Just south of Mount Moosilauke in New Hampshire’s White Mountains is the tiny village of Glencliff. Hiking through the town in the late afternoon during my very first Appalachian Trail adventure, I noticed an older man sitting on a chair on a dilapidated porch of an unpainted house. He was watching me with an air of suspicion, as if he was the Sheriff and I was trouble. When I heard him harrumph as I passed by, I got the message and simply asked if the Appalachian Trail was nearby. He gave me a nod and I was off to look for the white blaze that would lead me back into the woods.
Soon enough I happened upon an empty cabin just off the trail. It had been noted in the trail guide as owned and operated by the Dartmouth Outing Club, but it looked derelict to me. Nevertheless, I ventured inside and began unpacking. This dark, dank and uninviting shelter would be my place of rest for the night.
After a light dinner, I ventured out of the cold gloom of the cabin to take a short hike to an area that looked like an open meadow. As I drew close I could see that the light from the declining sun seemed to draw contrasting shadows against the bright yellows and greens of the high, uncut grass. I was the lone witness to this magical scene of natural tranquility and I soon felt as if I was melting into the beauty of this unexpected moment.
As I stood in the middle of this natural still life, I became aware of deer grazing in the far corner of the field. They had not yet noticed my presence and so I kept still and quietly savored this fortuitous scene of solitary beauty. Time seemed to suspend itself just for my own pleasure. Then a soft breeze startled the scene much as a pebble does when tossed innocently into a placid lake.
The deer lifted their heads in unison, sensing an intrusion. They hesitated another moment and then were gone. Suddenly I was alone again in a place that now was losing the warmth of the soft, summer colors that seemed so abundant just moments before. The field and the surrounding forests were turning dark as the encroaching dusk washed the landscape in its gray hues.
For a short interlude that day, I know I felt the glad presence of grace in that setting. As night descended, I had to leave, to turn back to the cold embrace of that solitary cabin that awaited me. Yet today my memory returns to the field and the deer and the lustrous serenity of that late afternoon. I remember that day as grace edged in darkness. The light of that grace has held my heart over the many intervening years.
