Woods Wanderer

No one else stirred as I crept from my room at the Adirondack Hotel as quietly as possible. I ate a bowl of cereal on the front porch overlooking Long Lake as wisps of dark gray clouds drifted beneath a yellow-gray sky. There was no sunrise to see, thanks to the Canadian wildfire smoke. The only sounds were distant songbirds just now awakening and water dripping from the porch roof. Heavy rain had fallen overnight.

I was quite comfortable drinking hot coffee in a rocking chair on the porch, but the wild was calling. Before finishing the coffee, I stashed my gear in my car then headed out. The Owl’s Head Mountain trailhead was only a few minutes away.

After signing into the trailhead register, I slipped into the dark, wet forest. I could barely see the trail underfoot. I felt my way along it with my trekking poles. Deer flies appeared in the incredibly humid air to greet me. After an initial ascent, a hundred feet or two, the earthen path leveled out. I could feel the wild surging from deep within me. Right in the middle of a two-day road trip, visiting stores and hawking my wares, I reveled in deep forest solitude.

Patches of yellow sky peeked through the dark green canopy overhead. I sweated profusely as the trail twisted back and forth, up and down for an hour. Then began the steady ascent up the mountain along what seemed at times like a dry stream bed. When I stopped to look at my map and slake my thirst, a light rain fell. Or was it just the air reaching its dew point? The rain stopped before I could even dig out my rain hat. I kept going.

It took another hour with plenty of stops to reach the top of Owl’s Head. I immediately dropped my pack then climbed the fire tower. Above the treetops, the forested mountains stretched in all directions beneath a smoky sky. Long Lake remained half-hidden below, not far away. I lounged for a while beneath the fire tower, munching trail mix, before commencing the long, three-mile hike back to the trailhead. I passed two parties of early morning hikers along the way.

Upon reaching the trailhead, I ducked behind my car, stripped off my sweat-soaked hiking clothes and cleaned myself up. Back in street clothes, I put on my best book-hustling face then shifted into business mode. But my heart wasn’t into it. Talking about the wild and peddling books about it isn’t the same as being in the wild. It was a good day all the same.

Tags: Adirondacks, book promotion, Canadian wildfire smoke, hiking, midsummer, wildness

Every once in a while, wandering around in the woods isn’t enough. I need to climb a mountain. I need the huffing and puffing, muscle-aching, goal-oriented pleasure of it all, complete with grand views. So I drove to Lincoln Gap in central Vermont a few days ago and set foot on the trail going up Mount Abraham. It would be a challenge for this recently minted septuagenarian: 1,600-foot climb, 5 miles round trip.

I hiked Mount Abe four years ago. Did okay going up but had a hard time coming down. A half century of trail pounding has worn out my joints. So this time I traded in my trusty wooden walking stick for a pair of solid-shank, aluminum trekking poles. I figured the joints would appreciate it, especially my knees.

After a little up-and down action right away, the trail became a steady climb to Battell Shelter. The surrounding boreal forest turned vibrant green. I was digging it.

That was the easier two-thirds of the hike. The trail was wet, though. A front had passed through the night before, soaking the forest and leaving puddles on the trail. Thanks to my trekking poles, I managed to stay on my feet.

Not too far beyond the shelter, the trail steepened. I took lots of breaks, in no rush to do this. The final ascent was sheer rock cutting through conifers diminishing in size to krummholz.

Then all of a sudden I was on top, just above the treeline. The landscape sprawled before me fifty miles in every direction, beneath a partly cloudy sky. I put a wool shirt and jacket over my sweaty t-shirt and stayed a while despite a chilling wind. I slaked my thirst, munched away and looked around. When I’d had enough, I began the descent.

That’s when the trekking poles came in real handy. I shudder to think what the descent would have been like without them. By the time I reached the shelter, I was mildly surprised by how well my joints were holding up. A mile and a half later, I was in pain –– mostly my right knee. Shortly thereafter, I limped off the trail, letting out a big sigh of relief upon reaching my car. Then I congratulated myself. I did it! But the next time I go for a hike, I think I’ll pick a trail that’s nearly flat.

Tags: above the treeline, boreal forest, climbing a mountain, early summer, Green Mountains, hiking

Harbor seals and mergansers fished in the shallows shortly after the sun rose over Goose Rocks Beach. I watched them with Judy and ate breakfast while waiting for low tide. When finally the water had receded enough, a long, curved arm of wet, exposed sand reached out to the wave-battered rocks a quarter mile offshore. I slipped on my boots and headed for them.

