Moose Hill Journal

Running Into Darkness

2010-12-12T11:21:00.005-05:00

Sunday December 12, 2010

Boomer Moose Hill run
Should I stumble, should I fall
Old man age behind

Not feeling up to going out for my birthday last night, Nancy and I spent a quiet evening at home watching Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson in “Last Chance Harvey.” Probably not the best film fare for one prone to critical self-examination and observing a late-fifties birthday. (One of my favorite quotes is from (I think) George Plimpton: “One going on a journey of self-examination should go well-armed.”)

I woke up this morning feeling generally crummy. Knowing one of my problems was a major lack of exercise this week, I did what I often do when feeling down: I headed for Moose Hill. Weather radar showed a gap in the big, cold rain storm blanketing New England so I donned hat and gloves, put the cell phone in a bag, and headed out the door.

By linking the Hobbs Hill Loop, the Kettle Trail and the Summit Trail I was able to run for over an hour almost entirely on trails. Feeling out of shape, my plan was to run slowly and steadily, gently bathing my cells in cleansing oxygen and endorphins. Planning to run slowly and long (for me) has the advantage of allowing for a gradual warm-up. Not only does this loosen the joints, but it allows time for thinking and, perhaps, working on a little haiku, counting syllables with wool-clad digits. There was a moment as I began the steep ascent up to the summit of Moose Hill that I thought about channeling my inner Rocky, but the Acela from Philly was late and The Rock was nowhere to be found, so I walked. At times when I'm feeling weak, I think about this video (Caution, strong language!) and push harder, but not today.

The longer I ran, the better I felt. The light, fresh air and cold raindrops helped lift the fog in my head. I think part of my problem is this damn disappearing December daylight. I always find myself in a funk at this time of the year and figure I suffer from SAD - seasonal affective disorder. But there's nothing better than a little exercise to lift the spirits. By the time I got home, the rain was falling harder, but a good run was behind me, and I knew soon the season would be turning and we would start climbing back to the light.

A Thing Which Could Not Be Put Back

2010-05-21T20:13:00.006-04:00

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not to be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

- from Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy several months ago. I wanted to write about this haunting book here, but I had no words to express the dark world this story plunged me into. It's the tale of a father and his son moving through the skeleton of a world left behind by a man-made cataclysm. In their struggle for the barest survival, they encounter challenges and horrors that are nearly unspeakable - unspeakable except by geniuses like McCarthy. This is truly the stuff of nightmares.

The dark images this book planted in my mind often come welling up. It doesn't help that when I see the book in a store, I'm prone to picking it up and re-reading the closing paragraph (Above). Not long ago I found myself standing, like an idiot, in a big-box warehouse store with a tear running down my cheek.

I did it again last night at Barnes & Noble, but this time something clicked. I just started reading eaarth by Bill McKibben. In the early pages, McKibben explains that global climate change is not something that might - if we don't get on the stick - affect our children and grandchildren as is so often said. No, in fact, it's already happened. We have already pumped so much greenhouse gas into the air and are so far from getting our fossil fuel use under control that we have entered a time of irreversible feedback-fed warming that has changed our pale blue dot into another planet altogether. We've triggered a chain reaction where a warmer climate promotes release of carbon dioxide from a thawing tundra and release of methane from warming Arctic seas. These additional gas releases warm the climate further, and so on and so on, in a self-sustaining loop that is beyond our power to control no matter how many bicycles we ride or light bulbs we change.

So, unlike the blinding flash that ended McCarthy's world, our world - the real one- was ended slowly but surely by puff after puff of invisible gas. Sudden death, or slow tortured death, we are left with a thing that could not be put back, could not be made right again. I think of my children and I think of the soft green forests of spring, and a tear rolls down my cheek.

Dinner and a Show

2010-03-17T22:51:00.005-04:00

I went to see Gary Snyder last night. A friend told me he'd be in Acton, Massachusetts to collect a poetry prize. (Thanks, Wayne!) Acton is a full hour away by car and I was debating about going, but Wayne wanted to go too (Having a friend along always lends a bit of validity to my crazy ideas.) and, as he said, Snyder is 79, after all. In other words, who knows how much longer he'll be around.

I'm not worried. If I can look as good and seem as bright at 79 as Gary Snyder does, I'll be doing OK.

I'll confess that I didn't know who Gary Snyder was until just a few years ago. I had a significant chunk of time on my hands as I recovered from surgery in 2007 and I used it to immerse myself in Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums, inspired by those other Dharma Bums. I learned that the main character, Japhy Ryder, was patterned after the real poet, scholar and activist Gary Snyder. When I think about it, it's pretty amazing to be able – in 2010 – to see a living character from a 1958 Kerouac novel. Maybe all that outdoor living kept Snyder healthy enough to outlive so many of his contemporaries.

I've since started exploring Snyder's vast body of work. I'm no student of poetry, but I find many of his poems striking a chord. So far, my favorite is “For the Children” in Turtle Island. Snyder is also an essayist and so many of his writings from the 60's and 70's foretold and warned of many of the social and environmental perils we face today. If only we paid more attention to our visionaries.

Snyder was in Massachusetts to collect the Robert Creeley Award. This prize was created in honor of Robert Creeley - another poet I need to learn about – who grew up in Acton. Starting his presentation, Snyder read “ I Know a Man”, one of Creeley's best-known poems. (Or, “po-ems” as Snyder calls them.) There's much discussion and speculation about the meanings of this little poem, but it ends with the lines:

for christ's sake,
look out where yr going

To this, Snyder said, a Buddhist's interpretation would be:

Pay attention.
Pay Attention!
PAY ATTENTION!

He also told us to live, big, outrageous lives.

Well, it's a little late for me to start living a very big and outrageous life, but for the time I have left, I can try to pay attention. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to pay attention to, probably life as it is happening. It would be sad to look back on a long life, wonder where all the time went, and realize I wasn't paying attention. I also want to be on the lookout for signs and wonders. When I get a sign, I don't want to miss the wonder.

I got a sign a couple of weeks ago reminding me it was time to head up to Moose Hill for the annual spectacle of the peenting woodcock. It was a perfect night for it unless it was a bit early in the season. When I first went to Moose Hill specifically to watch woodcock two years ago, it was April 8th, but this night was too good to pass up. The sky was free of clouds and wind and it was 60 degrees when I left home at about 6:30. Sunset was around 6:56, and from experience I knew I had plenty of time because the show doesn't start until after sundown.

I rode my old touring bike up the hill and headed straight for the old field beyond the Billings Barn. With the mown stubble of the field surrounded by woods and a red maple swamp, this is a perfect spot for woodcock vernal nuptials. I leaned the bike against one side of a trail-marker post in the field and used the other side for a backrest. Even though the day had been warm and sunny, I could feel the cool air slowly draining from the hill behind me, so I put on my hat and jacket and had my blanket ready to throw over my shoulders.

I unpacked dinner – veggie bake, one of my winter favorites – and poured a cup of Earl Grey from the vacuum bottle. I enjoyed my dinner, but started thinking I would have to go home without a show because everything was quiet. The only bird I heard was a cardinal chipping in the brush behind me, and no peepers were calling from the swamp. Then, a great blue heron flew low over the treetops with slow, silent wingbeats, giving me hope. I peeled an orange, sipped tea, and thought about Gary Snyder to pass the time.

I heard the first tentative peent at 7:08 from down by the swamp. By 7:14 I heard two or three birds on the ground. At 7:21 I heard the first twittering flight and peered into the darkening blue dome above hoping to catch a glimpse. I didn't see that flight, but was reminded how the flight is usually followed more vigorous peenting from the ground after the showoff lands.

It was getting so dark, the trees around the field were little more than silhouettes. The oaks and maples, in their nakedness, were revealing their forms against the sky, and the white pine were turned black by the night. Just then, a woodcock flew directly overhead like a big, silent beetle, before climbing in preparation for his plunging display. I could hear but not see his twittering decent. It was getting so dark, I couldn't see the words I was scribbling in my notebook. A honking flock of geese flew right over the field but I couldn't see them and wondered if they might be navigating by Orion's twinkling stars above.

At the height of the peenting activity I was a little surprised to see a trio of young men emerge from the dark woods. Actually, I heard them clomping over the Bluff Trail boardwalk long before I saw them. They were carrying backpacks and seemed like nice guys, not ne're-do-well teenagers old guys like me expect to see in places like this. Who knows, maybe they are rucksack revolutionaries. I told them they were just in time to hear the woodcock and they paused and heard. I wonder if some day far in the future they'll remember the moment and perhaps seek signs and wonders of their own in valleys and pastures where we can meet.

They went on their way and it was getting too dark to see anything. I had a last bit of tea, packed my bag and pushed my bike down the trail. When I got to the flat part of the gravel road leading back to the street, I hopped on the bike and rode slowly, guided only by the center part of the old road where the leaves had blown away, exposing the lighter sand and gravel.

Back on Moose Hill Parkway, I pedaled quickly down the hill, hoping to avoid cars since I was poorly dressed for the dark. My shadow was chasing behind, and then racing ahead as I approached, and then passed the street lights.

Five Seven Five

2010-02-06T15:49:00.013-05:00

With the energy and optimism of youth, a young man here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.

I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.

These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.

May on the Deck
May 2007

I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.

chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home

Running to Another Place
June 2006

One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.

Cold Blood
June 2007

Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care.

How Quickly We Fall
June 2007

In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

Unhappy Update

2009-11-21T07:40:00.016-05:00

Maybe it's the American way. We did it in Iraq, and we do it here. Those with big money, big power, and small ideas destroy things first and let somebody else worry about putting things back together.

In June of 2006, I walked a scene of obscene greed. (See "Forgive Us Our Trespasses.") Terrified by ever-escalating property taxes, the town gave a slimy developer the green light to clear about 20 acres of unbroken, beautiful, mature hardwood forest to build an "Over-55" community of about 50 houses. The rationale being that 50 retirement homes is better than 20 regular homes that will add kids to the already over-burdened school budget. The woodland was stripped and violated. Not an oak, maple, lady slipper, whitetail deer, scarlet tanager or salamander was spared. The place was bulldozed, rock-crushed and dirt-trucked literally back to the Pleistocene.

For marketing purposes, a sign was erected, a community center with pool was showcased and a few houses were built. The houses were crappy little plastic-sided boxes built on concrete slabs. Of the half dozen or so built, only one or two sold before the developer (Well, no doubt some shadow corporation.) went broke and the scene of the crime was left abandoned for someone else to worry about.

Now, the site has been acquired by another local developer who is also fond of despoiling raw land for profit. The cute little retirement coffins - brand new and never occupied - are being bulldozed (photo) and replaced with mini-mansions. Such simple-minded waste. It's enough to make me sick.

Once again, a crisis of imagination and leadership took us back to the old formulas of the 20th Century. Destruction, sprawl and waste always led to profits in the past because many of the true costs of such greedy enterprises were borne by others.

In August of 2008 - well over a year ago now - I went to visit the site of a proposed "Lifestyle Mall" on the edge of town. (See "Missing the Target.") It's the same story, only on a bigger scale: Children and taxes - Bad. Shopping malls, concrete and asphalt - Good. Nobody seemed to care that the economy was swirling down the toilet and the last thing we need around here is another effing shopping mall - upscale or otherwise. The bulldozers were warming up. These guys just can't wait to tear things apart! Now - well over a year later, as the photo shows, the land still lies cleared and barren. The developer gropes around for a way - any way - out of this debacle, and guess who will come out holding the dirty end of the stick?

And what have we learned from all this? Nothing.

Now, another developer wants to build a retirement and nursing facility on yet another tract of unbroken forest in town. This project is even more outrageous in scale and disruption. Not only will this project erect a cluster of towers reaching high above the tree canopy amidst state park and conservation land, it's construction will clog every street in our quiet town with literally thousands of construction vehicle trips for several years. At every turn, the developer threatens that - should his demands not be met - he will see to it that 88 McMansions, or - God forbid! - affordable housing will be built instead.

A minority of town residents strongly oppose this project. Some of the opponents are conservation-minded treehuggers like me while the rest are NIMBY types who likely never uttered a peep about the other fiascoes in town. At a recent town meeting the developer raised another curtain on the true scale and intent of his plans, revealing that he needed to use a quiet winding dirt road that runs right past a lovely state park to conduct operations in a way that was most efficient and profitable. No matter that this access would put all the construction traffic through the very heart of town; the camel's nose was already under the tent. Voting citizens were so mesmerized by the promised benefits of commercial tax money that they held their noses and grabbed their ankles.

One strong and vocal proponent of the project on the planning board said he had a spreadsheet that shows how this project is good for the town. It might be interesting to examine this spreadsheet and look closely at the lines where the value of the environment is calculated. What cost does he assign to the bulldozing of a tree? How much does it cost when a child is sickened by diesel fumes? What is the value of a quiet stroll down a country road?

Now I'm no Nostradamus, but I've had a vision about where this project is headed. This scheme simply makes no sense. Sure, maybe we need to look to the future when an aging population needs retirement homes and nursing care, but I can't imagine a more inappropriate location for such a facility. The proposed site isn't near anything - no shopping, no public transportation, no services. All traffic, both during and after construction, must travel on two of the narrowest and windiest roads in town. There is NO infrastructure. We have no sewer system in town - on-site septic systems must be built. They don't even have water mains in the area. There is a reason the 300 or so acres of this property has never been developed: It sits on bedrock and boulders (photo). Giant equipment and dynamite will be required for every hole in the ground. Sure, the bulldozers will roll and the trees will fall any day now. Just around the time the destruction is complete and the building is supposed to begin, money will suddenly get tight(er) and suddenly and unexpectedly the cost of diesel fuel will spike (again). The devastated landscape will fall silent and the developer will slink away. Bills will go unpaid. Promised benefits to the town will vanish with the songbirds. We will be left with yet another moonscape of blowing dust and discarded plastic coffee cups.

Note to Readers: I know that since I was consumed by my morbid fascination with the impending exhaustion of our fossil fuel supplies and the inevitable demise of the American suburban/consumer lifestyle my already-limited readership fell off a cliff. That stuff is boring and depressing. I've tried to move the gloom and doom stuff to one of my other blogs, Moose Hill Notebook. I put this story of development and destruction here because it is a follow-up to two earlier posts. In the future, I'll try to keep this blog more focused on quiet walks and contemplation on Moose Hill. In the mean time, you might find (I certainly hope!) more upbeat stuff on my newest blog: Bliss Hill Journal.

A New Way of Seeing

2009-03-19T21:42:00.005-04:00

Saturday, March 14, 2009

It was still in the mid-20’s when I left home for Moose Hill Saturday morning, but that was OK because the forecast was calling for clear skies and temperatures in the 50’s. It was a great day for walking, with bright sunshine and little wind.

As soon as I stepped out the back door, I was greeted by sounds of Spring: One of the neighborhood cardinals was tooting away. At the end of the driveway, I saw the first two robins of the year to be in the yard. Doves were cooing along Pleasant Street, and a pair of grackles flew over the train station. Along the road to the tennis club, I saw one of my first chipmunks of the year. On Lover’s Lane I saw that the lovers haven’t been waiting for Spring. (Note to lovers: It’s probably not a good idea to leave your latex evidence laying around, announcing to the world the location of your secret spot.) A pair of hooded mergansers took flight from Beaver Brook as I crossed the new bridge over the dam. In the cedar swamp, the redwings were calling chink-ker-ee! The new season was truly underway. Soon, I’ll be heading up in the evening to watch the flight of the woodcock.

I didn’t have any firm plans, but I thought I’d head to one of my favorite breakfast spots on the Boulders. Rather than hike up the road, I ducked back into the woods to take the Hobbs Hill trail. Away from the road and the brook, the woods were quiet. I walked along quietly and steadily, feeling my body warming and loosening. Thoughts were rolling through my mind without organizing themselves into any particular themes or patterns.

In time, the Hobbs trail took me back to the road, and I crossed it to take the Vernal Pool trail toward the Boulders. I tried not to hurry, but breakfast was calling from my pack. I had two big slabs of fresh homemade whole wheat bread slathered with peanut butter (the peanuts-only kind) and drizzled with pure maple syrup. I was going to use the usual jelly, or maybe the classic honey, but in honor of maple sugar season on Moose Hill, I tried something a little different. In the vacuum bottle, I had some shade-grown coffee. I knew these token efforts to eat as if food matters could make me seem like something of a Fauxhemian, but what the heck.

As I approached the Boulders, I paused to peer through the thin ice into the clear water of the vernal pool that is alongside the old road there. It seems it will be a few more weeks before the amphibians that depend on these ephemeral ponds for breeding will arrive.

I climbed up onto the Boulders and found a stony seat that afforded the warmth of the sunshine and a view back down on the trail passing below. I put my little foam pad on the cold rock and draped my fleece blanket over my shoulders. Before I could finish unpacking breakfast, I heard the yanking of a nuthatch behind me. This was followed by the tooting of a group of titmice and the tapping of a small woodpecker. This little guild stopped by just long enough to check out the new curiosity in the neighborhood before going back to the important business of finding something of their own to eat.

I sat enjoying my sandwich and coffee. A gentle southerly breeze reinforced my hopes for a warm afternoon. A couple of crows flew over, cawing loudly just over the treetops. A couple of hikers passed on the trail below, but they never glanced up to see the blanket-clad boulder troll peering down at them.

My thoughts mostly lingered on the state of the economy and, more particularly, what the current disarray might be telling us about our future. I remain convinced that, as Tom Friedman puts it, we may be at an inflection point where both our economy and environment are hitting the wall at the same moment.

On Friday afternoon, I was watching one of the major cable business networks as President Obama was telling us that it’s time to start building a new clean-energy economy and start laying the foundation for post-bubble economic growth, and that no longer can we drive our economy with an over-heated housing market and maxed-out credit cards. Those days are over, he said. A funny look came over the pretty high-def face of one of the program hosts. She just couldn’t grasp what that might mean. The concept of an economy that did not depend of constant growth and expansion with ever-increasing consumption and spending was beyond comprehension. I was struck how this crisis of imagination is typical of most people who have had it so good for so long. I was troubled by the on-going belief that all the bailout money we are throwing at the recession will prove to be a last-gasp futile attempt to prop up a system that is destined to failure no matter what we do and that all this new debt will only make things much worse for many years to come. What we need is a new way to look at things.

I was getting cold and these thoughts were not particularly fun or comforting, so I decided to get moving. I packed my bag and started looking for a way to walk around and down off this rocky outcropping. A ledge of granite, four or five feet tall, was in my way and, as always, I looked for a way to walk around it. Suddenly, an idea coalesced. For a while now, I’ve been entertaining rock climbing fantasies. This may have started a couple of years ago when we were in the Ansel Adams museum at Yosemite National Park. In the gift shop they were playing one of those New-Agey videos where an amazingly fit and graceful athlete was climbing on boulders to the accompaniment of soothing music. It struck me that it must be so wonderful to move through space like that with nothing more than skill, nerve and power.

Now, I’m an overweight middle-aged man with a bad shoulder. Even in high school when I was in pretty good shape I could never do more than 10 pull-ups. I have what I euphemistically call a low center of gravity. So, I have no business even thinking about rock climbing. But suddenly I started looking at the boulders all around me differently. I started looking for routes, hand-holds and toe-holds in the stone. Starting with the small wall in front of me, I found a way down the rock face rather than around. It was fun, so I walked over to the base of the tallest outcrop. There is a big fissure in the rock, and I started to climb up. My binoculars were tangling from my neck so I went to slip my pack off my shoulders so I could put them away. The pack promptly slipped from my grip and tumbled to the ground about 10 feet below, teaching me an early - if unnecessary – lesson about the dangers of combining height and gravity.

I spent several minutes moving up and down the rock. I was quickly learning a few lessons about this sport: As in chess, every move - and a few beyond that - must be planned in advance. Attention and focus are critical because a careless move can quickly lead to a situation prompting a cold sweat. It’s important to make a plan and follow through with it. It’s very helpful to know where you’re going, or you might wind up in a place you’d really rather not be.

It felt good to be stretching, reaching, grabbing and pulling. I felt like I was using muscles that don’t get used often enough. I was also exercising the parts of the brain that provide focus, concentration and discipline that can always use a workout. More importantly, I was seeing these familiar rocks in a new way.

Feeling like I’d pushed my luck enough with these first baby-steps into the world of rock climbing, I made my final descent and retrieved my pack. I was in a happy mood as I headed down the trail back to the road. The sun was shining and the Spring air was getting warmer. I’d had a fun new experience. And while I won’t be free-climbing El Cap any time soon, I knew that from now on I would be seeing the world around me with new eyes.

What’s for Dinner?

2009-01-13T23:01:00.005-05:00

We are entering a period of change, and it is with some curiosity that I look for signs of significant changes on the horizon. I can see that our world will likely change in fits and starts rather than suddenly and profoundly. For example, just as the bludgeon of four dollar gas get Americans thinking about more fuel-efficient cars and maybe even adopting lifestyles that involve less driving, gas prices plunge and we slip back into our old habits. As a nation, we have the attention span of a bunch of eight- (or eighty-) year-olds.

One of the things I’ve been thinking a lot about lately is how we will be eating in the future. There are predictions that we will be eating much more food from local sources. That makes so much sense in so many ways. In fact, today I finally signed up to participate in a local community farm at the Moose Hill Audubon sanctuary. I’ve had good intentions to do this since they opened a few years ago, but thanks to my normal procrastination (and never feeling like I had a few hundred bucks for the up-front payment lying around in January) I always got closed out of this popular project. I vowed this year would be different, and I dropped off my application on the very first day. I look forward to a summer of working cooperatively with my neighbors to coax sustenance from the soil of Moose Hill.

In my darker moments, I imagine a future where food will be scarce. Our economy is collapsing and the oil will soon run dry. We will squander dwindling resources in a pitiful attempt to preserve the old ways, unable to see the tidal wave of destiny bearing down on us. Too many of us will fall into a paralysis of despair instead of preparing for the new reality. The fossil fuel feeding frenzy will be over and fast food and cheap calories will be a fond fading memory. Too long will people cling to there pointless jobs as tanning salon attendants and life coaches. Not soon enough will Americans be working on their farmer’s tans and falling asleep at sundown after a hard day in the fields, too weary, hungry and broke to worry whether or not the feng shui of their vacation retreat is correct.

In these fatalistic fantasies I wonder if we will start harvesting the abundant living protein that is all around us, unused. My on-going war with the squirrels bent on chewing holes in my house has more than once had me wishing people would start craving savory squirrel stew. Not long ago, I counted seven fat gray squirrels on my small back lawn, and I’m not even feeding the birds this year because I don’t want to encourage the squirrels. As if reading my mind, friend Suzanne sent me an article from the New York Times about efforts in Great Britain to get the public to eat non-native (North American) gray squirrels that are displacing beloved native red squirrels. These English reds look a lot like the cute but annoying red squirrels that are trying to take up winter residence in my walls, but they have cute little tufts on their ears. Maybe in the not-too-distant future, squirrel will be on our menus as well. After all, how many war movies have we seen where the platoon sharpshooter was a good old boy squirrel hunter. Back to the future.

Just this morning I was talking with a friend on the other side of town. Outside his family room window, we watched as four whitetail deer nibbled the shrubbery in his backyard. Deer are everywhere and I wonder if it won’t be long before many more of them wind up in freezers. I was jogging along our Main Street a few weeks ago and a fat doe, killed by a car, was lying in the woods just off the road. I wondered if in a few years the motorist would have stopped to claim his prize rather than letting it go to waste.

Massive flocks of Canada geese fill the farm fields adjacent to Moose Hill this time of year. At other times they become pests as they waddle and poop on our beaches, lawns and golf courses. I can imagine a day when a hungry hunter will sneak up on the flock with a small crossbow and put a goose in the oven for his happy family.

In my deepest nightmares, I visualize clean statues in city parks after all the pigeons were roasted on sticks over gutter-trash campfires. When the rock doves get too wary, maybe starlings and sparrows would be next.

Those are my nightmares. In my daydreams on a sunny morning I see healthy and peaceful neighbors working shoulder-to-shoulder to reclaim our land for the production of water, food and fuel. Again we will work with the soil and learn its ways. Honest labor and sweat of the brow will be respected. Those who make real things will be honored. We will trust and love our neighbors because we have worked side by side and helped each other through hard times. We will share and rejoice in the bounty and understand how close we came to losing it all.

Thanksgiving Traditions

2008-11-27T20:25:00.007-05:00

It has been my tradition for the past several years to work on my firewood supply on Thanks- giving morning. I like to go out in the late November coolness and take stock of the wood pile. Depending on what needs doing, I might move some wood around, say from the outdoor rack under the tarp into the shed, or I might split some logs, or cut up some small stuff with the bow saw. Out of respect for the neighbors on a holiday morning, I wouldn’t fire up the chainsaw.

In the past I would run an extension cord from the garage and turn on the radio. A local station used to play Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” ever year, but I didn’t find it this morning. It seems many good things are coming to an end these days. Anyway, my decrepit little woodshed was an old chicken coop that came with the house that I’ve remodeled into a shelter for my hoard. I take satisfaction in stacking wood in the shed, thinking of it as money in the bank, its interest compounding every week as the logs dry.

The bending, lifting and chopping is a workout more satisfying than a visit to the gym. I recently read In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. In it, he comments on how much exercise by Americans is really so much pointless expenditure of time and energy and if we would spend more time doing things like gardening, we would get more exercise and have something to show for it. Now, as one who loves a good bike ride or the occasional run up Moose Hill, I’m inclined to think there is no such thing as totally pointless exercise, but I understand what he’s saying. I can still remember many years ago when my parents sold one of the houses my father built almost single-handedly to a family with a couple of young, strong weight-lifting sons. He watched in dismay as his carefully-tended lawn went wild. “Why don’t those guys try pushing a lawn mower instead of lifting those weights?”

When I first went out, I was greeted by Hobbes sunning himself on the ramp to the bike shed. This is the cat that killed a couple of young red squirrels in the yard a couple of weeks ago. He’s a friendly and pretty little guy and I find it difficult to stay mad at him, especially now that the squirrels are even more aggressively invading the house. They’ve actually found a way to get into the walls and ceilings. I’m happy to report that “Calvin,” at my request, outfitted Hobbes with a new and larger bell. Maybe now I can enjoy his company more and worry about the local wildlife less.

