The Unnatural

June 15, 2023. Along the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal

In the corner of my eye, I saw a man running on the water. Despite my church-laden upbringing, I didn’t think about the biblical connotations of my vision. Instead, I thought about the grace of Olympic runners, their glide from one circle of earth to the next. How simple it would be for them to transition from terra firma to algal waters! Turning my head, I saw a crane — a blue streak of paint — falling in pace with my very un-Olympian jog before swooping ahead to settle on a log. There, it looked critically — studiously, even — into the water, seeking its next meal.

These jolts of nature have become commonplace on my runs as I seek out long stretches of road unimpeded by crosswalks and stop signs. In New Jersey, I was kept company by horses that speckled the small farm fields. Sometimes, one would stare at me, and I’d think back to the one time I fed a horse an apple, surprised and disgusted at the bulky flesh of its lips. Another day, after a run where I neared pure euphoric pain, I ambled back to my car while picking purple and yellow flowers across my path. By the end of my migration, I finished a call with a close friend driving to work (the conversation dominated by my running-related ramblings) and gathered a voluminous bouquet of wildflowers. At home, I placed them on my desk, where they soon lost their petals and wilted, their browning forms mocked by the prim store-bought rose that I bought for Mother’s Day.

The book I recall best from those morning jogs is The Overstory, a Pulitzer-prize winning novel on trees. It follows a group of misfits, all driven by a love of elms and pines and oaks, as they rampage against deforestation. I wasn’t moved by the book. I often stared at the trees beside me, beseeching them to seduce me, to devastate me. I never found what I was looking for. The closest I got was a few months later when my family and I traveled to Shenandoah National Park, where we cruised on the Skyline Drive to survey the various scenic outlooks. Most were underwhelming. Though the elevation was high and the view was vast, the mountains were an uneventful green and the skies were a muted blue. But at this outlook, a tree stood. It was naked. It scowled at the green-blue view. We found out that it was the eastern hemlock tree, a species whose demise is chronicled by The Overstory. Indeed, the tree proclaimed its death with outstretched, arthritic arms. I felt the need to pay my respects. But we returned to the car, and continued on our drive.