I crossed tiny rivulets cutting through the sand, slowly tramping towards the rocks. Gulls were busy feeding all around me, of course. Other, much smaller shorebirds leapt into the air in unison as I approached. With my binoculars back at the cottage, I couldn’t identify them. I stepped over a narrow channel of water and onto slick, dark rocks completely covered with periwinkles and barnacles, as well as kelp and other varieties of seaweed. Then stepping onto a pile of small, polished stones, I left the land bridge behind.

An American oystercatcher crept away as I approached the patch of white rocks that always remain above sea level. Then several terns dive-bombed me. They came close enough to make me duck. I surmised that they had nests nearby. I looked around. I didn’t find their nests, but I did stumble upon five large, light olive eggs in a nest that most likely belonged to the pair of common eiders looking on anxiously nearby. I retreated from there to another mound of white rocks not far away. There I found a few still, crystal clear tide pools no bigger than bathtubs. I knelt down for a closer look.

Tiny, barely visible crustaceans called amphipods slipped in and out of the green algae in one of those tide pools. I cupped my hand, capturing one along with a little water. Using a hand lens, I inspected it. Then I released it, hoping to find even smaller creatures. How small could I go? Would I be able to see a copepod? Probably not. Protozoa? Definitely not. But I knew they were there from the samples I took home to view under my microscope the previous year. Then I looked up, gazing at the horizon where the sea and sky meet. And in that moment, my head exploded. The ocean is too vast to comprehend on a microbial scale. Too much like trying to count grains of sand. I was beholding infinity.

On the way back to dry land, I watched an egret fishing in a large pool not far away. Then I saw something underfoot, in a much smaller pool. What is that? Something round and translucent, no bigger than a penny. I pulled out my cell phone and took a video as it undulated and revolved in the water. Later showing it to Judy, she put it before ChatGPT which told us it was a moon jellyfish. But it was too small to be that. Or was it? The ocean is full of surprises.

Tags: intertidal zone, low tide, Maine coast, shorebirds, the ocean, tide pools

Once again, I stayed in a small primitive cabin on private land in the Adirondacks. This time for a week — a present to myself for my 70th birthday. After carrying my gear a mile and a half back to the cabin, I took a day to gather wood, draw water and get situated. Then I bushwhacked into the Hammond Pond Wild Forest nearby.

It was an easy bushwhack, actually. All I had to do was drop down to the creek that was the water source for the cabin and follow it upstream. My destination was Schofield Pond, only two miles away. I hugged the meandering creek at first but scrambled to higher ground when it narrowed to a gorge.

The private land had been select cut so entering the wild forest was obvious. Suddenly I was surrounded by white pines with trunks three feet thick. Moss, club moss and evergreen wood ferns flourished in the dark understory. I saw a patch of light ahead. A few frogs peeped from the wetland as I skirted it. Shortly thereafter, I tagged a narrow game trail curving around a huge pool in the stream fed by a waterfall. Then a beaver dam appeared. I had arrived.

The placid water of the pristine pond mirrored the cloudless sky as I approached. I passed some coyote scat with fur in it while following the shady shoreline. With temps in the 50s, I wanted to sit in the sunlight. Halfway around the pond, I found a dry rocky place to do so. There I drank water and munched trail mix while grooving on the deep forest silence. There I found trailing arbutus in bloom, sprawled across open ground. Midges fluttered over the water. A mink suddenly appeared –– as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He quickly swam away.

After hanging out at the pond an hour or so, I retraced my steps back to the cabin. I took a long nap then fired up the wood stove to shake off the chill in my bones. Oh yeah, it was the beginning of a blissful weeklong stay in Adirondack backcountry.

Tags: Adirondacks, backcountry pond, bushwhacking, early spring, wild forest

A couple days ago, as I was raking in my yard, I felt a powerful urge to hear spring peepers. It’s that time of year. No doubt they are starting to mate. So yesterday I set my rake aside, pulled on my hiking boots, and headed for a section of the Rail Trail that cuts through wetlands and woods.

Clouds gathered overhead as I stepped out of my car and meandered up the trail. No matter. I was wearing a light jacket and hat. Let it rain. With temps in the 50s, I was comfortable enough. A few sparrows flitted through nearby bushes. A red-winged blackbird called out. Then I heard a solitary peeper singing from the wetlands through which I passed. Or thought I did. Maybe it was just my imagination.