Much of my firewood is a random assortment of wind-fallen branches from here and there and lumber scraps from my carpentry projects. Recently, friends have been kind enough to let me clean up some big oak and beech branches that came crashing down in their yards during heavy storms. One of my favorite things about this Thanksgiving tradition is using the time to daydream. I like to think about a day when I have a woodlot of my own and can use my saws and axes to do a little timber stand improvement and cut some real firewood. Although I’m closing in on an age that used to qualify one for senior citizenship and my dream account has shriveled along with the rest of the stock market, some dreams die hard. I imagined myself walking through the woods, deciding which trees to cut and which to favor, and stoking the stove in my little tight cabin at the end of the day.

It was a fine, crisp New England November morning. I had about two season’s worth of wood stacked and ready to go, and I could look forward to many evenings of dozing by the woodstove. My arms and back had that comforting ache that is the reward for earnest effort. I went back into a house warmed by a fire in the living room and a turkey roasting in the kitchen. I was looking forward to the annual family feast and was thankful that, even in hard times, life can feel pretty good.

Nut Case

2008-09-28T21:04:00.006-04:00

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Saturday dawned clear, cloudless, calm and cool. It was 45 degrees when I left home, so I layered on a few old shirts and wore wool gloves for the first time this season. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I planned a quick trip to Hobbs Hill for breakfast. I pedaled the single speed up to the Kettle Trail near the intersection of Moose Hill Parkway and Upland Road. This wide, inviting trail had been beckoning to me for the past few weeks every time I drove over the hill. As I would drive by, I’d think of the quiet times I’d spent sitting and thinking and I yearned to go back. I wanted to enjoy a few minutes of peaceful reflection away from the worries of the world.

I pushed the bike far enough down the trail to be invisible from the street and headed down the trail. I paused at the yellow birch that drops its golden leaves before all the other trees, scattering a golden throw-rug across the footpath and noticed it was already starting to change color.

Crossing the boardwalk across the swamp that is the source of one of the headwater streams of Beaver Brook, I looked at the tall, green ferns that carpet the muck. I’m still not sure if they’re cinnamon ferns or ostrich ferns and I thought about how much easier it is to learn how to identify things in the natural world from a knowledgeable companion than it is struggling alone with a field guide. The Audubon sanctuary offered a fern walk last year, but it was canceled for lack of interest. I know a few people had signed up, but I guess they have a rather rigorous way of gauging interest.

On the other side of the swamp I went right on the Hobbs Hill Loop, heading for my usual breakfast spot. There is a flat-topped granite erratic poised on the brink of the steep easterly slope of the hill that affords nice views of a flat area in the forest below and treetops of oaks and hickories that rise from there. I like to sit there and gaze down through the forest, waiting for the small dramas that Moose Hill so often provides. While waiting for the show to begin I try to open my mind to thoughts that drift up through the trees.

On this morning the woods were quiet and still. Sunshine hitting the hillside warmed the air just enough so that gently rising currents caused fine strands of spider silk suspended between the trees - and illuminated by the same clean light - to flex and wave. I thought about how this energy from the sun flows through our world and gives us everything, really, from the water cycle, to weather, to erosion and deposition, to life itself. I pondered how fossil fuel is also solar energy that has been stored away for eons. I started thinking about how the energy we release from this storehouse of power also flows through our world, bringing us many things as well, both good and bad. I told myself to stop thinking about that. Friends and family tell me I’ve become boring and depressing with all this talk of collapse and long emergencies. They’re right, of course. No one else wonders why NASCAR drivers race on in the name of Jesus Christ while the greatest transfer of wealth in history in the form of oil money flows from America to countries that hate us. Why should these things bother me?

Just as I was starting to consider how the sun is really a giant nuclear reactor and maybe nuclear energy was really a way to tap into the energy of the cosmos without the carbon middleman, a shadow flashed across the forest floor. Working upward and backward from shadow to sunshine, I found first one, and then a small flock of blue jays high in the oak trees. Never silent for long, these birds soon started squabbling over acorns. Chipmunks started up a rhythmic clucking, a red squirrel chattered in the distance, and gray squirrels did some squabbling of their own. This was becoming the morning of the acorn eaters.

Somewhere from the little flat at the base of the hill, I heard a steady clacking of large nuts hitting limbs as they fell to the ground, thudding on the forest floor. I could see gray squirrels working high in the branches and I wondered if they were smart enough to be cutting hickory nuts loose and picking them up from the ground later. Recent battles with these critters around the house taught me not to underestimate their capabilities. I started thinking think about what would happen if some clever squirrel invented sub-prime acorn mortgages that could be securitized, chopped up and sold so he wouldn’t have to deal with all this bothersome collecting and hoarding and leave all that to squirrel litters yet to be born, but I reminded myself to stop thinking that way.

It was time to get moving, anyway, so I packed my bag and took the trail around and down the back side of Hobbs Hill and started looking for that big hickory. I didn’t find it, but noticed a concentration of deer droppings and an area of disturbed forest floor under a white oak. Red and black oaks predominate on Moose Hill but we do have a smattering of white oaks. I imagine that deer and other mast eaters seek these out for the sweeter acorns they produce. I found one on the ground, peeled off the shell and ate it. It was nutty and entirely palatable. I recalled that natives collected white oak acorns, boiled them and ground them into flour. I thought about how hard life could be without the benefits of modern civilization and wondered why we couldn’t enjoy those benefits without the accompanying burdens until I reminded myself that there were more fun things to think about, like the up-coming fall TV schedule or the brand new NFL season. If someone would just invite me to an f-ing tailgate party, I too could be a care-free shit-faced Pats fan and stop thinking about all this depressing crap that’s making me crazy.

There may be real things to worry about in this troubled world of ours. Just this week after speech by our President reassuring us that his administration was busily preventing the collapse of our entire economy, a TV commentator felt moved to refer to the leader of the free world as a “high-functioning moron.” (You can find that on YouTube.) But who am I to worry that our next Vice President seems reasonably well suited to be the leader of a community college pep squad? Clearly, there’s nothing I can do or say that would change anything, so why not accept my true role as happy idiot. Simpletons, after all, never get ulcers.

No, perhaps next time I go to Moose Hill, I should eat some mushrooms. After all, Timothy Leary wrote that the peace and wisdom of the universe can be found among those who look at sunsets, those who walk in the woods, and people who sit by the fire. That’s all I really want to do anyway. Maybe I’ll stick with things like that.

Missing the Target

2008-09-11T21:12:00.006-04:00

Saturday, August 23, 2008

With a string of cool, dry, fall-like days recently, I overcame my lingering fear of deer ticks and gave in to my desire to get back to Moose Hill. I slept in a little in the wonderful sleeping weather so I didn’t leave home until nearly 9:00 AM. I made my usual PBJ and brewed a pot of Green Mountain coffee, a fresh souvenir from our recent trip to Vermont. I pulled the single speed out of the shed and headed to Moose Hill for the first time in many weeks.

Instead of my usual plunge down the hill toward the train station, I headed down South Main Street to South Walpole Street. I wanted to witness the destruction perpetrated in the name of our proposed so-called “lifestyle” mall. Maybe it’s me, but I just can’t quite grasp the idea that one can buy a lifestyle. Our town has given the green light to the developers to strip away scores of acres of forest in a desperate bid to buy a break from high residential property taxes. This town has little commercial tax base, so the ever-increasing burden of taxes for ever-decreasing services falls heavily on the homeowner. Like all good Americans, we can’t live within our means and we don’t mind throwing a little of our natural heritage into the furnace of greed in a futile attempt to make up the difference.

The future home of our mall butts up against South Walpole Street right across from some Audubon land and right near some brand new mini-mansions. Something tells me the owners of these houses feel differently about the destruction caused by the mall than they did about the carving of their own lots from the woods.

At this time, the construction site looked like a large clearcut with an orange plastic fence around the entire perimeter. Unlike a silvicultural clearcut, no forest trees will ever grow here again. Developers just love to hop on their machines and strip a site bare to create a self-fulfilling prophesy. Potential mall tenants will not sign up unless they can see progress on the future mall, and they can’t giddily visualize the flat-topped big-box stores and acres of hot black petroleum sludge asphalt parking lots with all those damn trees in the way. So, they denude a site as quickly as possible – stripping it absolutely bare - to attract tenants and to get it done as quickly as possible before the locals realize the magnitude of what they’ve done and raise a cry of protest.

I’m sure there are places - and I’m sure there will be many more – where the rape went ahead and no tenants signed on or they backed out, and a community was left with a vast, empty wasteland. I continue to believe this will happen here. The developers recently proudly announced the commitment by a major national big box retailer, but this same company already has a new store just a few miles to the south and will soon be opening another a few miles to the east. Not only is the local market already saturated, but the economy and the future of gasoline prices can’t bode well for retailing.

And for what? Do we really need more places to buy cheap, disposable plastic crap from China? How much are we willing to sacrifice in the name of more shopping? Will one teenager buying the latest sweat-shop fashions ever mourn the loss of yet another woodland? Did the heavy machinery operator say a prayer as he drove his behemoth over the spot where generations of oven birds made their nests? As they ripped the oaks and pines from the earth and pushed them into massive heaps, did anyone ponder how no trees would ever grow there again?

The loss of this forest is not the only thing that saddens me. Sure, as a homeowner, I’d like a break from taxes. Our governments take more and more of our wealth and squander it in so many wasteful and destructive ways. What depresses me is the unimaginative, formulaic ways that we develop places. When it’s built, this mall will look just like every other lifestyle mall that has popped up across America in the last few years. Another mall – lifestyle or otherwise – with its shoddy goods, tawdry entertainment and minimum-wage jobs will do little to enrich the quality of our lives. All we build anymore are places designed to suck the last bit of dwindling wealth from us by amusing us and distracting us and making us feel temporarily good by selling us more unneeded junk.

Imagine what could be done if the same amount of money and energy went into revitalizing an existing downtown area with modern mixed-use development with restaurants, affordable housing, small shops for local merchants and craftspeople, offices for professionals, markets for local produce, banks, post offices and local schools. Nearby could be small factories where people actually make things and have real jobs. Much of it could be powered by renewable energy. After all, New England was largely built with water power. All of it could be connected by a network of walkways and bike paths.

But no, we get more of the same. Cheap, soulless buildings surrounded by impermeable parking lots, gluttonous energy consumption and car-only access. I guess what it comes down to is that we don’t produce anything anymore, we only consume. I looked out over the vast emptiness and wondered if this was the only future we can hope for. Are we destined to live our lives according to the vision of guys that see the world over the blade of a bulldozer?

I was ready for breakfast and some scenery that hadn’t been sculpted with a Caterpillar D-9, so I walked my bike down an unfamiliar dirt trace that disappeared into the woods across the street from the devastation. This soon opened onto a power line right-of-way that I followed to a familiar back road that I knew would lead me toward Moose Hill. I followed it to Walpole Street and I took this to the trail that leads to Allens ledge where I pushed my bike into the woods, out of sight from the street.

I walked up the path to Allens Ledge. This is a nice rock outcrop surrounded by oak-pine forest. A little further up the trail is the bigger and more popular Bluff Head, but I didn’t want to gaze out at Gillette Stadium and the surrounding new Patriot Place mall. This is another prime example of the sort of consumption/entertainment complex that passes for progress in early 21^st-century America, and I just didn’t want to look at any more of that.

From Allens Ledge in August, I can gaze out at the oaks, pines and sky and see no roads, no malls, not even houses. With all the hard rock around me with little bits of moss and grass growing from the cracks I could almost imagine I was back on Camel’s Hump in Vermont or even the Sierra of California. A few small bonsai-like pines cling to the rocks and blue stem grasses grow in small patches of thin soil. There are a few red-cedar trees that are typical of these rocky ledges and a small patch of scrub oak. The rocks themselves are scored with striations in many directions and I can’t help but think some of them must have been left by the continental ice sheets that once covered these hills. The old stone chimney reminded me that people have been enjoying this spot for a very long time.

I sat on the stone, enjoying my sandwich, cantaloupe and coffee. I gazed at the infinite blue sky with a white half moon overhead. There was barely a puff of breeze in the warm, dry air. I was so alone I felt it would be okay to pull off my tee shirt to feel the sun on my skin. No birds sang and the few that flew over seemed to have distant locales on their minds. Big dragonflies patrolled lazily in the soft air above the rock.

The September-like air reminded me that yet another summer season will be drawing to a close and the remainder of my life will be one season shorter. I hoped for a better world in the years ahead but I felt as if we faced years of desolation and darkness before we find the peaceful valleys of our dreams.

Please Note: Don't forget to check out the Moose Hill Notebook for shorter, more frequent posts.

Hedge Fund

2008-08-14T21:00:00.007-04:00

As they say, nostalgia ain't what it used to be. Memories of things that once seemed important may fade while other seemingly trivial things can pop to the surface without warning. Sometimes, even something like a simple tree sighting can dust off old memories from the back of the mental bank vault.

Tagging along while my wife was at a conference in Burlington, Vermont this week, I was out on a solo bike ride, enjoying the Vermont countryside and searching for the University of Vermont's Jericho Research Forest. UVM was kind enough to let me live there for a few weeks back in 1976 while I was doing field work along the nearby Winooski River, but I haven't been back since. With the help of the web and a bike map I was able to locate the forest and the old house where I stayed. The house looked somewhat familiar, but I was amazed at how little I remembered about the area and the roads. I must have driven the approaching roads and up the dirt road to that house a few dozen times 32 years ago, and other than the house itself, nothing looked familiar. I reminded myself that a child born on the day I was last there could now be a fully-grown adult with kids of their own. I reflected on how pretty much all of my adult life has happened since those days.

But, wow, I was surprised about how little memory of the area I have. In fact, I have yet to see much of anything in the Burlington area that pops out as being familiar. I did locate the road I used to drive down to get to one of my research areas near St. Michaels College. I walked the bike down the steep gravel road toward the river. The mosquitoes were familiar enough, and reminded me how determined I was to get my work done to endure that misery, but I couldn't identify anything else from those days so long ago. That didn't surprise me as much as my Jericho visit, because 30+ years is a long time on a floodplain.

Anyway, I was nearing the end of my long, leisurely ride when my cell phone rang. It was my buddy from back home, so I walked the bike as we talked. I was on the sidewalk in an older modest Burlington neighborhood on the slopes above the old mill buildings situated on the river. I imagined mill workers lived there until the mills closed in the 1950's or so.

As I ducked under a small street tree in front of one of the houses, I came to a stop. I recognized it as a maple, and it looked a little like the ubiquitous Norway maple (Acer platanoides), but in miniature. The leaves were smaller than those of a Norway maple and three-lobed rather than five. The wings of the seed-bearing samaras stuck out at a 180-degree angle from each other. The bark was distinctive with plates that break up in a way that makes it look corky.

This was a hedge maple (Acer campestre) and there were a few along the same street. It is a small European tree that is common in British hedgerows - hence the name. In America it has been planted as an ornamental, but like the Norway maple, it can escape and seed itself. I've only encountered this species in a few places, but I'll never forget it. Now, I'm not generally a big fan of escaped non-native species, but forgive me if I make an exception for this one case.

When I was a kid on Long Island in New York, there was an entire stand of these trees in our side yard. The soil and climate there must have been especially favorable for this species. Hedge maple is a small tree, growing to only 30 or so feet tall, so the scale of the tree and the forest it can create is just the right size for children. Growing in the open, it tends to be a shrubby, multi-stemmed tree, but growing close together in a stand it can grow reasonably straight. The trees cast a dense shade and little else grows in the understory so, to a small person, the woods seem dark, cool and mossy.

When I was very young, this was “the woods.” I spent hours there exploring and playing. I pitched my old canvas pup tent there. My father built a fish pond on the edge of this miniature forest and there I watched with glee as toads trilled in the springtime. It's where childhood friend David taught me an early lesson about violence by brazenly splitting my scalp open with a rock. My father built a tree house for me there and it's where, inspired by a similar event at the New York World's Fair in about 1965, friend Ricky and I buried a time capsule made from a coffee can. It's where I learned an early lesson about how trees grow. When very young, I stapled little pulleys to two trees and ran a string between them creating a miniature cable car, or something. Years later, I found the staples with the trees growing around them, still only a couple of feet off the ground where I had hammered them, teaching me that trees grew from the tips rather than the roots.

These trees were an every-day part of my life, but I didn't know what they were. I collected the leaves as part of my seventh grade biology project. My mother called them “swamp maples.” I couldn't find the species in any of the tree books I had, so that's what I called it. My teacher told me that was wrong, but didn't tell me what it was. It wasn't until the late 1970's as a graduate student visiting an arboretum in Connecticut that I was thrilled to see the tree and learn its identity as hedge maple. Other than a few visits back home over the past few decades, I'm not sure I've seen this tree anywhere else. It's a pretty nondescript little tree and easy to miss.

I’d like to go back to Cocks Lane in Locust Valley one more time to see my little trees, but I fear what I might find. The last time I drove by there, in about 2002, I was saddened to see how much the neighborhood had changed. A couple of small houses – including the fist house I had lived in, one my father had built in 1950 - had been bulldozed to cram in six mini-mansions. My trees were still there next to another house my father built behind the first and where I lived until I was about 13. I stopped to say hello. They were looking a little cramped and put-upon, but they were still there. I'd like to go back again one more time now that these deeper memories have been reawakened, but maybe some things are better kept as memories.

Please Note: Another post about my trip to Vermont can be found on the Moose Hill Notebook.

Dear Readers

2008-07-01T11:54:00.006-04:00

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

- from “For the Children” by Gary Snyder

My mind is in a fog lately. Since I started reading books and web posts by James Howard Kunstler during the past few months, everywhere I look I see signs of impending doom. My senses are alert. I listen to the news on the radio. I read the Globe. I look around. Every tidbit about the war, the election, the global food crisis, the energy crisis and the credit crisis falls perfectly into the pattern of collapse that Kunstler predicts. I’ve pretty much always felt it would come to this, but the crisis took longer to get here than I imagined. I couldn’t articulate my concerns in an organized way, but Kunstler gives these issues a structure that shows the interconnectedness of our follies in a way that helps make things clear, and the vision is not a pretty one. Even though they were written a few years ago, his books, particularly The Geography of Nowhere and The Long Emergency, shed a bright light on the errors of our ways.

Just imagine a family of four, five or six in a big new cul-de-sac out in the country. They took out a second mortgage to pay for the two SUV’s in the driveway and the power boat, ATV and jet skis in the three-car garage and the hot tub out back. That wasn’t a problem because the value of the house went up year after year. Mom drives the kids to school, dance class, Gymboree, baseball and soccer and then ferries them to the mall. Dad works in town for a big financial company and drives 50 miles each way because they could get so much more square footage a couple of towns further out.

Of course, no one is going anywhere if the parents can’t drag themselves out of the master bathroom. You see, it’s like a mini-spa in there with heat lamps, whirlpool bath and one of those showers with eight shower heads. The house is so elegant. There are bedrooms and bathrooms for everybody and a special room for every use. It has a grand entrance that is open to vaulted ceilings two stories up.

The kitchen is state-of-the-art with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. There is a machine for every chore, but luckily there aren’t many chores to do because such a busy family eats out often or does take-out. When they do cook, it’s really easy because everything is pre-packaged, pre-cooked and heats up in the microwave. Cleanup is a snap because all the packaging simply goes in the trash compactor.

The house is always so comfortable with air conditioning in the summer and oil heat in the winter. They never have to bother with opening and closing windows; the thermostat takes care of everything automatically. The kids are too busy to mow the lawn, being so busy with their cell phones, iPods, and all, but Dad doesn’t have to worry either because the lawn guys come every week and keep the sweeping lawnscape perfect and green with their fleet of stand-up mowers and roaring hive of leaf blowers. The sprinklers are on a timer and come on automatically every morning and the latest chemicals prevent those embarrassing weeds.

Now, imagine gasoline at four, five, six dollars a gallon. It costs a hundred bucks just to fill up the Durango. Imagine the monthly payments on those two (or three) adjustable-rate mortgages after interest rates jump up a couple of points. Not only are the payments higher, but as society realizes the unsustainability of this lifestyle and more and more similar houses come on the market, the value of the property will drop and the family will be upside-down on the loans. That is, they will owe more than the house is worth and even if they are able sell, they will still be deep in debt.

Dad’s job at the finance company is looking less secure as the mortgage securities that made them so much money just a few years ago become worthless as more and more people default on loans. The oil truck pulls up to fill the tank with winter on the way, and that first bill of many comes to $1250.

But still, little Sis will simply have a total meltdown if Mom doesn’t score those Hannah Montana tickets, and Dad has plans to drive up to New Hampshire for the big NASCAR race. McCain wants to drill in Alaska. Obama wants to use more crop land to produce corn ethanol. Thanks to the Jimmy Carter implosion of the 1970’s, you can be absolutely certain that not one major candidate will ever don a sweater and sit in front of a wood stove and tell America that they need to wake up and start living like very hard times are just around the corner.

These are the kind of things I find myself thinking about lately. I’m constantly looking at my own life and the lives of those around me and I wonder how things will be in just a few years. I worry about our kids who are just now launching into their own lives. At least they haven’t screwed those lives up yet and I tell them to build lives where they don’t depend on cars and stay out of debt.

I’m not getting into the woods much these days. We are in peak deer tick season and I have zero interest in getting Lyme disease again. I’m doing more cycling this summer, so my weekend mornings are pretty busy anyway. But I think the main reason I’m not coming up with any posts for the Moose Hill Journal is that I’m so preoccupied with the events unfolding around me that my thoughts just aren’t going in that direction.

I feel that we are on the verge of a major turning point for America but the scale and scope of the forces bearing down on us are way more than a simple man like me can ever comprehend. I want to observe the changes and write about them, but it’s all beyond me. I do know that driving Priuses, screwing in compact fluorescent light bulbs, shopping at Whole Foods and putting recycling bins on the curb will not save us. That said, I don’t want to get all preachy and stuff. Glass houses and all that.

So, dear readers, I’m still here and still thinking about things to write about. I just haven’t figured out how I want to do that yet. Until I do, please check back here once in a while and check my Moose Hill Notebook where I post shorter, more scattered thoughts and observations. I would love to read your comments about where you see our world headed and how we can stay ahead of the crushing wheels of history. Until then, I leave you with the closing lines of the poem “For the Children” by Gary Snyder. This wonderfully prescient poem was passed along to me by Robin Andrea of the Dharma Bums and I find myself clinging to these words as a life ring of hope:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

Dispatches from the Dark Side

2008-05-05T22:10:00.008-04:00

WARNING TO READERS: This post is not about a happy nature walk in the woods. Persistent reading may cause eyes to glaze over and promote cravings for the latest Nancy Grace show on “Where the White Woman At?”.

Scottsdale, Arizona

April 24, 2008

We live in a time and place full of contrasts, variety, freedom, mobility, opportunity and distractions. There are times when my life is going in so many directions at once, it’s a chore just trying to grasp how – and even if - it all fits together and makes sense. One week I can be riding my bicycle to Moose Hill to wait for woodcocks on a chilly evening, and the next I can be sitting by the spa pool at a five-star resort. But I can’t relax because all the rich people around me can’t just turn off their cell phones and enjoy the moment. Last night, back at home, I was at a live concert and a young boy sitting in front of me was listening to his iPod. In Iraq, people are killing and dying in our name, but our news sources tell us of the outrage over a 15-year-old pop singer posing for a photograph with bare shoulders, and a prominent news figure spills her guts about an illicit relationship with a U.S. senator just to pump up book sales. We are so busy rushing ahead, we never pause to think about where we are headed. As they say, we don’t know where we’re going, but we’re making great time. I find myself wishing a magical sprite would whisper the Truth in our ears.

Scottsdale, Arizona is a place where they’ve been making very good time, indeed, but every time I go there, I see lemmings rushing forward, not seeing the cliff just over the next hill. It is a world of highways and big box stores. It is populated with Escalades, Expeditions and Yukon XLs. Even in the warm, sunny, dry weather of April, there were very few people on foot or bicycle. There are fancy new sidewalks and bike lanes, but they go mostly unused. The bright sun shines every day, but there are no solar panels in sight. The bewilderment I felt when there last year (See “Wandering in the Desert,” April 13, 2007.) was only reinforced this time.

In the past, when going on vacation, I would take a stack of books and magazines, fantasizing about endless hours of quiet reading. With age comes at least a little wisdom and I now know that our trips are much too busy for that. Now, I try to bring one good book and immerse myself in it for the whole trip. Last year, it was Bill McKibben’s Deep Economy about how we need to start decentralizing everything and start building lives close to home based on the inter-connected web of community.

This year, I learned more about exactly why that is by reading James Howard Kunstler’s The Long Emergency. (Yes, that guy again.) His basic argument is that the oil is already running out and, at the rate we’re going, it will soon be gone. In the past century, everything we have built was - and everything we do is- based on the assumption that fossil fuel will be cheap and plentiful forever. There is no magical technology on the horizon that will save our sorry butts when the taps go dry. I have the bad misfortune of believing everything he says. Life would be so much more fun if I didn’t find myself constantly looking around me and imagining what life will be like with no electricity, no natural gas, no gasoline, no diesel fuel, no heating oil. Where will plastic come from without petroleum? Food prices are on the rise now, but what will a loaf of bread be worth when we’re trying to grow wheat on the golf courses, by hand, without farm machinery, chemical fertilizers, pesticides and fossil water pumped from deep underground? God, I’m depressed. I wonder what’s happening on Wisteria Lane?

I saw signs of the impending Long Emergency everywhere I looked that week in Arizona. One day on the front page of the New York Times there was one article about how one of Saudi Arabia’s last big oil fields is turning out to be more difficult to pump than expected. There was another story about a guy in Boulder, Colorado who is making a business of tearing up lawns to put in mini-farms (The neighbors are not happy.) because of the increasing cost of maintaining those lawns and remorselessly rising food prices. Another article describes how some warehouse club stores like BJ’s, Costco and Sam’s Club are rationing rice because people are hoarding it. Imagine that! Hoarding and rationing food in the USA. John McCain, and then the desperate Hillary Clinton, were crowing about a summer driving season (read voting season) gas tax holiday, further proving to me how gutless our leaders are on this issue.

It’s called cognitive dissonance, and I was exhibiting all the symptoms.There I was, jetting back and forth across the continent at something like 500 miles per hour, eating gluttonous quantities of imported gourmet food, swimming in heated pools, and enjoying a green manicured and watered landscape in the middle of a desert. We flipped on the air conditioning with barely a second thought and enjoyed the fountains and man-made waterfalls spraying water into the arid air. In the 10 days of our visit, our group went through literally thousands of bottles of spring water, all of it trucked in from elsewhere and none of the plastic bottles recycled. On one side of my brain I could clearly see how we are all headed to Hell in a hand basket, while on the other side I was having a wonderful time. It was great to be together with family and to have every creature comfort instantly available.

