Woods Wanderer

I’m pleased to announce the release of my collection of short hiking narratives set in Vermont. It’s called Wandering in Vermont Woods appropriately enough. A few years back, I published a collection of hiking narratives set in the Adirondacks, and that has gone over well. My bookseller friend Donna at The Eloquent Page suggested that I do the same for narratives set in Vermont – my home turf. So here it is.

This collection opens with a relatively long account of a solo excursion in the Breadloaf Wilderness 35 years ago called “Tracks Across the Forest Floor.” Some of you may remember that from a previous publication. I’ve reprinted 10 other pieces from previous publications, as well – several of those books now out of print. There are two pieces in this collection dating back over 20 years that haven’t been published until now, and three brand new pieces seeing print for the very first time. It’s quite a mix, actually. But the spirit of the wild graces them all.

The Long Trail, southern Vermont, the Northeast Kingdom, or close to home – I’m all over the map in this collection. Sometimes backpacking; other times just out for the day. Sometimes bushwhacking; occasionally trout fishing some mountain brook. Usually alone, but not always. Sometimes contemplating philosophical matters while banging around in the Green Mountains; often just being being in the moment. Always the woods wanderer.

You can get a copy from Amazon.com, or by going to the Wood Thrush Books website. I hope this book inspires some of you to venture into the woods this summer. There’s nothing else quite like a little time spent in a wild place.

Tags: bushwhacking, Green Mountains, hiking, nature writing, trout fishing, Vermont

Remarkably enough, there were no black flies out yesterday when I set foot on the mountain brook. I don’t know why. They’re out in force in my backyard. A bug-free outing in the spring is a real treat, though. I walked the brook for several hours, pretending to fish for trout. But what I really wanted was the sound of rushing water, a cool breeze wafting up the stream, and wildflowers in bloom along the banks. I got all that and more.

Oh sure, I casted my fly into every emerald pool of water and did my best to entice brook trout to the surface, but nothing happened. No rises, that is, until the last hour of my outing. I caught and released one brookie at that time, happy not to be skunked, then lost another on a second rise. Slow fishing. But when the forest comes alive with that luminescent, vernal green it’s hard to care about anything else. The sudden explosion of leafy growth, both overhead and across the forest floor, is reason enough to be in the woods. Trout fishing is just a good excuse to witness it.

When I stumbled upon painted trilliums in full bloom, I couldn’t help but smile. Plenty of other wildflowers come up in May, but this is one of my favorites. There’s something about painted trilliums that brings joy to me. Perhaps that is because I associate it with the Green Mountains – my home turf – and with my first mountain brook outings a long time ago. Eternal renewal. That flower shouts it.

When I was finished fishing, I sat down on a large rock next to the stream. I smoked a cigar in celebration of a recently published book and counted my blessings. I have many, including the crystal clear stream itself. Just then several dun-colored mayflies rose into the air, similar to the fly I had been using. I reveled in the beginning of a mayfly hatch even though I was too tired to take advantage of it. Sometimes it’s enough just to witness such things. The miracle of spring is that even the harshest winter can’t prevent it from coming. And that is reason enough, I think, to walk the brook this time of year.

Tags: mountain stream, springtime, The Green Mountains, trout fishing, wildflowers

Last week Judy and I made a much-anticipated pilgrimage to Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge to witness the spring migration there. Located in the Finger Lakes Region of upstate New York, we reached it in less than 8 hours. Even though the Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge is only ten miles away from where we live, one never knows what one will find elsewhere. Besides, birding destinations give us a reason to get away.

Monday was overcast and rainy. We saw shovelers, coots, mallards, teals, and other ducks in the marshes while slowly motoring along Wildlife Drive. Judy was in the passenger’s side of the car so she didn’t get any good photos. Visitors are not allowed out of their cars on Wildlife Drive this early in the season. But she was on the right side of the car to catch hundreds of carp in a spawning frenzy. Such is the nature of wildlife photography. It’s serendipitous, to say the least.