A little over a mile back, I reached the ephemeral pools where I’ve heard those little frogs singing in years past. Sure enough, a few cried out. Their shrill, high-pitched mating calls were music to my ears. This is the sound of eternal renewal, I thought as I sat down and listened to them. Once again, wild nature is awakening from its long winter slumber. Soon there will be wildflowers breaking through the bleached forest duff.

During the walk back to the car, I looked into the smaller ephemeral pools along the edge of the trail. I spotted a cluster of frog eggs just beneath the surface in one of them. I moved in close to snap a picture.

Just then an inhabitant of the pool surfaced, staring right at me as if to say: “Who goes there? What are your intentions?” I managed to snap a photo of that creature before it slipped out of sight.

Then the clouds darkened and a light rain commenced. Suddenly a few peepers called out from the sprawling wetland on the other side of the trail. A few more joined the chorus, drowning out the sound of falling rain.

I took my time finishing the walk, enjoying the stark beauty of early spring along the way. I heard a few more peepers in the wetlands where I thought I first heard one, but they fell silent as I walked by. No matter. All is right with the world when the frogs are doing what they are meant to do.

Tags: early spring, ephemeral pools, spring peepers, walking, woods and wetlands

I’m pleased to announce that The Laws of Nature: Excerpts from the Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson is back in print. I reprinted selections from Thoreau’s journal, A Natural Wisdom, last fall. Here’s the other book I put together sampling my two favorite nature writers of the 19th century.

When Emerson published his slender volume Nature in 1836, he set in motion Transcendentalism – a uniquely American literary movement deeply rooted in the natural world. Henry David Thoreau was part of that movement. The poet Walt Whitman, along with John Muir, John Burroughs and most other American nature writers of the 19th and 20th centuries, were influenced directly or indirectly by it. Excerpts from that book have been reprinted here, along with selections from Emerson’s journals and other nature-related writings.

After having this book published by Heron Dance then North Atlantic Books, it feels good to see it as a Wood Thrush Books title again. This time I have included a Sources section that shows exactly where I found each of Emerson’s insights. Let there be no doubt that these are his words verbatim.

While comparing Emerson and Thoreau is like comparing apples and oranges, I must admit that I find Emerson to be the deeper thinker. Perhaps that is why I gravitate to his work time and again. He has been written off as a quaint Yankee philosopher of yesteryear, I think, but when he wrote about the natural world, he spoke to all of us who see the divine in it.

Like most of what I’ve published, this book is available at both Amazon.com and the Wood Thrush Books website. Check it out.

Tags: natural philosophy, nature, nature writing, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Transcendentalism

A week ago, it was 6 below at daybreak here in northern Vermont, which isn’t all that unusual. We get frigid temps and big snowstorms in March. Winter here isn’t over yet, even though the sap in maple trees has started to flow as daytime highs have poked above freezing. Springtime, in any reasonable sense of the word, is still a month away.

During the past few days, afternoon temps have spiked into the 40s. That has caused a major melt-off, which excites a guy like me who likes to tramp in cold mud. The trails in the woods are still snow packed, and mountains, well, forget about the mountains. It’s still deep winter there. But here in the Champlain Valley, the rail trails are opening up. So I did a couple hikes on the local one.

Three days ago, my rail trail walk seemed premature. I slipped around in one to two inches of packed, half-melted snow, which wasn’t much fun at all. But yesterday the trail was mostly clear. A strong wind, the sun and warmer temps had worked their magic. I made tracks, pushing through patches of punky ice with little difficulty then charging ahead on bare ground at a good clip. During the winter, my snowshoes, yaktrax and microspikes give me purchase in the snow and ice, but there’s nothing like breezing along at three miles an hour or more, with little resistance underfoot. I reveled in it.

A nearby stream, the color of coffee with milk, was choked with snowmelt. The buds on the bravest trees were beginning to swell. To my great surprise, a woolly bear caterpillar wiggled across the trail –– out of hibernation way too early. But I took it as a good sign of things to come all the same.

There are still plenty of subfreezing days and snowfalls ahead. I have no illusions about that. But with the first great melt-off of the season, there’s no doubt in my mind that winter’s back is broken. Spring is approaching. I delight in it every step of the way. And I’ll be tramping in cold mud soon enough, enjoying the first signs of spring while others remain indoors daydreaming about t-shirt days. It’s all good.

Tags: hiking, seasonal change, signs of spring, snow-melt

Usually I head for the woods when I go for a hike, but yesterday I responded to a different urge. The sun was shining brightly through a mostly clear sky and all I wanted to do was revel in it. So I headed for Kill Kare State Park, not far away, to tramp through windblown snow while basking in daylight.