I was a guest on this fabulous vacation, so I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I felt as though I was on an anthropological expedition to a world where money and privilege isolate some people from the realities of diminishing resources while poor souls elsewhere struggle to survive. I looked around at the hundreds of other vacationers and wondered if any of them even considered the eventual consequences of such decadence and waste. I also reminded myself that my own lifestyle back home – which I like to consider modest - is unbelievably extravagant in the big picture of things. I thanked my lucky stars to be an American and to have lived most of my life in the golden age of oil.

I clearly recall driving around in the mid-1970's, not long after the 1973 Oil Crisis, and thinking I'd better enjoy my driving now because we won't be doing it much longer. I remember my organic chemistry professor explaining, in 1973, that losing gasoline was only a part of the problem and that many vital organic compounds are derived from petroleum. It has always been evident to me that fossil fuel supplies were finite and that we should use what we have wisely and conservatively. I never understood why we wouldn't want to save some for our grandchildren.

Now, I know where we live in New England, we also drive everywhere and we have to heat our homes in the wintertime, but there’s something about the Phoenix area that makes the modern American lifestyle seem so much more foolish. Maybe it’s because New England was settled by Europeans long before fossil fuel powered everything and it’s possible - on some level – to imagine life without it. At least we have our own water and it’s easier to warm a home without petroleum than it is to cool one. We have lakes, rivers, oceans and the remnants of rail lines to travel on as the oil disappears. We can actually grow food here. The desert has lots of solar power, but there will never be enough of that to power all those cars and air conditioners. Without fossil fuel to power the pumps, the canals that carry their water will dry up. Scottsdale, as it is today, didn’t exist 40 years ago. In 40 years from now, it will be gone.

Any drive or jog around Scottsdale will take the traveler past many gated communities. Along with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and three-car garages a gate and – better yet – a guard house at the entrance to the development is evidence of fine upscale living in 21st Century America. I would love to get some candid opinions about what these people think they’re fencing out. I suspect it’s Mexicans or, perhaps, judgmental tourists. But no matter how fancy the gates, or how high the walls, these people will not be protected from the disruption and upheaval that awaits us all during the Long Emergency.

Doodling in the Gloam

2008-04-10T22:20:00.006-04:00

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

From pearls before breakfast to peents before dinner.

It felt like the scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind where the local yokels are waiting along a mountaintop roadside for the flying saucers to arrive. I had stationed myself below a clump of young white ash trees in the old field near the Billings barn. I had arrived by bicycle after taking the long, hilly way around on an after-work ride. I was relaxing with some cheese and crackers and a vacuum bottle of Earl Grey tea, waiting for the show to begin.

I had just heard the story of how Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post had arranged for Joshua Bell – perhaps America’s finest concert violinist – to play incognito in a busy Washington, D.C. subway station during morning rush hour to see how many people would stop to listen. Wearing a baseball cap and casual clothes with the case for his multi-million dollar Stradivarius open at his feet for tips, Bell played a series of difficult and dramatic classical pieces for nearly 45 minutes. In that time, hundreds of people passed by, most not even glancing in his direction. Here was a musician who regularly plays at packed concert halls for adoring fans who pay hundreds for tickets and no more than a handful of harried commuters paused for even a minute to listen. Only one person recognized him and he collected a mere $32.17 in tips.

Now, I’m no classical music fan - about the closest I get is when I enjoy Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring - but when I read the Post article online and watched the hidden-camera videos, I felt my eyes welling up. What has America become? What are we doing to ourselves? Do we appreciate greatness only when we have to pay for it or when some anointed expert points it out for us? Has our popular culture dumbed us down so much that we are unfamiliar with true genius? Is our work so important that we can’t take a minute from our hectic schedule to bask in beauty? Are we so burdened by debt and taxes that we can’t afford to pause for a moment? Do our profit-hungry employers push us so hard that we dare not take a breath?

On this cool, early-April Moose Hill evening, I was pausing. There was no wind, but I could feel the cool air draining off the hill so I pulled on my fleece hat and draped my blanket over my shoulders. The peepers were singing loudly in the maple swamp and I strained to hear the calls of other frog species amid the din. I thought I heard a few different calls, but didn’t know any of them well enough to give them names. A robin chuckled in the swamp and a dove cooed gently down at the other end of the field. A cardinal stopped by to give a few chips before heading off to his roost. I was waiting for my vernal virtuoso.

Sunset was at about 7:20 and by 7:30 I could see my own tea-warmed breath in the air. It was getting late and I was starting to worry about biking home in the dark. I wondered if it might be too cold, but the peepers reassured me. At 7:35 I heard the first call from the shelter of a big mass of forsythia up the hill behind me. My maestro was warming up. The calling was followed in a few minutes by a twittering sound as the bird flew behind me and circled the perimeter of the field, spiraling upward. I watched his dark silhouette against the lighter sky until he rose out of sight as if in slow motion. A period of silence was followed by what I can only describe as a random chirping similar to the sound that comes from one of those little wooden Audubon bird calls that is held between the thumb and forefinger while twisting the metal thumbscrew with the other hand. A couple of minutes later, the ground calls – known as peents – began again and the entire performance was repeated.

The woodcock is a funny little bird. With his long beak that is used to probe the mud for earthworms, he looks like a shore bird that took an evolutionary wrong turn to wind up in the uplands. The timberdoodle has a long history as a game bird and as a target for pot hunters. This heritage may contribute to the fascination many have for this rich brown bird with big eyes and bigger feet that make me think of E.T. His ground call is a funny little squeak that Julie Zickefoose might say sounds like an accident, but his song as he falls from the sky is almost other-worldly.

The show was just starting but I had to go and I heard more peents behind me as I pushed my bike down the old gravel road. The upturned crescent of the moon did little to light the way. When I got to the pavement I turned on my blinking red taillight and plunged down the hill into the deepening darkness. A lone car passed and I chased it down the steepest part of the hill at about 30 miles an hour letting his headlights light the way. As the road flattened out, I could no longer keep up, so I pedaled happily from one pool of streetlamp light to the next.

Who Knew?

2008-04-02T22:36:00.002-04:00

Moose Hill Journal is two years old!

I just read the first post on the Moose Hill Journal written two years ago and I am quite surprised that this effort has turned out much the way I had imagined it on that early spring day in 2006. I still can’t explain exactly why I felt a need to walk and sit in the open to explore nature and explore my thoughts. Most likely, it was just my version of a mid-life crisis; another case of Boomer navel-gazing. I had recently passed 50 and my wife and I were rather new empty-nesters. I felt an urge to reflect on my life – what it was supposed to be, what it had become, and where it might be headed. I wanted to reconnect with the outdoors. Life in the woods had been such a vital part of my identity as a youth and I had let that part of my life slip away. I wanted that part of me back.

I can thank Julie Zickefoose (See sidebar.) for a big part of the inspiration. I heard her NPR commentary on blogging just a few days before I had that first breakfast on the hill. I found her blog and a whole new world was opened to me. Not only was I moved by her stories, photos and art, but by following her links I discovered a web of connections among dozens of thoughtful and talented souls. When I was thinking about how I should record my Moose Hill observations, a blog seemed like the perfect medium.

I am surprised that I’ve kept at it this long. I suspect that one day I’ll just stop. Perhaps I’ll simply exhaust the supply of things I feel like talking about. Maybe all the walks will start feeling the same and offer no new surprises. Or, maybe I’ll wake up one day and ask: What’s the point? For now, a new season is arriving and I want to be there to watch.

I’m also surprised at how quickly and thoroughly this blogging experience has become an important part of my life. I spend a lot of time thinking about my time in the woods and about things I might want to write about. I’m constantly scanning my thoughts and experiences for post topics. I think of it as exercise for an ageing brain. My wife likes to do sudoku puzzles. I ponder essay topics. I’m always thinking about my next trip to the Hill; where I might go and what I might see. In a way, for me, Moose Hill has become more than a geographic location. It has become something of a state of mind. Maybe if I keep this up for a few more years, I’ll be able to explain what that means.

Finally, I want to thank my readers. These days, I get about ten hits a day and most of those are click-throughs of people searching for something like information on “cheap tequila.” A typical post might attract five comments. About ten is the most I can hope for. I benefit from low expectations so I have learned not to dwell on or obsess about these things, but I value readers and their input. To the handful of readers who read and comment regularly: Thank you. Knowing that you read my posts helps keep me going. I try to return the favor and I truly enjoy the windows into your world that you open with blogs of your own. To those who may read but don’t comment: Don’t be shy! I want to know who you are, where you are, and what’s on your mind.

Well, the sap has been rising, the peepers are peeping and the timberdoodles are peenting. It’s time to go for a walk. Won’t you come along?

Just Over the Horizon

2008-03-15T13:44:00.002-04:00

Sunday, March 9, 2008

The bluebirds must have been feeling pretty cocky. The pair sat atop nesting boxes in the middle of the big hayfield near the top of Moose Hill Street. They had their pick of over a dozen boxes and were hawking down into the stubble to pick up morsels I could not see. As I pushed my bicycle along the edge of the field heading for home, I imagined that they were dreaming of a happy and productive season as they perched in the bright spring sunshine. They selected just the right home, and thought of the limitless supply of insects that would soon be hopping around in the fresh grass. The small flock of robins that probed for earthworms in the soft soil along the edges of rainwater puddles presented no threat. They paid no attention to the loving pair of doves flying overhead. Could it be that they didn’t know what was approaching just over the horizon? At that very moment, millions of tree swallows were winging their way north like squadrons of dive-bombers, and soon dozens would descend on this field to swoop and squabble over nesting sites. Bluebird heaven would be transformed into a world of constant vigilance and stress.

I ride my bicycle because I can, not because I have to. Of course there were times when simply jumping in the car to run an errand was not an option. Simply traveling to work or to secure the things needed to survive was a chore, if not an ordeal. But in this age of wealth and luxury, biking and walking are things some of us do because we think them fun or good for us. Most adults who ride bicycles today, do so solely for recreation, exercise or sport. I suspect most of us, upon seeing a grownup riding a bike simply to get from point A to point B, wonder what’s wrong with them. Homeless? DUI? Broke? Unstable? I sometimes wonder if people seeing me returning from Moose Hill with my tattered clothing and backpack hanging from my shoulders as I struggle up Depot Street to the center of town might think perhaps I have a few loose screws, too. Surely, no middle-class, middle-aged American would ride a bicycle because they have no other choice. Well, the day may be coming when bicycling looks like the best choice of all.

One of my regular business chores involves a five-mile round-trip commute. Most days, I’m carrying tools, bundles or supplies, so I drive. I’m trying to arrange things so once or twice a week I can make the trip on foot or by bicycle. Sunday was one of those days.

I rode the touring bike to do my work and then took the long, scenic route home. This involved mostly climbing through the cool, very windy air to get to, and then over, Moose Hill. This was no race; I was just enjoying the feeling of the wind and sun on my face and the pulsing of blood through my body. I passed the Audubon visitor’s center where groups of young families were gathering to go see the maple sugaring demonstration. I coasted down the south side of Moose Hill and pedaled over to our local farm stand where I bought a muffin and had my vacuum bottle filled with fresh coffee. I packed these in my bag and headed back to the woods. I had a few things on my mind and wanted to sit and think for a few minutes.

I found the abandoned and barely noticeable old trail that leads to The Mikveh. This is the old stone-lined springhole I stumbled on early last winter when I was thinking about my recently-deceased high school buddy, Martin. (See “Living Waters,” December 17, 2006.) I guess returning to this spot was my way of acknowledging the 20-year anniversary of the tragic passing of another high school friend, Marcie. No new insights rose out of the crystal depths of that pool; only that even the most gifted, kind, talented and beautiful of us can stumble upon unimaginable misfortune. For the rest of us, life goes on and we should try to be better people in the time we have left.

Just beyond The Mikveh a bedrock outcrop rises above the surrounding forest and this is enhanced by a couple of granite boulders stacked on top in a way that makes me think of an alter. In the event I need to offer up any sacrifices, I’ll know just where to go. On this day, the only thing I was offering up was coffee and a muffin. I put on my fleece hat and jacket and put my little foam pad on the outcrop so I could sit in the warming sun and lean against the alter to get a little protection from the wind.

I shuffled through my thoughts and tried to pick one to focus on. My thinking sometimes gets stuck on a theme and recently that theme has been the grim prospects for our future as prophesized by James Howard Kunstler (See sidebar), with thanks to Eleutheros at “How Many Miles from Babylon” (Sidebar) for pointing me in that direction. I was even lucky enough to score Kunstler’s new novel, World Made By Hand, at the library and read it in a few short days. Kunstler has been preaching for years that, in a nutshell, the age of cheap oil and cheap credit that has made the unsustainable expansion of the suburban way of life possible is just about over. Recent events on the nightly news make it hard to dismiss his claims. He marvels at our collective ability to suspend belief about the impending collapse of business as usual and at our willingness to think that technology and casinos will save us.

The prospect of life without fossil fuels can lead to endless daydreams. Will we plan a wise and orderly transition to conservation and renewable sources of energy, or will we descend into chaos as we squabble over the last few drops of petroleum. In the future, after the oil fields have gone dry, perhaps every one of us will have fantasies about what we could have done with the gasoline burned at just one NASCAR race. Just the night before, I was listening to a friend describe his one- to two-hour (each way!) daily automobile commute to a new job. Maybe he is among those who think we will soon discover more oil and more hours in a lifetime buried under distant blood-soaked desert sands.

It was time to go, so I packed up and headed for the trail. I paused one more time at the springhole just in case there was new wisdom to be found there, but I saw only the same old bewildered face staring back at me from the smooth surface. I was worried about the troubles that may lie just over the horizon but I was also optimistic about the approach of Spring so I pedaled back up Moose Hill to see what was new in the big meadow.

Un-American Activities

2008-03-04T22:49:00.004-05:00

Sunday March 2, 2008

I had to stop by a house I’m watching for an out-of-town neighbor this morning and it was on the way to some town-owned conservation land, so I abandoned my plans to go to Moose Hill and opted for a different route today. I packed my bag and when I left home it was cold and windy, but crystal clear and sunny. Friday night’s snow became Saturday’s rain and slush that set the stage for Sunday’s crunchy snow and ice. Walking through the neighborhood, I heard the cardinals staking out their territories and the singing of one of the song sparrows that have been back for a week or so. Woodpeckers were tapping out their staccato love messages. The 27-degree temperature could not completely hide the fact that we had entered March and spring was rapping gently on the door.

I walked down Brook Road and found the Town right-of-way that passes between two typical suburban houses. A public pathway passing through private back yards is unusual around here, to say the least. I always get a happy feeling when I take this path, similar to the way I feel when walking up and down the Berkeley Hills Paths. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but it has something to do with the legal recognition that people traveling on foot have rights, too; something we tend to forget in this age of the automobile.

I took the trail – blazed with the blue marks of a side trail – into the woods and down to Massapoag Brook where I crossed the rain-swollen stream on a make-shift bridge of boards nailed to a couple of downed trees. A few more minutes of crunching through the snow brought me to Devil’s Rock. This is a huge granite glacial erratic that is 20 or so feet tall at its triangular peak. Its shape reminds me of a tiny Yosemite Half Dome. Nearby is another big stone, possibly the sheared-off half of Devil’s Rock, that has split yet again to form a cozy – if narrow - shelter. Like just about any big rock around here, this one has a stone-ringed fire pit. These fireplaces are used mostly by beer-drinking teenagers these days, but I have little trouble imagining that these big boulders were something of a Stonehenge to natives long ago.

I found a sunny snow-free spot against a white pine where I could gaze at the Rock while I had breakfast. The woods were quiet. The singing birds up among the houses were absent here. I looked down at my shirt cuffs and my mind drifted back to the day before when I sat quietly in the house with needle and thread sewing buttons on some old shirts. I hate to throw things away if I think I might be able to fix them and use them some day. Besides, one of the shirts was from L.L. Bean in the days when they actually sold things made in the U.S.A. But, of course, I never get around to fixing anything and stuff just piles up and clutters the house. I’m still on my New Year’s de-cluttering kick, however, and I’ve been wanting to fix these so I could clean up another corner of the house. I’m also growing increasingly disgusted with our inclination to just toss stuff and buy more cheap imports.

Now, any good American would toss a shirt with a missing button in the trash and drive down to Mega Mart to buy a new one from China. Obviously, in today’s economy, the time I spent fixing four shirts was easily worth more than the cost of a couple of new cheap ones, so my efforts were clearly silly. That was time I could have spent watching commercials on TV or driving to the mall rather than sitting in quietude stitching together clothing and memories.

I remember my mother had an old tin candy box full of hundreds of buttons of all kinds. As a little kid, I loved to dig through the wild assortment and pick out the most unusual ones. Later, in high school, I would repair the worn-out stitching on the fly of my blue jeans with big loops of white thread. As an idealistic and enthusiastic college freshman I proudly sewed my forestry school patch on my green and black checkered wool jac-shirt. I thought it was good for an independent man to have skills – even if rudimentary – like that.

I was getting cold just sitting there, so I packed up my stuff and headed for home. I retraced my steps on the blue side trail to join the main orange-blazed Massapoag Trail. As I understand it, this trail was created by the Sharon Friends of Conservation in about 1966 to traverse a green belt that runs through the center of town, but it was soon neglected. About a dozen years ago I tried to carefully locate the entire length of the original trail and refresh the orange blazes. Here I was, over a decade later, following my own paint. The paint was visible enough, but the trail was in tough shape. We had a tornado-like microburst a few summers ago and a nasty ice storm a few weeks ago so many large trees and branches are blocking the trail and making a general mess of the woods.

Maybe it was the torn-up nature of the forest, or maybe the Devil still lurks among the rocks and was following me out of the woods. He began to insinuate himself into my thoughts and my mood changed. They say the Devil is in the details, and that may be true, but at that moment I was thinking that the Devil is really in the big choices we make. I looked at the devastation around me and knew there were no Town resources to clean up this public land. The scale of the damage is much greater than any Cub Scout troop could ever make a dent in. I understand that the woods and wildlife don’t care and may even benefit from the disturbance, but to this human eye, the place is a mess and not much fun to visit. The forester in me hates to see all that timber going to waste.

My mood continued to darken. How many shirts could I buy with my share of the Iraq War? How many buttons could I sew in the time it takes me to earn enough to pay my share of the obscenely wasteful Massachusetts highway projects? How many compact fluorescent bulbs would I have to put in my house to save as much energy as it takes to light Gillette Stadium for one second? Why should I bother to save my cans and bottles and carefully bag my newspapers when my neighbor just chucks it all in plastic a trash bag? I was beginning to understand what our Vice President meant when he said conservation is nothing more than a personal virtue. It seemed that any effort I might make to lighten my impact on the world was pointless tokenism.

As I neared Billings Street, I left the woods to head home on the pavement and sidewalk to avoid the downed trees and mud. Near Mann’s Pond a flock of two dozen robins flew in waves into a tree bearing a bittersweet vine where they snacked on the red-orange fruits. I wondered if they were hungry after a long north-bound flight. I was happy to see these harbingers of spring and had the audacity to hope that a fresh new season would soon be upon us.

I can’t help it if I worry about things like squandered resources and pointless consumerism. That’s just the way I am and I’ve always been that way. Maybe it was the influence of my mother who suffered through poverty as a child. Maybe evening walks along county lanes with my father when I was very young taught me a love of nature. Perhaps I just understand that if we use things up now, they won’t be there for our grandchildren. Maybe I’m just easily amused and don’t need a constant stream of new stuff to make me feel good.

On the other hand, I know I’m no monk. I live in a single family home that uses natural gas and electricity from the grid. And, as I am growing all too aware, that house is full of stuff. I drive fossil fuel vehicles. My footprint is much larger than that of the average global citizen. I try not to be ignorant of my impact on the world and I try to be realistic about the positive effect my modest conservation efforts can have. It may be simplistic, but I think there is a deep wisdom in the belief that less is more and I want to live a life that seeks that wisdom.

My mood was lifting already. Who can stay depressed when cardinals are calling, woodpeckers are drumming and robins will soon be hopping across the lawn, pausing to cock their heads sideways and peer from one eye at fat worms below?

Blanket Statement

2008-02-11T19:55:00.000-05:00

Sunday, February 10, 2008

We have a saying in New England: “If you don’t like the weather here, wait a minute, it will change.” Nasty weather was forecast for Sunday, but after doing a few chores and running a few errands in the morning, it was unexpectedly warm, sunny and calm. I knew a change was on the way but I thought I had time to sneak up to Moose Hill for lunch.

By the time I got home, brewed a pot of coffee and cooked some oatmeal, the clouds had already moved in. I wanted to make this a quick trip, so I took the touring bike and pedaled the mile and a half to the beginning of the Vernal Pool Trail. This bike has fenders that were appreciated as I rode through the slush that was left over from overnight snow showers. By the time I pushed the bike up the trail a ways and traded my bike helmet for a fleece hat, it was drizzling.

I walked up the trail and in no more than a half hour after leaving home I was at The Boulders. This is a high bedrock outcrop just off the trail that I’d visited several times before. I usually sit on one of the high points on the rocks, but on this day they were slush-covered, so I went downhill a bit to find a place under the pines that was sheltered from the slush and drizzle. I sat down on an insulating piece of packing-material foam I carry to keep my rear warm and dry (Note to Self: Get a bigger piece of foam!) and draped my new fleece blanket over my shoulders.

I’d been thinking about carrying a blanket for a while. Sitting quietly in the woods in winter can get uncomfortable and I liked the idea of carrying a portable instant shelter. I might have preferred a natural wool made-in-America blanket, but I have a feeling such things are rare and expensive these days. The fleece blanket had the advantage of being warm, light and free. (It was a new-member premium from the Trustees of Reservations who manage Moose Hill Farm. Thanks TTOR!) I felt like I was rediscovering a bit of old-fashioned woods wisdom. A simple blanket could be used as a wrap, or - draped over sticks or tree branches - it could make a quick shelter. On a nice day, I could imagine wrapping myself up in it and taking a sylvan snooze. I’m sure wilderness travelers of yore never ventured forth without a blanket, but who carries one today?

After I settled in, I poured a cup of coffee and opened up the oatmeal. It was still warm from the kitchen and the raisins were perfectly plump, soft and sweet. In the past couple of years, I’ve had breakfast in the woods quite a few times, but this may have been my first lunch. I sat thinking about other meals I might bring to the woods and watched the clouds change form as the promised cold front advanced and the wind began to intensify.

I figured I should get moving so I packed my bag, wrapped the blanket around my shoulders to protect both my backpack and me from the cool air and light rain, and headed back down the trail. Along the way I stopped to examine a clump of American chestnut (Castanea dentata) sprouts. Most of the sprouts were dead and from the lone live branch hung limp, bleached, toothy leaves. I’d been reading American Chestnut: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of a Perfect Tree by Susan Freinkel. I thought how a century ago this tree was one of the most magnificent gifts offered by our eastern forests. It grew as much as a hundred feet tall and provided versatile rot-resistant lumber. In the fall, natural orchards dropped a bounty of delicious nuts, like manna from heaven, that fed all manner of wildlife, people and livestock. For many early Appalachian settlers, nuts harvested from the forest floor were their most reliable cash crop. The chestnut blight swept down the East Coast in the early part of the 20^th century, killing virtually every tree. The tree longs to live and keeps sending up sprouts from stumps and roots, but the blight keeps slapping them back down. Even this sad little clump of sprouts bore orange fungal fruiting bodies.

I took the sprouts as a reminder to appreciate the good things we have before they are gone. I hugged my little green blanket a little tighter, as if it were a prayer shawl, and promised myself I would count my blessings. I reminded myself to recognize and nurture the good things in life. As I rolled down the hill on my bicycle, the wind was picking up and the temperature began to drop. When I got home, I brought an armload of firewood in from the shed and got a big pot of soup going on the stove. Good food and a warm house are things we might not think about much these days, but on that winter afternoon, I felt lucky to have both.

The Perfect Spot

2008-02-08T07:25:00.000-05:00

Sunday, February 3, 2008

It’s not as easy to find a good spot to sit in the woods as one might think. A good place would be sunny in cool weather and shady when it’s hot. Sometimes I like wide open spaces with sweeping views of sky and fields. At other times, I prefer to keep my view – and thoughts – close, so I look for a spot where the forest is thick. I usually look for a large rock to sit on. It should be large enough to have a place to set down my binoculars and coffee cup and I usually look for one that is elevated above the surrounding forest so I can hope to see passing wildlife. Oh, and no ATVs.

Sunday morning it was sunny and warm for early February, so I took the touring bike and rode up Moose Hill Parkway and down Moose Hill Street toward Walpole Street. My plan was to walk into the woods and find the back side of the hill I was looking for a few weeks ago. (See “Finding the Way”, January 16, 2008) Just before the big hayfield near Walpole Street, I walked the bike into the woods far enough that it couldn’t be seen from the street. I took a quick look at the topographic map and saw that if I walked around a large kettle hole I had seen once before I might be able to find an old trail the map said should be there. Looking for an old trail was tricky because the oak leaves were all matted down by the recently-melted snow and the over-abundant deer have made trails everywhere. I’ve been told the sanctuary people intentionally abandoned some trails to discourage unauthorized uses that they couldn’t control, and I was thinking this might be one of those trails. This part of the sanctuary is far from the visitor center and close to a neighborhood, so youngsters might be inclined to party here.

I didn’t take any compass bearings, so my casual wanderings took me near that neighborhood and I saw plenty of beer cans and old mattresses that seemed to indicate the sanctuary people were right. The map confirmed that I had missed both trail and hill, so I adjusted course and headed deeper into the woods.

As I came over a rise I heard a motorized vehicle. It’s seemed out of place because I thought I had moved away from the neighborhood. I soon recognized the sound as the putt-putting of an all-terrain vehicle. There’s an old woods road in the area and that might be an appropriate place to drive a four-wheeler, but this guy had left the road and was driving off-road through the woods. I guess if you’ve invested thousands in a toy like this you go to the woods you have and not the woods you wish you had even if those woods happen to be an Audubon sanctuary. I’m inclined to mind my own business so I said hello and went on my way. This seemed to be a one-off Super Sunday internal combustion joy ride, but if I thought this was a regular event that threatened to tear up the woods, I would have notified the Audubon people.

At this point, I was getting my bearings and spotted the hill I was looking for and headed north. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk was circling and shrieking in the clear blue sky above the tall pines as if sharing my annoyance at the motorized invader. I found a place to hop over one of the headwater branches of Beaver Brook and started to climb. I found a faint trail running along the north-south axis of the hill, but Hobbs Hill is to the northeast of this unnamed hill so I didn’t think it was the trail I was looking for.

