M'ville-The Forest

This dank darkness grasped and tugged, pulling at you with weighted uncertainity and trepidation. The cover of humidity and hushed sound was palpable, almost overwhelming was its aura of enshrouded solemnity. These fake trails, mere lucky connections of footsteps in our intrusive bumblings, tried to warn us against entry with each hindering limb or blockading shrub. We were fools; we were starry-eyed, clueless, mind-expanding interlopers on some kind of undefined, unplanned, unfocused mission.
We, after a Braves game and undeniably in a frame of mind that lacked coherent judgement, decided to drive to my old college...north 4 hours of highways to Tennessee. I had stayed (somewhat) sober, being doomed to the driver role, and officially had the say-so: I said, "yeah, ok. The woods are killer." And off we went. Long, long shadows on the road. We played word games and told stories and finalized plans and dreamed aloud. We were together in spirit and that's about all we knew for certain.
The arrival to my old college was unexpectantly awkward. Our entire voyage had been about getting to this place, but we never planned for what would happen upon our journey's success. We step out of the cramped car to stretch our bones and find a sleepy town, a shadowy destination, a seemingly missed party. We climb back into the vehicle and search for old friends among the off-campus housing and locate someone with lights on. We crash it. Folks backslap me with fond memories, others shake my friends' hands, most look at our female adventurer, Amiz, and ogle. We decide to retreat to the woods, the sudden influx of strangers being an overload to our sense of destiny, of community, of understanding. One drone from the party accompanies us on our trek into the woods, much to our dismay as she is highly intoxicated and we are not at all.
I drive into the secret backroads of the college campus, parking the car in the hidden spots I've learned in my time there, and we depart into the sweeping cover of ink.
The smells of the lush Tennessee valley forests command our attention. This is a wave of freshness, of water-retained air, of green hemlock, of fertile earth, of mountain streams, of hill-curved windstreams. The fold of light against the woods curls us into its interior in 5 steps, and we meld into the different value of light in our eyes. The drunk girl babbles, complains about the dark, and grips my arm in terror. I lead the group--my friends and a hanger-on--by luck, dead-reckoning, the edges of my feet against the outsides of the slight path, and my soul.
Owls welcome us, as do the cicadas. We carry no lights beyond the soft orange of our cigarette ends. We walk silently, stumble rarely, even dodge spiderwebs in completely light-lacking drape. We infused ourselves, our unit, into those patient, ancient, reverent trees and undergrowth. It was mystical; the undertaking required more than intelligence, asked for more than respect, derived from randomly directed energy, delivered incredible depths of connection to experiences beyond our understanding, and supplicated those among us willing to sit and listen to the echoes of concentric rings of silence being broken apart into layers...or, in different words, cycles.
The drunk girl broke us away. I had sequestered our party into a bushy lowland, long after the concern of mosquitoes had passed, and we simply communed in that blackend spot of meditation. I remember the girl tugging my arm, now alarmed as her senses somewhat returned and she realized we were just sitting in the interior of some oppressively dark woods without a clue how to exit, and I, along with my friends, collectively sighed in our disturbance and rose to return to the car.
We found it without any hinderances, returned to the subdued party, and went inside. There we borrowed some beers after our quest, smoked cigs and talked amidst ourselves, and turned in for a few odd winks. We departed before the alcohol level lessened in the inhabitants passed out around us, leaving Tennessee to football time, respectful woods, and no need for further endeavors from our band of explorers.
The ride home was quiet, reflective. I truly believe each of us remember that outing with pride, understanding, and deeply rooted appreciation. And that is why I write it, this evening that reminded me of that heavy humidity dampness underpinned to a soft night breeze to caress the skin and the memorable recollections from treasured nights gone.