Regrets are Like Hiking with a Backpack Full of Boulders
Trumpeter swans gather in a wheat field, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
In January, I hike through a nearby wheat field. Just me and a few thousand swans.
To those driving past, Deer Parks Wildlife Management Area looks like any other Idaho field in the winter. Another slumbering parcel waiting for spring planting. It’s easy to miss the parking area and sign.
Yet each winter, thousands of swans find their way to our river valley from as far away as the Arctic Circle. They come knowing this sacred ground is their salvation.
I do too.
My favorite trail through Deer Parks is a maze, like those cut in cornfields around Halloween. Sunflowers, frozen on the vine, are as tall as I am. Along with wheat and corn, the sunflowers are planted and left standing to sustain the once threatened Trumpeter swans.
Swans in a snow-covered field, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
When heavy snow buries the wheat, our Fish and Game plow it clear. They also open trails for folks to wander and wonder about the life force calling all sentient beings forward on their path.
I don’t always get the best pictures when I hike Deer Parks. My focus is on listening to the land. I’ve come to know Earth’s spirit recognizes me when I connect deeply to one of her places. She nudges me to leave my ego in the Jeep and walk with a willingness to hear her wisdom.
Swans in flight, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
How naïve I was on my first trek through Deer Parks. I thought this sanctuary was all about capturing vivid images of swans in flight. I was new to nature photography. Even I couldn’t miss as dozens of swans flew in from distant fields to gather with the others. They came in so low; I could almost reach up and touch their gossamer wings.
Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda.
On that first trip, I felt good about my progress as an amateur photographer. I had dozens of images on my memory card, and several were in focus. As the light faded, I decided to call it a day.
Nature said, “Not so fast, little human.”
Before I could fold up my tripod, banks of three to five swans rose from the wheat fields. One after another, the small groups circled above the thousands still on the ground. I didn’t have to speak swan to understand the warning in their calls.
They reminded me of mothers standing at the kitchen door, calling their children in from play as darkness falls.
The swans paid me no mind as I stood amid their evening ritual. They were gathering the flock to spend the night on the nearby Snake River, safely away from foxes and coyotes. The hour had come to sleep on water.
Young swan sleeping on water, Idaho. By Kris Cochran
I remember thinking I wouldn’t change one thing about my life if it meant never witnessing the swans rise in community to care for one another.
At the time, I had left a job with a steady paycheck to work from home. I was still in the “What was I thinking?” stage with only one client and working twice as hard for half the money. Regret had begun to weigh on me.
As the swans swirled overhead, nearly blocking the setting sun, I had a knowing I’d made the right choice. I didn’t want to die like Ivan Ilyich.
In Tolstoy’s novella “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” Ivan, suffering on his deathbed, comes to a stark realization.
“What if my whole life has been wrong?”
By wrong, Ivan meant what if answering the call of society’s expectations was a massive deception? What if, instead, he had responded to the call of his soul and lived life on his own terms?
As Ivan’s physical pain worsened, so too did the pain of his regrets. Although he found peace in his final hour, he was out of time to follow a new trail.
Living from the end
The older I get, the lighter I want my backpack. I’d like to be able to carry every camera lens I might use on a hike. But like carrying regrets, they’re too heavy. A lighter load gives me the freedom to explore new side trails I might miss if I’m weary and weighted down.
Swans at sunset,Idaho. By Kris Cochran
Every year, I return to Deer Parks in January to unpack my boulders of regret. We humans seem to collect them easily. I plan to die with my backpack empty.
Thanks for walking with me,
Kris
