The Beach Boys in Pulaski Woods East, January 30, 2011

Sometimes you can travel a short distance and go a long way.

It is Sunday morning. Winter. Heavy, bluish clouds laden with moisture are low overhead. l Snow is falling lightly, adding to the coated tree branches and the blanket that is already on the ground. The ground snow is smooth and undisturbed from no human foot traffic.

It has been that way now in the Chicago area for the last two months: snow and then cold and then more snow. The weather jockeys on TV are calling for a heavy dumping early next week, the blizzard of the decade. Right now the meteorologists are the stars. They get the most attention between reports of Egypt burning down and Chicago Blackhawks hockey.

I'm not a winter person. I've battled with it all my life living in Chicago and its burbs.

Today I thought I'd try to embrace it. I'm tired of fighting. Maybe it's that time of life.

Instead of the bricks and walls of a church I took off for God's natural cathedral.

There was no liturgy and no genuflecting and no collection plate.

Just outside the close in burbs in Chicago is a great swath of woods called the Cook County Forest Preserve Besides Lake Michigan, it's the most accessible thing that reminds a person that they are still just visitors in a larger cosmos.

I drove past Maple Lake, a favorite necking spot for teenagers way back when and now. I guess teenagers don't "neck" anymore; they hook-up.

I turned down Wolf Road and hooked up with nature. I was alone.

To my surprise the road, which is hilly, was temporally blocked by a couple of fifty-five gallon plastic garbage barrels and a rope.

I tuned and parked, shut off the Beach Boys on CD. Hoping to evoke the warm feeling of summer, I picked the Beach Boys CD to remind me what eighty degrees feels like. . It wasn't working this time, hadn't been working for the several days it's been in the player. The snow I see from the windshield does not match the happy sounds playing inside.

Too often in our urban areas we fight against nature. Look at the effort keep the streets plowed. The streets must be plowed, because people need things and they need to "go" to work, and they need to "get out".

It's a never ending fight against something bigger than us. It's a fight we will never win. instead of embracing the seasons in a natural sort of way, we fight it. We remove ourselves from it, not just for protection from severe elements but to live or do its facsimile in an artificially created environment.

The woods were quiet. There were some tracks going up the road, mostly dog and man, but also deer and raccoon. I walked down Wolf Road to the Pulaski Woods, which are divided by Wolf Road into "East" and West".

A marker that resembled a grave stone caught my eye in Pulaski Woods East. It told me that the woods were named after Casimir Pulaski, the Revolutionary War General. The smooth gray, marble marker was erected in 1930.

There were no humans around, and no visible animals, either. When I became still I could hear the small snow crystals dropping by the millions on the branches of the oak trees and onto the ground. It was a tiny, metallic sound. It was all around, surrounding me like a hazy white curtain. You could not hear an individual flake hitting, but you could feel them all striking the branches or joining the snow that already blanketed the area.

I walked a over to Pulaski Woods West, which had a snow covered view of Bullfrog Lake. I took a picture of it for all you stay at homes. If you look closely you can see two picnic tables near the shore.

So this is what it looked like when General Pulaski was a soldier in a part of the country a good long distance from here. Except, of course, for the picnic tables.

Soon I was heading towards Wolf Road and back to the car with the ineffective Beach Boys CD, but I felt a little better. The walk was calming.

As I turned to start back I saw a dog on the road. Sometimes you don't know what type of dog you are going to find when you are out walking, but this was a Golden Lab, and I swear it had a smile on its face. His tail was wagging and his breath was visible as he panted. This dog was having a good time.

His owner, a middle aged man, soon followed. I heard his voice before I saw him, calling out that the dog was "friendly". He said he needed to get out and get some exercise. I said that I needed the same from time to time.

My visit with nature was over.

The car cranked over and "Good Vibrations" came on. Not long ago I had seen some TV show on Brian Wilson, and reportedly the song was inspired by Brian's mother, who told him that dogs bark at some people and not at others, because of the vibrations the person gives off.

If I had met the dog going into the woods I think he might have barked at me. My vibrations on the way in weren't so good. I called the dog over and petted him; he didn't bark at me. Good thing I met him on my way out.