Woods Wanderer

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

A few days ago Judy and I lingered in the Northeast Kingdom after visiting family at Lake Wallace, clear up in the northeast corner of Vermont. We drove past the small town of Island Pond to the Wenlock Wildlife Management Area. Then we walked the trail to Moose Bog Pond. We had encountered some interesting birds there during a visit last year and hoped to do so again.

The trail is a short, easy, nearly flat path winding through a spruce/fir forest that’s home to the ever-elusive spruce grouse. I caught a glimpse of that bird last year but it disappeared before Judy could get a photo. No matter. There were plenty of friendly red-breasted nuthatches and grey jays to entertain us at Moose Bog Pond back then.

But that was last year. This year the grey jays were nowhere to be seen, and the nuthatches were skittish. A great blue heron was feeding at the pond, but it was too far away for Judy to get a good shot. So she photographed northern pitcher plants as we hung out for a while on the boardwalk jutting into the bog surrounding the pond. It was a beautiful summer day in the woods so we were happy just being there. All the same, I could tell that Judy was a tad disappointed.

On the way out, Judy took pictures of some interesting mushrooms while I crept ahead. That’s when I caught a little movement out of the side of my eye. I looked over and, sure enough, there was a spruce grouse half-hidden in the dense understory. I froze in place then signaled to Judy. She was looking down at the time and didn’t see me at first, but I didn’t dare say a word. Remarkably, the grouse didn’t move away. Then Judy saw me gesturing wildly and slowly moved in to photograph the bird. Even more remarkably, the grouse turned around giving Judy an even better view. She took a bunch of pictures.

Isn’t that the way it goes when dealing with wildlife? How many times have I gone looking for a creature only to come up empty-handed? How many times have they popped up, taking me completely by surprise? It’s all very serendipitous.

Tags: boreal forest, hiking, Northeast Kingdom, Vermont, wild birds

Walking the boreal forest, I feel the tug of wildness stronger than anywhere else. It’s the starkness of the landscape that brings this urge out of me, I think.  I grow fangs when I’m in it.  The forest itself makes me want to drop down on all fours.

This isn’t a forgiving landscape. You don’t come here to groove with benign nature. You come here to howl.

Mostly bogs and conifers, it’s easy to get turned around in the boreal forest. And hypothermia is an ongoing concern. Even in the summer, it’s often cool and damp. Because the landscape in Vermont turns boreal at higher elevations, it’s often shrouded in mist as well. That only adds to its mystery.

The closer one gets to the equator, the greater the diversity. But in the lean, cold northern latitudes, only the heartiest life forms survive. Even then by a dangerously thin margin. Think spruce and fir. Think pitcher plants, club moss, and the ghostly white Indian pipe. Think moose, wolf, bear.

There are only patches of boreal forest in Vermont’s Green Mountains. There’s a bit more in the mythical Northeast Kingdom. But northern Maine is mostly boreal, as is a good part of New York’s Adirondack Mountains. Alaska is utterly boreal. In other words, the places I like the most are boreal. Clearly I’m a creature of the north.

More than once I’ve been chilled, wet and almost lost in the boreal forest. “Almost,” I say, because the disorientation is intentional. I have my ways of getting out of the woods in a pinch, but I’d rather go deeper and get just a little bit more turned around. The dread of not knowing exactly where I am is a tonic that I imbibe on a regular basis. It keeps me from being too civilized. It keeps me from taking my lofty, philosophical notions too seriously. It keeps me in touch.

Go ahead and tell yourself how great humanity is – what we’ve done both individually and collectively, and what we are still capable of doing. Then go spend a week or two alone in the boreal forest and feel yourself whittled down to size. Granted, it’s not for everyone. But I can’t think of a better place to gain perspective on computers, cars and everything else. When the forest itself howls, you either run for cover or howl with it.

Tags: being human, boreal forest, northern forest, the wild