Woods Wanderer

Every once in a while, I feel an urge to bushwhack through the woods, preferably without even a semblance of a trail. So last week I did just that. Not wanting to drive far, I went to a so-called tree farm on French Hill, where a sign invites all comers to recreate. It’s not exactly deep woods, but surprisingly wild for being only six miles away from home.

I started out on an old skidder trail overgrown with waist-high ferns and other vegetation. Ideal tick country to be sure, but I had my long pants tucked into my boots and held my arms high above the brush until I cleared it (would check myself for ticks later). Then I slipped off the trail, following a compass bearing north, feeling my way through the thick understory, catching a glimpse through the trees now and then of the beaver pond on my right.

I’ve done this hike before and know the terrain well. Basically, this bushwhack is a 2-mile circumnavigation of a sprawling beaver pond and its wetlands. My brand new hiking boots got their baptism of mud and water as I negotiated the rough terrain. An old, half-submerged stone fence enabled me to cross the wetland on the far side of the pond without getting too wet.

Once I was clear of dense alders, the forest opened up somewhat. Then mine was an easy, slow-paced tramp. The trick is to get through the woods without tripping over something and falling down. That requires patience and a keen eye – two qualities every bushwhacker must possess.

Eventually I came around to the south side of the beaver pond where I could step out for a good view. The sun shined brightly through a nearly cloudless sky. No wildlife in sight, though. I continued another quarter mile around the pond to the overgrown skidder trail then exited the woods. And that satisfied the urge for a while…

Not long after the French Hill excursion, though, I drove an hour east into the Green Mountains and did a right and proper bushwhack. I went to Basin Brook, which flows through a high valley of wild country between Laraway and Butternut Mountains. This is my number one go-to place whenever I need a deep woods fix. I drove a mile up a logging road before ditching my car and continuing on foot. Another half mile up the dirt road, I slipped into the forest on a snowmobile trail.

Upon reaching the brook, I left the snowmobile trail and bushwhacked upstream to a place where I had camped a couple years back. The stream was low, clear and inviting, but my old campsite has been washed out – presumably by last year’s heavy rain and floods. No matter. I stayed long enough to eat lunch, make an entry in my field journal, and groove on the infinite green world all around me. Then I made my way back to the snowmobile trail and hiked out.

That satisfied the bushwhacking urge for the time being. But I’ll go out again before summer’s end for sure. Next time to stay overnight and really get into it.

Tags: beaver pond, bushwhacking, deep woods solitude, Green Mountains, mountain stream

After ten days indoors, working feverishly on literary work, I needed to get out groove with the wild. With a heat advisory issued by the weather service for northern Vermont, it seemed a little reckless to go for a hike, but I did so anyway. When the wild calls, I’ve gotta go.

At midday today, temps were already in the high 80s and the humidity was downright tropical. I drank a ridiculous amount of water before leaving the house. Then I took it easy, real easy, meandering along the trail at a snail’s pace. Just a short walk, I told myself, enough to satisfy the wildness within for a little while…

There was no one else in the town forest, of course. I had the place all to myself. An ovenbird called out, and a few other songbirds let out subdued chirps. Other than that, the forest was silent and still.

Yes, the trail was muddy from the downpour yesterday, with frogs underfoot. Yes, the blood-sucking insects were out in force, having their way with me. And yes, I sweated heavily even as I crept along as slowly as I could. But it was good to immerse myself in the infinite green all the same, especially on this the Summer Solstice.

There will be longer, more challenging hikes in the mountains in the near future, I’m sure. Yet I returned to my car this afternoon quite satisfied to have gotten out today. Thunderheads approached from the West as I drove home. They are rumbling through the region, drenching everything even as I write this. Ah, summertime!

Tags: hike, summer solstice, wildness within

Once again Judy and I rented a cottage on the Maine Coast for a week, and once again I couldn’t resist the urge to walk to a small, rocky island just off Goose Rocks Beach. For days I watched a spit of the sandy beach reach towards the island at low tide, but it didn’t seem to connect. Then it did, although very briefly. So the next morning early, I timed my walk so that I’d reach the narrowing channel between beach and island right when the tide was lowest. It worked. I stepped onto the island without getting my feet wet.

