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I was thumbing through a notebook of poetry I had written. I found a poem entitled Wilderness I.
Cool fields on a summer day, Crystal lake with wooded bay Solitude with beauty blessed That's my idea of wilderness.
Those simple rhyming couplets took me back to my first time at Lake Ripley.
Drifting in the canoe in the middle of the boomerang shaped lake, I could see my grandparent's cabin protruding on the point. It was small and white safely nestled against dense, green pines.
The clear bluish water lapped against the side of the canoe as I gazed lazily around the lake. Peacefulness, quietness, restfulness, Peacefulness, quietness, restfulness. each wave seemed to impress upon me more than the one before it.
Directly across from the snuggled cabin were two dirt roads. They led almost straight up a hill and seemed to go into the sky. They appeared too steep for a car to descend, so what was the purpose? They cut the lake from the world and made it mine.
A great splash on the other end of the boomerang shaped lake caused me to turn just in time to see two deer. The tawny velvety bodies streaking back and forth. They played in the water, unaware that I was watching them. The shore they were on was the only one on the lake not thick with trees. It was at the foot of a steeply sloping grassy hill. At the top of the hill was the sky in its cool, blue splendor.
Peeking out from under the cottony clouds was the warm, penetrating sun which made my eyes water as it glinted on the lake's liquid surface.
At the opposite end of the lake was a great, sandy beach. There were a few old green shacks barely visible in the pines above the beach. The shacks and several half sunken row boats were all that remained of the boys' camp which once made the shores of Lake Ripley lively with excitement, I was told.
They were gone and I was the only one left, alone and at peace in this seemingly forgotten place of wilderness.
(C) Marijo Phelps all rights reserved. Use with with proper credits.
Marijo Phelps was saved by His grace in 1974, from 9 years of
professing atheism into His loving arms. She lives with her husband in
the middle of a mountain meadow. She is wanting to spread the good news
about His redemptive plan for our lives through written media. Her name
is pronounced Mary Jo (her dad got cute with the spelling of it). She
was an RN for 23+ years, missionary with YWAM then statistical analyst
for Every Home for Christ over 9 years. She had her first poem
published when she was four years old (her mom might have had more than
a little to do with that!) She has been writing ever since. You can find more of her
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