The weather on Tuesday was much the same: less rain but a more chilling wind. We explored the outskirts of the refuge, ending up in the Sandhill Crane Unit where Judy took a good picture of a gadwall half-hidden in the grass. We saw some ospreys, as well, before returning to the Wildlife Drive. This time Judy sat in the back seat so that she could shoot in either direction. I chauffeured her. She photographed a great blue heron eating a fish, a female red-winged blackbird close-up, and the coots doing their funky head-moving action as they swam. I can’t watch them without breaking into laughter.

Wednesday was partly cloudy sky, but the cool temps hardly felt balmy in the steady breeze. We drove the Wildlife Drive once again, seeing the usual suspects, before heading up to the Sandhill Crane Unit. There we parked the car at the end of a dead-end dirt road and watched waterfowl while enjoying the wild silence. I woke Judy from her nap when a bald eagle suddenly appeared, but she didn’t get a picture before it flew away. Yeah, that’s how it goes sometimes.

Back on the Wildlife Drive late afternoon, we hoped to see the snipe spotted there the day before by someone else, as well as a sandhill crane. The snipe turned out to be a dunlin (bird identification is always tricky). Then, as luck would have it, we saw the sandhill crane. It was being harassed by a Canada goose most likely protecting an unhatched brood nearby. We were in the Golden Hour, as bird photographers call it – the hour before sunset. Light illuminated the crane’s wings as it defended itself against the goose. Judy caught it with her camera. And that made the trip. Serendipitous, indeed!

Tags: bird migration, birdwatching, Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge, sandhill crane, springtime, waterfowl, wildlife photography

When Judy and I were out birding a few days ago, we spotted an osprey in a platform nest near the Missisquoi Bay Bridge. Two more suddenly appeared, then the show began. At first we thought perhaps it was two males competing for the attention of a female. But that wasn’t what was happening.

The osprey in the nest became fierce as the other two swooped menacingly overhead. He was ready to defend his claim. Clearly he wasn’t going to give up the nest without a fight. It’s a prime piece of real estate not more than two hundred yards from Lake Champlain. An ideal place to fish, thereby enabling him to provide sustenance for any newly hatched ospreys to come. No doubt a female osprey would show up soon. Successful mating at a location like this is practically guaranteed.

The defender took to the air, flipping upside down to meet the intruder’s talons with his own. Neither Judy nor I had ever seen anything like it before. Such acrobatics! Judy caught it on camera while I looked on with my binoculars.

A moment later all three birds were circling overhead in something of aerial dance. It was a dogfight of sorts. Who would prevail? Two of the ospreys were determined to have that nest while the third one held back, apparently unsure whether or not he was up to the task to taking it.

We watched them fly together in great circles overhead, curious to see how the contest would be resolved. It went on for quite some time… They were still at it when we reluctantly drove away. They could have been at it for days.

Now we are anxious to return to that spot and see who won. Most likely the defender. We’ll make it a point to follow the rest of the story as it unfolds later this spring and into the summer. It’s an old story, played out year after year, over and over throughout the natural world. Quite common yet no less enthralling.

Tags: birding, ospreys, springtime

I was wrong. I thought the mildness of winter this year would lead to an early spring, but that hasn’t been the case. Here it is the Spring Equinox and there’s still a blanket of snow on the ground, along with temps barely above freezing at midday.

Desperate to get out of the house, I go for a walk anyway. Judy suggests that I walk the access road to Mac’s Bend in the Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge. It’s not far away. It gets plowed and will probably be clear of snow. She’s right. I leave my car in the parking lot just off Route 7 and walk the gravel track, leaving boot prints in the fine crushed stone between puddles of meltwater. This will have to do.

Binoculars dangle from a strap around my neck, but no birds appear. That too is wishful thinking. Naked trees creak in the light breeze. The brown heads of ferns poke above the snow, ready to reproduce as soon as the weather breaks. A bright vernal sun plays peekaboo in a partly cloudy sky, teasing me with its warmth. I tramp down the road, happy enough to be stretching my legs and getting some fresh air. Still I long for the arrival of spring – promised but not yet delivered.

