On the Beach

Never cared for taking almost all my clothes off by the waterside, joining a bunch of strangers similarly undressed and all either yelling or playing dead. Can't swim and don't care for tanning. Given a beach (I have seen some marvelous lake and ocean beaches) I, in long sleeves and long skirt or pants, will hunt for shells or fossils, or take photos, or watch birds or other creatures. This on the shore of the mighty LaBarque, at one of its bends, is my ideal beach. It's private, the sand is soft, its crystals rounded; it doesn't stick to my parka and winter hiking pants when in January -- secretly overjoyed that the wheel of the year is turning toward spring -- I beat the bushes to get to my white sand beach, look for fossils on the water's edge for a while, sit down, sigh, and lie down on the sand that contours perfectly with my frame, viewing the sky up through the bare trees. Then shutting my eyes. Ahh.

Did this two days ago and attracted a big buzzard that flapped noisily away when it saw I was alive.

The Eighth Waterfall

No day is truly rich and full unless you've fallen into a creek that day. In February, especially along the LaBarque, the tangle of underbrush and poison ivy is leafless (although not thorn-less), and I bushwhacked my way into territory unseen, possibly because the creekbed is always changing thanks to floods, weather, beavers, and fallen trees, and discovered on the property's southwestern edge this Waterfall #8. Shortly after taking this photo I crossed the brightly running creek by sitting on a spongy-wet fallen log and inching sideways to the creek's shallowest point, about six inches deep, where the water glittered golden and cold, and dropped myself feet first into the water, trusting my hiking boots and wool socks to keep me warm and mobile until I got back home. Which I did one way or another. Welcome to Waterfall #8. I love waterfalls.

Property-Line Rapture

Today in the November sunshine, blinding because it's set at such a low angle and the trees are leafless, I set out to find the northern end of this 100-acre property, and my hike brought me here, where LaBarque Creek is still "mine" -- and in a few feet it crosses over and becomes the property of the Missouri Department of Conservation; that is, it becomes everybody's. But it's always been everybody's. The creek is low -- it's been very dry all summer and fall -- but that means more fossils for me to rifle through, and more deer and raccoon tracks at water's edge. And it is right here that I would like to be standing when I'm taken up bodily into Heaven (during the next Rapture).

Forgive Our Trespass

Kept seeing glimmers between the trees below a road I walk for exercise year-round. Figured it was an illusion. Checking it out would mean trespassing. About a year ago I realized it was a real pond. Today I finally trespassed. Didn't plan it. Nobody was around. I thought, do it now, in spring, before the briars make it impossible. You're wearing dull colors; no one will see. So, down a ravine. The geography is much as it is on my own property. Found a partial path but it was muddy, with only deer tracks. No warning signs anywhere. Wondered if an owner might see and shoot me; I had no phone, weapon, or ID. Found a stream, and upstream a small man-made pond with a solar-powered pond-water pump, and a rowboat, and a picnic table. Proof that the glittering pond belongs to somebody. I thought, I'd better get out of here.

A sure way to get out of somewhere is to walk downstream. Found three small pretty waterfalls along the way. I felt rewarded. I imagined the excuses I would make if caught, although a woman alone in the woods is not usually looking for trouble; she's looking for transcendence. Those seeking beauty, and only seeking beauty, I thought, have God's protection. I hope.

• I'm lost. (False.) Show me the way out, please, and I'll go. (True; all the following excuses are true.)
• I am sorry, won't do it again, didn't mean any harm.
  
• I didn't see any warning signs.
• If I'd known you owned the land I would have asked permission.
  
• I live around here. You're welcome to come see my property sometime.
  
• I'm a member of a Missouri Stream Team (was wearing the jacket with the Stream Team patch).

Finally saw a paved road ahead and climbed up onto it. Highway F, not far from my place. Glad I done it although it was wrong.

Monitoring "my" land is part of my tenant's agreement. It's also got "No Trespassing" signs, which I maintain. But if I saw an unarmed stranger, on foot, without a dog (free-running dogs here endanger themselves, drivers, animals, and residents) I would put myself in his or her place, knowing how it was probably beauty that led them into temptation, and say, keeping a polite distance, Nice property, isn't it, and kindly point out the signs and say there's public land nearby.