Tag Archive 'mountain stream'

Jul 10 2023

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Wild Beauty

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In theory I am trout fishing, but that’s not really why I’m here. Oh sure, I have a fly rod in hand and I cast my line into every stretch of water that looks like it might have a brook trout in it. But my eyes are drinking in the wild beauty all around me so it’s hard to care whether or not I catch anything. I am simply here.

Recent rainstorms have brought to life the forest, turning everything green. Not just a color wheel green, but a deep, surreal green convincing me that life is good. Elsewhere on this planet, forests are burning up and the landscape is drying out. But not here. This corner of the world is still lush.

Why am I so lucky to be slowly making my way up this mountain stream, deeper into the wild? I wade across crystal clear water that has a chill to it despite summer heat. I crawl over boulders reminding me that I’m no longer a young man. I kneel before emerald pools to keep from spooking the trout in them. I frequently stop casting just to look around, marveling at the tenacity of life taking root in every nook and cranny. All this I’ve done many times before, but today it feels like a moving meditation, a wordless prayer.

There is no philosophy or religion that adequately captures the wonder and beauty of existence. I have certainly tried to formulate a worldview that does so, but my efforts always fall miserably short of the mark. Some poets come closer, but even they can’t do it justice. What my senses tell me during an outing like this cannot be turned into a credo – not even a hedonistic one. While I’m out here, I am astounded by the sudden realization that I am a part of this incredible world. What else can be said? Words fail us all – philosopher, theologian and poet alike.

At some point, one must simply let go. I let go, sitting before a small waterfall, listening intently to the constant gurgle of running water as glimmering light dances across a rock face. Through the years I have become a lousy fisherman. I just don’t care about that anymore. Now it is only wildness that interests me, and I can’t get enough of it. Wildness draws me deeper and deeper into the forest until some part of me disappears – the part that believes that what I am and what I do is so important. Wildness tells me otherwise.

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May 13 2023

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Walking the Brook

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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.

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Aug 27 2022

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Tending a Campfire

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Earlier this week, I went into the woods overnight just to get away from my work and chill out. I walked up a logging road winding into the Green Mountains, cut across an overgrown meadow, then bushwhacked along a crystal clear stream until I found a beautiful spot to camp.

Setting up my tent and making myself right at home didn’t take long, but the woods were wet from rain the day before, so it took a while to strip off the bark on the wood I gathered. Wood without its bark dries out fast and burns well. After gathering plenty of it, I ate lunch, did a little naturalizing, and wrote in my field journal before taking a long nap. Backwoods adventure? No, more like seriously goofing off.

That evening I placed some birch bark in the middle of the campfire ring I had created, built a small tipi of tiny sticks over it, then struck a match. Ten minutes later I had a good fire going. Another ten minutes after that I had water boiled up in my handy little one-quart pot. I kept the fire going as I drank hot tea with my dinner. I continued tending the fire long after its usefulness.

The sun disappeared behind a nearby ridge. Daylight faded away. The campfire slowly became the center of my universe. I fed sticks into it, carefully placing them to maximize the burn. My thoughts wandered. The water in the nearby stream rushed over rocks incessantly. The fire snapped and crackled, occasionally kicking out a blue flame. It mesmerized me as darkness closed in. I lost track of time.

Late in the evening I let the campfire slowly die out, becoming embers. Then I hit it hard with several pots of water from the brook before going to bed. In the morning I fired it up again, letting it die out quickly after breakfast. Then I dismantled the campfire, tossing the stones in the brook and burying a couple handfuls of cold ashes. No trace of it remained when I hiked away.

Pity the poor souls in the distant or perhaps not-too-distant future who will be unable to build a campfire anywhere. You can’t buy the kind of solace a campfire provides. It is a good reason to go in the woods, venturing off-trail, if you ask me.

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Jun 14 2021

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Up the Mountain Brook

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Last week I had such a good time fishing a mountain brook that yesterday I decided to do it again. With temps in the 70s and under the cover of trees most of the time, I hardly broke a sweat. And the biting bugs weren’t too bad. But to my surprise, I learned something about myself that I’ve somehow missed during brook fishing trips in previous years. It suddenly occurred to me, as I was scrambling over some of the rockier sections of the brook, that I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be. Not even close.

This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I’m in my 60s now and time takes its toll on the body. All the same, in my minds eye I am still a young man and expecting to rock-hop up the brook with all the agility I had in my 30s. So what a wake-up call it was to jump down a few feet from a large rock and feel the hard landing shoot all the way up my spine. My worn out knees didn’t absorb the shock.

Judy says I should be glad that I can even do it. Scrambling up a mountain brook full of boulders and blowdown and cascading water is no mean feat. She’s right, of course, and I am thankful for being in good enough shape to ascend a mountain brook. And only once did I fall down – during the initial descent into the steep ravine. So I can’t complain. Still there are only two occasions these days when I really feel my age: when getting up to pee in the middle of the night, and when negotiating the rugged terrain of the backcountry.

