A Chickadee Taught Me How to Hike Through Painful Memories
Fed by warm springs, the Henrys Fork flows all winter. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
At 70, my hiking days are as deciduous as aspen leaves in autumn.
I will soon drop this body like a golden leaf spent upon the trail and move into a new state of being.
Perhaps that’s why nature sent me a chickadee as a reminder I have no time to waste on pain from the past.
Why does my mind run amok?
On a recent Idaho winter day, a brilliant blue sky teased of spring. I loaded camera gear and snowshoes in my Jeep and headed “up north country,” as we say down here in the Snake River Valley. It was a perfect day to spend in Harriman State Park.
In summer, visitors worldwide crowd the park to fly fish for wild rainbow trout on the Henrys Fork of the Snake River.
I cherish the quiet of Harriman in winter. The 16,000-acre wildlife refuge looks nearly the same as in 1902 when Union Pacific Railroad owners bought the working cattle ranch for personal adventure travel.
A farm building still standing after a century. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
It must have seemed as thrilling then as flights into space today for the ultrawealthy.
Fortunately for those of us who don’t own railroads and rockets, conservationist John Muir convinced the Harriman family heirs to donate the “Railroad Ranch” to the state of Idaho in 1977. Wildlife flourished with the removal of cattle, and millions of visitors have found adventure on over 20 miles of groomed trails.
A moment with a moose on the Henrys Fork of the Snake River. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
On the drive to the park, I struggled to be present and focus on my adventure for the day. An offhand comment had triggered the memory of harsh words and false accusations from someone in the past.
Injustice and betrayal were stuck in my craw.
A chickadee’s welcome distraction
At Harriman, I parked at the River Trail and was immediately distracted by an excited chickadee.
She darted from branch to branch in a pine tree near where I’d parked. I spent half an hour waiting for her to be still enough for a photo. Finally, she settled down and let me move in close with my camera.
As I set out on the hike, the tiny songbird flew ahead of me to land in the first pine tree on the trail.
Chickadees are curious and friendly, but her behavior seemed odd. I had a sense she wanted my attention.
The chickadee I met on a hike through a winter wonderland. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I’ve always admired chickadees. Rather than migrate south, they remain in the northern forests and brave the harsh winters. Year-round, I delight in seeing them flit from bough to bough, high in the pines, like tiny acrobats in black and white tuxedos.
One of the smartest in the animal kingdom, a chickadee hides hundreds of thousands of seeds in the fall and remembers the location of every morsel come winter. That’s a lot of brainpower for a bird weighing less than half an ounce.
At every turn on my hike, I seemed to be in the right place at the right time to capture images of my favorite wild friends. I wondered if the chickadee had brought me luck.
A mallard swimming in solitude on the Henrys Fork, Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
Canadian geese give a swan a good splashing, Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
A goldeneye rises from a dive. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I returned from my hike to an empty parking lot. Or so I thought.
The few cross-country skiers who had passed me on the trail had left the park for the day. I took a moment to listen to the stillness created by deep snow.
I had started to stow my gear when the chickadee landed at my feet. She had a seed in her beak and a bit of snow to wash it down.
What was she trying to share?
A chickadee shares her wisdom at the end of the trail. Harriman State Park, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I snapped her picture and remembered something else I had read about chickadees. Their brains automatically rewire neurons to discard old memory cells. New, more adaptive memories replace them.
No self-help books. No life coaches. Chickadees keep the best and forget the rest.
In other words, they’re smarter than I am.
“I get it,” I told her.
She flew off into the forest.
New thoughts; new possibilities
The wounds of our soul open again and again until we find the space to heal.
I find that space in the wild places.
I am always enchanted when stepping through the portal into the mystery of mother nature. When I yield to her wisdom, I find a way forward.
I don’t know why a chickadee easily releases old memories while humans struggle to be present. Perhaps our lessons are designed into our journey.
Driving home, I thought about all the hikes I’ve dreamed of when winter finishes with us for another year. It’s time to program new trails into my GPS, photograph fresh scenes, and rewire my neurons.
If a songbird can think new thoughts, so can I.
Thanks for walking with me,
Kris
Links to what researchers are learning about chickadees:
