The Von Brunner Woods
Evan M. Elgin
The greatest fear in humans is not that of the unknown, this is an old-time conviction. I like to think that within the 21st-century, in our technology-obsessed paradigm, that the greatest fear to humanity is a swift, sudden reminder that deep down in our primordial core, we are still no different than that of any other wild animal. It might be easy to dismiss that idea, but after coming face-to-face with that side a few years back I can at least try to help you understand.
It was a Thursday afternoon. I had been just getting over a nasty case of the stomach flu, which I had had since the following Friday. After ten days of being stuck inside, relegating my time between quick rushes to the bathroom and downing liters of chicken noodle soup, I had grown a little stir crazy. As my nausea had finally worn off, and I was returning to my old self, I decided to make use of the free time and take a little nature walk in one of my favorite conservation areas.
The Von Brunner Woods was a short drive south from my hometown in Charles Park, right along the Fox River, and about an hour west outside of Chicago. It was steeped in local history, being the area within the city where the first European family settled – the Dutch Von Brunner family.
This space of the protected forest was an isolated one that lingered just along the west side of the Fox River, but could only be accessed from the east. To get there you had to actually cross right through downtown, moving over the Main Street Bridge to the east side. Next you would take the first right down a side street, passing a few pristine, Victorian homes along the riverside before descending into deeper elms and willows. By then you’d reach the entrance to the park, which had a modestly-squared parking lot. A life-sized replica of an old Dutch windmill – a stocky structure with a wooden paneled body and four narrow wind blades – sat next to the pavement. Its presence overlooked the trailhead: a footbridge made up of iron and wood that brought you back over to the west side.
To my elation I pulled into a parking lot that was completely empty, and I backed my sleek, black SUV into an open spot closest to the bridged trailhead. I thought to myself that recovering from the flu midweek really did pay off. I was ready to take full advantage of the quietude, having that piece of public land all to myself as I left my car and crossed over the bridge.
I entered a forest that was rife in late-summer bloom. Wildflowers grew between oaks and elm trees; robins danced in the canopy above me, and even a gentle wind kept that late-August humidity at bay. I’ve always been a great admirer of the nature-based writings of John Muir, and even though my job and family life pretty much relegated me to a suburban existence the Von Brunner Woods, in all of its natural and rustic glory, always stirred something of deep reverence inside me. It was a place where I could collect my thoughts, and enjoy my time alone. I could walk by a few of the old stone and clay foundations of its original settlers, and meditate on their existence; I could sit on one of the many park benches that lined the trail and just take in the earthy smells of wildflowers and river algae off the wind.
Fifteen minutes into my deep focus I came around the bend of the trail, just in time to hear the chirping of the birds immediately take a back seat. Then, to my surprise, I heard what I thought were separate footsteps. The heaviness of the crunch told me that whoever was making the noise was a good sized animal, maybe that of a deer or even a cougar (they’re extremely rare for northern Illinois, but entirely possible). The trail then straightened out ahead like a corridor of green foliage, clinging tightly to the narrow, dirt trail I walked upon. Among the solitude I watched as a black shape sauntered from the right side of the trail up ahead, and it stepped out onto the pathway in front of me.
My mind immediately went back to the empty parking lot, second guessing if there was a lone car there when I pulled in. Then I thought that maybe he was a DNR officer who hiked in from the west side, but when I looked at the man I saw that he was much more youthful than myself. He was somewhere in his early twenties, maybe even late-teens. He was a little unkempt in dirt-stained denim, a stretched-out undershirt, and a ratty, blue-knit sweater. His black hair was long and scraggly, matching his acne-pocked face, and he sported prickly stubble coupled with murky, white skin. The young man also walked odd, carrying a stride that was singular – carefully keeping each step in front of the other, like he strolled across an invisible tightrope.
I’ve always been a little socially awkward when encountering other hikers on the trail. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them around, but I take walks in nature to get away from people, and I guess it just unconsciously conflicted with the experience. Nevertheless, it was always good to be friendly with others. They had every right to enjoy this public park as much as I did.
“How’s it going, man?” I said.
As we were about to cross paths along