The exuberance that I felt as a younger man while immersed in the wild has given way to reflection in my advanced years. I think more about life and death as I walk a brook these days, accompanied by the ghosts of old friends and canine companions who have passed away. I am more grateful for simply being in the woods, and take none of it for granted. Consequently, I treat the fish I catch with greater reverence. Their lives are nearly as precious to me as my own, so I make it a point to put them back to the water unharmed. Rarely do I take them home for dinner any more.

Oh yeah, I caught a few brook trout yesterday, but nothing to brag about. And the ones that got away were bigger, of course. All that is beside the point. Nowadays I work my way up the mountain brook in deep forest solitude angling for something much more important – a sense of belonging in the natural world and delighting in it. In that regard, I am never disappointed. In that regard, I always return home with my creel full.

 

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Aug 01 2020

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Breadloaf Wilderness Revisted

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The news is all bad, especially now with the pandemic raging. Judy and I felt it was high time for us to spend a couple days in the woods away from it all. So we packed up our gear and headed for the Breadloaf Wilderness when finally there came a break in the weather, between heat waves and t-storms.

A few weeks ago I scouted the headwaters of the New Haven River, looking for a good place to camp. I found the spot just inside the Breadloaf Wilderness boundary where Judy and I had camped once with our granddaughter Kaylee. That’s where we landed.

Kaylee was 6 the last time we camped here. Now she’s 23. Time flies.

Judy sat on a large rock, taking in the sights and sounds of the wild forest. I sat nearby, writing in my journal. The stream flowed incessantly before us. A squirrel ran across a fallen tree bridging the stream. The sun sank behind the trees before we started dinner. Soon we were staring into a campfire, surrounded by darkness. Where did the day go?

We went to sleep to the sound of rushing water. A little later I awoke to that and the song of a waterthrush. While sitting on the big rock in predawn light, I watched another squirrel run across the fallen tree bridging the stream. I recalled camping farther upstream with my brother Greg back in the 90s, and remembered a dozen other outings in this wilderness area since then, by myself or with others. Time flies.

When Judy arose, I fixed her a cup of hot tea. She had a rough night. Sleeping on the ground is a lot harder for us 60-somethings than it used to be. So late morning we packed up and hiked out instead of staying another day.

On the way out, I recognized a patch of ground beneath a copse of full-grown maples that had been a clearing when I first hiked through here. That was back in the 80s. Seems like a lifetime ago. Yes indeed, time flies.

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Jun 27 2020

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Matika Put to Rest

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Yesterday afternoon Judy and I bushwhacked along a mountain stream to a favorite old campsite of ours. We were on a mission. In my daypack was a can holding Matika’s ashes. Matika was a wonderful, long-haired German shepherd dog who played an integral part in our lives for twelve years. A year and three months after her death, we decided that it was finally time to put her to rest.

Before leaving home, we buried a handful of her ashes in our Buddha garden just to keep part of her close, and to ward off the squirrels invading the back yard. I swear there are times when I can hear Matika barking from her ashes whenever the squirrels are scurrying about. She never had any patience for those pesky rodents.

Upon reaching our old campsite, we each took some of her ashes and released them into the brook. The ashes clouded the water for a few moments, looking rather ghostlike as they floated downstream. Then the water cleared. We both shed a few tears in the process.

After that we buried the remainder of Matika’s ashes at the base of a maple tree, next to where the ashes of our other German shepherd dog, Jesse, are buried. Two stones now mark their graves. In the future I’ll stop by occasionally to visit our deceased canine companions. As for Judy, well, she had a hard time reaching the old campsite so there’s no telling if/when she’ll be back. All the same, this is where she and I both want some of our ashes buried when we die. Then the whole pack will be back together again.

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Apr 18 2019

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A Familiar Place

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At long last the snow is melting in the mountains, exposing bare ground. I drove to the base of a favorite valley, parked my car then hiked up the narrow dirt road still closed for the season. About a mile back, I left the road, bushwhacking down to the brook. It felt good to have soft earth underfoot, and to see the heavily silted stream shooting downhill, full of snowmelt.

I tramped through the forest with ease despite downed trees and a few remnant patches of snow, following the brook to places where I’d camped in the past. Then came the two mudslides. Usually I would cross the brook, thus avoiding the mudslides, but the brook had too much water in it. So instead I scrambled on all fours across one slide then the other, until I was deep in the valley. That’s when I stumbled upon a familiar place – a place I’d forgotten about, a place where I caught a sizable brook trout a long time ago.

I settled into an inviting niche along the edge of the pool, just below a huge slab of moss-covered rock. The sun shined brightly through the clear blue sky. The brook roared as it raced past. With temps in the 50s the gentle wind caressing me felt downright balmy. I drank some water, ate a granola bar, and jotted a few lines in my field journal while soaking in the beauty of the forest in early spring.