I walked back and forth along the hilltop a couple of times looking for trails and a place to sit with my coffee. Unlike Hobbs Hill, I couldn’t find any large rocks to sit on here, leading me to think this was a glacial deposit whereas the larger Hobbs has a heart of bedrock. Every time I tried to explore the south side of the hill I heard and saw the ATV driver and I certainly didn’t want that sort of company when I was hoping to sit quietly and just think. I finally settled on the northeast side of the hill where I leaned against a tree. The warming sun was just over my shoulder and I had a nice view of another Beaver Brook tributary. The gentle babbling helped me to forget the drone of the four-wheeler. The brook tumbled over rocks and formed small pools under the roots of trees growing along the bank. I remembered the thrill of finding small trout in places like this but I’m quite sure this creek is too dry in summer to sustain fish.

Movement caught my eye, and I saw robins flying like silent ghosts low through the forest. I’d seen them along this brook before, but robins deep in the woods always seem out of place to me. I wonder if it’s the running water or the rich soil of the small alluvial flats that attracts them. The robins were quiet, but I heard the deeee-dee of a chickadee and the tooting of a titmouse, making me hope that winter was loosening its grip on Moose Hill.

Time was growing short and my seat was not as comfortable as I like, so I dropped down to the brook and followed it up to the road where I walked back to my bike. I was a little surprised at how far my wanderings had taken me.

Exploring new places is fun, but it’s also good to have a few favorite spots to go to. If I feel the need to disappear into the woods but only have an hour or so, I like to retreat to a familiar perch. I can get there quickly and spend more time quietly observing and thinking and less time wandering. I liken it to a musician having a repertoire of old standards, the angler having favorite fishing holes, or the hunter having traditional coverts. I can pick my destination depending on my mood. I like to go to a place I’ve been before and see how things have changed over the seasons. I sometimes find that being in a particular place reminds me of daydreams I had there before as if the thoughts wait for me there, waiting for me to return. I didn't find a perfect spot on this trip to Moose Hill, but I hope to go back soon to check up on some old dreams.

Sweeping Changes

2008-01-29T07:41:00.000-05:00

I like to sit by the woodstove in the evening and lose myself in deep thought. The only problem is, lately, when I sit by the warm fire after a long busy day, I soon find myself in deep sleep instead.

Before I dozed off yet again Sunday night, I was planning on contemplating something I’ve been thinking about for the past few days. The days have been getting longer since the winter solstice, but an event I celebrate with similar glee is the day when the “normal minimum temperature” graph in the Boston Globe bottoms-out and starts to tick upwards. This happened last week when we spent a few days with a normal low of 21 degrees (F) and finally clicked up to 22 degrees. Spring is on the way! Now, every snowstorm and cold snap can be faced more bravely knowing that warmer weather is surely on the way. (An average number on a graph doesn’t mean we can’t still plunge into the teens and single digits now and then, just that it’s less likely.)

Friday morning when I was out running my errands, I noticed that the thermometer in the car read 22 degrees. It registered in my mind that this happened to be the normal low temperature for that date, and it was cold. (I trust my Minnesota readers will forgive me for referring to +22 degrees as cold.) I looked down the road at all the houses and businesses and thought about how every single one of them and the people inside are sustained by the burning of fossil fuel. I wondered what would happen if the gas and oil were suddenly shut off. I also considered how the fuel that makes (relatively) comfortable wintertime living in the North possible also created the forests we enjoy today.

It wasn’t that long ago that most of the Northeast was denuded of forest cover by farming, grazing, fuelwood cutting and charcoal making. Most of the farmers have long since moved west where the soils are better suited to agriculture. We no longer need charcoal and most of our wood fires today are more recreational than life-sustaining. As a result, the forest has grown back, but I tried to imagine what the woods would look like if we still had to get our energy for cooking and heat from trees. Life would be very different and our forests would be unrecognizable.

That night, I was watching a local weekly TV talk show about the news media. They were discussing how the daily newspaper is on the verge of disappearing, thanks largely to readers and advertisers moving to the web. I wondered what would happen to our northern forests if there was no longer a demand for all the pulpwood that goes into the manufacture of newsprint. I wondered if yet another technology-driven cultural shift was about to have a major impact on our forest landscape. I wondered how long it would be before I’d have to get my temperature charts online.

Sunday afternoon, I was leading a group around the Moose Hill Farm loop trail. On such hikes, I always pause to ask the young people why on Earth anyone would bother to build all those stone walls in the middle of the woods. After a few lame jokes about how much the colonists could achieve because they weren’t distracted by TVs and computers, I tried to get them to visualize what the rolling hills may have looked like with open fields and rocky walls as far as the eye could see.

I like to sit by a wood fire in the evening. I enjoy my stroll down the driveway to fetch the morning paper. When I’m sitting in the woods, I like to watch a chipmunk sitting on an old stone wall as he works on a fat acorn. The changing needs and desires of our society may spawn trends that sweep across the face of our forests, but the forests have always been there for us. The next time I fall asleep by the fire, I hope I dream of a future where forests continue to thrive and people value them for all the blessings they provide.

Finding the Way

2008-01-16T08:16:00.000-05:00

Saturday, January 5, 2008

I left home at 9:30 in the morning. It’s a bit harder to get an early start on these winter days. It was 29 degrees, calm and clear. A few wisps and puffs of cloud were in the blue sky, offering just the kind of light I love when I’m in the woods. I cut through the train station and took the new bridge over Beaver Brook and hiked on the road just long enough to get to the Hobbs Hill trail. I climbed through the pine plantation before breaking out into the more open natural oak-pine forest. The crunching of my footsteps in the thawed and re-frozen snow precluded sneaking up on anything.

I stopped on Hobbs Hill for breakfast. I just sat in the sun and listened to the quiet. There were human sounds off in the distance, but the woods around me were silent. It was so quiet, the only nearby sound was the ringing in my ears. Maybe it’s my age, or maybe it’s too many hours listening to power tools, but I prefer to thinks it’s just caused by everyday stress and if I could only sit here long enough it would go away.

As I sat daydreaming, the sun rose enough to shine through the space between the trunks of a double-stemmed hickory and warm my face. It shined through the naked oaks and hickories to illuminate the patient pines below, their soft deep green needles glistening in the clean light, shining all the brighter on the background of white snow.

I wanted to linger and allow friendly thoughts from the forest to creep into my mind, but I had a plan. As part of my (no doubt temporary) New Years ambition to clean up and de-clutter, I was organizing a box of bike-related maps and such when I found a misplaced topographic map a friend gave me some time ago (Thanks, George!).

Moose Hill is in the northwest corner of the Brockton, Massachusetts 7.5 x 15 minute metric quadrangle. (I’ve always wondered how mapmakers always manage to put every item of interest in the corner of a map so you have to buy four maps to cover the area you want to explore.) One thing that caught my eye on this map was the indication of a trail running from Moose Hill Parkway, over Hobbs Hill, across one of the headwater streams of Beaver Brook, over another hill, and then on to Moose Hill Street. The first part of this trail was well known to me as part of the Hobbs Hill Loop, but as far as I know, the rest of the trail may be abandoned. It was my plan to use map and compass to find this new hilltop and look for remnants of this trail.

In my youth, I spent a fair amount of time hiking and bushwhacking in the Catskill Mountains of New York with map and compass, but with the exception of one fun attempt at orienteering with my son a few years ago, it had been quite a while since I’d navigated in the woods this way. Of course, map and compass is so old school. Everybody has GPS these days, but I’m nothing if not behind the times.

Using my old Silva Ranger forester’s compass, I oriented the map and took a bearing from Hobbs Hill to this new hill and set off through the woods. Sighting through the notch in the compass cover while peeking in the mirror at the needle, I would look ahead and pick a rock or tree as my destination. All I had to do was pay attention long enough as I meandered through the landscape to allow me to get to my landmark where I would take a new sighting. My path kept intersecting deer trails and I was tempted to follow them, but I wasn’t convinced the deer were following the old hiking trail so I resisted the urge.

As I knew it would, my course took me to a brook, but what I failed to notice was that this part of the brook formed a small swamp. I thought it had been cold enough that I could cross on ice, but I was mistaken and promptly broke through, soaking my feet with black muck. This got me thinking about a Jack London story where a trapper gets wet in the arctic and has to kill his dog to cut it open so he can warm his hands inside long enough to start a life-saving fire with his only match only to have the incipient fire warm the snow on an over-hanging pine bough causing the snow to fall, snuffing out the fire. In my case, it was a dry sunny day and the temperature was on the way up and I was no more than a half mile from a road, but my imagination is like that.

My mishap did cause me to abandon my course and head upstream, looking for a place to cross where the stream was narrower. Misfortune turned to luck when I found a place to cross that was well used by deer and looked like the old trail I had been seeking. This was soon confirmed when I saw some old painted tin can lids nailed to trees. I’d seen this method of marking another old trail in town – the Massapoag Trail – and I wondered if these markers had been placed by the same person decades ago.

I saw the hill I was seeking rising through the trees, but cold feet and a late hour prompted me to save conquering it for another day. I decided to follow the creek up to the road and head for home.

Exploring with map and compass brought back many fond memories. I thought back on those days when I was young and optimistic and I had my whole life in front of me. A good chunk of that life is behind me now, but on that bright sunny January day, it felt good to have a whole new year in front of me. A tough 2007 was behind me, and I had a chance to make a fresh start in 2008. I could see good things on the trail ahead, and I had a feeling a few hours of quiet reflection on Moose Hill might just help me find the way.

The Longest Night

2007-12-25T08:30:00.000-05:00

Sunday, December 23, 2007

(Despite appearances to the contrary, this is not the Dead Deer Journal, but, as they say, stuff happens.)

Imagine the terror. Alone in the long dark night – the longest night of the year – the young whitetail was pursued relentlessly by a pack of strong, vicious, hungry beasts. She tried to run, but her sharp hooves kept breaking through the crust on the deep snow, slowing her down and causing her to stumble. The coyotes, seemingly floating over the smooth surface on their wide paws, came on, closing the gap. Finally, when she could flee no more, they were upon her, tearing at her flesh, scattering her hair. It was over quickly, but how could such a thing ever end soon enough?

I can only imagine what the attack was like, but the tracks, blood and remains in the snow told the tale. We went skiing on Moose Hill Farm on Sunday morning, the first day of winter. We had just started and were only a few minutes from the parking lot when, in the distance, I saw a dark form in the snow in the middle of a large hay field. I had heard that there was a significant population of coyotes in the area and I knew there were many whitetail deer, so even at a distance I had a feeling I knew what I was seeing. As we approached, I could clearly see the looping path where the predators drew the first blood, then tore into the coat scattering the hair, and finally, where they began to feed. A few organs had been pulled away and left in the snow. The head and legs were intact, but the carcass was stripped to the vertebrae.

Shooting is illegal in our town. Hunting of any kind is very unusual. Constant development pushes the deer into ever-smaller natural areas and their population density soars. Over-browsing, disease and car-kills are inevitable. It’s only natural that – given just enough room – predators will move in.

This is the way it should be; the way it has always been. So much of the beautiful life around us is sustained by killing. To a caterpillar, even the most colorful and delicate warbler is a heartless predator. But, the death of a deer, with its brown hair and red blood, its big black eyes and white backbone stripped of flesh, is death on a scale that people really notice.

To me, the amazing thing is that it happens here. Moose Hill is less than 20 miles from Boston. The towers of downtown can be seen from a high point in this same field. Within a mile or two in every direction are fancy suburban homes with backyards where pets and children play.

It crossed my mind that this death should be kept a secret. Roaming packs of large meat-eating predators may be more than we suburbanites can tolerate. I see an earnest TV news reporter interviewing a soccer mom and a NASCAR dad on their manicured lawn next to the minivan. They are calling for action to protect their children and cockapoo. If we would just put some townhouses and a lifestyle mall up there, we wouldn’t have to worry about these things.

My reaction to this deer kill is a little different. Knowing that there are large carnivores at the top of the Moose Hill food chain authenticates the wildness of the place. There is enough contiguous wild space to sustain a complete ecosystem with checks and balances. All around, we may be screwing things up by fragmenting the landscape, but on Moose Hill life is returning to a more natural state.

I look forward to the day when I am sitting in the woods, quiet and alone. I hear a sound behind me and I turn to see large yellow eyes staring into my wide blue ones. After a moment of indecision, the big coyote lopes away. Excitement mingles with fear in a way that must be primordial. I never look at these woods in the same way again.

Blood in the Snow

2007-12-12T08:08:00.000-05:00

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Warning: This post is not for the squeamish!

Tracks in a dusting of snow can tell tales we might hear in no other way. I always assumed that because I live in the center of town, deer would not make it to my yard, but I now know that’s not the case. Over the years, thanks in part to a motion-detector light in the backyard, I’ve seen opossums, raccoons, woodchucks, skunks, cottontails, gray squirrels, red squirrels and chipmunks, but no deer. We had an unseasonably cold week followed by a light snow Friday night. When I went out to get the paper Saturday morning, the tracks of a good-sized whitetail in the snow showed where a deer had walked up my driveway to sample our neighbors’ yew. As it would turn out, that is not the only mystery revealed by the snow that day.

As I walked up to Moose Hill a little later that morning, I decided to stay off the road as much as possible. By ducking into the woods at the end of the train station parking lot I was in the woods quickly and was thrilled to encounter a Boy Scout troop working on a new trail. I’m happy to think we’ll soon have another way to get to and from the Hill on foot without walking on the street.

My route took me over the dam at the low end of the cedar swamp – where the scouts are also building a new bridge. I did have to leave the trail to walk on the street for a few minutes before reaching the Hobbs Hill Loop. Back in the woods, with nearly every step I took, every time I looked down, I was likely to see that I was not the first to pass over any stretch of trail that day. It seemed deer were everywhere. Large canine prints could have been from a coyote which are said to be common now. On the boardwalk across the swamp on the way to the Kettle Trail, more delicate canine tracks may have been those of a fox and wider prints showing long claws made me think maybe a fisher was poking around. A fresh snow reveals how much activity goes on in these woods that most of us never see and many of us never imagine.

Where the Kettle Trail hits Moose Hill Parkway near Upland Road, I crossed the street and took the Vernal Pool Loop trail past The Boulders where I sometimes like to stop and sit. Rather than take the Loop back toward the sanctuary visitors’ center, I continued straight on the abandoned section of Everett Street. Like Summit Road on Moose Hill Farm, this old road that once probably carried horses, wagons and carts now carries weekend walkers through the woods. Old fields and a cellar hole reminded me that this land was long ago the home of a hopeful farmer. New tracks in the snow informed me that I was not the first human to pass that way on that day.

Everett Street eventually hits the power lines and I turned left (southwest), thinking I would follow the right-of-way to Moose Hill Farm. Again, marks in the snow told me that the path along the power lines was a busy thoroughfare and a few walkers and many deer had been there ahead of me. Because of all the interesting things to see in the new snow I was looking down more than up. About the time I was daydreaming about how someone looking for a break from the city could hop on a train in Boston’s South Station, take the train to Sharon and, in literally two minutes could be walking in the woods on a trek that could last much of the day, a red spot in the snow caught my eye. At first I thought someone had stepped on a bittersweet berry, but that didn’t seem right. I stopped and looked more closely and realized I was looking at blood. I noticed it was in an area of compressed snow. For a moment I thought perhaps someone was pulling a child on a plastic toboggan, but soon enough the puzzle pieces came together and I knew what I was seeing. Someone had dragged a deer along the path. I knew there was poaching in the area; I had seen the cut fences and part of a tree stand before, but this trail was fresh.

I decided to follow the trail, hoping to flesh out the story. I turned around and retraced my steps, noticing I had been walking on the drag marks for a while without realizing it. Because the animal had been dragged in that direction the amount of blood was diminishing. Once again, my eyes were cast mostly downward and I didn’t look up until the drag marks left the path. I raised my gaze to the wooded edge of the right-or-way and saw a large dark shape in the snow. The hunter had left his burden barely concealed at the tree line. I don’t know if he was tried of dragging the big carcass and planned to come back for it later or, not wanting to be caught in the act of poaching, had been scared off the trail by an approaching hiker – possibly me – and was lurking nearby.

That last thought kept me from lingering too long, but I studied the dead buck long enough to snap a couple of photos and observe that it was an eight-pointer and that one of his antlers had been damaged – maybe in a fight with a bigger buck. The deer had been gutted and I saw an entry wound in his flank. The strap the hunter had been using to drag the animal was still around its neck. I wondered when he would be back and if the rising temperatures might spoil the meat.

I reversed direction yet again, following the drag marks in reverse this time in a way that reminded me of watching a film backwards. As I walked, the spots of blood became larger and more frequent. Near a low spot in the right-of-way the drag marks left the path and went through weeds, then brush, and then into the woods. I followed the trail through the trees and over old logs, the blood now leaving big splotches of red in the fresh white snow. I knew what I would eventually find, and I didn’t have long to wait. In deep woods by a small brook, in an area trampled by footprints and marked with smears and spatters of bright blood, was the gut pile. Along with the intestines was the liver. Off to the side, cut in half, was the heart. I wondered if the hunter was looking for parasites, or performing some sort of barbaric ritual. I’ve never killed a deer, so I don’t know if these organs are usually wasted. I wondered if he said a prayer of thanks to the deer, but I thought not.

I was starting to get a little creeped-out, but I did a little more CSI. I saw where the buck had been in his death throes along a path of broken branches and sprays of blood. I saw where he took his last steps before the razor-edged broad-head arrow sliced into him. I knew the hunter’s perch must be close and, looking up, I soon found his tree stand. Steel hooks for climbing were screwed into the trunk of the tree and a nylon cord for raising and lowering his weapon was hanging down.

I was feeling quite a mix of emotions. I didn’t think much of this poacher for killing a deer on private (and probably sanctuary) property without permission, but I had to admire his efficacy. As one who had enjoyed a delicious beef brisket for dinner the night before, I was in no position to feel moral outrage over the harvesting of a little venison. I later determined that this was indeed the last day of deer hunting season, so this guy was not hunting out of season and – for all I know – he may have been carrying a valid hunting license. As one who recently suffered with Lyme disease and one who sees the damage over-browsing does to the forest, I do worry that we have too many deer around. I sometimes have trouble seeing things in black and white. Maybe it’s a good thing for we suburbanites and city-dwellers who eat meat to see something like this once in a while just to remind us that the burger on our plate means that something had to die.

I’d had enough of blood and guts, so I moved on. As I headed up the hill toward Moose Hill Farm, an uneasy feeling came over me. I wondered if this dead buck was the same one I’d seen twice before among the high rocky outcrops and cedar trees near Moose Hill Farm.

I like my favorite resting places on Moose Hill to have names. If I find a name on a map, like Hobbs Hill, the Boulders or Allens Ledge, that’s fine. Sometimes I make up my own name like the Lower Meadow, or the Mikveh. I’ve started to call the rocky hilltop near Moose Hill Farm the Tor. These bare rocks rising from the surrounding forest with their scattered scrubby cedars and scraggly pines makes me think of Sherlock Holmes stories with tors rising from the mists of the moors, and I think of the buck there as the Stag of the Tor. (I try to ignore the high-voltage power line running so close by and to tune out the roar of I-95 coming through the woods.)

There are actually two or three rocky hilltops that make up the high ground in this area. I climbed the steep slope from the power lines up to the first one to find a fire ring. I imagine generations of walkers have been attracted to this place and I was looking for a spot for breakfast, but this one was too close too the wires. I dropped down into the saddle between two summits, following natural pathways that, as more tracks in the snow revealed, were also used by deer. I was also keeping my eyes open for my buck, hoping to see him bounding off through the oaks as I had twice before, telling me he was still alive and well. No sooner had I completed those thoughts when I found something I’d never seen before in all my hours in the woods. At my feet was a whitetail deer antler. It was fresh and clean and the tissue at the base where it had been attached to the buck’s skull was still white with flecks of red as if it had fallen off that very morning. It was perfectly formed with four large points and a small stub near the base indicating that it likely came from an eight- to ten-point buck. This was a lucky find because, as I recall, rodents love to chew shed antlers, so they don’t last long on the forest floor. More importantly, because of its location and size I felt sure this antler came from the buck I had seen in the area. This meant the dead deer I had seen earlier was not the buck of the Tor. I even wondered if the damaged antler I saw on the dead deer could have been broken in a fight with this one on an adjacent territory. I was hopeful that he would live to fight another day.

I found a nice spot to sit on a rock in the sun to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I sat high on the hillside and looked out over the oak forest below, maybe much the same way the buck would survey his domain. I didn’t sit long because I had a long walk home and had already been afield for quite some time. I found my way through the woods to old Summit Road and the new loop trail through Moose Hill Farm. When I broke out of the woods into the big hayfields I could see across the rolling hills to the tall towers of downtown Boston, gleaming in the bright sunshine through the clear winter air. I found it remarkable and a little amazing that a little fresh snow could reveal so much wild drama within sight of this major east coast city. I felt more than a little lucky that I had been there to take it all in.

New Ground

2007-12-05T22:10:00.000-05:00

Saturday, December 1, 2007

December arrived with a roar. It was the kind of cold wind that strips the heat from an old house with rattley windows or from a too-thinly clad body. When I left the house at 9:00 AM it was 28 degrees and the wind chill was a source of some concern so I piled on five light layers. With wool gloves and a balaclava under the helmet, I was surprisingly comfortable. I was on a mission, so I took the single-speed in spite of the weather so I could spend more time in the woods and less time walking on the road. I was off to explore new ground.

Our town is blessed with many acres of conservation land. The town itself has set aside several large parcels and the Massachusetts Audubon Society – where I’ve been doing most of my recent exploring - has nearly 2000 acres. Now, there is a wonderful new preserve known as Moose Hill Farm, owned by The Trustees of Reservations, a venerable Massachusetts conservation organization. First opened to the public just a few months ago, this property of nearly 350 acres has a wonderful mix of hay fields, marsh, and forest, providing a wide variety of wildlife habitats. I am particularly excited to have this property close to home because The Trustees have a philosophy that is somewhat different than many environmental organizations. They aim to protect the cultural and historical heritage of the landscape along with its natural features. This sometimes means working the land in traditional ways. In the case of Moose Hill Farm, there are plans to raise grass-fed beef and free-range chickens. There is talk of a community-sponsored farm where residents can participate in the production of their own food. There are many acres of mature forest on the property, and I have hopes that silviculture might someday become part of the management plan.

The cold wind bit through my gloves as I coasted down the hill from the town center to the base of Moose Hill Parkway but the steady climb from there on warmed me up. I didn’t even feign an attempt at pedaling the single speed up the steepest part of the slope. With the low temperature, full backpack and all the extra clothing, I gladly hopped off the bike and pushed it to the top of the hill. From there, it was and easy ride along the flattish shoulder of Moose Hill over to Moose Hill Farm.

The reserve is bisected by an old road, known as Summit Road, that is now little more than a foot path, but judging by the old stone walls that line most of the route it looks like it may have once been a significant thoroughfare. Other stone walls mark the edges of fields and made me wonder how the land was used decades and centuries ago. I suppose there are those who wonder who would build walls out in the woods, not realizing that most of New England was denuded of forest long ago and most of the woods we enjoy today grew back only after the farms were abandoned.

My plan was to walk all the way across the property on the old road to where it is truncated by the Interstate. For most of the way, the old road is used by part of a new two-mile loop trail, but by some old stone-lined cellar holes the trail turns left. I kept going straight northwest, following the remains of the old road that is being slowly reclaimed by the forest. As I neared the steady roar of the Interstate, I noticed that there was evidence of traffic in the leaf litter. There is a wire fence paralleling the highway, but where the old road hits the fence, it had been cut open, possibly by poachers. Since there were no parking places nearby I couldn’t imagine that enough trespassers came through the cut to beat the path I was seeing in the forest floor. I went through the fence to see if I could recognize the spot along the highway, and just as I was thinking that the tracks in the dry leaves must have been made by deer and I was wondering if the gap in the fence funneled deer out onto the highway, I spotted a dead doe on the shoulder.

I ducked back through the fence and followed it northeasterly, continuing along the property line. The deer have created a path of their own as they too follow the fence. At about the point where I thought I might be near the property corner I hit another old woods road. This one was not as wide or well defined as Summit Road, but it was good enough for the deer and certainly good enough for me. It was heading southeasterly – more or less the direction I wanted to go - so I took it.

The forest in this part of the reserve is not exactly scrub land, but the trees seem to have limited potential. Perhaps a series of fires has burned out the fertility, but it’s also likely that the soil there has always been poor. More stone walls define old fields. I tried to imagine the hard life lead by the farmers who cleared those fields and piled those rocks. It’s no wonder that so many of them left the land, first for early New England industries, and then for rich stone-free lands to the west.

I was probably daydreaming about what it must have been like to try to scratch a living out of this dry, bony soil when I came upon a buck scrape in the trail. Just then, something – a snort perhaps – made me look up and I saw the white flag of a deer bounding off through the woods and saw the sun glinting off a 6- or 8-point rack. I was happy that the old boy had so far been able to elude the poachers and stay off the highway.

Then, I spotted just the sort of rocks I like to sit on for breakfast. I climbed up on a granite outcrop that rose through the thin soil like the spine of the Earth erupting through its skin. I imagined the big buck climbing up there to survey his territory. I picked a spot to sit that was somewhat sheltered from the wind, but I didn’t hunker down too low because that would have meant sitting in leaves and the last time I did that – just a couple of weeks earlier – I found two deer ticks on me. I have no desire to go down the Lyme road again anytime soon. So, I sat on a rock and used the small foam pad I’ve started carrying for moments just like that. The wind was cold, but a bright sun allowed me to sit long enough to have breakfast and to scribble a few notes. I was thinking I should carry some kind of wrap to throw over my shoulders so I can sit quietly and comfortably long enough to see more wildlife and enjoy the peace and quiet of the winter woods.

The wind chill pushed me on eventually, but I didn’t mind. A lone red squirrel streaking along a log was my only company. The wind howling in the treetops drowned out any other sounds. There were no birds to be seen and I imagined they were all fluffed up and lying low.

Before long, I hit Summit Road not far from where my walk began. I walked down the road to my bicycle and was getting ready to leave when a movement in some brush by an old vacant house caught my eye. A Carolina wren was poking around in the tangle of leaves and red-stemmed dogwood. A pair of golden-crowned kinglets came by. Across the old road titmice and juncos were moving through the trees.