There are long open seams of water in the Missisquoi River that the road hugs, but Mac’s Bend is completely iced over for some reason. When the road ends there, I tramp a partly thawed riverside trail until it veers into the snowy woods. Then I turn around. I reach down to feel the cold mud underfoot, genuflecting to seasonal change, telling myself that it won’t be long now. But it’s not quite spring.

I know the heaviness of winter within me will eventually melt away, along with the snow, and the winged migrators will ultimately return from the south. But that isn’t happening yet. So I go back home, back indoors, back to work for a while longer. Patience, patience. The cardinals, robins and other songbirds will be calling me out soon enough.

Tags: birding, early spring, late winter, seasonal change, snowmelt, walking

Last week I went into the mountains with my snowshoes, but when I saw how little snow there was on the ground, I left them in my car. A mile and a half back, though, the snow was over half a foot deep. That made for a somewhat rigorous hike, post-holing most of the way. Hmm… with temps above freezing, I would have been lifting a lot of heavy snow had I been wearing the snowshoes. It was a tough call.

A couple days ago, after a late winter storm had dumped another half foot of the white stuff, I went out again. This time there was plenty of snow on the ground, but the trail had been packed down by weekenders, so it was pointless to put on my snowshoes. Once again, I walked instead.

Even though it has been a mild winter, spring has not yet arrived. That said, there are sure signs that it’s right around the corner. Woodpeckers are knocking on hollow trees, the days are over eleven hours long, and the sun on cloudless days is very strong. I stopped on a footbridge during my walk to relish the open leads of water in the rivulet below. A few more days with temps above freezing could melt away all the snow around me. Some years it happens fast.

I’m looking forward to tramping in cold mud again but walking through the woods on a sunny day without sinking into the snow is pleasant enough. And the forest silence always works its magic no matter what time of year it is. Breathing fresh air, stretching my legs, and running wild for a couple hours – sometimes that’s all it takes to make my day. It’s a good thing to be alive and well in Vermont woods when the sap is running, even if you don’t tap into a maple tree.

Tags: signs of spring, Vermont woods, winter hiking

Yesterday while shoveling the driveway, it suddenly occurred to me that I was enjoying it. Not only the task at hand, but the bright sunlight breaking through the leafless trees, the blanket of fresh snow covering everything, and even the nip in the air. The air was completely still so 10 degrees didn’t feel bad at all. A finger frostbitten in years past ached a bit, but I was dressed for the weather and quite comfortable overall. I was quite comfortable despite the sweat soaking my undershirt as I worked.

Enjoying winter… What’s wrong with me?

My plow guy had cleared most of the storm’s accumulation from my driveway the night before, but there were still a couple inches of snow to push around. Instead of calling him back for a second swipe, I took care of it. Two hours of upper-body exercise – that’s how I approached the task. And lots of fresh, clean air to breathe.

It has been a mild winter this year so I’m reluctant to say that I enjoy the season, now and forever. I’ve never been a big fan of winter in the past. But after living 40 years in northern Vermont, the long white has grown on me. I wouldn’t want to live in a place where it never snows. The darkness of December still gets to me, but by February winter is just heavy precipitation and frigid temps. And springtime is right around the corner.

Part of my change of heart is due to getting older, I think. Now that I am keenly aware of my mortality, each and every day is precious. And there are simple pleasures to be had in every season. Sometimes sitting indoors sipping tea while a great wind blows is pleasure enough. The other day we lost power for a couple hours and I ended up reading by headlamp before going to bed. That wasn’t bad at all.

I still prefer spring to any other season and look forward to that unfolding soon. But these last days of winter are fine by me. Who knows? I just might break out my snowshoes and put them to good use before the big melt off happens. I’ll get a lot more reading and writing done during the next month regardless.

Tags: daylight, seasons, simple pleasures, snow, Vermont, winter

I am pleased to announce the release of my heavy-duty philosophical work, Nature and the Absolute. This is, for all practical purposes, the end result of fifty years of rumination on matters of ultimate concern: what we are, what the world is, What-Is.

The subject at hand is the nature of nature itself. That is, Nature spelled with a capital “N” – what is more commonly referred to as natural order. What exactly is that? How does it function and why? Where does it come from? I’m talking about the metaphysics of nature here, pondered by philosophers, theologians, and some scientists for thousands of years. I touch upon a good number of those worldviews in this book while trying to wrap my brain around the matter. Easier said than done.

