Littlefield Notes: A Slower Pace
by Ryan Foxley of Arlington, WA
One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it takes such a long time. — G.K. Chesterton
A light rain taps on the soft buggy top as I drive through the misty woods on a grey November day. The iron buggy tires and rhythmic fjord-clop provide the soundtrack for a stage set with giant cedars and hemlocks that seem to float past in a late autumn dream. I note here and there a mushroom, a droopy late season fern, the last brown leaves on the young alders in the clear-cut; a deer in search of a mate dodges cagily in and out of salmonberry thickets. The gelding is active, spunky, too long without work. He tests me; takes hold of the bit and goes. I don’t worry much as I know the Big Hill is coming which will quickly put an end to his over-eager zeal. Once down the other side I deliver fresh eggs, tomatillo salsa, garlic, potatoes.
I could have taken the pick-up and saved time, but then I would have missed seasonal nuance of the woods around me. And what would I have done with the saved time? What does it even mean to save time? Is time something that can be saved, tucked away in a box for later use when you find yourself up against a deadline?
With my first introduction to horse drawn travel as a teenager working on a tourist wagon train, I was immediately drawn to the pace; its rhythm and cadence seemed to suspend time, to bring the mind reassuringly into the present moment. It felt right on a profound level – as if this was the speed at which human beings were meant to travel. Horses walk at a pace that invites contemplation, smoothing the rough edges of a stressed and over-full life. One of the great ironies of the modern world (post-modern?) is that the faster we are able to travel the more we feel the need to hurry, the more we hurry the more we worry, and the more we worry the faster we go; an endless feedback loop of hurry and worry. The more time we save, the less time we seem to have.
I’m reminded of an experience I had in college. I gave up riding my bicycle to class in favor of walking because I found that the just-in-time cross town speed of the bike added stress to my life, while the contemplative nature of a six or eight block walk imparted a certain peace to the beginning of my day.
Ways to Get There
I have always been fascinated by the various transportation methods that humans have contrived, especially sailboats, steam locomotives and horse drawn vehicles. Sails are like unto horses in that man must enter into a compact with nature. The wind will blow where it will. The tides will rise and fall regardless of our schedule. There is a certain magic to the feel of a boat moving silently through the water with nothing but the wind nudging it along. Its motion and pace are not unlike that of the buggy snaking down the farm lane. The horse is willing just as the wind is willing; with both we must conform ourselves with skill and knowledge to nature’s pace.
The steam engine has it’s own allure. It is seemingly alive: a benevolent, marvelous, mechanical fire breathing wonder. Union Pacific has had the vision and commitment to keep two mainline steamers in active excursion service. The sight of UP 844 pulling a string of vintage yellow passenger cars over Sherman Hill is one not easily forgotten; a thundering testament to the power of steel and steam.
I will probably never get a chance to sit at the throttle of a steam engine heading up some winding mountain grade and feel the romance of the rails as the lonesome sound of a steam whistle echoes off canyon walls. Nor will I sit and watch out over the bowsprit of a schooner rounding Cape Horn as the mighty wind and waves test men’s mettle and fill their spirits with the allure of the sea. Though I do like to play with model trains and sail my 12’ wooden boat on occasion, sail and steam as vocations are resigned for now to the dustbin of history.