The sun, just above the northeastern horizon, shined brilliantly through the cloudless sky. No breeze stirred the still waters, and temps rose quickly through the 50s and into the 60s. The beginning yet another beautiful day. I felt lucky to be alive and kicking. I ventured onto the island’s rock-strewn, uneven ground, careful as to where I stepped… all the time looking downward…

That’s when I realized that I could hardly step anywhere without stepping on some kind of life-form: periwinkles, barnacles, clams and more. These rocks, underwater during most of any given day, are covered with marine animals. I have witnessed this many times before, but can’t get used to this intertidal fecundity. I knelt down and turned over one rock after another. Beneath every rock, tiny hard-shelled aquatic animals moved about, along with translucent creatures barely visible to the naked eye. Had I remembered to bring my hand lens, I would have seen much more, I’m sure.

When I went to pick up and look under one rock, it started moving. That took me by surprise. It was a crab doing its best to look like a rock, now that it was exposed. Fortunately, I came upon it before any of the nearby shorebirds did.

Gulls, godwits, and other shorebirds were busy feeding in the shallow waters nearby, just off the island. No doubt they were finding plenty to eat. I was pretty hungry myself, so I hiked back to the cottage to consume a bowl of granola cereal. Yeah, we all have to eat. Gotta keep those inner fires stoked. Life forms come into being, eat as they mature, reproduce and die. It’s the eternal cycle of life. And nowhere is this more obvious than on a shoreline at low tide.

Tags: fecundity, intertidal zone, low tide, Maine coast, marine life

Suddenly there is the faintest hint of green in the trees. Then it unfolds slowly, very so slowly – the vibrant canopy overhead. Each day just a little greener, brighter, full of life. An awakening after a long dark winter. Nothing short of a miracle, played out over and over, year after year.

I follow a path through the woods, constantly reminding myself to watch where I’m stepping, but my eyes keep drifting up towards vernal glory. Dark clouds beyond the trees threaten rain, which is a good thing. All these rooted life forms will get yet another good drink soon and become even greener.

Not just green but the mesmerizing hue of fresh verdure unlike anything else we see the rest of the year. It only lasts a few days before the forest takes on that deeper, richer color. The forest refreshed. The color of joy. The triumph of the organic over the inorganic.

This is the eternal promise of Nature – life springing back into action after months-long dormancy. This is an irresistible force in a largely inanimate universe. This time of year, the trees shout what stone-cold materialists deny: that there is something incredible happening here on planet Earth and most likely elsewhere in the cosmos.

Life is self-perpetuating in a way that doesn’t make thermodynamic sense. It sucks energy out of the Sun. It grows; it self-organizes; it reproduces. It flaunts its leafy self despite quantum interactions, supernovas, and black holes. Or maybe because of them. Then we and the other creatures come along, adding further mystery to What-Is. And it’s all happening right here, right now, right before our eyes.

Tags: eternal nature, forest canopy, growth, life forms, springtime, tree leaves, trees

Late April is a glorious time of year here in northern Vermont. The snow and ice are gone in all but the highest elevations and the remote corners of the state, the trees are covered with catkins kicking out their pollen, the swollen buds of bushes are beginning to open, and the grass is greening everywhere, everywhere. Oh sure, there is still plenty of brown in the leafless forests and tilled fields, and the occasional snow flurry on colder days reminds us of winter’s recent passing. But the blazing sun is working its magic all the same.

We are well into the growing season now, even though it’s too early to break out the shorts and flip flops. Some people anxiously await those 75-degree days, resenting the rawness of the first half of spring. “Mud season,” some Vermonters call it contemptuously, but I am never as hopeful as I am this time of year. Every day brings a new development in the natural world, and directly ahead of us is the warmer half of the year and endless green.

In the mountains a little over a week ago, I tramped in cold mud next to a raging brook up to its banks in snowmelt. Walking along the Rail Trail the other day, I spotted wood frogs and clusters of their eggs in ephemeral pools. Spring peepers sing out every night from nearby wetlands; songbirds do the same during the day. Robins, blackbirds, and other migrators showed up weeks ago, and hummingbirds are not far away. Ants, mosquitoes, and scores of other insects are busy now. Worms appear whenever I scratch the soil with my rake. The resident chipmunk has come out of his burrow, running circles around me until I hand over some nuts. The sun is now up early in the morning – almost as early as I am. And it’s all happening at once!

