Woods Wanderer

Despite the specks of white tumbling from an overcast sky, I went for a hike up Aldis Hill. I had the place all to myself, of course. No one else was foolish enough to come out on such a nasty day.

Shortly after entering the woods, I noticed a big, old maple near the trail – one I hadn’t seen before. Then I kept moving. I was more interested in early spring wildflowers and knew just where to find them.

Amid a pile of large rocks, I spotted the leaves of bloodroot. The petals had been blown clear by the strong April wind. Just beyond the rocks, wild ginger. Trilliums, violets and blue cohosh bloomed along the flat section of trail between the lookout and the summit. Near the summit, I visited a thick patch of Dutchman’s breeches surrounded by trout lilies, hepatica and spring beauty. I got down on my knees and snorted the fragrant spring beauty the last time I was here.  Good thing I did so. Today they were closed tight against the weather.

I looked around for more wildflowers while finishing my hike but nothing new cropped up. That’s when I started thinking about that big, old maple I had passed earlier. How long had it been there? Why was it still standing? More to the point: Why hadn’t I noticed it before?  I gave it a quick nod before leaving the woods.

A half hour later, I returned to Aldis Hill to take a picture of that tree. I stretched my arms around its trunk to measure its girth. I couldn’t reach halfway around the giant. Stepping back, I took a good, long look at it. The tree had to be a hundred years old at the very least. And still going strong. I shook my head, wondering what else I hadn’t seen in this small pocket of woods during my countless walks here. Sometimes, I swear, it feels like I’m sleepwalking – even when my eyes are wide open.

Tags: hiking, perception, the passage of time, wildflowers

Once a year I go back to Ohio to visit family. I like to make the trip in early April so that I can get a jump on spring. The trees and bushes leaf out a couple weeks earlier in Southern Ohio than they do in Northern Vermont so I get to experience this lovely transition twice.

While everyone else was still in bed, my nephew James and I headed for a patch of wild forest just outside Yellow Springs. That was the plan, anyhow. In actuality, the parking lot was full by the time we got there and people were all over the trails hugging the Little Miami River. It took some doing to find an out-of-the-way spot where few people go.

When James and I stumbled upon a pair of large, flat rocks overlooking the lush river valley, we stopped for a while. I told James that the spot looked like a good place to party. He just smiled.

Our eyes soaked in the greenery all around us while we sat and talked. No one else was around. We talked about work, school, family, relationships, and everything else that popped into our heads. I avoided sentences with the word “should” in them, figuring that a young man in college gets enough of that. We ended up talking generally about the choices people make in life and the consequences of those choices. That seemed a fitting subject on a warm, spring day with the sun shining overhead.

New beginnings. Every spring season is chock full of possibility. The first wildflowers push up, the birds sing loudly, and forest creatures scurry about. More importantly, fresh verdure brightens the landscape, making it easier to smile.

It was time for James and I to link up with the rest of the family so we quit the rocks. We finished our short hike amid a throng of people. James talked about car camping this summer so I urged him to drive out my way. He probably won’t make the trip. That’s okay. We’ll have Ohio verdure to enjoy together next year regardless.

Tags: hiking, Ohio, renewal, springtime

It’s a cool, overcast day in early spring. Even though Indian Brook Reservoir is only a few miles from the hubbub of suburban Burlington, Matika and I have the place all to our selves. The ice pellets occasionally spitting from the sky have kept everyone away – that and fact that it’s early afternoon on a weekday.

I have the day off from work so I thought I’d run a few errands in town then come out here to decompress. My dog Matika is happy to be in the woods for any reason. We hike to the far side of the reservoir then bushwhack a couple hundred yards off trail to a favorite rocky point where I like to sit and think. It’s a good day to do so.

We pass an old beaver lodge right before reaching the point. Plenty of new cuttings nearby. I wonder how long the caretakers of this reservoir will allow the beavers to proliferate before taking action. The longer the better as far as I’m concerned.  I like beavers. They make good company in the woods. Matika jumps on top of the lodge and sniffs around a bit.  Hers is an entirely different perspective, of course.

On the point, I sit on a rock and gaze across still waters reflecting the trees surrounding it. I come to this exact spot every spring to reflect upon events of the past year and quietly celebrate the end of another Vermont winter. A crow caws once in the distance then falls silent. Silence and stillness. Suddenly all my concerns seem trivial in the cool, gray light – all concerns but one that is. I’m another year older than I was the last time I sat here. Time marches on relentlessly.

I get up and walk around a bit. I spot a dead crayfish belly-up in shallow water. The shoots of a few wildflowers have already broken through the forest duff. Birth and death are common themes in the wild. They are clearly apparent everywhere one looks. I am both awed and horrified by it. The world is in a constant state of flux and this all-important “I” of mine is but an aggregate of dust quickly gathered then blown away. Fecundity and flux. Nothing withstands it.

I finish my hike without further reflection. I have things to do. If I dwell much longer upon The Big Picture, I’ll get nothing else done today. Perhaps it’s best to simply assume that things will go on forever just the way they are. That way we can go about our business as if any of it really matters.

Tags: beavers, death, fecundity, perspective, reflection, springtime, walking

Here in northern Vermont, we awoke to a dusting of snow today. It is ever so slight and will burn off by mid-morning, no doubt. Yet it comes as something of a shock to us after a week of summerlike temperatures.

I go out and check the bright green shoots of my day lilies to see how they are doing. The warmth from the plants has already melted the snow clinging to their leaves, so my lilies take it as a watering. Had the temperature dropped a little lower overnight, there might have been a little browning along the edges and tips of them. All the same, they would have survived – if not this wave of green shoots then certainly the next one. Lilies, as delicate as they may seem, are hard to kill.

I marvel at the resilience of early spring flora and fauna. If a little misfortune comes their way after the promise of an easy start to the season, they bounce right back. Oh sure, they take a hit, and some individual plants and animals are hit hard, but collectively they survive. In fact, setbacks are expected. They are built to withstand them. I admire that.

The other day my sewer line broke. Suddenly the nasty stuff was ankle deep in my basement, my yard had to be dug up, and I had to shell out a hefty sum to have the pipe replaced. A hit, no doubt, but I’m trying to take it like a day lily. Life is full of setbacks, I tell myself. The big question is: how well do we weather them?

Some hits are so hard there is no quick and easy recovery. That’s what we are alluding to when we use words like “crisis” or “disaster.” The word “apocalypse” means there is no recovery at all. Yet Nature with a capital “N” persists even when a meteor hits the planet, taking out the dinosaurs. It’s all just a matter of degree, I suppose, of individual perspective.

I wish I were more resilient. I take my setbacks hard. That said, I watch carefully how everything comes back to life in the spring and am deeply impressed by it. No, not just impressed – I’m inspired. Nature says there is no such thing as a hopeless situation and, even in my darkest moments, I’m inclined to believe it.

Tags: attitude, backyard nature, change, human nature, lilies, nature, resilience, seasonal change, springtime

Judy kicked me out of the house yesterday, telling me that I badly needed to go for a hike in the woods. I didn’t argue. I was exhausted from yet another week of burning the candle at both ends but recognized the therapeutic power of getting outdoors. So I grabbed my pack and went. Matika was right on my heels, of course.

With the snow completely gone in the Champlain Valley and temps soaring into the 70s, there was no denying the outbreak of spring. The brown countryside I drove through looked more like March than April. What the heck, why not take advantage of the situation? I headed for the mountains.

The logging road I hiked up was soft and muddy – easy on my tired feet. I plodded along conserving what little energy I had. Matika, on the other hand, was all over the place sniffing about and running wildly. Silly dog.

I crept past a closed gate, some maple syrup lines and a blown beaver pond. Hardly any snow on the ground for the first mile, but that changed quickly once I crossed the Smith Brook, entering a copse of hemlocks. There the snow cover was patchy. A few minutes later I crossed the brook a second time, reaching the retreating edge of winter. I stopped for lunch. No point going any farther uphill.

Robin, fly, butterfly. At 1200 feet the natural world wasn’t exactly teeming with life, but the first signs of spring were apparent all the same. The murky brook was half full of runoff. Remnant moss and ferns offered green hope. The bright sun blazing through naked trees gave the forest a surreal look. I soaked it all in while slouching against a tree, daydreaming.

