My Wild-Like Refuge — by J. Drew LanhamWildness often visits me on a whim, on the edges of a pre-dawn dream or in the breeze of some imagining of being somewhere other than my state of mind or place. Since childhood, I’ve wondered what wildness waited around the next bend on the narrow woodland path. What skittish fish swam beneath the dark creek’s flow, grinning at my hook, refusing to be fooled, saying no to the baited ruse? What rare wild bird skulked unseen before flushing from the tangled thicket, making my heart rush? From farm boy wandering dirt roads, looking up and wishing for the freedom of hawk’s wings, to ornithologist doing the dirty work to save the lives of many feathered things, the threads of my life—my heart and mind—have converged on ideas of wildness born of my own conjuring.
Most would define wildness as places unreachable without extraordinary effort; places far off the beaten path—places removed from our conveniences and our contrivances. Names like “Denali” or “River of No Return” or “Bitterroot” or “Katahdin” evoke the perception, reinforced by legal definition, that the extreme state of wildness known as “wilderness” is determined by a lack of access—roadlessness—and the absence of any apparent signs of human impact. But then if we loosen the bounds a bit, let the leash on “wild” drop, perhaps we’ll find it’s closer by. What would happen if we became aware of how wildness thrives on occasion under our noses in vacant urban lots, discernible by the unbinoculared, high-def glimpse of a bare-naked, squinted eye? If we listen on moonlit autumn nights with open minds and hopeful hearts, we can behold it flying over us where we are: journeying birds blessing us with the distant unimaginable in moments of nearby.
My current refuge isn’t designated as wilderness or wild or special by anyone but me. It is not tucked away in some far-flung corner of the world where access is granted only to those wearing high-end technical gear or with enough disposable time to wander without any cause other than “wanting to.” No, it is a journey of steps measured in feet and minutes, determined by the willingness of the local weather on the other side of the screen door to cooperate. There’s no special name requiring acknowledgment other than the address to which it’s attached. “Backyard” is the common nomenclature.
https://emergencemagazine.org/essay/my- ... ke-refuge/
(He of course may have other ideas but I can be subtle and even sneaky)