But it’s the flowering plants that drive home the drama of endless renewal this time of year. In the wilder corners of my back yard, round-lobed hepatica and spring beauty are in bloom, along with the less obvious wild ginger. I kneel down before them for a closer look. In tamer places, a solitary pansy struts its stuff – an outrageous burst of yellow. The bright green leaves of columbine and bleeding hearts have already leafed out – the latter sporting clusters of pink and white flowers on the verge of opening. I can hardly believe my eyes…

Then yesterday late afternoon I stumbled upon a patch of purple trilliums on the forest floor, already in full bloom. I nearly swooned from it. What an incredible world this is! How fortunate to be alive! There is nothing more miraculous than the unfolding of spring, and no joy greater than being totally immersed in such fecundity. That’s what an unrepentant pantheist like me feels this time of year, anyhow.

Tags: fecundity, flora and fauna, migrating birds, mud season, northern Vermont, spring fever, spring wildflowers, springtime

Sunlight became noticeably dimmer as the moon gradually obscured the sun. Temps dropped several degrees. I sat in the backyard with my wife, granddaughter and her partner, watching the event slowly unfold. ISO solar sunglasses enabled us to look directly at that object in the sky usually too bright to observe. The thinnest sliver of the sun was enough to maintain the normalcy of day.

When the moon completely blocked the sun from view, the world suddenly slipped into twilight. This came as something of a surprise, even though we’d been anticipating it for months, along with millions of other people. A muted ring of light appeared where the sun was supposed to be. A sunset glow along the horizon completely surrounded us. Birds fell silent, frogs started peeping from springtime pools nearby, and the mosquitoes came out. The forest beyond our grassy backyard took on the dank nighttime smell of early spring.

With my binoculars, I glassed the sun’s corona, surprised to see fiery solar protrusions reaching deep into space. But that was not nearly as surprising as the sudden flash of sunlight that appeared, bringing the total eclipse to an end. Then it was daylight again. The birds and everyone else went back about their business. Only the mosquitoes remained to confirm what we had experienced.

In the distance someone shot off fireworks when the total eclipse began. That rendered mundane what would have otherwise been a sacred event. And rightly so. Most people cannot tolerate the Unspeakable, especially when it is shoved into their face. They have to make light of it.

Two days later, it’s as if that remarkable celestial event never happened. Everything is back to normal, and that ghostly ring in the dark sky is only a memory, a photographic image. Still there are a few of us keenly aware that we live on a planet with an orbiting moon, circling a star in a cosmos too vast to comprehend. Call it nature and leave it at that.

Tags: celestial event, nature, solar eclipse, springtime, the unspeakable

Thanks to a little encouragement from my literary friends, I have just released a new poetry collection. Behold the Unspeakable features what I think are the best poems that I wrote over four decades, along with those penned during the past few years. There are selections from A Hungry Happiness in this collection, along with verse from Pagan Fishing and various chapbooks published in my youth that are way out of print. A lot of ground is covered here.

True to the title, some of these poems flirt with metaphysical matters. Most of them – not all – have something to do with the natural world and how it has made me the woods wanderer and head-scratcher that I am today. Clearly this is a work of a mad poet who has spent too much time in wild places. Readers beware!

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

Tags: metaphysics, nature, poetry, wilderness

Five inches of snow brightened the dreary, barren landscape here in northern Vermont. It came in two overnight storms, back-to-back. My first thought yesterday morning was to grab my snowshoes and put them to good use for the first time this year. I drove to Sheldon Forest, only 10 miles away, and was breaking trail within minutes of parking my car.

With temps in the 20s and the sun peeking through the clouds, I was comfortable enough even though the middle finger on my left hand complained. It was frostbitten years ago and reminded me that I need to be careful out here. After all, I’m a 60-something man snowshoeing alone. So I cut my pace.

