That's right, Quicksilver Messenger Service, circa 1970, during the height of the psychadelic era, so called, in rock and roll and the larger culture. I heard the song again a couple of years ago, this time a solo acoustic version by Richie Havens out on the commons in Kent, and it was just as arresting and valid in his baritone growl 33 years later.
So I'm driving home from church last Sunday after two cups of coffee and a better-than-usual sermon by our exceptionally bright, insightful minister, Rev. Susan, and needless to say, I have a few things to think about. Rather than turning south on Africa Road and going home on this chilly, damp first day of spring, I turned north and parked Hank, my new/old pickup truck, at the trailhead by Plumb Road. You can see straight down the trail to Alum Creek Reservoir, but I hung a left at the first branch in the hiking trail and just walked to air out my brain.
This is your brain. This is your brain on oxygen. Any questions?
The scenery in March is unspectacular. Of course there are lots of things to look at in rural Delaware County in any season, if you're paying attention, but that wasn't really the point. It had rained most of Saturday, and the trail was muddy, so most of the time I was occupied with finding high ground to walk on, not observing birds and trees and fields on the cusp of spring. It was cold, so it took at least half an hour of traipsing up and down folds in the watershed to get the blood flowing through my freezing fingers. And I wasn't really working out a solution to a specific problem, wrestling with a decision, or meditating on a theme from Emerson, so it wasn't like I was walking purposefully. I just needed to be outside for a while, and I needed to move. So I went for a walk in the woods and felt better.
Shall we construct a chart? Movement is good; being outside is good; movement while outside is sublime. Excuse the expression, but it's like the best drug ever. Mix with your favorite work- or play-related activity, with or without balls, bats, rackets, clubs, pedals, paddles, skis, skates, tools, or other implements of construction, and you've got the cosmic cocktail. As your doctor, I prescribe 20 minutes or more per day, and I guarantee it will change your point of view.
But there is a downside. It doesn't cost a thing, so you won't see ads on TV promising how it will change your life and minimizing the nausea, dry-mouth, and sexual side-effects. Therefore, there's no market incentive to promote going outside and breathing air, and there are billions of dollars to be made persuading you to do something else - take a pill, you'll feel better! And when you take that pill for your allergies, arthritis, anger, anxiety, acid reflux, boredom, bad breath, constipation, diarrhea, depression, erectile dysfunction, flatulence, headache, hair-loss, wrinkles, or whatever, you'll be contributing to the biggest growth industry of the Boomer Era, you guessed it, drugs.
Ooooooooh, have another hit - of fresh air.
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Boy, I hear ya! I love fresh air. In my dream last night, my work buddies (including you and Gwen) were getting plenty of it as we all camped beside the Colorado R. in Moab. Why must you break, Morning?
Hiking in the woods or in a canyon or even across a grassland--is there anything more enjoyable? Some would argue for sex, and I would say that the two are very compatible. Others might argue for dancing, and I would be among them, but only if it was the kind of dancing where you lose all inhibitions and so totally groove on the music that you never want it to stop. At this point I must say "Damn you, Trey Anastasio's manager, who booked him into Vet's, the absolute worst venue for dancing in all of Capital City!"
Anyway, I really must hike more. And soon the trees will be full of fresh, electric green leaves! Enjoy yourself, Sven!
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