It seemed as though the birds were attracted to this old house even though it has been unoccupied for a few years. Standing in the bright sunlight for a few minutes, I found myself lost in thought. I was wishing I could see history sweep over this land. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me that birds like to linger around old houses and deer like to follow old roads. This is New England and the landscape has long been shaped by its human inhabitants and the creatures that remain have adapted to the ways of people. There is a human scale to the land. These forests and fields are wild but are not wilderness. The stone walls and traces of roads tell of early American farmers and English settlers. Native Americans had been working this land – probably with fire – long before the Europeans arrived. In a way, it wasn’t all that long ago that these hills were buried under a glacier. The effects of the ice can be seen everywhere. The first humans probably arrived not long after the glacier retreated.

I was happy with the possibility that the new owners of this property would conserve it without preserving it. We have been here for millennia. The face of the land has changed, but, so far, it endures. And, as on the face of an old man, the scars and wrinkles tell the story of its past. I hope this place will help us remember how we can live on the land and work with it without destroying it.

Slow Run, Slow Food

2007-11-14T23:18:00.000-05:00

Winter approaches. The clocks have changed. It gets dark so early now. It’s time for slow food.

I have Wednesday evening mostly to myself these days. The nest is empty and my wife works late. My natural tendency is probably to grab something quick for dinner and waste the evening by flipping mindlessly through the TV channels or surfing the web aimlessly. There are times, though, when I find myself in a Moose Hill state of mind and I plan to prepare some slow food and go for a run up Moose Hill while dinner is cooking.

Tonight, it was a veggie bake. When I prepare dishes like this, I like to make a lot. I figure I already have the ingredients and tools out and I have to wash the dishes anyway, so I might as well make plenty so there are leftovers. I coat the bottoms of two big covered casserole dishes with olive oil and fill them up with chopped potatoes and all kinds of other vegetables; usually lots of carrots, a few onions and something green. For protein, I throw in some chick peas and edamame if I have it. I liberally sprinkle on salt (Possibly too much!), cumin, a dash of hot pepper, dill, paprika and any other seasonings that catch my eye. The dishes go into the oven set at about 300 degrees and I head out the door. (If this post sounds familiar, it’s because I wrote about this before. See “Moose Hill Moosewood,” January 16, 2007.)

I set my stopwatch and walked down the street. I had to run across Main Street to avoid traffic, so I kept going at a slow jog. I was feeling good. I had the usual aches and pains that age and mediocre conditioning provide, but there were no health issues to blame. There was a long line of cars creeping up Depot Street, commuters returning home from the train station and the highway beyond. As always, I was glad I can stay close to home and don’t have to face that battle every day.

The evening was warm for November (In the low 50’s.) so I knew I might be slightly overdressed. The evening always feels colder than it really is when it’s dark and my metabolism is already slowing down so I tend to wear too much. By the time I had walked and then jogged for ten minutes and was half way up Moose Hill Parkway I was ready to shed my light fleece top. I hid it behind a tree at the beginning of the Kettle Trail and continued on my way, leaving jacket and cell phone behind. I checked my heart rate monitor as I passed beneath the street lights because in my own casual style of training regimen I try to keep my workouts aerobic this time of year. That means I like to keep my heart rate between about 120 and 140 beats per minute to build an aerobic base for harder training as spring approaches. This sounds good, but what it really means is that runs and rides this time of year can be slow and lazy.

With the surgery and sickness of the summer behind me, I’ve been feeling stronger, so on this night I decided to extend my usual run to the top of the Parkway and press on to the summit of Moose Hill itself. If the moon was up yet, it did me no good hiding behind the overcast that blew in after a beautiful sunny day. The Summit Trail was dark and a fresh blanket of fallen leaves obscured the details so I had to slow my jog to a walk. This was fine because when the trail turned up the flanks of the hill a fast walk was all the workout I needed.

When I reached the summit and passed under the fire tower it was too dark to read my watch, so I don’t know what my time was. I wanted to compare it to the time this summer when I struggled through heat and illness to get to this place, not knowing I was carrying Lyme Disease. No big deal. I was feeling strong and happy and that’s all that mattered.

As I turned to head back down the rocky trail, my workout took a back seat to safety. I had visions of breaking a leg in the dark and having to claw my way along on my belly because my cell phone was half way down the hill in my jacket pocket. I went slowly until I was back on smooth ground.

I ran back down the road and was mildly proud of myself for remembering to pick up my jacket and phone. Along the way I started thinking about the Quakers. Every Wednesday night since the beginning of the Iraq War a small group has been standing on the street corner in the center of town to remind us that people are fighting, killing and dying in our name. On the news today we heard more about how our State Department is outsourcing the killing to Blackwater. In another story, I heard that a carpenter’s union is outsourcing their strike picketing to homeless people and others hard up for a few bucks. When I stopped for a few minutes to chat with a lone protester, I was happy to see he was still doing his own vigil-keeping. We still have heroes, unsung though they may be.

When I got home I was happy to see the front porch light on, even if I had left it on for myself. Dinner was done to perfection with the chick peas just slightly crunchy. The kitchen was warm from the oven. For a few moments in the quiet house, it felt like I was able to bring a little bit of Moose Hill home with me.

The Healing Hill

2007-11-12T23:05:00.000-05:00

Saturday November 10, 2007

I usually go to Moose Hill alone. It’s not that I don’t like company, I do, but it just seems to work out that way. I’m not an early bird, but most people I know would likely prefer an extra hour or two in bed on a Saturday morning to dragging themselves out of the house before breakfast to climb a hill with an oddball who seems distracted by the most insignificant little things in the woods. I certainly treasure time alone to quietly observe the wonders around me and to lose myself in my thoughts, but I’ve often felt it could be fun and rewarding to share my trips with other nature lovers. I volunteered at the sanctuary to coordinate a “naturalist’s collaborative” of people who could explore these woods together and share knowledge, observations and experiences. I would love to have someone teach me something about, say, ferns and mosses while I share something about trees or birds. Like so many of my silly ideas, this one was not received with much enthusiasm.

This past Saturday was different. An old friend of mine is in pain. I don’t know what is hurting him exactly, but the anguish is obvious and he reached out to me. Many of us – perhaps most of us – have things in our past that we think are behind us and forgotten that are only lying dormant like an insidious virus, waiting to flare up at a moment of weakness. Others may have things more like a soul-eating bacterium, steadily nibbling away at our hearts. Some bear wounds, others harbor dark secrets. There are those who are so inherently toxic they don’t even notice that something is wrong, and there are those who know that something is wrong and wish desperately to be well. Clearly, my friend is struggling bravely and mightily to get well.

What do I know about easing mental anguish and helping someone who is suffering? Nothing, obviously. I have no training and no special insights. Much of my life has been devoted to avoiding conflict and challenge rather than confronting them. More than once, in times of crisis, I’ve been accused of being AWOL. When my friend called, about all I could offer was a walk on Moose Hill.

I loaded my backpack with my breakfast, a Thermos of coffee to share and my old down vest in case the weather turned cold and damp. My friend had a sandwich in his pocket. We walked up Moose Hill Parkway in the cool November air and I was happy and hopeful to see the predicted clouds were allowing a few rays of sunshine to peek through. Half way up the road we turned into the forest on the Vernal Pool Trail. We were headed for the Boulders, one of my regular breakfast spots. My favorite places on Moose Hill are not exactly secret, but I don’t give them up lightly. On this day, I was happy to share.

As we walked, and as we sat and ate, we talked. I tried to be a good listener. I tried not to read too much into every little thing that was said, but I also tried not to miss any significant messages. I wanted him to tell me everything he could and nothing he was not prepared to say. Things my friend said reminded me of some issues of my own and I talked about them thinking that, perhaps, his misery might enjoy some company. I tend to wallow in my own misery the way some people seem to embrace victimhood. It can be easier to blame others for our troubles rather than clearing up misunderstandings or examining our own faults. But this was not about me, so I hope I didn’t talk too much. Our time together may have helped me more than it helped him but I hope he found some comfort. I may never know.

After breakfast we continued on our way and, as always, Moose Hill offered some pleasant distractions. On the Vernal Pool Trail toward the visitor’s center we appreciated the glacial outwash features in the landscape. We saw a few spots where rutting bucks had scraped bare patches into the trail, and then saw a deer on the hoof loping through the oaks, white flag flying. We had a side-by-side comparison of ground pine Lycopodium and a real white pine seedling. In the parking lot we saw some recently-returning juncos to remind us that even a wintry New England seems warm to somebody, and to remind us that that winter is right around the corner.

At the visitor’s center, we crossed the road and went back into the woods to follow the Ovenbird Trail back down the hill toward home. We took a side trip over Hobbs Hill where I pointed out another favorite meditation spot. I thought about how this was where I went not long ago seeking some comfort for myself (See “Your Content Has Been Deleted,” March 26, 2007.). I promised myself that I would come back soon. For now, it seems that my moment of danger may be behind me and, in my own way, I would like to share some of my joy and gratitude with these woods. I only hope that someday soon my friend will be able to do the same.

Cheap Tequila

2007-10-21T20:12:00.000-04:00

October 13, 2007

Even though I was planning my first breakfast on Moose Hill in quite some time, I slept late. Just as well, it was only about 42 degrees when I left home at 9:15 on the touring bike, and for the first time this season, I was thinking I should have worn the full-fingered gloves.

I took a round-about way to Moose Hill, first heading down South Main Street to our local farm. There are darn few farms of any kind in the Boston area these days, and like many of the few that remain, this one is something of a boutique farm, selling some local produce and lots of expensive imported goodies to well-heeled suburbanites.

I went to the farm to look at the corn. One crop this farm does grow and sell in abundance is corn. Unlike the maize of the American Midwest, this corn is for human consumption. We buy a few ears every year and simply roast them on the gas grill. Delicious!

I’ve been thinking about corn lately and the folly of growing corn to replace gasoline. I read that it takes something like 1.0 gallons of fuel to produce 1.3 gallons of ethanol. When all the energy to till the fields, produce the fertilizer, distill the alcohol and transport the stuff is factored in, I’d be surprised if it was that efficient. It just strikes me as wrong that good crop land, fossil water and fossil soil would be dedicated to replacing the fossil fuel that powers gas-guzzlers. I’d rather think the American breadbasket was producing nutritious food for people.

But hey, if much of our corn crop went into powering Hummers, maybe we wouldn’t really be losing that much. So much of the corn grown on corporate farms of places like Iowa is not used to produce high-quality food but goes into high-fructose corn syrup or is fed to cattle in vast feed lots. Would America suffer with less cheap soda pop and fewer fast-food hamburgers?

Last weekend, we traveled from Boston to Rochester, New York. As we drove by miles of idle farmland and thousands of acres of abused low-quality forests, particularly on the plains to the south of the big lakes, I wondered if under-utilized land like that could be used to grow energy and the most valuable farmland of the Midwest could be saved for high-quality food.

Most of the local corn at Ward’s Farm had been harvested. A small block still stood, brown and dry, drooping tassels swaying in the breeze. Perhaps this will be harvested for Halloween decorations rather than the table. Small, unsubsidized family farms must find many creative ways to pay the bills.

My plan was to have breakfast at the lower Billings Farm meadow, so I left the open farmland and pedaled through the forest up the back side of Moose Hill. Just a year ago I had a near-religious experience in that meadow (See “Promises to Keep”, Oct. 14, 2006.) so I rode slowly down the gravel road with some anticipation. But unlike last year when the whole field was teeming with busy birds, this year things were quiet. Even the trees seemed subdued. Maybe it was the dry late summer we had, but the autumn leaves seemed more brown than colorful. It was almost ominous.

I dismounted and pushed the bike as I looked for a place to sit. Just over a month ago, I had been diagnosed with Lyme disease after feeling really crappy for a few weeks with a variety of weird symptoms and going through all manner of unhelpful tests. Because the Lyme came so closely on the heels of surgery I had in July, the doctors kept trying to relate my symptoms to the surgery and were not considering other possibilities. Thanks to an ever-vigilant wife reminding me to tell the doctor about all the Moose Hill deer ticks crawling on me in June, a proper diagnosis was made and three weeks of antibiotics solved my problem.

The bacteria are now dead (I hope!). I could feel them dying the day after I took my first pill because I was sicker than ever. Now, I’m feeling great, but there is a lingering fear. Will I ever again be able to go to Moose Hill during tick season (Is there a “tick season”?) without worrying about ticks? They are so tiny and hard to see. I never showed the classic bulls-eye rash. Admittedly, my exposure in June was extreme with well over a dozen ticks on my body, but all it takes is one bite. Once bitten, twice shy. I worry that my tick paranoia will taint every trip I make to the woods I enjoy so much.

I went to my favorite spot in the sun by the old stone wall. I like to sit there inconspicuously on the fringe of the field and watch nature’s dramas while sipping coffee. This time the ferns all seemed tall and looked as if every frond tip could hold a tick eagerly waiting for a chance to grasp a passing animal. Was that a deer trail passing through that gap in the rocks? I could see I had a problem.

I finally decided to sit out in the open in a mossy spot where the vegetation was very low. The only birds I saw were passing overhead. Flocks of grackles and blackbirds were moving south. Squawking blue jays flew over the oaks, perhaps looking for the sweetest acorns. I lone pair of geese went by held together by their invisible bond. I hoped they were the migrating variety that prefers marshes to golf courses. The only animal sounds I heard were the chipmunks still clucking from the walls. The black gum that was so central to the excitement last year when its ripe fruits drew scores of riotous robins was barren.

Sitting in a favorite field on a lovely fall morning, I should have been in a state of restfulness and calm instead of worrying about insidious threats. My troubled mind wandered to other times when one bad experience permanently altered my outlook. I remembered the first time, maybe 15 years ago, I hurt my back working. Over-enthusiastic post-hole digging led to four days on the living room floor. I never took my back for granted again. Going further back, I recalled the time in freshman year of college (The legal drinking age in New York was 18 in those days.) that we were low on funds and bought cheap tequila rather than the preferred Jose Cuervo. An evening of shots with salt licked from the wrist followed by sucking of lemons led to a night on the bathroom floor. I never drank hard liquor with the same innocent abandon again.

Scanning the meadow for anything that would rescue my attention from unpleasant thoughts, I was startled to spot a huge hornet’s nest. I approached the nest to see it was a bald-faced hornet’s nest over two feet high and over a foot in diameter hanging just above my head in a red maple in the middle of the field, dangling like a deadly fruit ready to bring much pain and misery to anyone foolish enough to pluck it greedily from its slender twig. The nest was constructed with over-lapping gray papery scales that looked a little like oyster shells arranged to shed water downward. There were two openings near the bottom, one about the size of a wren hole, the other smaller. I watched as a steady procession of hornets (wasps, really) came and went. They had black bodies with white bands on their abdomens and white patches on their faces – hence the name, I guess.

I think it was one of these wasps that blew in the window of the minivan some years ago. It stung me just over the heart and the pain was so intense I thought I might lose control of the vehicle and plunge my load of adolescents into a pond. I can only imagine the excruciating agony experienced by someone blundering into a whole hive. I found it a bit sad to think that these wasps replaced the four honey bee hives that used to be in this meadow. I imagine they were killed by the mysterious bee plague sweeping the country.

It was time to head home, so I returned to my bicycle. The joy of riding softened the disappointment that I was not able to find the peaceful state of mind that keeps me going back to Moose Hill. I fear that our search for cheap solutions to our energy needs will only give us a bad hangover, but for a few moments at least, I was human-powered and free of those concerns.

Dipping into the Stream

2007-09-13T06:17:00.000-04:00

Hobbs Hill, Saturday, August 25

Hoping to stretch my legs and get just a little exercise, I left home at about 8:00 AM and headed to Moose Hill on foot. I had hopes of hiking all the way to the summit, but my weakness seems to overshadow my ambition these days. I never made it to the summit – not even close – but I had a good morning all the same.

The air was warm and humid. The woods were dry, quiet and still as I walked the trail to Hobbs Hill. Unseen spider strands, like invisible tripwires, snapped annoyingly on my face. We’ve had very little rain recently and even the deer flies and mosquitoes were subdued. I didn’t see any but it felt like a few mosquitoes were finding my back through the weave of my damp t-shirt, so I put on an old long-sleeved shirt I threw in my backpack just for times like these.

On top of Hobbs Hill, I saw where a very tough animal, indeed, had excavated a hive of ground-nesting yellowjackets from the soil between two boulders. It was hard to imagine the wasp eggs and larvae could have been worth the vicious stings. I took this as a reminder that survival in these woods is serious business.

My plan was to have a quick breakfast on one of my favorite rocks on Hobbs and then press on up to Moose Hill itself. I found my spot on the edge of the hill, facing southeast toward the rising sun. This was not a problem because the sun was filtered by a light overcast and a summer haze. There didn’t seem to be any birds to watch, anyway, so crisp vision was not a high priority on this day when the forecast high was about 95 degrees (F).

The sandwich of natural peanut butter and jelly on leftover Shabbat challah was decadent. The coffee made with a little Peet’s house blend left over from our trip to California was soothing. The unexpected lack of bugs and an occasional puff of breeze helped keep me comfortable and I was finding myself content to sit and listen to the subtle sounds of the forest and idly dip into my thoughts as they flowed by. At about 8:45 the first cicadas of the day began to buzz.

One mental flow I keep dipping into these days are thoughts about Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums and the words of poet/essayist/environmentalist Gary Snyder (Jaffy Ryder). I was channel surfing the other day and clicked by one of the self-help gurus PBS trots out when it’s fundraising time. I went back. Here was an older barefoot guy (Dr. Wayne Dyer) with a shaved head in black pajamas. Normally, I’d cruise right by a show like that. I am innately suspicious about shows aired just so a station can raise funds and the guest can sell books, but because of my recent reading about Buddhism and meditation, I paused and listened for a few minutes. Now, I’m not hunting for a new religion. I have no plans to study Buddhism or delve into the Tao Te Ching, but I’m happy to receive wisdom from any source. The one point I heard Dyer make – and this may have been the whole point of the show – was “Change your thoughts and change your life.”

I found an interview of Gary Snyder on the Web where he said he meditates a half hour every day. Now, I’ve never had any instruction in meditation at all, but from my moments of quiet reflection on Moose Hill and a few determined efforts to sit quietly and alone at home, I can see how regular meditation could change a life.

One practical function of such meditation might be to focus on things that are troubling the mind. It might take a special effort to truly discover, acknowledge and confront the problem that is causing the unease. I find that once a problem is identified, it helps to write it down. Then begins the task of finding a solution. Sometimes the solution may be simply understanding the error in the way we are thinking about something. Maybe something is bugging us and all we need to do is realize that it really has nothing to do with us, it’s none of our business, it is of no concern to us, and we should just let it go.

Some may teach that changing our thoughts is all that matters. This may be true, but it will be a long time before I’m convinced that many thoughts shouldn’t lead to positive action. It’s through our actions that we change our lives for the better and through our actions that people know us. That’s why, after I identify what it is that is troubling me, I often find peace by visualizing a plan of action to solve the problem. These plans are not just make-work to-do lists, but a means to smooth out a life and bring calm to the mind. Some of these actions may be simple, like finishing a nagging task we’ve been putting off. Others might be a bit more challenging, like fixing a broken career or wounded relationship.

So, while actions are important, maybe it’s best if they spring from a way of thinking that aims to bring peace to the mind. I like to think that peaceful minds lead to a peaceful world. Upon first meeting, it is almost customary for people to ask: “What do you do?” Perhaps a more important and interesting question might be: “What do you think about?”

At that point, my real food was gone, and I was equally satisfied with the food for thought Moose Hill Had provided. This nourishment was free and I didn’t even have to endure wasp stings to get it. I headed for home hoping I might be able to incorporate even a little of my Moose Hill dreaming into my everyday life.

How Quickly We Fall

2007-09-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, it didn’t take long to be reminded of death as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder I recently discovered where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

I pushed on up the road and at the steepest stretch near the top my heart rate approached 150 beats per minute. I’ve decided I needed to get more realistic about how long it will take me to fully recovery from my surgery. After all, less than ten days ago I was in the emergency room for a chest CAT scan for still-mysterious chest pains. I promised myself I’d stay in my aerobic zone – 140 bpm or below.

I left the road and started up the trail to Moose Hill Summit. On the steep, rocky trail near the top, it took great discipline indeed to go slowly enough to keep the heart rate down. I reached the top and was not surprised to see the fire tower was occupied. We’ve been in a nasty drought and any spark could ignite a conflagration. It took me over 49 minutes to cover the distance from my house to the summit, a trip that I did in a little over 23 minutes a few months ago. Of course this time, I stopped along the way to jot down a few lines of haiku and to make a few stops to accommodate one of the less pleasant side effects of my surgery, but mostly I’m just weak and out of shape. Not wanting to be too hard on myself, I thought of the dancing bears. We shouldn’t criticize their dancing but be amazed that they can dance at all. My evaluation of my next hike will benefit from low expectations.

As I turned at the summit and began to walk back down, I saw drought-dried leaves littering the trail. I thought of the wonderful recent blog post by Julie Zickefoose (See sidebar.) called “Letting Go” about how summer can slip away before we notice she is going. I thought about how my chimney swifts left – as they always do – on September first, and I wasn’t paying attention and never said goodbye. I thought about other things that slip away, too.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

Know Your Place

2007-08-30T21:48:00.001-04:00

Berkeley, California, Sunday, August 19.

It was two hours before the warm sun finally rose above the Berkeley Hills. It is my habit when visiting our daughter in the Bay Area to rise about dawn (It helps to have lingering Eastern Time in the blood.), brew a strong pot of Peet’s coffee (A Berkeley original.) and stroll around the funky neighborhoods on the slopes above the University of California campus. On this morning, I was up around 6:00, walked for about an hour before stopping back at the apartment for more coffee and to pack a PBJ to take to a neighborhood park for breakfast. At the edge of La Loma Park, past the ball field, there are a few picnic tables and a small stone wall that affords a nice place to sit and gaze out over Berkeley to Oakland and the San Francisco Bay below. This view is often foggy in the morning, but on this day the air was clear.

As I sat quietly in solitude, I felt a little like I was perched on one of my favorite rocks on Moose Hill. At the edge of the flat park the slope drops away steeply to the west. Trees growing from the hillside – thus putting their tops closer to eye level – attracted a good variety of birds that came by as I sat, ate and daydreamed. I found it a little hard to believe that some of them weren’t coming by just to see me.

Many of the birds were familiar, but different. There were juncos, phoebes, chickadees, creepers and towhees. There were also some sparrows and tiny kinglet-like birds. Since I tried to pack light for this trip, I didn’t have my binoculars or field guide. So, while I felt sure some of the species I was seeing, like the robins, were the same as back East, I knew others, like the towhees and chickadees were different species even if their behavior seemed much like that of those back home. The hummingbirds of California are most striking. In Massachusetts, we have only the ruby-throated hummer and they are uncommon enough that I always pause to watch when I spot one buzzing from flower to flower. In California, hummingbirds are everywhere and they seem more robust and they seem to perch a lot more. I can’t begin to separate the species, but I know there are a few.

On this dry mid-August morning, the birds were mostly quiet. There may have been a soft call or chirp or even the occasional scold, but no songs. Summer was drawing to a close.

Even though it was a summer Sunday in a college town, I was surprised at how quiet it was. Berkeley is not a morning town. Here was a beautiful, dry, clear, cool Sunday morning but no one was up. In over two hours of walking around I saw one walker, one cyclist, two or three cars, and one of those was the paper guy. I didn’t even see anyone sitting on a deck reading the Sunday paper. Maybe they were all waiting for the sun to rise above those steep hills.

One thing I like to do when I travel is to lose myself in a good book, preferably one that is connected – even if only peripherally – to the place I’m visiting. Somehow I got it in my head that I wanted to read Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums while I was recovering from my surgery. Maybe it was a California tourist guide book that recommended it as a quintessential California story. Or maybe it was a favorite blog with that name. Whatever the reason, I’d never read it and figured it was about time. I found myself wishing I’d read it 30 years ago and wondering if my life would have been different if I had. Probably not. Seeds need to be planted in fertile ground.

I often find myself amazed at how writers in the post-war years like Jack Kerouac and Edward Abbey foresaw bad things happening in our society and wonder how they would feel today if they could see their worst nightmares realized ten times over. I love the idea that a book like Dharma Bums could launch a generation of “rucksack revolutionaries,” and hope that at least a few of them didn’t wind up driving SUVs to their McMansions in the suburbs.

The main character in Dharma Bums is Japhy Ryder. It turns out that Ryder, like many of the characters in Kerouac’s books, is based on a real person: the poet, Asian scholar, essayist and environmental activist Gary Snyder. (I even found a typo (?) where Kerouac refers to Japhy as Gary.) Unlike Kerouac, Snyder survived the 50’s and 60’s and went on to enjoy a long and productive career. Thanks to our hometown library and some of the great used bookstores in Berkeley and Walnut Creek, I was able to get my hands on some of Snyder’s poetry and essays. I’m not much of a poetry reader, but plenty of Snyder’s poems speak to me, and it is through his essays that I learn more about his way of thinking. That is what I was pondering as I waited for the sunrise.

He teaches that people should learn to know and love the place where they live, and we should live in it without subduing it. We should learn its geology, weather, plants, animals, and history. We should think about how people can live in a place and make it their own without destroying it. We need to understand that humans are a part of nature and that humans inhabited and adapted to the places we live long before any of our non-North American ancestors arrived and that those people had ancient biological and mystical connections to our lands that go back for millennia. We should try to feel, appreciate and respect those connections in the ways we live today.

Most of Snyder’s writings that I had were from the 60’s and 70’s. Many of his contemporaries didn’t make it to the Twenty-first Century, but Snyder did, and I wondered how he feels about how things are going today.

A few days later, as we flew east, leaving our carbon footprints along the way, I looked forward to a walk on Moose Hill. I was hoping thoughts I had on a stone wall in California among redwoods and eucalyptus would help me learn more about my woods of oak and pine back home. For now, southern New England is my place, and I feel obligated to try to know it.

A Beating Heart

2007-08-13T21:43:00.000-04:00

Like a long-neglected lover, my heart responded eagerly to the attention I was finally giving it. It beat with a happy thump as I pushed up the trail through the thick August air to Moose Hill. Just 15 days ago I was lying, unconscious, on an operating table. A giant machine, like an inquisitive alien, was scoping, probing and snipping inside my body through five punctures in my abdomen. Only four days ago I was still carrying tubes and bags. The technology and surgical skill that would ultimately save my life was also changing me in ways I will fully understand only in time. I was returning to Moose Hill on a quest to begin to understand this new me.

