By Nicholas Tippins

Though the gravel road is missing its population of cars, I can see life and movement spinning all around it. Trees bend and ache with the wind, flowers spire to the sun and awaken their brilliance. Ghosts of travelers walk this way with me, knowing I, too, search for something that they missed finding in their whole life’s wandering.

I ache for something to fill my gut. I have not done anything this spontaneous since my adventure in India, and in India, I had an excuse for it. But this road calls me like no other; I simply cannot go any other way, as if my feet are being drawn by cords one after another to be placed upon my path.

I did not want to go, at first. I had planned to spend a quiet day in the library. Yet, as I travel on, I find some hidden sweetness in this body, once-armored heart now forced to speak with the world’s glorious mysteries. The sound of the insects is musical and bright. Hot sun grips the thick leather of my hat, imparting on it the wisdom of fire and light. I sweat and groan as I walk, and for some reason, I enjoy the difficulty of it.

Yet, every now and then, I think back to the snacks in my cupboard, which I should have packed and didn’t because I’d thought I would be in town. A hidden excitement bores its way up and out of me, too. I am on my own, in this near-wilderness, experiencing something like what the ancients did: rolling belly, wanting food. Miles of plants to eat, if only I can identify them.

And I can identify wild edibles, if only a few of them. I begin to see them walking ahead of me, dictating my tracks. The emeralds of watercress dot the streambed, and purple clover flowers act like candy beside the road. I stop to pick a few, enticed by their purpleness and promise of sweet taste. I find an acorn and, having no knife, use my molars to break the shell. Wow! I think. That’s what those are for. They worked perfectly. A set of tools right inside my mouth.

I begin to gather some of the plants to store for lunch. A few dandelion leaves, some watercress, a handful of plantain leaves. Despite my initial excitement, I am a little weary. With no dressing, the harsh bitterness of these late-season leaves will be my only companion for lunchtime.

Soon, I happen upon a miracle. Apples stare down at me like fat robins, lounging in a tree. I bound up the side of the hill to grab them, but they dangle enticingly out of reach. I jump to climb the tree, hand over hand, branch by branch, yet soon I am tangled. My backpack (with my books and computer) has attached itself to one branch, my shirt to another. My hat decides now would be a good time to practice flying, so it tumbles off of me with a “whoop!”

I try to lower my bag to the ground, but I am too high up, and too focused on the apples to go any lower. Forgetting momentarily about the cost of my laptop, I let it drop to the ground. Out of solidarity, an apple does the same.

I rest for a moment, and then soldier on, gripping the branch above me like the mane of a horse. I flip myself over its side, and by the strength of my body and slingshot-like qualities of the branch, I manage to mount it. Suddenly I am surfing the tree in the wind, at one with the rolling and crashing of the cosmic waves that guide me.

Apples galore. I want to shout. But instead of calling attention to myself (there are some houses nearby), I try one of the apples. It is sour, bitter, sweet, and fulfilling. It tastes the way I’m sure apples used to taste. I suddenly feel as if store-apples have had all the flavor sucked out of them, and been injected with an artificial sweetener. These are the real, true apples of this world. They are the kind eaten by hungry travelers, by woodsmen and by elves. They are the kind that countless grandmothers gathered to bring home to their loved ones. They are my apples, and I, too, belong to them.

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Photo of apples by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash.