Abruptly, the asphalt ends,
the tires dust up dirt and stone
sending the white bug of a rental car
bumping along a one-lane track
threading through plywood shacks
that remind him of Deliverance.
Ahead, the path is swallowed
by a stream. No place
to turn around.
Google maps and reality collide.
II
I am alone in the Black River Forest,
defenseless, holding a camera
on a tree-rooted path that makes
hasty retreat without injury difficult.
Rustling along river’s edge,
something larger than a squirrel
stirs the underbrush. Suddenly,
without provocation, it charges,
feet scurrying beneath an armor of steel.
Instinctively, I take a step back.
“Do not be afraid,” I whisper to it, to me,
for the unfamiliar need not be frightening.
With its prehistoric-looking shell,
tiny eyes, pig-like snout, pointed ears,
long, ringed tail, it looks like an escapee
from the museum of natural history.
Singularly focused on finding food,
the “little armored one” rushes past me,
sniffing, clawing, digging the wet earth.
I might as well have been invisible.
III
Contrary to what my husband was told
by the fishermen while waiting by the car
for my return, the water moccasins did not
drop on me from the branches overhead,
the river path was not overrun with baby gators,
and I never saw or heard a single bear.
Maybe next time.
Facing the Unfamiliar

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