Woods Wanderer

September is a great month for hiking. The bugs are down, the air is cool, and there aren’t as many people in the woods. Yet there’s something ominous about the natural world this time of year – something that gets my attention before I’m distracted by the brilliant display of autumnal color.

I see it in the blue and white asters that grow along the trail. I feel it in a chilling gust of wind. I smell it – a whiff of fungus, aged foliage and dry earth filling my nostrils. The long, languid days of summer are behind us. And while it’ll be a month or two before the first snow flies here in the Champlain Valley, there’s no doubt that the growing season is coming to an end.

These days a walk through the woods is a walk through shadows and light. The canopy overhead is thick, but sunbeams still get through. More to the point, the day is noticeably short, bookended by what seems like longer periods of twilight. And an overcast day that I would have shrugged off in midsummer really affects me now.

None of this is cause for alarm. Autumn is a good time to be outdoors and it is just now beginning. But I find myself more pensive during my walks this time of year. While the fruits of the land are being harvested, I take stock. I ruminate. I ponder matters at length now – matters that seemed too heavy to even consider when the thermometer was pushing 90 degrees. My mind these days is also a curious blend of shadows and light.

No cause for alarm at all. My frame of mind is merely changing with the season. The best months for thinking lie directly ahead. For a guy like me, who wonders as much as he wanders, that’s a good thing.

Tags: hiking, light, rumination, seasonal change

As I go around talking about the deep woods and all it has to offer, I often think about those who can’t reach it. One has to be ambulatory and in relatively good shape to hike several miles into a wilderness area. But there are ways that even people who use a wheelchair can access the wild.

Everything at John Dillon Park is handicap accessible – the shelters, trails, picnic areas, fishing access and kayak dock. Located on land owned by International Paper, halfway between Tupper Lake and Long Lake in the Adirondacks, this is one of the nicest parks I’ve ever seen. And the folks at Paul Smith College do a great job managing it.

I stayed overnight here while promoting my book last week. I was amazed by the place. At the end of a two-mile dirt road, John Dillon Park rests on the shores of Grampus Lake. Here anyone can experience the wonder and beauty of the northern forest. With free firewood, storage bins for food and trash, composting toilets, and potable water, it is primitive camping at its best.

At first I was hesitant to stay here, not wanting to take a shelter away from someone who could put it to better use. But this small, private park, only seven years old, is underutilized. So check out the John Dillon Park website and spread the word.

Tags: Adirondacks, handicap accessible, hiking, John Dillon Park, primitive camping, the wild

I stepped away from my desk this morning to go for a hike.  It wasn’t a long hike – just long enough to remember who/what I am.

The moment I slipped into the woods I felt a tremendous sense of relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  It’s always this way.  I am a denizen of the forest, first and foremost. Not so much a trekker, naturalist or adventurer as a simple woods wanderer. I wander, then wonder, then sit down to write about it all.

The other day a newspaper writer asked me to send a photo of myself to to accompany a short news release about my new book. She wanted a shot of me backpacking through the woods – an action shot, I suppose, or something where I look the part. I sent her  a photo of me sitting against a rock at trail’s end, instead. Lost in thought and scribbling in my journal, with by my dog Matika by my side. Yeah, that’s who I am.

A big part of book promotion, or any kind of promotion for that matter, is branding the work and its creator. In our culture of media hype, this cannot be avoided. That said, it is important to remain true to oneself, otherwise one can quickly become lost. The forest keeps me oriented. I can’t imagine trying to make sense of the world without it.

My dog knows who I am. She was with me during that grueling hike across the 100 Mile Wilderness. She has been with me on countless excursions since then. If she could be my publicist and speak for me, I’d be all set.

My wife Judy also knows who I am. After all, she’s the one who took that photo of me at trail’s end. She caught me by surprise that day, before I struck an inauthentic and self-conscious pose. Spouses are good at that.