There are places, wild places, so familiar to me that they feel like home. Most of these places are located in Vermont’s Green Mountains. Some are in the Adirondacks. Upon reaching them, I suddenly get the feeling that everything is right with the world. And whatever was troubling me in the developed places doesn’t matter so much. Go figure.

While tramping out of the woods, I reveled in the great wild silence, happy enough just breathing in the clear mountain air. Once again I felt comfortable in my skin. A good hike is like that. A good hike is nothing more than getting back in touch with one’s animal self. That is enough.

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Mar 09 2019

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A Taste of the Wild

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All week long I worked on my book about wildness and being human, effectively scratching the itch of wildness. Come Friday, with temps reaching into the 20s and the sun shining, I dropped everything and headed for the woods.

The big question these days is whether or not to take my old dog, Matika. She can barely get around now so any walk with her is bound to be a short one. But she’s been cooped up for days as I have. I decided take her. No need for a big outing, I told myself. Just a taste of the wild would do.

I headed for a favorite mountain brook that runs parallel to an unimproved dirt road that’s closed for the season. A beaten path made walking on the snow-covered road easy, especially with Microspikes on my feet. Matika crept along – her legs, weakened by a debilitating disease, giving out every once in a while. I stopped and waited for her every fifty yards or so.

While Matika was catching up to me, I left the path just long enough to post-hole down to the brook for a look. The stream was covered over. There were a few open leads of water but mostly snow piled on ice. All the same, I grooved on the sound of water gurgling softly over the rocks below.

Back on the beaten path, I continued forging uphill, past a beautiful gorge nestled in hemlocks. Then the tracks of previous walkers came to an end. I went a bit farther but Matika was having a hard time of it so I turned around. No matter. The blue sky, mild temps and fresh air lifted my spirits. It was good to get out, if only for a little while.

 

 

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Jul 09 2018

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Cool Brook Afternoon

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After months of not feeling so great, Judy finally came to me and said she wanted to go into the woods. In particular, she wanted to spend a little time sitting on a mountain brook with no one else around – just her, me, and our dog Matika. No problem, I told her, so we headed out yesterday late morning for a place that fit the bill.

It was a short, easy hike to the brook, mainly because Matika can’t handle much. Old dog on her last leg. The slightest obstacle, like a downed tree, is a major challenge to her these days.

When we reached the brook, Judy found a nice spot on a large rock to sit and groove on both flowing water and the surrounding forest. She took off her shoes and dipped her feet into a crystal clear pool. It was colder than expected – a pleasant sensation on a warm day in July.

Matika rested on a gravel bar next to the brook. I sat a few feet away, propped against another large rock. The stream rushed by incessantly, clearing our heads of all urban workaday noise. A slight breeze wafted up the brook occasionally, rustling the leaves in the green canopy overhead ever so gently. We eased into dreamtime.

When leaving the brook, we were surprised by how hot the afternoon had become, and by how much time had passed. Before reaching the car, Judy said she wanted to get into the woods again soon. Next weekend if at all possible. We’re both looking forward to the backwoods retreat we have planned next month. That can’t come fast enough, even though each of these long days of summer should be cherished.

 

 

 

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May 13 2018

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Springtime Overnighter

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A couple days into a run of relatively warm, dry, sunny weather, I decided to take full advantage of the situation. I set all work aside earlier this week, packed a few essentials into my old rucksack, and headed for the Breadloaf Wilderness.

There’s a nice spot on the headwaters of the New Haven River where I’ve camped several times before. After leaving my car at the trailhead, I hiked there. It didn’t take long to reach that campsite, even with my old dog Matika hobbling along slowly behind me.

No bloodsucking bugs this early in the season so I set up my tarp without attaching the mosquito bar. Gathering wood was easy since I was camped off trail. I fashioned a small campfire circle that I would make disappear when I left. With that bright yellow orb beating down through the leafless canopy, I didn’t start a fire right away. It was enough just to sit next to the stream, listening to the endless rush of water breaking over rocks while basking in sunlight.

When the sun finally slipped beneath the trees, I put a match to a tipi of birch bark and kindling in the campfire circle. I was startled by how quickly the fire took off, and made it a point to keep it very small and controllable with bottles of water close at hand. Matika entertained herself by chewing up some of the sticks in my woodpile.

Spending a night in the woods was just what I needed after a long winter of philosophical speculation. Temps dropped fast once the sun went down, though, and Matika crowded me off my foam pad. Not the best night’s sleep, but arising to the song of a waterthrush, a refreshing mountain breeze, and early light breaking through the forest made me thankful to be alive.

I lingered for hours over a morning campfire before slowly packing up and hiking back to the car. I was giddy all the way home, rolling through the Champlain Valley as the trees slowly leafed out. Springtime in Vermont, after a long snowy winter, is absolutely wonderful.

 

 

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