Whenever I’m alone in the wild for an extended period of time, either tramping through the backcountry or staying put, I can’t help but marvel at the natural world. I wonder how it all came to be. God created it, some say. Others point to the evolutionary process hard at work. But neither one of those answers gets to the heart of the matter. When we utter the word “God,” what are we really saying? What exactly is the driving force behind this phenomenon that we call evolution? What is absolutely true about the universe at large? Oh yeah, I’ve gone deep into it.

For those of you who don’t want your comfortable worldview challenged, I suggest that you avoid reading this book. For those of you as hungry as I am to know what the hell is going on, fasten your seatbelts. This book is a wild ride, and I mean wild in the truest sense of the word.

You can get a copy by going to the Wood Thrush Books website. It is also available at Amazon.com.

Tags: metaphysics, natural order, natural philosophy, nature, ontology, philosophy

For a change of pace, I drive out to Kill Kare State Park at the end of Hathaway Point to groove on water instead of tramping through woods. Saint Albans Bay is half full of punky ice, but its mouth is ice free. I leave my car at a turnout next to the gate even though the gate is wide open. This will extend my walk. I amble leisurely, hands-in-pocket, up the road and into the park.

I spook several mallard ducks swimming close to shore. There are more waterfowl farther offshore, but they are difficult to identify in the grey light. My binoculars are still resting on the counter back home.

Lake Champlain is placid beneath an overcast sky. In the park, the silhouettes of leafless trees are motionless in the still air, freeze-framed against the clouds. A thin layer of snow covers the ground. Patches of bare ground, bleached of color, poke through the snow in places. It’s a mild winter this year but winter all the same.

I’m alone in the park. Usually there would be ice fisherman here this time of year, going about their business. I meander about, stopping occasionally to take in the lake’s expanse and feel the damp chill in the air. Suddenly gulls call out from ice floes a hundred yards off the north shore. When they stop, I realize just how quiet it is here right now. Interaction with the natural world is funny that way.

This morning I finished writing an essay about the fear of death and the will to live. While walking about the park, I think about that and the many occasions I’ve been in this park in the past, either alone or with others. Time seems to stand still as I gaze across the glassy surface of the lake, but I know that’s not the case. I can hear myself breathing. My heart is still beating. It will beat a while longer, perhaps for another decade or two. And I’ll stand here once again, most likely, gazing across the lake on a grey day.

Tags: Lake Champlain, reflection, walking, winter

Yesterday I walked up one of my favorite brooks in the Green Mountains. No snow and temps in the high 30s. That’s rare for this time of year. How could I resist?

I went back as far as an old campsite where the ashes of my two dogs, Jesse and Matika, are buried. I cleaned off the simple stones marking their graves and talked to them for a while. Then I looked around, telling them with a great big sigh that I’d be joining them soon enough.

This year or the next, ten years from now, twenty, or more — my day will come. It’s just a matter of time. Life doesn’t last long. Not really.

I propped a foam pad against a nearby birch overlooking the stream and jotted a few thoughts in my field journal while eating lunch. The surrounding forest was misty and still. A few dried leaves clinging to the branches of a beech sapling quaked in a barely discernible breeze. The brook full of snowmelt roared loudly as it raced downhill. I thought about the many times I’ve been in this spot, overnight or only for an hour or so like now. I quickly lost track. Too many years have gone by.

I glanced at the small overhang in a large boulder just a few feet away and resolved to spend a night under it someday, just for the hell of it. That would be wild. Then I gave that boulder a long hard look, wondering how long it has been here. Probably since the last Ice Age. And when my ashes are in the ground, along with my dogs, that boulder will still be here.

That boulder will still be here thousands of years from now. The landscape around it will change, but that boulder will remain largely unchanged until the roots of the vegetation on top of it break it down, along with the elements. That’ll take a while. I’ll be long gone by the time that boulder is dust. Hmm… While considering that, I packed up my things and walked away.

Tags: geologic time, mortality, passage of time