A handful of snow rubbed across my sweaty brow. A splash of mud on my pants as Matika raced past. And the raw, distinct smell of the earth awakening. That’s all I needed to celebrate the Spring Equinox a little in advance. The world this time of year is supposed to be stark, almost barren, stripped down to essentials. I expected nothing else. So the robins singing loudly later on at dusk came as a pleasant surprise.

Tags: hiking with dogs, mountain stream, signs of spring, Spring Equinox

With the sun shining through a cloudless sky and temps climbing into the 40s, Judy suggested that we go for a short walk along the shoreline at Kill Kare State Park. I agreed that we should get out and do something. I was exhausted from working all week while harboring some kind of respiratory virus but knew it wasn’t mentally healthy to stay indoors all day. Besides, a ramble along the lake wouldn’t be that taxing.

We brought the “chuck it” device to whip the dog’s ball inland while we walked. Matika badly needed the exercise. For obvious reasons, she doesn’t get out enough when I’m sick.

I saw a robin grazing on the snow-free lawn right before we headed out. I refrained from making too much of it. Yes, it’s starting to look and feel like spring but, as Judy reminded me, it’s still winter here in Vermont. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

A solitary fisherman sat on the punky ice, seemingly oblivious to the pressure cracks and open leads of water nearby. Better him than me. I stepped onto a sheet of ice along the shoreline, felt it give, then stepped back.

Good thing we were wearing our winter jackets. A chilling breeze whipped across the half frozen lake in stark contrast to the warming sun overhead. Mixed signals. Yeah, it’s that time of year.

I looked for some hint of fresh vegetation pushing up through the barren ground but found nothing. The buds of a few hardwoods were swollen, though.  It’s coming, slow but sure.  Patience, patience.

Judy and I didn’t talk much during our short walk, yet there passed between us a few knowing glances.  Not quite spring but it still felt good to get outside. Good enough for now, anyhow.

Tags: cabin fever, seasonal change, signs of spring, walking

The late February sun beats hard against the freshly fallen snow, warming it to the melting point. My stepsons and their families are headed to the ski slopes to play in the white stuff before it disappears, but I am more inclined to simply wait until spring.

Never a big fan of winter, I gaze upon the icicles dangling down from the roof of my house and smile vacantly. I know what this means. Now it’s just a matter of weeks before the earth thaws and vegetation begins its steady rise from dormancy.

I should grab my snowshoes and put them to good use while I can, but the cardinal singing loudly from a nearby tree reminds me that I’m more a creature of mud, unfurling leaves and running water. So I think I’ll just wait. It won’t be long now.

A mild winter portends an early spring. Okay, maybe March will be chock full of snowstorms. There have been plenty of Vermont winters like that in the past. But the bright sun and the new songbirds at my feeder tell me otherwise. Or maybe I’m just ready for the change.

Icicles don’t lie. Regardless what the month of March holds, these temporary stalactites are proof positive that winter can’t last forever. The earth wheels around the sun and the earth’s axis tilts inward. The rest is thermodynamics. So all we lovers of green things have to do is wait. It won’t be long now.

Tags: seasonal change, signs of spring

Once again I am reading John Burroughs – a turn-of-the-century writer who practically reinvented the nature essay. Heavily influenced by Emerson and second only to Thoreau in his passion for the natural world, Burroughs has intrigued me for years. Yet I have shied away from him time and again, fearing that the yawning chasm between his work and modern sensibilities might prove infectious.

More than one literary critic has called Burroughs “quaint” – a damning term to be sure. I cringe whenever I hear it. That’s like being accused of being both frivolous and irrelevant. Granted, the word might apply well to the many bird watching essays that made Burroughs so popular in his day, but it completely ignores the man’s more philosophical side. In the last few years of his life, that part of him really flourished.

John Muir and John Burroughs are the “two Johns” of late 19th, early 20th century nature writing. Most self-proclaimed nature lovers relate more to the former than they do to the latter. That’s because Muir was an activist in his day, a promoter of national parks and a founder of the Sierra Club. All that is much in keeping with the spirit of modern environmentalism. And Burroughs? Well, when he wasn’t writing pieces for mainstream magazines or hanging out with industrialists like Henry Ford, we was thinking too much. A quick perusal of Accepting the Universe, published shortly before his death, is proof positive of that.