My throbbing heart was part of the old me. Through my surgery and early recovery, my heart served me well, repaying me for years of cycling and running. Several times in the hospital when a nurse would stop by to take my vital signs, she would not trust the high-tech device that recorded my temperature, blood pressure, oxygen saturation and heart rate. She would take my wrist and read her analog watch the old fashioned way to verify that my resting heart rate was indeed as low as 48 beats per minute. I was happy with my heart even as other body parts let me down.

It was warm - in the high 80’s (F) – as I climbed Moose Hill last Saturday, but I don’t think it could have been too warm. I wanted to sweat and feel the blood flowing through every vein. I wanted my heart to bring life-giving oxygen to every cell and to wash away the poisons that made me feel weak. I wanted the warmth to penetrate to my very core and depths to bring life and healing.

Like those recovering from traumatic injury, I would have to learn new ways to do things I’d been doing quite well all my life, thank you. When in a good mood, this need for new discoveries could seem interesting, if challenging. When less upbeat, the doubt and uncertainly about my future could be depressing. In every mood, the preoccupation with my disease and the resulting surgery and their impact on the rest of my life put me in a strange state of mind. The things that used to hold my attention held little interest. I wasn’t listening to the radio or even music. The TV sat silent (One thing I hope I grow to like!). I couldn’t focus on the newspaper. Early efforts to get back to work, even if only for a couple of hours, were, at best, endured. I didn’t even want to think about blogging. The world was passing me by, and I didn’t care. I was beginning to wonder if the anesthesia had poisoned my brain.

This walk was about me. I needed to take a long hike to reassure myself that my past self was not completely erased and that I had hope for a happy and healthy future. After about four miles of brisk walking a good kind of fatigue began to set in. My heart and legs were telling me I had done the right thing but it was time for rest. As I began the final descent out of the woods my spirit bird the pee wee called, as if reminding me that he would be there and ready to teach me the deep secrets when I was ready, once again, to listen.

Open Book

2007-07-05T07:16:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I compare Moose Hill to a book. Anyone can open a book and flip through the pages. If there are photos, they can look at the images, and they might recognize some things in the pictures, but can they read the captions? Can they read the text? Someone might enjoy a hike in the woods or a picnic in a field on a sunny day. It’s enough to look at the pretty pictures. Others might want to read the captions, so they learn the names of some birds and trees. They learn to recognize some birds by their song. Eventually, the nature lover might want to read the text. They begin to study the richness of the world around them by delving into things like ecology and history, and begin understanding how things work, how they got they way they are and how they may be affected by our actions.

I was thinking about these things on my Saturday morning walk a few weeks ago. I was previewing a walk I was to lead on Sunday for a friend’s birthday celebration (What better way to mark an important milestone than a walk on Moose Hill!?) and I wanted to refresh my memory about some trails and think about what I wanted to say.

I took the trail to Bluff Head. This rocky outcrop is probably the most popular Moose Hill destination because it offers impressive views over the countryside to the south with the ever-expanding scar of Gillette Stadium off in the distance. Not far from the bluffs, in a white pine and oak forest I heard a bird trilling. I’d heard this before and wondered what a chipping sparrow was doing so far from a roadside where I usually see them. Determined to read the caption, I left the trail and headed into the woods to find this wayfaring sparrow. Hearing the song coming from a tall pine, I suspected it was not a sparrow at all, and just as my determination and patience began to squabble, I spotted a warbler with lots of yellow and wing bars. A quick look in my old field guide informed me that the pine warbler has a song a little like the chipping sparrow.

Happy that I exercised enough discipline to learn something new – to read the caption, as it were - I found my way back to the trail. Soon, a little further up the hill where the soil is drier and the trees are shorter, I heard another pine warbler. Hoping to get a better look at the field marks, I left the main trail again and followed a deer trail into the woods. It was easier to spot this bird and there was a nice spot to sit on the rocks and have a little breakfast while watching the bird. The show quickly got interesting when I noticed the warbler was feeding one of its young!

While singing frequently, the little warbler would flit around in the pine looking for caterpillars and bring them back to the hungry youngster. I quickly noticed that the baby was nearly twice the size of the parent, and I figured it had to be a juvenile brown-headed cowbird. Cowbirds don’t build their own nests but, rather, lay their eggs in the nests of many other species and let the unwitting hosts raise the cowbird young as their own.

Thinking that could be a good story to tell the next day, I went back to the trail, walked along Bluff head, paused to take in the view, and moved on through the woods to Allen’s Ledge. It was getting warm so I found a place in the shade to eat some fruit and have some more coffee. I was a little unsettled by the responsibility of having to lead a walk the next day, so my thoughts were not as free to wander as I like while sitting alone in the woods. What could I possibly tell these people that would interest them? I wanted our time together to be more than just a stroll through the summer woods. I wanted to help them read some captions by pointing out some trees, birds and any other interesting things I could identify for them. I wanted to read them some text by talking about inter-relationships of land, plants and creatures. I could use the cowbird as an example of how human activity – in this case forest fragmentation – could impact on the lives of a variety of bird species. Through development, we break the forest up into ever-smaller patches, allowing the parasitic cowbird of open fields to more easily find its hosts. I thought it perhaps best not to go into the way seeing things while sitting alone in the woods can launch me into long daydreams of all sorts and explain how seeing this wild parasite in action might lead me to ponder parasites of other kinds, particularly the two-legged variety.

I’m happy to report the guided walk went pretty well. The twenty or so guests tended to get strung out along the trail, usually busy with conversations, so when I spotted something I wanted to talk about, I’d stop and address the smaller, more intimate group of people who happened to be nearby. An American chestnut sprout gave me the chance to talk about how imported diseases can virtually wipe out a major tree species and forever change the face of our forests. A red-cedar with scraped bark allowed me to talk about our exploding deer population. The chipmunks scampering everywhere showed the connection between an abundant acorn crop in the fall and a healthy rodent population the following spring. A small sassafras tree let me tell a story about making tea. The flute-like song of a wood thrush gave me a chance to tell my cowbird story and explain how a beloved bird – already threatened by winter habitat destruction and dangerous migrations - can be further pressured by brood parasites that are encouraged by our development activities.

All in all, I think my remarks were pretty well received. Some of my fellow hikers asked questions that showed interest and encouraged me to have confidence that - even at my limited level of knowledge about these woods - I have things to share that might be new and interesting for others. One guest even came to my house days later for help with a bird feeder. It’s satisfying to think that I helped some people to open the book that is Moose Hill, to see the pretty pictures and to start reading the words that might help them appreciate and protect the natural world around us.

Dear Readers

2007-06-28T10:46:00.000-04:00

I have been unable to find the peace of mind I prefer when preparing posts for the Moose Hill Journal lately. My mind is cluttered with many things, some of them troublesome, some of them pleasant. I’m working through some business- and health-related stuff that keeps my mind from relaxing, but I am also distracted by some nice things.

I’ve been doing a little work on one of my life-long dreams, and while this particular episode does not look like it will get me to my goal, just being able to work on it is pretty exciting in itself. I hope to have more to write about this someday soon.

The other good thing that keeps my mind from wandering to Moose Hill is my son’s cross-country bike ride. He is riding with an organization called Bike and Build in one of six groups of about thirty young people riding across America to raise funds and awareness for affordable housing issues. They stop along the way to work with groups such as Habitat for Humanity building houses, and give presentations at most of their stops to educate their hosts about the need to help create homes for those less fortunate. Please see their web site at www.bikeandbuild.org. David is on the Providence to San Francisco route. It is encouraging to know there are still some kids out there who want to do good things for others.

So, dear readers, thanks for stopping by. Please check back soon. I have a few posts percolating on the back burner and I hope to get them written soon. Until then, enjoy the summer and take time to appreciate the beauty around you.

Cold Blood

2007-06-06T22:48:00.000-04:00

My recent visits to Moose Hill have been good for my spirit but not so good for my body. Time spent sitting on a rock, searching for birds or gazing at my navel is time not spent getting exercise. A few months of knee pain helped justify slowing down a bit, but my slothful ways lead to amazingly quick weight gain and loss of fitness. The knee is feeling better now and I am running and biking more.

I didn’t have the time to explore and sit in the woods Saturday morning, so I went for a run from home to the summit of Moose Hill (26 minutes.). We had a strong thunder storm Friday evening and in the morning, the air was warm and humid. As I ran through the neighborhood, the fragrance of flowers was in the air and I could almost feel the life bursting forth around me. Insects were buzzing and birds flew about as if on important missions. It was high season in New England.

The road to Moose Hill is not busy, but plenty of cars go up and down in the course of a day. There are several swamps, ponds and vernal pools near the road and someone on foot or on a bicycle can’t help but notice the toll our cars take. Adult painted turtles and snapping turtles die on their way to and from egg-laying, and hatchlings die as they scramble from their nests and head for the water. When the weather is right, amphibians slink and hop from one small body of water to another.

We were visiting out daughter in Berkeley, California in February. February there is like April here. We went for a run on a park road that – in classic California style – was closed to automobiles to protect migrating salamanders. I have fantasies about closing the roads over Moose Hill, but who should be protected? Almost every trip up the hill reveals new roadkill: Frogs, toads, turtles, snakes, salamanders, birds, chipmunks and squirrels are all crushed under the tires. I’m sure deer have taken a toll on car bumpers, but in the end, they always lose too.

As I ran up the hill on that warm, damp late spring morning, I knew the road would never be closed, but I found myself wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care

From an Undisclosed Location

2007-05-27T22:19:00.000-04:00

"Late in the night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden- crowned thrush sing in a tree nearby. It sang as loud and cheerily as at midday, and I thought myself, after all, quite in luck."

John Burroughs, from Wake-Robin, 1871

I wanted to get off the road quickly and duck into the woods before any cars came by. As soon as I faded into the woods, leaving the road behind, I began to relax. The quarter-moon in the clear sky shed just enough light through the trees that I could see the trail, if not every root and rock. I slowed down and walked deliberately and quietly, almost as if I were in a grand cathedral at night.

In about a quarter-hour, I arrived at my destination. As soon as I saw this spot a few weeks before, I knew it would be a good place to sleep in the woods. It was off the beaten path and afforded the protection of a large boulder to sleep against. The forest floor was soft, even if there’s always one rock that can’t be moved. A small pine by my head defined the limits of my bedroom.

Just as I was preparing my bed I heard the sound of a strange animal. The closest familiar sound I can compare it to is the sound of mating cats. Actually, it sounded more like a combination of cats mating and purring. I visualized someone turning a hand crank attached through a gear box to a thin-bladed cheap tin fan to make a high-pitched whirring sound. The animal seemed to be moving around in the dark woods, almost circling me. It was a little spooky, particularly since I had no idea what it was. My best guess is a mink or fisher, but I really don’t know. (I’d appreciate opinions!) I was more annoyed than afraid, however, because I was tired and wanted to sleep. I moved my pack and shoes up by my head to increase the sense of shelter and protection. I heard the first mosquitoes of the year buzzing around my head, but was confident dropping temperatures would keep them from becoming a real problem. Little did I know my real attackers would be unheard and unseen.

Even though the sky was clear and the air was warm, I found the limited shelter of the rock comforting. There was no wind, but in my nest I could feel the subtle movement of air currents as if cooler air from the North was flowing over the boulder and down on me. I put on a fleece hat, put on a jacket and pulled my light sleeping bag up around my shoulders. A few stars were visible twinkling through the leaves along with the lights of jets on their final approach into Logan.

I was probably asleep before 10 pm only to be awakened around half past midnight by a bird. In my half-conscious state, I heard the loud teacher-teacher-teacher call of an ovenbird with an unusual warbled ending. I could have been dreaming the last part because I’ve never heard an ovenbird sing like that, but it seemed real at the time. I could have been irritated by the rude awakening, but instead, I was thrilled to hear the night song of one of my favorite birds.

I quickly fell back to sleep, only to have the ovenbird wake me again in an hour. I was less enthusiastic this time because I had some trouble getting back to sleep. As I planned this little adventure, I imagined myself getting lost in deep thoughts while alone in the woods at night. Instead, I was having fantasies about sending terminators from the future back to the past to eliminate the mother of the guy who invented the back-up beeper for dump trucks. Apparently there was night-time construction out on the Interstate and the sound carries for miles.

After falling asleep yet again, I had a series of dreams – nightmares, really - all about destruction of - and encroachment on - the woods around me. Solitude was impossible to find. There were logging machines, roads and house construction all around.

The dawn chorus of birds woke me at 4:50, before the actual sunrise at 5:17. It was a small glee club, however, with a noisy titmouse, a chickadee, the ovenbird and a tapping woodpecker. I wondered if the spring migration was just about over. I was happy to see that my nightmares were only dreams and the woods were still standing. I gave serious thought to getting up and looking for birds, but fell back to sleep and more weird dreams before getting up for good around my usual time of 6:30.

The old bones were stiff after a cool night on the ground, but the coffee in my Thermos was still warm and the bagel energy bars tasted good as I sat on a rock. There was a nuthatch, a clucking chipmunk and two or three competing ovenbirds politely taking turns singing. Otherwise the woods were pretty quiet. A few dogwoods were in bloom, providing white floral accents among the new bright green leaves of the forest. As the sun warmed the air, mosquitoes were coming out in good numbers and I knew I’d have to plan for them for the rest of the summer. In April and early May, it’s easy to forget how annoying they can be.

After breakfast I headed home. I missed the morning rush, so few people noticed the scruffy character with a backpack walking through town. As I showered, I discovered over a dozen tiny ticks on my body. They must have been attacking as I slept. There is no hunting in our town and few predators. Our unnaturally high deer population seems to create an unnaturally high population of deer ticks. A lingering concern about Lyme disease is the price I pay for my night of solitude.

There are those who might question the judgment of a grown man who wants to sleep in the woods when he has a perfectly good bed at home. There are those who would even forbid such activity. One of the books in my to-read pile is The Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv. While what we have done to keep our clean, weak, over-protected kids isolated from the natural world is tragic, I also worry about the adults. In my youth, I took many long solo hikes in the woods, often sleeping alone. It helped make me who I am. It created a part of my character. I like to think those early experiences are still with me, but one wonders. Modern conveniences, hectic schedules, changing tastes and social pressures make outdoor pursuits inconvenient, if not down-right odd.

The desire to spend this night in the woods began to take on more importance to me than one might expect of a single night’s sleep. It was to be a way to reconnect with the simple pleasures and enthusiastic adventurousness of my youth. It would be a way to more fully experience the outside world around me; to be more intimate with the woods that give so much. When my ovenbird woke me in the darkness, I thought of John Burroughs and his golden-crowned thrush. We have changed the name, but the bird and the song are the same. I was thrilled that a little bird could give me a connection to one of the great American naturalists, and a connection to the person I used to be.

The Tree of Life

2007-05-25T08:30:00.000-04:00

The trees of Moose Hill have so much to offer. They provide food and shelter for the creatures that live there and for those who pass through. They can also protect a wandering spirit and sometimes even share a story.

On several of my visits over the past year I’ve found myself focusing on a single tree, such as the black gum that offered its ripe October fruits to robins or the broken ash tree that reminded me of a damaged soul. There was that little pine that sat patiently in the shade of its elders, waiting for its chance that may never come. The cucumber tree that reminded me of my first dendrology class transported me to idealistic and optimistic times. I found another special tree that is appreciated by many – people and birds alike.

Weather permitting, I’ve been taking my breakfast on Moose Hill before work a couple of times a week lately, trying to let the spring bird migration wash over me. One of my favorite spots to sit is a nice, flat-topped rock right near the old Billings barn. I like this spot for so many reasons: It is close to the sanctuary parking lot and I can be there in five minutes. I like to sit there and imagine life on the farm in simpler times. The old barn, the new but rustic tractor shed, the stone walls, the big old maple trees, the surrounding fields all combine to create a picturesque rural scene that makes me wish I could paint or draw.

This area also has a wide variety of habitats that all come together near the barn. The barn itself offers old rafters for the phoebe that can always be seen there. Birds of the deep woods can be heard singing in the forest behind the barn. There are all kinds of brushy edges and tangles that attract towhees and catbirds. The old field across the road has nesting boxes for bluebirds and tree swallows and provides a stage for dancing woodcock. Below the field is a maple swamp that must harbor unique birds along with the frogs and peepers that call from there. I can usually count on seeing chipping sparrows in the old gravel road and orioles in the maples that border it. In an overgrown field behind the barn, last week I saw my first indigo bunting in a very long time.

Just across the drive from the barn door is a big old apple tree. I’ve noticed and admired this tree several times before, but after a birder I met a couple of weeks ago told me it is a well-know bird magnet, I started paying more attention. There are two apples, really, a large old tree and a smaller one right in front of it. The big old apple is about 40 feet tall and that much around. I went there last Tuesday morning specifically to sit by the apple trees and watch the action. The foliage was dense, but on closer inspection, the leaves were peppered with holes from the caterpillars that draw the birds.

I sat down on my rack and settled in for breakfast and entertainment Moose Hill style. A red-eyed vireo, recently arrived, was singing from the top of a near-by maple. High up. Way up. Tree top. This bird is often heard, but less frequently seen hidden in the dense foliage high in hardwood trees. At first, it was good to hear his arboreal serenade, but these cheery busybodies never seem to shut up, and soon enough I was wishing he would be quiet so could hear something else. A movement under the big apple caught my eye and I got up to see what it was. The ground under the tree is quite open and I watched as a wood thrush – my first of the year – hopped around robin-like. After a while, he retired to the forest to play his lovely flute.

During my short stay, many birds visited the old apple. Many of them were regulars such as the phoebe, catbirds, chipping sparrows and chickadees. The only warbler I could identify on this day was the black-throated green thanks to a quick glimpse of his distinctive facial features and his zee zee zee zoo zee song. A few other small birds were there, but I couldn’t get a clear view as they moved steadily through the thick leaves.

My breakfast was finished, a few raindrops began to fall, and even I needed to get some work done. I took a last look at the old apple as a few of the blossom petals drifted to the ground like fat snowflakes. I wondered if this tree or its predecessors nourished the farmer that once worked this land. Perhaps it was planted by a Johnny Appleseed-like character intending to provide fruit for cider. Little did he know he would be supplying a very different sort of intoxication, but one no less valued, for those who came here from a time and place very far away.

May on the Deck

2007-05-12T14:56:00.000-04:00

chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home

Clean Light

2007-05-11T20:06:00.000-04:00

I listened to the bird calls as I sleepily pedaled the bike up Moose Hill on Saturday morning. I heard the usual characters – cardinal, chipping sparrow, titmouse, chickadee – but I was opening my ears for new sounds from the woods. I heard a towhee; I knew they were back. But wait, was that an oriole? Was that a catbird? I was hopeful that I would see several recent arrivals from mysterious journeys.

I had a time limit, so I tried to get out of the house early and stay close to home. That usually means Hobbs Hill. I like this spot because it’s only half way up the hill and I can get there quickly. Because it’s removed from the sanctuary parking lot by a half mile or so, I’m less likely to see other people there. I find the hill itself comfortable in an innate sort of way. Its flat top with short ash and hickory trees and open understory (Thanks in large part to hungry deer.) feels a bit like an island in a sea of trees. The steep sides offer great places to sit and look down on the forest below.

As soon as I arrived at the top of the hill I caught a brief look at a thrush that reminded me of one I’d watched there last year. I hadn’t heard any wood thrush yet, so I thought this might be a hermit thrush. Another movement caught my eye, and I was treated to the sight of a pair of chickadees working to hollow out a cavity in a small ash stump. The entrance was only about three feet off the ground and the birds took turns flying into their new home and picking punky wood from the bottom of the cavity. There seemed to be a delicate balance between a tree that is rotten enough for these tiny birds to excavate and one that is strong enough to remain upright until the babies fledge.

I went to my usual rock, but the rising sun was in my face making it difficult to see small birds in tall trees, so I looked for a new spot. This was alternative rock in the Moose Hill sense, I guess, and it turned out to be a good choice. I felt like a raptor, perched on my rock and, between sips of coffee, scanning the forest below for any movement. Lifting my binoculars so my vision would be more like a hawk and less like an ageing human, I watched as a chipmunk emerged from under an old stump to shuffle the dry oak leaves.

Maybe I missed the dawn chorus, perhaps my timing was off by a few days, or maybe there are simply fewer birds around, but the woods seemed quiet. A few birds were going quietly about their business, such as the downy woodpecker and myrtle warbler that came by, but they seemed quiet and subdued; their calls more like whispers than the exuberant springtime singing I was hoping for.

It was another cool, calm, clear morning, so visibility was excellent. That made it all the more maddening to hear a few forgotten or unfamiliar bird songs but only catch fleeting glimpses as the birds move about. I’m not very good a craning my neck to study the undersides of tiny, hyperactive creatures.

With my sandwich gone and coffee intake sufficient, I decided to head back to the bike while taking time to identify just one or two interesting birds. I knew I didn’t have the time to chase after every tweet and twitter I heard, so I would try to focus on just a few. Just as I made that decision I was hearing a repetitive song, almost but not quite like the caroling of a robin. Just above where the chickadees were busy laboring, I saw a flash of brilliant red. A scarlet tanager!

With his scarlet body and starkly contrasting black wings, I can’t imagine a more exotic-looking bird in these woods. Because I was on the hill and the trees he was working in were rooted down below, he was just over my head. This was no fleeting glimpse. He sat, moved about examining tree buds and sang, offering one perfect view after the other. I worried about the challenges he and his kind faced as they migrated and wintered in the tropics.

Just then, a few yards below my feet working among the rocks of the craggy hillside I spotted one – and then another- hermit thrush. One was carrying a short, thin twig! I guess I wasn’t imagining the thrush I saw just as I arrived. This pair also offered wonderful views as they pumped their reddish tails and walked and hopped from twig to rock as if house-hunting. This spot struck me as perfect for a hermit. I imagined a cozy nest in a crack or crevice with a sheltering fern frond overhead. These two seemed united in their task and it seemed that even a hermit likes a little company once in a while.

Yet again, I was moved by the magic of Moose Hill. All I had to do was think about finding two good birds before heading for home, and I didn’t even have to leave my seat. Maybe it was the birds, maybe it was the caffeine, but as walked slowly along the trail through the sweet, fresh air back to my bike I was on a high. The sunlight filtering through the trees to illuminate the forest floor was so pure and clear that the eyes tricked the mind into thinking the thoughts were clear as well.

The flute-like song of a thrush lured me off the trail. At first I thought I was hearing my first wood thrush of the year, but the song was not quite right. I moved toward the bird and he moved toward me. I thought I saw the tail-pumping of another hermit thrush before he flew off. I knew the pleasant task of learning more about the thrushes of Moose Hill lay ahead of me.

As I arrived at my bike and prepared to head home, I wondered what it was about this place that so often makes my mind and senses feel so relaxed and alert at the same time. Part of the comfort I find in these woods comes from familiarity. By visiting many of the same places repeatedly over the past year, I find that each spot offers a history that links one visit to the next. Individual trees, rocks and even birds have stories to tell if I visit them often enough. At least, I think I hear this land telling tales. My hope is that the clear light will allow my mind to eventually understand the mysteries Moose Hill has to share.

Siren Song

2007-05-06T13:16:00.000-04:00

May 1st has long been one of my favorite days of the year. Spring is blooming in all its richness and bird migration is starting to peak. I observed the arrival of this special month by playing hooky again for an hour of breakfast and coffee on Moose Hill on Tuesday and Friday mornings this week. By leaving home a little early and spending the time I would otherwise use reading the paper or generally procrastinating, I can get an hour in the woods and still get my work done.

I drove down the hill from the town center and passed the train depot. I saw the suits rushing to the station, heading to work in Boston. There are days I wish I could do that, but these days were not among them. The sky was clear and a bright sun was warming the cool air. I knew the woods held birds I had not seen in months and I wanted to be there to great them. I was glad that the demands of clocks and offices were largely irrelevant to me.

I parked in the sanctuary lot and started walking toward Moose Hill. I was welcomed by the chipping sparrows that are always trilling along the street and the red bellied woodpecker that seems to have a territory right near the beginning of the Summit Trail. Following my usual modus operandi, I hiked to one of the trails around the base of Moose Hill and walked until I spotted some inviting, sun-warmed rocks up the hill. I then climbed up, found a comfortable spot with a view and sat down to survey the surroundings.

I didn’t see many birds as I moved along the trail. The tree buds were just opening, so visibility to the treetops was excellent. Although the sky was clear, I thought perhaps strong breezes were keeping the birds down. On Tuesday, as if to confirm my hypothesis, I saw birds moving low in the forest just as I sat down in my selected spot. The first was a bright yellow warbler with brown streaks on its sides, a neat chestnut cap and a funny habit of pumping its tail rather like a hermit thrush. I carry my old Peterson guide on days like this when I know I will likely see birds I don’t know well. The guide told me this was a palm warbler and they are known for staying near the ground, so this fellow wasn’t doing anything unusual to support my theory about the wind keeping small birds out of the treetops. I looked at the checklist in the front of the book and saw that I had marked this bird off as seen, but that may have been 30 years ago, so this was almost as good as a life bird to me.

Within minutes, a black and white warbler came by. I didn’t need a book to ID this little guy who carries his name in his colors. Other than the usual chickadees, titmice and chipmunks, I didn’t see much else on Tuesday. The steady rush of the wind in the tree branches made it difficult to hear the subtle bird calls and songs, but I was content to be alone and watch how the bright sun dappled the forest floor with clear light.

Friday was much like Tuesday. The woods were quieter than I might have expected on a clear day in early May. I reflected on the wonderful, if troubling, NPR radio program on Tom Ashbrook’s Onpoint Radio. (See sidebar.) They discussed the myriad threats facing migrating birds these days from the destruction of tropical rain forests, to development on the Gulf Coast, to communications towers, to pesticides. Perhaps it was this in this momentary low mood that I reminded myself that May 4^th was the day that America killed some of it own.

It would be very unlike Moose Hill to fail to offer up some treat for the senses and, in time, as I sat quietly I began to hear subtle sounds. I heard, and then saw, first a small group of myrtle warblers with their funny habit of dropping from on tree branch to the other. I saw another palm warbler and it was good to see this bird two visits in a row to reinforce my familiarity with it.

As I listened for new birds, I heard a new call just up the hill. It was a “teach-teach-teach” much like and ovenbird, but not quite. It was coming from behind some pines just over a ridge. I walk that way, pausing to listen. I heard the call again, this time just a little further up the hill, still beyond sight. This went on for a while longer with the bird calling but seemingly moving away just as I approached.

I began to imagine myself following this tempting spirit deeper and deeper into the wild until I was lost. I fantasized about discovering beautiful stands of virgin forest with sun-lit mossy openings where colorful birds warbled gentle songs. Realizing I could never find a better place to rest, I set down my pack, wrote a final page in my journal and dozed off into eternal sleep.