Tags: hiking, identity, media hype, nature writing, the forest

Yesterday Judy and I went for a walk around Aldis Hill. Our dog Matika came with us, of course. There was rain in the forecast so we wasted no time getting out of the house. We knew we wouldn’t be in the mood to go anywhere once it started.

The early morning mosquitoes were there to greet us. We did our best to ignore them, focusing upon the lush forest instead. Recent rains have brought all the vegetation to life. I can’t remember the last time the woods looked this green.

Judy skirted the mud holes; Matika went right through them. I did something in between. One’s attitude towards mud often reflects one’s beastliness. I’m not quite sure why.

Daisies and buttercups were in full bloom on the grassy top of the Hard’ack ski slope we crossed, but the wildflowers that cover the forest floor in late spring were nearly gone. With the Summer Solstice only a few days away, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. That said, I am always amazed by how quickly the warm season goes by. There’s not a day to be wasted.

Lately I’ve been too busy promoting my new book, The Allure of Deep Woods, to get into the mountains as much as I like this time of year. In lieu of deep woods, I slip away to nearby pockets of wildness whenever I can. There is something ironic about this to be sure. No matter. Aldis Hill and places like it are enough for now.

Tags: hiking, seasonal change, wildflowers, wildness

A five-day stint of subzero weather broke over the weekend with a little snowstorm. Then the wind picked up, blowing in unseasonably warm air. This morning, I couldn’t resist. After a short round of writing, I pulled on my hiking boots, put Matika in the car and headed for Aldis Hill.

The trail underfoot was half-frozen earth in places and soft mud in others. I knew it was going to be a messy walk but I didn’t care. I badly needed what John Burroughs once called, “Wordless intercourse with rude nature.” In other words, it was time to get out of the house.

The wind roared overhead, knocking dead limbs out of the trees. I tried not to think about climate change even though the ground was nearly clear of snow. This is the second big thaw we’ve seen this month, following the second significant cold snap. Crazy weather. Whatever. For an hour, I shrugged off the implications and simply enjoyed it.

Halfway up the hill, I took off my hat and gloves.  A little later I left the beaten path. Matika ran ahead of me until she found something to sniff, giving me time enough to catch up with her. Together we tramped aimlessly through the woods, grooving on the stark, wild beauty of it all. Soon we tagged a trail again, completing the loop back to the car. A large patch moss clinging to rock caught my eye. Its brilliant, lively hue made me think of spring even though I know better. I reveled in it. Green is green.

Back home again, it has taken me a while to clean up my dirty dog. No matter. I feel pretty good now, and will be able to focus better on my literary work because of that walk. I just hope I don’t start daydreaming about the coming warm season. It’s way too early for that.

Tags: hiking, January thaw, nature in winter

Shortly after Thanksgiving, I shoveled snow from my driveway for the first time this year. That was something of a surprise. But the snow that fell a couple days ago came with ample warning. I went out to Indian Brook Reservoir to greet it. Some things are best tackled head on.

In winter mode now, I wear hat, gloves and several layers of thermals and wools when I go into the woods. The days of t-shirt hiking are gone, along with all the fresh vegetation. That’s okay. I still have fresh air and the evergreens to sustain me.

With few exceptions, conifers keep their color during the winter. To eyes as hungry for green as mine are, that is no small matter. I find myself gravitating to them even though they block out much-needed daylight. I find myself drawn to their natural beauty, especially when they are highlighted by snow. Clearly I’m not alone in this sentiment. Even those who aren’t devout Christians are dragging evergreen trees into their homes. Their evergreen-ness consoles us.

Turning a corner at Indian Brook Reservoir, I caught a copse of conifers backlit by grey light as the snow fell. It took my breath away. There is the invigorating joy of the first lily in the spring, the lush happiness of full summer, and the burnt orange delight of autumn, but the snow-laced evergreens of early winter are something else. A walk through them and suddenly I am contemplating the mystical. The interplay of green and white – of shadow and light – excites my imagination, making me wonder how this world came to be. The earth tilted on its axis and circling the sun isn’t the whole story. Surely something else is at work here.