A pair of snowshoe tracks came in from another direction. I traced them for a while as I followed the perimeter trail but couldn’t resist the trackless path disappearing into the conifers at the next junction. I went that way. Soon I was enjoying that deep woods feeling even though the road was less than a mile away. The trees around me were heavily laden with snow. The occasional gust of wind shook some of that snow loose, dusting me. That made me smile.

Stepping over large fallen trees isn’t easy with snowshoes, but it’s a small price to pay for getting off the beaten path. All the same, I was glad to get back on the main trail. Then mine was a pleasant, daydreamy tramp back to the starting point. The sun shined brightly through the canopy, illuminating the forest. This is the way the Northern Forest should be in February, I thought. I reveled in it, even as sweat ran a chill down my spine. My beard was frosty by the time I got back to the car. Yeah, a good outing.

Tags: Champlain Valley, midwinter recreation, snowshoeing

For several weeks now, I’ve been getting up early each morning and writing about my various excursions into Adirondack backcountry during the past half dozen years. Talk about scratching an itch!

It’s the middle of a mild, somewhat dreary winter, and the world outside is mostly gray. Occasionally I venture into the cold for a long walk somewhere, but I’m really missing the lush, green seasons. Even if Vermont received enough snow to reclaim its title as a winter wonderland, I’d still be thinking green.

Last August, I ventured deep into the Silver Lakes Wilderness to a small, unassuming place called Canary Pond. There I grooved with the wild to my heart’s content. It has been foremost in my thoughts lately, as I work hard to regain my health. A bout of dizziness sent me to my doctor who, in so many words, told me that I either improve my diet or forget about doing what I love most. Ah yes, the hard choices of old age… Actually, it’s a no-brainer. I can’t afford to lose deep woods solitude. I’d go mad without it.

The wild green forest is fecund and brimming with activity in the middle of the growing season. There’s no substitute for it. Winter sports are good for one’s health, and there are no blood-sucking bugs to deal with this time of year. But being outdoors in February, well, it’s not the same as tramping through a dank forest crawling with activity. The latter is my cherished domain.

I hope to wrap up my collection of Adirondack hiking narratives soon, and get back to being fully in the here/now. Despite the cold, dreariness and lack of snow, the natural world still goes about its business. Short-eared owls have been spotted recently in the nearby Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge. Judy and I have made one unsuccessful attempt to see them. It’s time to try again.

Tags: daydreaming, deep woods solitude, fecundity, forest, green, hiking, midwinter blahs, nature writing, the Adirondacks, wilderness

I’m back inside after a short hike on a blustery winter day and glad to be here. I’m not a winter sports enthusiast. Next month, after a good dump of snow on a sunny relatively warm day, I’ll head for the hills and do some snowshoeing. But until then, the occasional, hour-long tramp locally will do.

In January I’m more of a bookman than an outdoorsman. I stay indoors most of the day, that is, tending to my online bookselling business or doing literary work. Or reading. Yeah, I read and write mostly about the natural world while snuggled inside this time of year. That’s rather ironic, isn’t it? Come early spring, I’ll get out more – a lot more. But now I’m mostly a cerebral creature. I wonder how many other so-called nature writers operate the same way.

I take a long, hard look at the shelf full of books that I’ve written and published. Some are works by other nature writers that I’ve published via Wood Thrush Books, but most of them are mine. I currently have over 20 of my own books in print. That begs the question: How many more do I need to put out there? At this point I have several more in various stages of production. It’s crazy.

Venturing into the Great Outdoors then writing about it… I’ve been doing this for 40-odd years. One would think the well would be running dry by now. Yet with each passing year I delve deeper into nature, trying to figure out where I as a human being stand in relation to it. I’ve become more of a philosopher in the process but haven’t lost my passion for the wild. This well is bottomless, I think. My ongoing studies of natural history confirm that.

I’m just about ready to dive back into my collection of short hiking narrative set in the Adirondacks. I’ve hiked over there a lot during the past five years, venturing into wild forests and wilderness areas that are new to me. Plenty to write about. Question is: Do I hike just to have something to write about, or write only to justify these excursions deep into the wild? It cuts both ways, of course. A lot depends upon the time of year. Either way it’s a win.

Tags: hiking, nature writing, the Great Outdoors, the wild, winter reading