Somewhere about that time, my cell phone went off. As with the mylar balloons I picked up from the forest floor, even here the outside world finds a way to intrude. Even though I have no boss and no office to go to, I have responsibilities and work to do, but I am not afraid to set them aside for a few minutes of peace and quiet. There are those who would call me lazy. I prefer to think of myself as tremendously ambitions in my quest for balance.

I recently talked to a young man who is astonishingly successful in the world of money. His family is falling apart. When I suggested that with all the money he had, surely he could spend more time at home. He said he needed to stay productive. Perhaps the balance sheets he reads so well lack some important data altogether. I spoke with another man who commutes in a car for up to two hours each way to sit in an office and profit from those losing everything in the mortgage crisis. In both our natural world and our own lives, all too often we ignore the true cost of things. How much is a happy wife worth? What price tag goes on a warbler’s song? As Ansel Adams said, some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Some people are driven to succeed. Some march to a different drummer. Others hear a siren song. Some are called to the world of clocks, money, productivity and things. Others hear a different tune and are called to walk in the woods on a beautiful spring morning. We live in a world of opportunity, freedom and choices. I choose to spend an hour sitting quietly in the forest thinking about the value of the quest for serenity.

Why the Dove Mourns

2007-05-01T21:27:00.000-04:00

I never paid much attention to morning doves. They’re pretty birds and their gentle cooing is soothing. They go quietly about their business and don’t bother anybody – not even insects, it seems – as they search for seeds. Down South, these swift fliers are favorite targets of shotgunners. Around here, they are protected songbirds. They’re common birds without being over-abundant. Like other birds I see every day, I tend not to pay enough attention.

All this changed a bit week before last when my wife pointed out a dove nesting in the end of a rain gutter on our house. I was working in our driveway, installing some windows for our next-door neighbor and the nest was no more than ten feet above my head. The mother (I presume) sat stoically on the nest, sometimes with her tail sticking out, other times with her head peeking over the edge of the aluminum gutter. Unlike the robins nesting on our garage floodlight last year, she never flushed as I moved about and showed little concern about my presence.

I got my extension ladder to go up and take a peek. Expecting eggs, I was surprised to see two nestlings. When I first saw the babies about a week and a half ago, they looked like two squat, black toads with a heavy stubble.

Saturday morning, I was sitting on the deck, enjoying the on-rush of Spring and seeing how many bird species I could count from my lounge chair (20). When I went to check on the nestlings, they looked like little adult doves – nearly the size of ground doves I’ve seen out West - with bright black eyes. At feeding time, the mother would open her mouth and the babies would reach in for what I imagined was a regurgitated meal of seeds. The parents were spending less time on the nest and the babies were moving about, stretching their wings and looking like they’d tumble out of the gutter at any moment. Both parent sat on the peak of the roof next door, looking down at the nest as if urging their youngsters to fly.

Early Sunday morning, as I went out to the shed to get my bike for my Sunday morning ride, a cat was crouched on the lawn, tail swishing, looking ready to pounce on a male cardinal collecting sunflower seeds under the feeder. I chased the cat (and wondered if that was reason enough to get a Boston terrier). I forgot to check the dove nest before I left, but when I came home a few hours later, I noticed it was empty. I was happy the nestlings had become fledglings, but was disappointed that I hadn’t been around to see their first flights, and I was surprised that such small birds would disappear so quickly from the vicinity.

Later that afternoon, while doing a little yard work, I noticed a scattering of bird feathers on the lawn near the feeder. The feathers were brown, small and didn’t look fully developed. There were small bits of flesh on some of the quills. Right away, in my heart, I was sure my doves had died. I looked around for more remains or – hopefully – a survivor, but discovered no more clues. It pained me to think the little doves had died on their maiden voyage. I thought about cats and thought how thoughtless cat owners allow their pets to roam free to playfully destroy so much wildlife. I thought of the quote: “The boys threw the stones in sport, but the frogs died in earnest.”

Looking around the yard, I saw both adult doves moving about the yard, flying from perch to perch, cooing, and in their quiet dove way, looking agitated. I got my ladder to climb up and make sure both babies were gone. As I did, one of the adults landed and walked across the roof, coming within four feet of me as if to ask, “Where are my babies? Can you help me find them?”

Just then, I heard a commotion as a small hawk, possibly a sharp-shinned or coopers hawk, chased by a blue jay, landed in one of the maples in the backyard. I wondered if that could explain the missing babies and wondered if the hawk could have taken them right from the nest. I'm sure it’s all the same to the doves, but I somehow prefer to think that the babies died as a meal for a magnificent hawk than as playthings for a neighborhood cat.

I felt a strange sadness as I went back to my work. I thought about how hard the doves worked to build a nest, incubate the eggs, feed the nestlings and keep them warm through the cold rains we’ve had. Now, the babies were gone and the parents seemed so upset. Did they see their babies die? What did they feel? Do they feel horror? Do they feel sadness? Do they grieve? I know animals don’t think and feel the way humans do, but I know these birds sensed a loss.

Maybe the mournful cooing of the dove is a song of sadness for all the babies these gentle, defenseless birds have lost throughout time. Will they start over? What else can they do? How much loss can they endure before they give up?

When I came home this evening, I saw two doves sitting side-by-side on a tree branch near where the babies died. At least they still have each other.

Surfing the Web of Life

2007-04-25T17:35:00.000-04:00

Are you ever late for work? Why is that? Did you oversleep? Get stuck in traffic? Spend too much time on the computer?

Since I’m unemployable, I don’t have a commute. I go about my own business in the morning and must answer – for the most part – only to myself if I’m running late. When running one of my regular errands, I usually take a route that goes over Moose Hill. We’ve been having unseasonably warm weather this week that is very welcome after the cold wet spell we just went through. Since I missed my trip to the Hill this weekend, I planned to play hooky for an hour or so and stop at Moose Hill for breakfast while running the errand to enjoy the warmth and see if I could find any new spring arrivals.

I parked the car and got out. It didn’t take long to find two new birds for the season. I heard the trill of the chipping sparrows right away. I happily remembered how they would lead the way as I rode my bike up the hill last summer and I was glad to see they are back. Then, as I walked up the gravel road to the Billings Farm area, I could hear that the towhee tea party was already cranking up. Spring is in full swing now!

There’s a big old dead white pine on the edge of the lower meadow where I so often love to sit. It’s ugly to the human eye, but the birds love it, possibly for the great view across the open field it affords. As I passed this time, a male cardinal – brilliantly illuminated by the morning sun – sat singing at the tip-top while a mourning dove and flicker sat nearby.

On my way up to the old barn, I paused to watch a chickadee checking out one of the nesting boxes in the upper meadow. I guess he didn’t get the memo that those are reserved for bluebirds.

I found a nice flat rock near the barn and tractor shed and sat down to breakfast. I pondered how, as the falling tree does make noise even when there’s no one there to hear it, life on Moose Hill goes on even on weekdays when there are few hikers and birdwatchers to see it. Life goes on at all hours of the night and day and during all seasons of the year, too, if only we would pay attention.

A small cloud of blackflies behaved as if they wanted me for breakfast. Luckily, the flies here are more annoying than painful with their tendency to fly into the eyes and mouth but they don’t bite as much as the infamous pests of the North Country.

From my perch on the rock, I could watch the barnyard regulars. I can usually count on seeing a phoebe there, and there are often goldfinches, and both were present on this day. Blue jays and robins also paid a visit. I was thinking about the brilliant colors of cardinals, goldfinches and blue jays. Perhaps because these birds are so common around here we might make the mistake of taking their spectacular colors for granted. A bird-watching visitor from elsewhere might be thrilled to see such bright red, yellow and blue birds.

The old barnyard apple was leafing out, and forsythias were blooming. Even the non-native grasses were greening up. Red maple flower buds were starting to pop, but the other native trees are still bare. It’s interesting to see how introduced plants retain a seasonal schedule inherited from Europe or Asia that makes them bloom earlier in spring and lose their leaves later in the fall. Maybe that’s one reason some imports do so well here and become pests.

It was time to get back to work, so I roused myself from my daydreams and headed back down the old road. In the lower meadow a beautiful male bluebird was guarding his box and flying down to the closely-mown meadow to pounce on insects. I wondered if he won his battle with the swallows. This is one bird whose color will not soon be taken for granted.

I was soon back at the car and on my way. I was only a little late, not that anyone would notice. If someone did ask, I’d just tell them I was lost in a dream, stuck in the traffic of nature and surfing the web of life.

Calm Before The Storm

2007-04-14T14:24:00.000-04:00

Moose Hill beckoned. Between a trip to Arizona and general busyness, I hadn’t been able to spend much time on Moose Hill lately. It’s been unseasonably cool and wet recently and a big storm is headed our way. This morning was cool and windy but sunny and I craved some time in my special place before the rains start again. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, packed my bag and pulled the single speed out of the shed.

Inspired by Julie Zickefoose with her NPR commentary and Laura of Somewhere In New Jersey (See sidebar) I did sneak up there on one of the few warm, calm evenings a couple of weeks ago to look for dancing woodcock. Once again, the Hill did not disappoint and I found these funny birds right where I hoped to find them. But that is another story.

While in Arizona, we spent a day visiting Sedona. This beautiful part of the Southwest is famous for not only for its spectacular red rocks and sunsets but for its vortexes (vortices?) as well. Apparently, a vortex is a mystical place where some form of mysterious cosmic energy flows in or out (depending, it seems, on whether the energy is male or female) of the Earth. We climbed to one of these spots and I was happy and a little amused to see a woman sitting in a yoga pose. I don’t know if she was feeling anything or if she was hoping for male or female energy, but I wished her luck. I wasn’t feeling anything. That’s probably because I’m a skeptic about such things, but it may have had something to do with the fact that there was a small crowd of people there, one kid was sitting on the apex of the vortex trying to do homework and two cell phones went off. Or, maybe it was Bill McKibben’s new book that I was reading about the grim prospects for our future if we don’t wake up that had me too unsettled to find inner peace.

I was thinking about mystical forces this morning as I sat in one of my favorite spots on Moose Hill. My initial plan was to explore an unfamiliar part of the woods, but as I climbed the hill I was reflecting back on the year since I started this blog and decided to go back to where it started and just sit and think about stuff.

I took a quick walk around the upper Billings meadow where I watched the woodcocks, hoping to flush a bird or see some whitewash but did neither. I went back to the lower meadow, planning to sit in my favorite spot by the old stone wall.

Before I sat down, I walked around the field to check on the four beehives there. I’ve been hearing about a mysterious malady that has been wiping out honeybees. I was hoping that these isolated hives, away from pesticides and other bees, might escape the disaster. I saw activity at the one Styrofoam hive, but the three wooden ones were silent. I think there was more activity three weeks ago, but I’m not sure. Maybe this place is not as magical for bees as it is for me.

I went back to my spot and set up shop. I got out my binoculars, notebook, coffee and bagel and waited for the show to begin. It didn’t take long. A pair of bluebirds – a bright blue male and browner female – came by to check out the two post-mounted nesting boxes in the meadow. Then, a pair of tree swallows zoomed in from above and a few skirmishes ensued. I remembered that it was the swallows nesting here last spring, and I wondered who would win this time. A little later, I was especially thrilled when my first phoebe of the year flew in, perched, and wagged a greeting. In all, I saw and/or heard just over a dozen bird species from that spot with only the most casual observation. As the sun shone brightly, frogs started croaking in the swamp.

Once again, Moose Hill in general, and this spot in particular filled me with joy. I thought about how this little meadow brought me to tears with its beauty in October. Maybe this is my vortex. I can go there and sit in the sun, sheltered from the wind by the old stones, and for a few moments forget about the world outside.

Too soon, the coffee was gone and the clouds started to build. The wind turned colder and the frogs went silent. Like the irresistible force of fate, the monstrous storm pressed from the south. I momentarily drifted off into a reverie. I wished I had the power to take a long nap and wake when everyone is healthy, the world is at peace and the air is pure. I thought how this meadow may not have looked much different a hundred years ago, but I dreamt I woke up to find it just like this a hundred years in the future.

So, should you ever find yourself walking on Moose Hill and you come upon an old man with a long white beard in tattered clothing dozing by an old rock wall, look around before you wake him up. If a warm sun is shining in a cool blue sky, the bees are in their hives, the bluebirds are happy in one box and the swallows are content in the other, please wake him up.

Wandering in the Desert

2007-04-13T22:53:00.000-04:00

Vacations can be wonderful things. Life on vacation can seem so simple, with the world reduced to the few objects along for the trip and even fewer worries. A vacation can be a time for extended daydreaming and fantasy. Being away makes it easier to get lost in an alternate reality.

When I visit a new place, I like to think about how it would be to live there (See “Could I Live Here?”, August 26, 2006). I also wonder where all of us middle-agers might go when we retire (See “Boomers on the Move”, May 18, 2006). When on vacation, I also like to pick up a good book that will help set the tone for my noodlings. Often, it seems, something from a newspaper or magazine will help assemble pieces of the mental framework. All these things came together for me last week.

I just got back from an extended stay in Scottsdale, Arizona. Yes, many Boomers will likely move there, and no, I could not live there. The book was Deep Economy by Bill McKibben, and the newspaper article was a piece on cohousing in the New York Times.

Scottsdale and Phoenix, for me, typify what seems so common in the New West. Everywhere one looks there is mile after mile of bulldozed desert with acre after acre of new subdivisions and strip after strip of malls and big box stores. The beautiful, smooth, efficient highways carry big, shiny, new SUV’s, many of them touting “Flexfuel” labels. The sun beats down and there is not a solar panel in sight. The desert is parched, and yet and canals carry water from miles away and the golf courses are green.

One of my favorite places to make pilgrimage in Scottsdale is Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West. On a tour I took there I saw a photo of the compound taken from the nearby McDowell Mountains. Taliesin stood alone in miles of unbroken desert. Way off in the distance was Old Scottsdale. Now, development presses in from every side and off in every direction. Gated compounds even push up into the mountains themselves. I was shocked to notice that the photo was taken in 1970. In less than forty years, well within the span of my own memory, Scottsdale has exploded from a sleepy little town in the hot, dusty desert to a vast, sprawling modern suburb.

I think of Scottsdale as a town with no soul. There are no neighborhoods, only alternating subdivisions and shopping centers that all look the same. There are bike lanes and sidewalks along most of the wide boulevards, but no one uses them, even in the beautiful spring weather. Walking through a development, there is nowhere to go on foot. There are no community stores or coffee shops. Want a newspaper? Hop in the car, turn on the AC, and drive. For the life of me, I can’t imagine where all the water, electricity and gasoline to support this mirage in the desert will come from.

Scottsdale is a great place to read a book like Deep Economy. Bill McKibben paints a grim picture indeed about how we are running out of money, energy, water and atmosphere. He argues that in our zeal to grow and become ever more efficient by concentrating everything – from water, to agriculture, to power production - in the hands of big producers, we have come to rely on the slave of fossil fuel. That fuel is running out and the carbon dioxide released by burning it is changing the atmosphere in ways that are accelerating and may well be irreversible. Moreover, he argues that our unending quest for personal wealth is not making us happier.

He suggests that by living more cooperatively and trying to live together in tight-knit communities, we can decentralize the production of food, water, energy and many other things we need. As key examples, he offers the local food movement and solar and wind power.

McKibben is a dreamer, but acknowledges the challenges. It is inherent in the American dream that we all want our own piece of the pie to eat as we choose. He calls it “hyper individualism.” He has a tough row to hoe. In this one trip I saw three little examples of behavior and human nature that lead me to believe we have little basis for hope.

At the airport baggage carousel, everyone rushes forward to stand next to the moving belt, blocking the view and way for everyone else. If we all stood back and waited, everyone could clearly see their bags emerge and calmly walk forward to pick them up.

At the resort, people rise early in the morning to place towels and magazines on prime poolside chairs to stake a claim, even if they don’t plan to sit in the sun until after lunch. If sunbathers only sat when they wanted to and cleaned up after themselves when they were done, there would be chairs for everybody.

In a busy parking lot, drivers circled for several minutes waiting for a space to become available. Even though spaces were clearly rare and in demand, a driver in a big new gas hog had no compunctions about perfectly straddling a line to take up two spaces for himself.

Just as I was thinking about what it might be like to live in a community of like-minded souls who want to respect the Earth and cooperate to make life better for everyone I came upon an article in the New York Times that described a variety cohousing projects. (See www.cohousing.org) I don’t know much about cohousing yet, but imagine it as something like forming a commune or kibbutz for the twenty-first century. Some resources are private, some are shared, and all members are drawn together by common interests and worldviews.

I used to wonder where all the Boomers would retire to. I may have been asking the wrong question. What may be more important for our generation is who we retire with. I hope enough of us find creative ways to live together in sustainable communities that leave something for future generations. And soon.

Overload and Paralysis

2007-03-31T00:47:00.000-04:00

I left home Saturday morning at about 9:15. It was clear, sunny, calm, about 45 degrees and warming rapidly in the spring sun. I decided to walk to Moose Hill rather than taking the bike because, I thought, a brisk walk up the hill would be more exercise. This is where my troubles began.

To make things more interesting, I took as many trails as I could, staying off the road as much as possible. I took a shortcut through the train station parking lot that leads down a dirt road, past some little-known tennis courts and eventually to the dam that forms the cedar swamp where the redwings were back and calling and the geese and mallards were pairing up. As soon as I left the parking lot, I started to see birds. I’d walk for a minute or two, see a bird flash by and have to pause to see what it was. Naturally, where there is one, there may be a half dozen or more. Sure, they were mostly the usual suspects – a small flock of chickadees with the titmouse, nuthatch and downy woodpecker hangers-on – but I have little trouble finding joy in watching even these common denizens of these woods. Also, I am often rewarded with a glimpse of something special among these little troops of small birds.

About half way up the hill along the Ovenbird Trail, I stopped for a minute to watch a pair of titmice – clearly with spring on their minds – exploring a hole in an oak branch. Suddenly, a red squirrel in a big white pine overhead started scolding me. Eventually, she was so overcome with anger or curiosity, she had to climb down to get a closer look and tell me to keep moving. Just then, there was a clattering of hooves on rocks as four deer - unseen until they moved – vacated the area. I wondered if they were the same four I saw sitting and watching me a couple of months ago. Then, too, they got up and moved only after I stopped walking.

It seems some creatures react when confronted with silence, the way some people can’t stand a pause in conversation. I remember a time in Maine when smallmouth bass would hit a plug only when it was floating still and never when it was swimming. I recall grouse busting out of cover only when the hunter stopped walking. The animals on Moose Hill may be accustomed to walkers moving steadily along well-used paths, but get nervous then the regular rhythm of footsteps stops.

A little further along, I stopped and looked up through the leafless trees as a great blue heron – my first of the year - flew by overhead. He was rowing lazily through the clear air, and in the bright light I could see him flying straight but turning his long-beaked head from side to side on his long neck as if sightseeing while driving down the interstate.

By the time I stopped a few minutes later to watch and listen as a Carolina wren made a ruckus, I acknowledged that I wasn’t going to get a great workout on this day. It’s hard to keep the heart rate up when every turn in the path reveals a new treat to savor; a new bird or mammal to study.

At the top of the hill, I broke out of the woods and into the big field where – in season -the tree swallows and monarchs fly. I heard a junco trilling in a way that made me think a chipping sparrow had made an early return. A small flock of robins seemed happy to be hopping around on the snow-matted grass. Blue jays worked along the edges of the field. I scanned the nesting boxes with my binoculars to find my first two tree swallows of the year! I was happy to see their crisp white bellies and glistening blue-purple backs. I wondered if they were tired after a long journey. I was thrilled to hear their twinkling calls as I left the field.

Out on the road, I heard the loud trilling and heavy machine gun of a red-bellied woodpecker. This was no tapping for breakfast. He was making a vernal statement.

I left the street again and turned down the dirt road that leads to the old Billings farm where I planned to sit in my favorite field for breakfast. There was still some snow in the piney areas or in the shadow of a stone wall, but it was rapidly melting. There were still chunks of ice in the swamp, but I knew the peepers would soon be singing. A few galvanized buckets still hung from taps in the sugar maples. I tasted sweet drops of sap, but the season was all but over.

I finally made it to my spot in the sun where I could sit with my back to the stone wall and look out over the small meadow with its bird houses and bee hives. It had already reached the time when I said I would be home and I just sat down to my coffee and sandwich. Spring is a time when there can be too much to see. From the bluebird eyeing the nest box to the chipmunk rising from her winter sleep, there is always something to arrest the attention. Sometimes, I’m not sure where to look first. It is a happy overload; a pleasant paralysis.

What wonderful drugs were coursing through my veins! I sat in the warm sun after an hour and a half of springtime walking and discovery, and let the coffee bathe my brain. It felt great to be back on the hill, knowing that a new season was about to unfold. There was no green yet other than the pines and moss, but I heard my first chipmunk cluck and a big, sleepy-looking fly landed on my backpack.

After breakfast, I headed for home. Before I left the woods, I saw my first butterfly of the season. It was large and brown with blue spots and a creamy fringe on its wings. It’s called a mourning cloak, but I saw only joy in its springtime flight.

Your Content Has Been Deleted

2007-03-26T23:29:00.000-04:00

Nearly ten years ago, I was warned that the real troubles in my life would blindside me at 4:00 PM on some idle Tuesday. Strangely, I never forgot the warning, but little did I know how true it would be.

In the late Nineties I would carpool my son to middle school. I liked to play music on cassette tapes during the trip. I am prone to playing a tape I like over and over for a long time. One of my favorites was “Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen),” by Baz Luhrmann. This was a reading, set to music, of an imaginary commencement speech by Mary Schmich of the Chicago Tribune published June 1, 1997 that became famous on the Internet as the speech that was never delivered at a graduation by Kurt Vonnegut. (A quick web search will yield both versions.) The speech is full of all sorts of memorable lines like: “Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth,” “Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone,” and “Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.” The relevant chestnut here is;

“Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.”

In my case, it was 4:10 p.m. on a Tuesday, and while I wasn’t being idle, I was distracted, knowing that I was expecting my ever-vigilant urologist to call with the results of my second biopsy in less than two years. My cell phone went off. “One of your samples shows a malignancy.” I wasn’t exactly blindsided, either, because I had a gut feeling that my luck had run out. Somehow, out of the depths of my memory that line from a song I hadn’t thought about in years bubbled to the surface.

After the call, I went through the motions of working for a little while longer, went home, changed plans and walked to Moose Hill. I wanted to be alone and I knew where I wanted to go. I walked up Moose Hill Parkway and took one of my favorite trails, the one that goes over Hobbs Hill. Early spring was in the air. It was cloudy and cool, but the recent snow was wet and melting fast. I tried to look around; to spot changes in the woods. We didn’t have much snow this winter so the many deer tracks in the slush reminded me of the tales a little snow cover could tell. Looking up through the oaks, I saw a pair of newly-returning turkey vultures teeter-tottering in the wind. It wasn’t easy to concentrate, though.

I thought about how spring would come and other seasons would pass, no matter what happened to me. I walked by my favorite breakfast rock, reluctant to look at it for fear that I would feel like I was looking at it for the last time. Look, I knew I was over-reacting. My cancer is common among aging (Ouch!) men. It is in the very early stages, probably as early as it’s possible to detect, and it’s very curable. But I figure everybody is entitled to a little moodiness after such a diagnosis, no matter how good the prognosis. Between thoughts of fear, uncertainty, self-pity – even guilt and failure – I moved along the trail and also thought about the hours I’d spent here over the past year and knew I would be back many more times. As I walked, I started to come to my senses. I am fortunate to live in a time and place where state-of-the-art medical care is available. I have a loving and supportive family. My health is otherwise good and I’m young and strong enough to recover quickly from surgery.

Just as I was feeling good enough to head back home, my cell phone went off again. This time, it was a text message from my phone company. The only time I had ever used my phone to upload photos was when I took two pictures of baby snapping turtles crossing Moose Hill Parkway in September (See “Two Little, Too Late,” September 16, 2006.). The account had been inactive since then and they wanted to clear out the old files, I guess. The message informed me: “Your Content Has Been Deleted.”

Oh, great, I thought. I only got my diagnosis a couple of hours ago and already they’re getting rid of my stuff, cleaning up after me, erasing traces of my existence, deleting the content of my soul. Before long, I’ll only be a memory, and that too will fade.

Not yet, you bastards. Not yet.

A Precious Message You Bring Me

2007-03-19T23:41:00.000-04:00

There have been places so beautiful and vast that my senses and mind have been overwhelmed, unable to absorb all the grandeur. One place that struck me this way most strongly was the Canadian Rockies. We were there fifteen or so years ago, and I can still remember standing at a scenic overlook, gazing at the miles of unbroken forest, deep valleys and mountain peaks and getting the feeling that I was looking at a photograph or nature documentary, and not something real. Oh, the view was beautiful and awe-inspiring to be sure, but there was also something unsettling about it. Perhaps, because I’ve spent my whole life living in the East, near sea level, I lack a frame of reference sufficient to place such vast landscapes in a context that I can truly understand and feel comfortable with. I don’t know if it’s innate, or learned, but perhaps some of us just feel more at home in a landscape that shows the hand of man. I can still remember a certain feeling of relief when we left the mountains and drove through gentler lower valleys that offered lovely rural scenes with pastures, fences, simple homes and country roads.

A few weeks ago we were visiting our daughter in Berkeley, California and we made a short visit to Yosemite National Park. After a lifetime of Walt Disney specials and Ansel Adams photographs, I was eager to go there at the first opportunity.

We drove inland from the Bay Area, passing through Altamont Pass. The name “Altamont” bounced around inside my slow, leaky brain. When I saw the magnificent wind farm on the hills around the pass (See “Hope Persists,” March 10, 2007), I thought that was the memory I was seeking. Some time later, I unearthed the deeper memory. Altamont was the place the Sixties died. At the close of the decade in December of 1969, the Rolling Stones played a free concert at the Altamont Speedway in Livermore, California that turned into a deadly disaster. The decade of peace and love dissolved into a riotous scene of brutality and murder. Some of us who thought the world was on a better path were slow to acknowledge the truth.

Perhaps it is with some small cosmic irony that my little journey from Altamont to Yosemite, in a way, skipped over a century from 1969 to 1869. For one brief moment, it felt as if I stepped into the nineteenth century to discover a spirit bird.