Tags: evergreens, hiking, light, mysticism, nature in winter

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

Despite the fact that I was still tired from a tough shift at the hotel the evening before, I donned thermals and wools yesterday morning and went for a hike. Falling temps and a winter storm were in the forecast, so I figured this was my last chance to tramp around for a while. Besides, holiday hoopla had kept me indoors for the past couple weeks. I desperately needed to get outside.

I didn’t wander far from home. I’ve been spending too much time in the car lately so I drove no farther than necessary to reach the woods. A small patch of wild country only ten minutes away did the trick.

What started as a hike quickly turned into a bushwhack. I followed a logging trail to a yard full of lopped off tree limbs then stepped into trackless forest. Fine by me. Meandering about aimlessly suited my mood. I tramped through the snow-covered woods, stopping every once in a while to look around. I marveled at the way new fallen snow clung to tree branches. I saw some kind of weasel slip into the remnants of an old stone wall – a black flash against white. My dog Matika sniffed at fresh squirrel tracks. None appeared.

Just to stay oriented, I kept my eye on a large beaver pond clearly visible through the trees. Consequently, I ended up circumnavigating it. On the far side of it, I encountered a smaller beaver pond apparently blocking my path. It’s dam provided an easy way to the other bank, though. I like this about bushwhacking. The landscape tells you where to go.

During the rest of my walk I followed a soft, muddy logging trail covered by several inches of heavy, wet snow. More like early spring than early winter. I didn’t mind it. Breathing hard is good sometimes – a reminder that existence is fundamentally organic despite all abstract thought. There’s more to life than working, eating and indoor entertainment. That’s a good thing to keep in mind this time of year.

Tags: bushwhacking, hiking, nature in winter

Someone recently asked me what my favorite mountain is. Without hesitation, I blurted out, “Wheeler Mountain,” surprising myself by this.  After all, I hadn’t seen the mountain, much less hiked it, in over twenty years.

A couple days ago, I revisited that great mound of rock.  My wife, Judy, wanted to visit friends in Vermont’s mythical Northeast Kingdom, so I tagged along.  Wheeler Mountain is only twelve miles away from her friends’ house.  So after lunch, I broke away to climb it with my dog, Matika.

I had to use maps to find the trailhead, but the trail itself was surprisingly familiar.  The mountain hadn’t changed much in my twenty-year absence.  My memory of it made the absence seem more like two years.

Wheeler Mountain is a great place to hike.  It’s a fun scramble over solid granite that provides breathtaking views for relatively little effort.  And the mountain is located just far enough off the beaten path to feel remote.  But it’s important to me for a different reason: I had my best guiding experience there.

Back in the early 90s, I worked as a guide for Vermont Hiking Holidays.  We took novice hikers on day hikes in Vermont and the Adirondacks, introducing them to the many wonders of nature.  My greatest success occurred on Wheeler Mountain. I had seven yuppies who wanted more than the tame morning hike done by the larger group.  That afternoon, I took them up Wheeler Mountain with the promise of great views.  During the hike they were all chatting away incessantly, per usual, but when we entered a small copse of conifers near the top, I stopped and said: “Listen.”   It took a couple minutes but eventually they all heard it, even the stockbroker.  Their eyes widened as they slowly grasped the great, wild silence enveloping the mountain.

My life as a nature writer is all about getting people to stop and listen to the wild.  This task has turned out to be much harder than I ever imagined it would be.  We live in a noisy, fast-paced culture chock full of distractions, and the elemental wildness of the world is overwhelmed by it.  We are overwhelmed, I should say, and the wild remains largely hidden in plain sight as a consequence.

There are easier hikes up more magnificent mountains and much more dramatic views, but Wheeler will always be my favorite.  While climbing it the other day, I stopped and listened for a minute or two to the sound of my own heavy breathing until a raven in the distance broke the silence.  Then I smiled.  Yessir, Wheeler still has the power… and that gives me hope.

Tags: hiking, mountains, nature writing, the wild, wild silence