It wasn’t much of a hike really, even though I parked my car just outside the park. That added a little road walking to my short slog through a half foot of snow. With temps climbing into the 20s and no wind, I was quite comfortable. I took my time. A dozen or so ice fishermen were out on the ice of Saint Albans Bay. Aside from their coming and going, I had the park all to myself.

Upon reaching the point I peered down Lake Champlain, seeing nothing but a snow-covered plain stretching all the way to the Adirondacks on the other side. The lake completely froze over earlier this week for the first time in years. Yeah, it has been a colder-than-usual winter this year, with plenty of snow and grey skies. But with ten and a half hours of daylight and temps moderating, it now feels like we are easing towards spring. I sat on a park bench completely free of snow, enjoying the sun’s warm caress on my face while contemplating that.

This morning the sky is breaking open again and temps are already in the high 20s. This afternoon the air could easily be above freezing. So I think I’ll set aside my literary work for a while and go outside for yet another hike, chasing the light. Springtime is well over a month away. Why mope around the house waiting for it? The light is all I need right now. That and a little fresh air.

Tags: Lake Champlain, late winter, sunlight, walking

Last fall I published a collection of prose poems and taut paragraphs regarding the mystical realm, Apprehensions of What-Is. The first draft of that work came to me in three days. The material for this book, Philosophical Fragments, spans three decades (1987-2013). I’ve selected aphorisms and stand-alone paragraphs from four published chapbooks, one unpublished manuscript, and philosophy journals kept during that period. Unlike last fall’s publication, this book is more a product of the rational side of my brain than the intuitive/creative side. It all comes from the same source, of course.

Philosophical Fragments tracks the evolution of my worldview from a somewhat conventional way of seeing things to a more pantheistic perspective. It’s the direct result of 40-plus years of woods wandering. While I’ve read thousands of books –– mostly science, history, philosophy and religion –– it’s the natural world that has shaped my worldview. Consequently, nature looms large here. That said, the early not-so-naturalistic fragments still have some value, I think –– if not insightful, then at least entertaining. You, dear readers, are welcome to make what you will of my blather.

This book is now available at Amazon.com. It can also be purchased at my website, woodthrushbooks.com. Check it out.

Tags: aphorisms, existentialism, natural philosophy, nature, pantheism, philosophy, philosophy of wildness

I’ve waited a week and am glad I did. Temps have risen into the 20s already this morning. No wind. Clouds instead of sun but that’s okay. I step out of my car, parked at the bottom of the woods road, to assess the snow conditions. Should I use snowshoes or microspikes? There’s only 3-4 inches of snow on the ground, but there will be more by the time I leave the road and enter the woods. I strap on my snowshoes.

The snow on the narrow woods road has been packed by other people. My snowshoes barely make an imprint in it as I creep steadily uphill. I’ll be stepping away from the beaten path soon. In my daypack is all I need to survive the night if it comes to that. When bushwhacking alone in the winter I like to be prepared.

A mile into the mountains I leave the woods road, following a set of barely visible tracks in the fresh snow. There’s a little more than half a foot of snow here. My Green Mountain Bear Paws sink only a couple inches into it. I slowly make tracks, stopping frequently to enjoy the surroundings. Snow clings to the branches of trees and covers everything else. I cross a set of fresh deer tracks, cutting my pace even more. There’s no reason to rush.

Beyond a small clearing there’s no semblance of a trail at all. I’m truly bushwhacking now and loving it. Running wild. My thoughts are running wild, as well, though I’m focused for the most part on finding the easiest route through the woods. I keep to the right of a mountain brook. I step gingerly over the smaller streams feeding the brook. Ice breaks underfoot.

Downed trees are obstacles to negotiate carefully. I sidestep them when possible. I slip and fall once, brush off the snow then keep going. Reaching an old campsite, I fashion my foam pad into a seat against a tree. I sit and listen to the brook murmuring beneath the ice and snow. It’s the only sound breaking the silence. Stillness and silence in the deep winter forest –– there’s nothing like it.

Snowshoeing out, I retrace my steps. My tracks into the woods are the obvious path to follow now. I don another layer to keep from cooling down too much. By the time I reach the bottom of the woods road, I’m a little giddy. All the stinky thoughts I had at the beginning of the day have washed away. Good outing.

Tags: bushwhacking, hiking alone, running wild, snowshoeing, The Green Mountains, winter woods