Yeah, those of you who have read my heavier work know which side of Burroughs I prefer. In one essay he writes: “We cannot put our finger on this or that and say, Here is the end of Nature,” and I’m all over it. “The Infinite cannot be measured,” he adds, and I couldn’t agree more.  Yeah, Nature with a capital “N,” going well beyond politics. Am I the only nature lover alive today who cares about the things that JB pondered in his old age? One of the few, certainly.

The essays of John Burroughs are good for the soul. I find his ruminating, rambling style a welcome change from the superficial, sensational nonsense so prevalent in the media today. So I will continue reading his work and thoroughly enjoying it despite the musty smell that emanates from the hundred-year-old books that I hold in my hands. Sometimes nothing will do but the classics.

Tags: John Burroughs, modern times, nature writing, philosophy

The lack of snow is making a lot of Vermonters grumpy these days. Even those of us who don’t ski are missing the white stuff. Vermont in the winter isn’t same without a blanket of white. Oh sure, there’s snow in the mountains and the ski areas are making their own, but here in the valley we get a dusting that melts with the next sunny day. Then the ground is half-naked again. It’s unsettling.

Snow or no, I went for a walk the other day.  I went to Aldis Hill as I usually do when I’m short on time but need a woods fix. I was shocked to find the trail a solid mass of ice and immediately regretted not bringing my Yaktraks. I slipped and slid along, often leaving the trail for better footing yet returning to it out of sheer habit. I crept along slowly. That helped.

Matika didn’t mind, of course. Any time out-of-doors is a good time for her. Then again, she wasn’t on the trail itself.

I slipped and took a hard fall at one point. No surprise there. Got up and immediately checked to see if anything was broken.  A slight abrasion on my hand, that’s all.  A few minutes later, I slid ten feet. After that I tramped through the woods back to the car. An icy trail isn’t a trail, really. It’s a river of ice reminding three-season hikers like me that winter is fundamentally inhospitable. This one is for sure. So now it’s just an impatient wait until springtime.  Fortunately, in a year like this, that can’t be far away.

Tags: Vermont, winter blues, winter walking

Thanks to my tech savvy wife, I now get my morning news from an electronic device. Now I can read newspapers from any point on the globe, and keep up with the latest developments everywhere. Talk about information overload! I have to limit myself to half an hour of browsing otherwise I’d be at it all day. There’s really no end to the images and words that are available. With a good internet connection, the world is indeed a small place.

Yeah, now I can read about local, national and international events until I am truly sick at heart. Better than sticking my head in the sand and ignoring it all, I suppose. All the same, I can’t help but wonder what good all this information does me.

Am I better off keeping up with the massacres in Africa, the latest court rulings on crumbling nuclear power plants, or the circus that we call the presidential primaries? How much more do I need to know about the lurid sex lives of the rich and powerful, or the horrific crimes committed by supposedly decent folk? I’m partial to scientific surveys, but the one I read tomorrow will contradict the one I read today. Is eating dark chocolate and drinking red wine good for me or not? I know how they taste. That’s all I can say for sure.

I am world weary. 99% of the so-called information I encounter during the course of a day is tainted with propaganda, and quite frankly, I am tired of sorting through it. I call myself a philosopher because I have an insatiable hunger for meaning, but such a desire is meaningless in the Age of Misinformation. Media buzz trumps reality. And the wider the gap grows between the average person and wild nature, the more this becomes true.

A day in the woods provides temporary relief, but a week or two off the grid only makes it harder to come back.  In the summer of ’92, I went into the Alaskan bush hoping to resolve this matter. I haven’t been the same since. I have directly experienced What-is and know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that it vanishes the moment I step out of a wild forest. So now I turn on an electronic device, searching for more information, substituting that for wisdom. Then I get dressed and go to work on a keyboard, either at home or elsewhere, wondering why I feel so empty inside.

I should be happy. I have my health, a great marriage, my literary work, family and friends, and so much more.  But I am weary in a way that Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or any other existentialist would understand all too well. The gap between the wild and the civilized is wide indeed. And the world we live in doesn’t make much sense.

Tags: civilization, electronic devices, existence, globalism, information, meaning, media hype, wild nature