Tires crunching on the gravel, my car noses into a spot. “We’re here!” I announce to my family. We pile out, pulling on our sweatshirts and hiking shoes while Sasha, our golden retriever, races around, ecstatic at being let free after the long, hot car ride.

My husband calls to her, slips on the dog leash, and shrugs on his own backpack after making sure everyone has enough water and snacks to last several days, not one hour. His pack contains all the other necessities deemed necessary for our annual hike on Rosh Hashana.

“This is beautiful,” smiles my friend as her family climbs out of her hybrid car. They go through the same ritual of coats, shoes, and snacks. We stop to chat and marvel at the beauty of the pine trees, moss, and river sounds. We all gather as a group at the trail head.

We’re all off to do tashlich, the ritual “casting off” of our sins, at a gorgeous river. We need to throw our bread crumbs in moving water, so we start the negotiations as to the best place. You are supposed to think about all the things you’ve done or not done during the past year and cast away all the promises met and not met, all the sins performed or thought about….and begin again as the new year progresses. My husband takes charge….he has the bread, after all, and we silently file behind him.

We start walking. The air is humid, ripe with the scent of earth and decaying plants. To our right runs the Salmon River. The sound of the water gurgling, churning, and lapping on the shore acts as an automatic stress reliever. I feel the tension in my shoulders, back, and head ebb as I walk slowly up the rail. My children, united at last with their friends, chat happily and loudly, sometimes running ahead of us or climbing nimbly up a rock embankment or down to investigate strange hollows or dens. At one point, I come upon my daughter and her friend as they straddle a fallen log high up a hill. They seem so grown up, and I silently grimace at the dangerous position and they loudly insist they are fine.

We come upon a familiar turnoff—a small hike-in campground. It’s empty on the trail—there’s no one else to watch as we each grab our hunk of bread and creep slowly to the edge of the river—Wait! There’s salmon. Lots of salmon. They struggle against the current to complete their miles and miles long trip. How appropriate, I think, as I ponder what a year these salmon have had. That their year is almost complete too. It’s another year—and as I crumble my bread and throw it in the water, I think about the last 365 days—disappointments, health scares, my sister’s husband’s calamity, my relationships with friends and family—and feel a small sense of peace and I feel an incredible sense of gratitude at what my life is and the gifts I have been given.

I look around and see that the others are having their own quiet moments of gratitude as well. My husband looks over at me—he smiles and comes over to give me a quick kiss. Our dog is running happily up and down the trail, sometimes racing to the water’s edge. The scent of the water and fish is too alluring for her and she dives right in.

Oh! The poor salmon! Their quiet struggle becomes disturbed as Sasha paddles around the water’s edge. “Well, time to go.” I think as my husband gets splashed with the river water while Sasha shakes herself.

We move down the path. I look around, trying to freeze this moment in my head: the towering trees on the banks, the delicate ferns and nurse logs along the trail, the sweet scent of the forest, and the sound of the wind blowing through the trees.

Our party breaks up as we move toward our cars. On the way home, I vow to cherish this feeling. I close my eyes…and try to remember.

 

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