Apr 22 2014
Following the Brook
It’s a dry day with temps in the 60s – a perfect day for hiking in the woods. I put Matika in the car and drive to the mountains. Before noon I am bushwhacking along Preston Brook, headed upstream.
There’s no snow in sight. Just grey rocks, the bleached brown of forest duff, the dark gray/brown of naked trees, and the occasional splotch of pale green conifers, moss or ferns that have wintered over. Not exactly a lush forest, but this time of year I’m happy just tramping the ground again.
The stream is clouded by silt and roiling with snowmelt. To avoid mudslide areas, I cross it a half dozen times while making my way upstream. The first few times I rock hop across, but eventually I get wet. I get muddy as well. No matter. I welcome this elemental immersion.
The sky overhead is mostly blue. A woodpecker knocks in the distance, otherwise all is quiet. Just the steady rush of water obeying gravity, and the occasional creak of a tree swaying in the gentle wind.
Matika is so busy sniffing that I lose track of her a few times. I lose myself in dreamy, early spring reverie. When finally breaking a sweat after tramping a mile, I can’t help but smile. Compared to thrashing around in snow, hiking like this is easy.
Thirty years, I figure after doing the math. That’s how long I’ve been following this brook. Sometimes I have a fishing rod in hand, sometimes I carry a daypack. I stop by a favorite camping spot and find the fishhook that I pressed into the bark of a young tree years ago. Yeah, this brook and I have history.
A couple miles deep, I reach the small, narrow bridge where the dirt road in this valley crosses the stream. I follow the road back to my parked car, occasionally stopping to look around. Not a spectacular hike but a pleasant enough afternoon in the woods all the same. In another month or so, once the trails have dried out, I’ll go higher. Until then, these mountain stream rambles will do.
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