To swim in her chestnut eyes...

~*~

Phone Note. Logged Monday, 8/17/20, 3:20 PM.

At NRT. FF. Plan is to ride to Allisonia and back.
Been crying most all day. Or on the verge of tears.
Has to do with insignificance. Feeling it today.
Dismissed. Really, really non-existent.
Don't know if anything will greet me on the trail today.
A groundhog greeted me on the road. Stopped. In my lane. Looking at Edward and me.
I had to stop. He waddled off the road. Then a couple butterflies.
But I have no idea why cycling the trail helps any of the animals or the earth.

End phone note.

NRT is the New River Trail. FF is Foster Falls. Edward is my vehicle, a 1999 Ford Explorer.

That morning, I'd had deep depression with suicidal ideation. Sadly this used to be a regular occurrence for me. Fortunately, suicidal ideation seldom visits anymore. But this week, it's visited twice. I'm processing and endeavoring to identify any triggers. I do this to help me in the future. More importantly, I'm coming out of the deep depression, I think. Just that I'm writing this post is proof. I'm opening up, as opposed to staying shut down.

The recent suicidal ideation. I don't feel like sharing the details. But, I've been on that desperate, isolated island often enough to know what to do to navigate the elements. It was a hard Monday.

~*~

Earlier on Monday.

I am crying in heaves. But I make myself call Hubby. He's at work. He answers. We talk between my heaves.

I go through the motions of the morning and midday. I pack my biking and food needs and load them into Edward. I hadn't pulled out or packed part of the suicide gear, the pistol.

On the drive up the mountain, my insides are closed off. If I allow myself to open too much...well I just can't do that. It's too painful. So, I shut down. I'm sure it's a coping mechanism. I've lived with this gremlin since the mid-90s. It's not new.

But, I'm not completely shut down.

Feelings of valuelessness.
Isolation. So very, very alone.
Dismissed and misunderstood.
But it must be because of my inability to communicate well. So why try.
Abyss of pointlessness.
A hollow pit.
I have nothing worthwhile to share.

Then the groundhog encounter, which has never happened before. It's rare I see a groundhog on the road, and if I do, it runs. I've never had to stop. The encounter lasts about ten seconds.

Then I pull into the State Park and park Edward. I write my note in my phone. I think about not biking; but rather, just lying down in the back of Edward and taking a nap. Or taking a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. But I know biking will help.

Will anything of significance happen on the trail? Stop Carol. Have no expectations. If you have no expectations, you won't be disappointed.

I begin my ride, heading north on the trail.

The trail parallels the New River most of the trail's 57 miles. There are old, now-closed lead mines along the trail and river. It's a rail trail; at one time railroad tracks and ties lay here carrying an iron horse through this section of the Blue Ridge. The railroad ties and tracks were removed, and now there is a dirt and gravel trail, wide enough still for a locomotive. Only authorized motor vehicles, like Park Rangers and a few locals' golf carts, are allowed.

I stop at Lone Ash, my 5.3 mile mark. No people are on the trail. I text Hubby a photo and message, "..Pretty empty up here. Empty of humans..."

I ponder, Maybe I should just ride back to Foster Falls. But that'd only be 10ish miles. I really ought to ride the full 24.

I continue north on my 24-mile ride.

I hadn't gone a mile when a doe with two fawns are in my path. I slow down. Typically deer run when I approach. But they aren't running. When I'm about 40 feet from them, I stop. I don't dismount to the side; that will scare them off. Instead I slowly slide off Bleu's saddle and stand balancing her between my legs. I don't pull out my phone to take a picture; that too will scare them.

Our eyes meet, the doe's and mine. And we gaze within each other. Her eyes. So peaceful, even trusting. I am mesmerized swimming within the dark chestnut, deep windows to her soul. Then, she nods her head as if to say, "Hello." I slowly nod to her, acknowledging and returning the greeting.

Her eyes seem to shift, like she sees something behind me. I slowly turn my head to look over my right shoulder. I see nothing but trail and woods. I turn back to my new friend.

Again, our eyes meet. And, we pick up where we'd left off. Then, she takes one-and-a-half steps toward me.

This doesn't seem real. But, it is.

My forearms are resting, palm-sides down, on Bleu's handle bars. I turn them to palms-side up, still resting them on the handle bars. My palms are open.

So, what are you going to do? I ask the doe in thought.

Then I hear it. She does too. A fighter jet approaching. It arrives in a second above us, and is gone the next. They are so fast and loud and low. She and her fawns take off in a dart through the woods.

The contrast is startling. The encounter profound. Tears trickle down my cheeks.

No wonder the deer run from us.

I feel anger at the human war machines. Humans and our wars.

The whole encounter felt like an eternal moment. In reality, it was probably only fifty-five seconds, maybe seventy-five.

I finish my ride, 24.5 miles, back to Edward. I encounter more deer, who behave like deer, and some rabbits and butterflies and birds and squirrels. I only see seven humans on the trail and those within a half-mile of my starting and ending point at Foster Falls. One couple walking and one cyclist at my start. And a family of four at my completion.

For twenty-three miles, no humans.

"..Pretty empty up here. Empty of humans..." 

~*~

8/27/20

A few days after posting this piece, I wondered if maybe the doe I encountered was Cove. I'm sure she wouldn't remember me specifically, but she was raised by humans after they rescued her when her mom drowned. She grew up with them about 15 miles south of my 8/17/20 encounter.
John and I met Cove while biking the New River Trail on August 26, 2017.