why we didn’t pick a slightly flashier house, we’d always secretly smile and think of Our Trail. We wanted to be able to walk out our doors with a steaming cup of coffee and feel like we were escaping the busyness of city life by walking down the virtually empty trail at the end of our street.
The first time we walked it was right after we viewed the house we’d eventually buy. Our Trail was quiet and pretty empty except for the occasional distance runner who’d wave noncommittally as they passed. We had pretty much decided that we wanted to buy our house when a couple fawns trotted across the path calmly and we held our breath so as not to scare them. We’d eventually find out that the forest Our Trail ran through was basically a deer sanctuary but we didn’t know that at the time. At the time we thought it was a miracle. A sign that we were meant to live there on that dead-end street.
So we did.
We lived on Our Trail as much as we lived in our house. We’d go on runs, sometimes together, often alone. We’d walk and chat to the same few neighbours who also frequented Our Trail.
There was Bud, a 87 year-old who walked with a cane and cut-off t-shirts in the summer. He’d tell me stories about how he used to watch Johnny Cash backstage at the Opry and party with Dolly Parton. Who knows if any of those stories were true, but they became part of the folklore of our neighborhood and Our Trail.
There was the widow who sat under that big tree at the top of the hill and wave every time I walked by on my way to Our Trail. She put out bowls of clean water and sometimes a few apples for the deer, and most of the time they’d be there too, too busy eating like house pets to look up and notice me walking by.
One time on Our Trail I saw an owl sleeping on a branch in a tree by the parking lot. Our parking lot only has about nine spaces because no one really knew it was there. It turned out to be a nice quiet place for an owl to catch some zzz’s during the day. I tried taking a picture on my phone but it turned out grainy and a thousand times less impressive than actually seeing him. So I deleted it and kept walking.
Soon I was pregnant with my son and I would take my swollen legs and belly for a walk on Our Trail. It was always quiet and I would explain in whispers to him how I planned take him here was when he was out. I’d imagine what he’d be like, try and picture what colour hair he’d have or if he’d like pointing at the ducks and sunning turtles in the pond.
And a few weeks later I was true to my word. I pushed my son in his stroller and we made for the shade of the trees and watched the deer silently cross the path like they always did.
When the first big snow storm hit Nashville, I bundled him up, only five months old, strapped him to my chest, and we went to Our Trail in the silent, heavily falling snow. The landscape had changed and, as usual, we were the only two out there for the whole hour long walk.
When he learned how to walk, we’d teeter down to the trail head and he would chase the deer cheerfully (they didn’t seem to mind) and point to the ducks and turtles just like I had imagined he would.
Sure sometimes we’d cross paths with someone, but for the most part this was our kingdom, our woods, our pond, Our Trail. We found stone Druid circles and played in them and tried not to squish all the yellow caterpillars that swarmed the field and trail every spring.
It was our haven in the middle of a busy city. Our hiding place when life felt overwhelming. It was there on that trail that I began to realise that maybe my son was autistic. And there on the trail that we learned it didn’t make one pick of difference to his enjoyment of the things that mattered. Autism stopped being scary on Our Trail. It was simply part of all of it. Part of the wind, the sunshine, the long grass we played hide-n-seek in.
Then 2020 happened and the pandemic.
Suddenly people were trapped at home and were told the only way they were allowed to leave was to go on walks. So they started ferociously Googling where they could walk.
About a week in to lockdown I noticed foot traffic had quadrupled on our little dead end street. Our Trail was being invaded. It was simple as that.
People with dogs who pooped on our mailbox and who didn’t bring bags to clean it up. Girls would saunter by in colour coordinated work out gear and water flasks as if they were on some sort of week long survival expedition instead of a neighborhood stroll.
Similarly, you’d see “fitness couples” who were clearly congratulating themselves on “getting out” during the day, smug that they had “discovered” this hidden neighborhood gem.
Worst of all were the bikers. The goddam bikers. They’d whiz by in full gear ignore the 10 mph sign at the trail head like it was the Tour de France.
One day I shouted that very thing at them. “This isn’t the Tour de France you know!” after one of them almost ran over my son who was so used to never seeing another living soul on Our Trail.
Families would come out, squabbling and kids dragging their feet at the injustice of being made to exercise. The parents would huff things like “If you don’t stop whining we’re going home!” Which of course only further incentivise their kids to behave like they were being made to march like prisoners on Our Beautiful Trail.
“It’s busier than Times Square!” I’d bark, and my husband would roll his eyes.
I didn’t see Bud much on the trail anymore. I hoped he was okay. And our widow neighbour stopped sitting out on her front yard.
The deer continued to roam the place, practically posing for all the Instagram photos people tried to take in hushed tones. I’d roll my eyes. The deer weren’t for them. They weren’t their miracle, they were mine.
The owl moved. Probably wise.
Cars didn’t fit in the parking lot (of course they didn’t). So the Invaders started parking up our little street and in front of our homes.
I seethed every time and unrecognised car pulled into our street. But I did try to be gracious. Especially at first.
“Oh how nice people are getting out and staying healthy!” I soothed myself.
“You know, it’s so good for mental health.” I’d argue.
“That’s sweet that they’ve never seen a deer before,” I’d condescend.
But eventually, when a year passed and they didn’t go away, I descended into pure, unmasked hatred.
I dreamed up bitter signs I could plant in my front yard “YOU ARE NOT WELCOME ON OUR TRAIL.” They’d read.
“PICK UP YOUR DOG SHIT.” They’d scream.
“GO TO A GYM!” They’d preach.
But I never did. All those angsty signs lived in my head and the people kept coming.
I did however, engage in a stupid stand off with a car of teenagers who were barreling down our street at an ungodly speed. SLOW DOWN, I mouthed angrily and they all looked at each other wide-eyed and embarrassed.
I know I shouldn’t admit these things.
They don’t make me sound nice. I’ve never claimed to be nice. But grief does all sorts of things to do us. My grief over losing Our Trail is still fresh.
Obviously I’m aware that the Invaders pay taxes and have just as much right to access Our Trail as any one else. I know this. I do.
But I’m not over it. Maybe I never will be.
I still stay loyal to Our Trail. I visit it several times a week, like a religion. Like it’s confession. Even though it’s busy and over run by people who are excited to have “discovered” it, I know the truth.
Our Trail has always been here. It was there before I even showed up with all my curmudgeonly energy and uncharitable thoughts. It’ll be there when I eventually abandon it when we move somewhere else. I suppose then that’s the nature of unwritten contracts— they can be broken at any time.
I know that in the things lost in the pandemic, Our Trail is very much at the bottom of most people’s list. But it’s one of the first things I think about that’s changed since then.
Maybe I’ll still make those signs anyway.