We enjoyed a wonderful visit to the park, acting like typical tourists, driving to all the famous attractions in Yosemite Valley like the Arch Rock Entrance, Bridalveil Falls and Yosemite Falls. We were suitably awed by the towering granite monoliths of Half Dome and El Capitan. We basked vicariously in the wealth and elegance of Ahwahnee Lodge. My suspicions were confirmed when only a short hike from the road up to Inspiration Point left all but two other tourists behind. Most Americans hate to walk. There we drank in a view that has been made famous by countless photographs.

I knew I would never be able to comprehend such vast and intense beauty on a short two-day visit. Even those who experience love at first sight long to spend a lifetime with their new lovers. I knew this quick trip could be little more than a brief encounter.

While the grand mountains clamored for attention, I kept hearing a soft serenade from the small river that meandered through the valley. The Merced River tumbled over the rocks, alternately forming pools and riffles. Pictures of dry flies and rising rainbow trout drifted before my minds eye. I imagined bathing in summertime where the river formed low falls as it cascaded between boulders. Perhaps this river reminded me of the streams I visited in the Catskills and Adirondacks of New York in my youth. I was comfortable with the scale.

The road we traveled shared the valley with the Merced and for two days the river called to me. As we left the park for the last time, I wanted to spend a few minutes close to the water. We paused at a wonderful spot that afforded easy access to the water and a spectacular view of Bridalveil Falls across the valley. At the water’s edge, I hopped from rock to rock, pausing to watch the crystal liquid flow over the stones on the creek bed. I watched the swirls and eddies and saw a leaf drift by. A bird song came to me from across the river. Above a high cut in the opposite bank was a grassy meadow and I thought the unfamiliar call must be coming from there. I scanned the brush and grass with my binoculars expecting to find perhaps a finch or other enthusiastic singer but I couldn’t find anything.

Then, a movement caught my eye out in the river itself. A small, dull gray bird was sitting on a rock in mid-stream. Surely, this plain-looking creature couldn’t possess such a melodious voice! As soon as the bird flashed his white eyelids, raised and lowered his stubby wings and bobbed up and down in place, I knew what it was. I had seen an American dipper once before in the Canadian Rockies and I was thrilled to see one again in a mountain stream of the West. These birds are known for their unique habit of walking and flying underwater in search of food. Another name for this bird is “water ouzel” and I prefer this unusual name as it seems more appropriate for a bird that exhibits such exotic behavior in such wonderful places.

Balancing with binoculars on a boulder, I watched for about a minute until the bird buzzed downstream. Even though I slipped off the darn rock a moment later, slamming my shin into the stone, leaving a gash that is still scabbed-over weeks later, I felt the invigoration that comes from those magical moments when nature provides an experience that seem mystical. It was almost as if the spirit of the ouzel was saying goodbye and inviting me to someday return to Yosemite. I limped back to the car happy that my short visit had such a satisfying and memorable ending.

The next morning, I was enjoying my morning coffee, some bright sunshine, and a few peaceful moments outside our motel in Mariposa before heading back to the coast. I was reading a used paperback copy of John Muir’s My First Summer in the Sierra that I picked up in one of Berkeley’s great bookstores. I was reading about one of his explorations from his sheep camp along the north fork of the Merced River in 1869. I felt a tingling in my spine when I read that on July 29^th he saw this:

It is about the size of a robin, has short crisp wings serviceable for flying either in water or air, and a tail of moderate size slanted upward, giving it, with its nodding, bobbing manners, a wrennish look. Its color is plain bluish ash, with a tinge of brown on the head and shoulders. It flies from fall to fall, rapid to rapid, with a solid whir of wing-beats like those of a quail, follows the windings of the stream, and usually alights on some rock jutting up out of the current…

What a romantic life this little bird leads on the most beautiful portions of the streams, in a genial climate with shade and cool water and spray to temper the summer heat. No wonder it is a fine singer, considering the stream songs it hears day and night. Every breath the little poet draws is part of a song, for all the air about the rapids and falls is beaten into music, and its first lessons must begin before it is born by the thrilling and quivering of the eggs in unison with the tones of the falls.

Then, on July 12^th while camping higher up along Cascade Creek, he noted this:

Here I find the little water ouzel as much at home as any linnet in a leafy grove, seeming to take the greater delight the more boisterous the stream. The dizzy precipices, the swift dashing energy displayed, and the thunder tones of the sheer falls are awe-inspiring, but there is nothing awful about this little bird. Its song is sweet and low, and all its gestures, as it flits about amid the loud uproar, bespeak strength and peace and joy. Contemplating these darlings of Nature coming forth from spray-sprinkled nests on the brink of savage streams, Samson’s riddle comes to mind, “Out of the strong cometh forth sweetness.” A yet finer bloom is this little bird than the foam-bells in eddying pools. Gentle bird, a precious message you bring me. We may miss the meaning of the torrent, but thy sweet voice, only love is in it.

Amen.

Hope Persists

2007-03-10T15:19:00.000-05:00

Sometimes just a moment of eye contact can tell a long story. The tale may be entirely imagined, but it seems real enough.

I was in the supermarket last week when a woman walking by looked my way. I looked into her eyes and in an instant saw a world of mingled happiness, hope and fear. This woman was about my age, or maybe a little younger. She walked close beside her husband as they shared cart-pushing duty. As I passed, I noticed that she was breathing with the help of a small, clear oxygen tube under her nose.

She appeared happy in a way that one gets when they can do some mundane everyday thing after thinking they might not ever be able to do it again; the way you might feel when finally bending to tie a shoe without pain for the first time after a back injury. In my mind, this woman was taking a shopping trip out of the house for the first time after a serious lung illness, an illness that may well turn out to be terminal. She was delighted to be out with her spouse and was taking pleasure in the simple joys of being alive and able to move through this wonderful world. At the same time, she feared that this might be one of the last times she could enjoy such freedom from sickness and pain. She was at a crossroads. After a surprise diagnosis and emergency surgery she didn’t know which path she was on. Was she on the road to health and the rest of her life, or would the illness persist and her life be taken from her sooner than she had ever imagined?

I was on a road three weeks ago, but a much happier one. My wife and I were visiting our wonderful daughter in Berkeley, California and the three of us were taking a couple of days to drive over to Yosemite National Park. As we traveled east on Interstate 580 from the Bay Area, we were amazed by the size and number of wind turbines at Altamont Pass in the Diablo Range between Livermore and Tracy. I’m sure I’ve seen photographs of this amazing sight, but being among these huge windmills was a real thrill. Apparently, warm air rising from the hot Central Valley sucks cooler air from San Francisco through the pass, providing the potential for clean, renewable energy. I imagined how far this environment-friendly power could go in a place like Berkeley where temperatures are so moderate that homes are not air conditioned and little heat is required. Many forward-thinking residents of that city are installing solar-electric panels on the roofs of their homes to help further reduce the demand for fossil fuels.

A short while after descending from Altamont Pass, we drove through Tracy, California and I was struck by the reality that all the power that could ever be generated by those windmills wouldn’t get very far. Here, in the Central Valley, home to some of the most productive farm land in America, were acre after acre of tract homes. In places, it seemed like these walled, gated, cookie-cutter communities stretched as far as the eye could see across the flat, fertile land. I don’t recall seeing any solar panels on these dark, heat- absorbing roofs. I thought of the hot summer sun beating down on these houses and the demand for electricity their air conditioners would create. I thought about the energy use and smog that would result as all these new residents drove on their long commutes and drove to all the strip malls and big-box stores that followed them to these brand new towns. I wondered where our food would be grown as more and more farmers sold out to the big developers.

Even hope stirred by something as exciting as a wind farm with its tall, graceful towers and slowly-spinning blades, can be fleeting. A quick search on the Web after I got home taught me that these windmills can be devastating to birds of prey. It turns out that many raptors are drawn to the grassy slopes of the Diablo Range to hunt for ground squirrels and thousands of these hawks are killed by the windmills that now tower over their traditional hunting grounds.

Hope persists. These windmills are old, part of a pioneering effort. It has been learned that taller towers and slower-spinning blades may be less dangerous to birds. I hope we quickly climb such learning curves that allow us to find the energy we need without destroying our planet. I hope we learn to see the folly in building new lifestyles on the shaky foundations of fossil fuel.

Our short visit to Yosemite was wonderful, even though we didn’t have the time or equipment to get into the back country. The weather was unseasonably warm and there was no snow in Yosemite Valley. There were few tourists by Yosemite standards and we were able to enjoy magnificent views and walk among the stately ponderosa pines, Douglas fir and incense cedars. I was moved by the work of Ansel Adams on display in the gallery there and was inspired by the way a gifted artist could follow his own vision and move the souls of millions. Just before we left the park after our second day, I found myself drawn to a special spot. Maybe the ghost of John Muir was leading me, but I found a new spirit bird. I hope to find the words to tell that story soon.

After we flew back to the East Coast, I was eager to get back to the modest but comforting landscapes of Moose Hill and seek signs of spring. I didn’t find any. The trails were coated in a treacherous combination of ice and snow. At one point I came upon a pair of deer, just where I hoped to find them under the hemlocks and among the rhododendrons in a kettle hole, when I started slipping and falling on the ice, making much noise – verbal and otherwise - and scaring them away. The few birds I saw that day were all winter residents.

The next day, Sunday, it was warmer and I saw sap running from the recently-cut branch stubs on a Norway maple. Monday morning, a male cardinal was warming up his spring song in our backyard. Tuesday morning, a mourning dove was cooing longingly from the peak of our neighbor’s roof. Last Sunday morning, I heard my first song sparrow while on our regular group bike ride. Monday morning, I saw my first redwing blackbird of the season. Sadly, he flew many miles only to wind up dead in a gutter where I found him, but I knew there were thousands more where he came from.

The hope raised by these early signs of spring were dashed when we were plunged into an early-March deep freeze, but I know the tumblers of the great cosmic clock are turning and that life will not be denied.

Messages in Trees

2007-02-13T17:08:00.000-05:00

If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound? If a man speaks in a forest and his wife is not there to hear him, is he still wrong? If the forest speaks to a man and he fails to listen, who is to blame?

I went out Sunday morning to explore a new area. I’ve passed by the cedar swamp hundreds of times in the 20 years I’ve been here, but only recently have I had the desire to explore it. Near the lower end of Moose Hill Parkway, hemmed in by the road on one side, a high railroad embankment on the other and an old low concrete dam on the bottom end, is a large swamp. I’ve poked around the edges a few times since I started to explore Moose Hill in earnest, but with casual observation from the road, it looks impenetrable. There are places where Beaver Brook can be glimpsed meandering through the cedars, creating an inviting scene that brings brook trout and beavers to mind. The edges of the swamp, on the other hand, are guarded by a dense tangle of thick shrubs, vines and briars, and the mucky soil appears ready to suck the shoes off those who dare to invade. I’ve been thinking the time to explore the swamp would be in winter when the ground, and maybe even the creek itself, were frozen. After a warm December and early January, we finally entered a long, cold February. This might be my chance, I thought.

I left home in mid-morning after the temperature had warmed to the mid twenties (F). The sky was clear and the breezes gentle. I hiked up the Parkway to the first trail that leaves the road off to the left. This is where I went searching for my wood thrush back in June. In the quiet depths of winter, it’s hard to imagine that in a couple of months songs from the South will flood into these woods. Only a few titmice and chickadees where there to greet me on this chilly morning.

I crossed the old dam and found a sketchy footpath leading around to the back side of the swamp. My plan was to follow the trail upstream to where the brook might be smaller and frozen and look for a place to get out among the cedars. Cedar swamps with stands of Atlantic white-cedar (Chamaecyparis thyoides) are well known further south in places like the pine barrens of New Jersey, but we have them here in Massachusetts, too. Another cedar swamp in town is particularly controversial because it is large, is an important part of our water supply, and is dying. There are two town wells on the edge of this Moose Hill swamp, too, so it is also precious.

Before I found a place to get out into the swamp, I was enjoying the sites in this largely forgotten strip of woodland. Protected by the swamp and the tracks, it doesn’t get many visitors. Some discarded beer cans, a tree house and a rough shack told me that local kids hang out here sometimes, but mostly it seems like a no-man’s land. I was pleased to discover a few large pitch pine growing near the edge of the swamp. I usually think of these hard pines as growing in dry, sandy barrens or on sand dunes. Unlike most of the scraggly, twisted, tortured specimens I’m familiar with, these trees where giants, some about two feet in diameter, and they were growing in wet soil. I wondered if they germinated before the pond was formed. Now, growing on this swampy site with their great size and bark broken into big plates, they reminded me of the big slash and longleaf pine I used to see in the flatwoods of Georgia and Florida.

A little further down the path, I heard the busy tapping of a woodpecker. Binoculars at the ready, I followed the sound until I saw the bird working on the dead limb about 30 feet up in a 12-inch red maple. I’m a little rusty at identifying birds by their undersides, but this one looked like a hairy woodpecker. This bird evidently found a honey hole and didn’t pay any attention to me as I approached the base of the tree. I took off my hat and leaned over to put my ear against the trunk. I was impressed at the power of the rhythmic thumping this small bird could transmit all the way to the ground through this sizeable tree. Not only could I hear the rapping of the hard little beak, but I could feel the vibrations in my skull. I imagined the terror felt by any insect larvae cowering under the bark anywhere on this tree. I often watch birds, and I love to listen to them sing, but this may have been the first time I actually felt one. I imagined that this woodpecker, like an arboreal telegrapher, was trying to send me a message through the tree. I didn’t understand the code, and even though the bright crystalline light from a dry February sky made everything around me seem clear, the message was not.

Walking on, I was surprised by a long line of plastic junk strewn through the woods. A drainage culvert from one of the few streets to dead-end at the swamp dumped all manner of junk that washed from the cul-de-sac. The plastic bags and bottles were unsightly, but I worried more about the unseen deposits that washed from the asphalt and flowed toward our aquifer.

After wandering through the woods for longer than I had planned, I eventually found a spot to walk out onto the frozen swamp near one of the water department wells. In places, the ice was clear and I could see it was over a foot thick. I pushed my way through dry, brown cattails and felt wild roses scratching at my jacket. I stumbled over grassy hummocks. Even though I didn’t have to worry about sinking up to my knees in muck, the traveling was slow and difficult. It occurred to me what a great refuge this would be for all sorts of reclusive creatures. Orange droppings on the ice and the cluck of a solitary robin told me that at least one bird was surviving the winter with the help of the shelter and rose hips this swamp offered.

I eventually made it to the creek only to discover that it was open and flowing surprisingly briskly. It was too wide to jump and too deep to wade, so I just watched little bits of detritus flow by and wondered about the population of muskrats that surely live here. I wondered if perhaps there were also more exciting furbearers here like weasels and mink.

There were cedars in this section of the swamp, but almost all were dead; their straight, slender, silvery skeletons pointing at the sky. I didn’t notice any small cedars. Did the old dam drown their roots? Did the pumps suck the swamp too dry in summer? In our thirst, were we destroying the wetland that gave us drink? What of the chemicals leaching from our streets? I didn’t know the answers, but like the tapping of a little bird in a maple, I felt this was another message coming to us through the trees. The signal may not yet be clear, but it might be important.

Howling at the Moon

2007-02-08T22:51:00.000-05:00

We had a full moon last week, the snow moon, and I was feeling a little crazy. There are those who might consider hiking through the woods alone at night in freezing weather to scramble up a dark, rocky trail ill-advised, if not a bit loony.

Because of the cold weather and my bothersome knee, I’ve been going to the gym in search of a low-impact way to get some exercise. I was there last Tuesday night trying out an elliptical trainer. Looking around me and watching all other gym rats pedaling, pumping, climbing and running to nowhere I was feeling rather like a rodent on a wheel myself. I knew a full moon was coming up and I knew a brisk walk through the winter woods at night would be less insane than pushing a damn machine. The full moon would be on Thursday, but the weather forecast called for clouds that night, so I made a date with Moose Hill for Wednesday night.

After preparing dinner so it would be waiting for me when I got home, I dressed head to toe in black. I did this mostly because most of my winter work-out wear happens to be black, but I also thought it would be cool to slip through the dark forest like a shadow, a Moose Hill ninja. I headed out the back door and walked down the street, taking care to warm up slowly. Soon enough, I was jogging through the cold 20-degree (F) air under a clear sky full of twinkling stars and a bright moon.

I extended my usual run to the top of Moose Hill Parkway to duck into the woods and find the Summit Trail. In a few minutes, after my eyes adjusted, a combination of the bright lunar illumination and a recent dusting of snow made visibility quite good and I had little trouble following the trail. This was a good thing because once the trail turned upward it gets rough since the erosion from generations of hikers has exposed many roots and rocks. There were also a few icy spots where water seeping from the rocks had frozen. Moose Hill summit itself has an elevation of only 534 feet and isn’t much more than a quarter-mile from the road, so the climb didn’t take long. I was soon standing on top, looking up to see the moonlight highlighting the crisscrossed steel frame of the fire tower. The clear light also made the contrails of a jet flying high overhead look like silver threads woven among the stars.

I worked my way back down the way I came up. At the bottom of the hill, where the summit trail meets the Moose Hill Loop, I paused to look at the moon once more since I was reluctant to leave the silent woods on such a beautiful night. I stared up at the moon and let the moonbeams filtering through the naked oaks strike my face, much the way I let the sun recharge my battery the week before. It was so quiet and I was so alone, I could hear the ringing in my ears. I think these potentially annoying high-pitched tones are there most of the time but, for the most part, I only notice when it’s very quiet.

The silence and moonlight transported me to a time over 30 years ago when I went on a solo hike in the Shawangunk mountains of southern New York. Most of the details of that long weekend have faded from memory, but the one thing that sticks with me is the way the ringing stopped. I saw few other hikers that weekend and when I set up my simple camp on a ridge top, I was completely alone. A strong evening thunderstorm blew through and I huddled in my sleeping bag, snug and dry under a light plastic tarp strung between some scrubby oaks. I felt peaceful and rested, and as night fell I listened to the damp quiet and noticed that the ringing had stopped.

My mind continued to wander as I studied the craters of the moon from Moose Hill and it eventually settled on the curried lentils and rice waiting for me on the stovetop. Just as I was getting ready to move, a great horned owl started hooting from the other side of the hill. I knew that we were entering owl breeding season and I now had another reason to visit these woods on another winter’s night.

I ran down the hill and back up the road to the center of town. It was Wednesday night, so I paused to chat with the Quakers. This tiny group of peaceful souls has been standing at the same busy intersection for an hour every Wednesday night ever since we invaded Iraq. If I happen to be out running on a Wednesday evening, I like to stop and let them know how much I admire their persistence. I like to think that by spending a few moments with them, standing there with their candles and signs, that I too may somehow become a little more thoughtful and peace-loving. I pray they have that effect on everyone.

I went home, turned the heat up a notch and had dinner. Perhaps it was lunacy that took me into the forest on that night, but maybe that kind of craziness is less an affliction than it is a cure.

Low Battery

2007-01-27T16:18:00.000-05:00

I don’t know if it’s the lack of sunlight this time of the year, the cold cloudy weather, or just hormones, but I haven’t had the energy to get out into the woods much lately. I feel Moose Hill calling to me, trying to save me from myself, but I have been unable to find the will to respond. Maybe the pain in my knees makes me reluctant to pound the pavement and push up steep trails. More likely, it’s just too cold to think about sitting quietly in the forest.

We are in the depths of winter. The temperature chart in the Globe shows that the normal low bottomed-out for the year at 21 degrees just a few days ago and as of Thursday was up one tick to 22 degrees. This turn of the thermometer, although only an average, is now heading in the right direction. Even more than the solstices we like to observe, this turning of the temperature trend is in some ways more significant to me. Every day brings hope that it will be a little warmer than the day before. The lengthening of the days is becoming evident now, and I was happy to gain the confidence that they would also soon be getting warmer.

But for now, it's cold we contend with. We have been hit with a short, sharp cold snap. As forecast, the temperature was in the low single digits (F) when I woke up Friday morning. It is my hope to visit Moose Hill in all its seasons, to sample its extremes, and this was a great opportunity to do that since it doesn’t often get much colder than that around here. I felt compelled to go. I knew I wouldn’t be sitting still for long in the frigid air, so I had my oatmeal and second cup of coffee at home before donning five light layers, my heaviest gloves and fleece hat. When I told my wife I was leaving, she said, “It’s freezing out there. You’re crazy.” I said, “I know,” without saying which observation I was agreeing with. I pulled my hat down over my ears and headed for the hill.

Only the most dedicated cyclists would ride in this weather. While I know a few such hardy souls, I’m not one of them. I started walking to warm up gradually and get my knees lubricated before starting to run. By the time I started jogging on the bridge over the commuter rail tracks, the breeze hitting the bare skin of my face felt like a blowtorch. It was the kind of cold you can feel in your lungs.

When I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway and into the shelter of the trees, the cold didn’t seem so bad. I passed a big SUV sitting in a driveway, empty and idling, a plume of vapor rising from its tailpipe into the icy air. It was started, no doubt, from the warmth of the house with one of those remote car starters. I wondered how many of our young people we should sacrifice so we don’t have to sit on a cold car seat for a few minutes. In a few months this same motorist may leave the car running in a parking lot while they shop - doors locked, air conditioner running - so they won’t have to suffer in the heat for a few minutes when they return. Have we grown so soft that we can’t bear even a few moments of discomfort to save irreplaceable fossil fuel that our grandchildren will need?

Not far up the road, I turned into the woods to take a brisk hike along the trail through a plantation of big red and white pine and then to climb Hobbs Hill from the back side. Although the trees were brightly illuminated by the rising sun, the woods were quiet and I worried about the bitter cold on a mostly snow-free ground where frost could penetrate deep into the uninsulated forest floor, making life difficult, if not impossible, for the creatures sleeping there. When I got to my favorite rock on Hobbs Hill I paused to think about the time I spent there in the warmth of summer, listening to the hum of insects and watching the birds moving among the green leaves. I felt my eagerness to do that again. I still have mysteries to ponder.

I took the trail down the other side of the hill, checking to make sure the letterbox was still in its not-so-secret hiding place. At the bottom of the hill, I took the long boardwalk across the swamp, the frozen planks creaking loudly across the quiet wetland. Following the trail back toward the street, I paused beneath the yellow birch that put out its leafy welcome mat in September and looked up at the bright sun filtering through the trees, letting it warming rays hit me full in the face. I was hoping the sunbeams piercing the clear, frigid air would infiltrate my being to set some ancient biological clock, to set off some mysterious biochemical reaction that would lift me out of my funk.

Back on the road, heading for home, I saw a small flock of juncos with the familiar flashing of their white-edged tails. There were also a few of our other reliable winter companions, the chickadees. I marveled at how such tiny creatures could live, and seemingly thrive, in such bitter cold. How miraculous their downy fluff, how hot their tiny engines. I heard the chickadees call, not a scolding chattering, but the more melodious descending two-note: deee-dee. Could that be a sign of the change in seasons ahead? Are they, too, thinking of spring? I hoped it might signal a change in my spirit and that I would soon be able once again to hear the call of Moose Hill.

Moose Hill Moosewood

2007-01-16T21:24:00.000-05:00

There haven’t been any moose on Moose Hill for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I don’t think anyone knows how the place got its name. Who knows? Maybe it was named after a tree. Right beside the road, between the visitor’s center and the caretaker’s house is a small patch of moosewood. Every time I bike or jog by it, I think of the north country. Acer pensylvanicum, is also known as striped maple because of vertical white stripes on green bark, or goosefoot maple because of the shape of its leaf, and it is also known as moosewood. Maybe moose like to browse it. It is typically a shrub or small tree and is most often found in cool, moist, shady places in northern hardwood forests. It’s uncommon around here, so seeing it can transport me to other places, other times.

I recall attending a lecture by William M. Harlow, dendrology professor emeritus when I was in college in the late seventies and author of Textbook of Dendrology, a classic text for those studying trees. He taught his appreciative and attentive audience how to properly sharpen a pocket knife and then use it to make a moosewood whistle. This must be done in the spring when the sap is flowing. Cut a short section of twig, slip the bark right off the wood, cut a notch to make the sound and slide the core in and out of the bark like a tiny trombone slide to play a tune. I didn’t get any credit for that lecture, but nearly 30 years later I remember it better than most other things I studied in school.

I suspect many people are far more familiar with The Moosewood Cookbook by Mollie Katzen than they are with a small maple of the north woods. This classic vegetarian's bible was published in 1977, and while I didn’t discover it until about ten years later, I knew right away it was the cooking guide for me. I’m not a vegetarian, but about 95 percent of my meals are meat free and I love simple, wholesome vegetarian dishes. I used Moosewood to learn and internalize some basic cooking techniques that I use to this day.

I’m a man of simple pleasures and limited ambition and discipline, so I limit my cooking to the basics. I like to cook hearty soups and stews and throw everything – greens, protein and carbs - into one really big pot. I try to make enough to provide two of us with two or three meals. I find my approach is particularly well suited to cold winter nights when it gets dark early and I find myself in a Moose Hill state of mind. After work, I get everything ready and simmering and then head out the door for a jog up into the dark woods. Here’s a ‘recipe’ I used last week:

I pour olive oil to coat the bottom of one of the larger (8-quart) pots I have. As the oil heats on a low flame I peel and chop up any vegetables I can find and toss them in. These usually include onions (about four), carrots (about four large) and celery (about half a bunch). I let these sauté for a while and sprinkle on some salt. About the time the onions start to turn clear (or brown, if I have the patience), I might throw in a pound of edamame. Edamame, for those not familiar with it, is green, shelled, frozen soybeans. I enjoy its subtle flavor and appreciate its high protein content. My local mainstream suburban supermarket doesn’t carry it, so I have to get it at Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. Lacking edamame, I might throw in a pound of tofu. Then, I usually add two cans of garbanzo beans and two cans of red kidney beans. If I was more of a purist, I would soak and cook dry beans, but I’m lazy.

Here, I have to decide. If I want a bit of an Italian flavor I add a large can or two of tomatoes and go heavy on the basil and oregano. Often, I’m in the mood for something a little different, so I’ll go with cumin, dill, and rosemary. A dash of cayenne pepper adds a little kick for cold winter nights. I have no idea how much seasoning I add. I buy the big bottles of spices at the warehouse wholesale store and dump in generous amounts that feel right. I figure this is a big pot with about ten pounds of stuff in it, so it going to need plenty of seasoning, especially if I want to go easier on the salt.

Finally, I add enough water to cover everything, and bring it to a boil. Then I turn the heat way down, cover the pot and head to Moose Hill for a nighttime jog.

On my last run, the moon was not up yet and after I left the road I had Orion with his belt and sword to light my way. I ran up the gravel road past the Billings barn to the small opening where I watched a vireo build a nest in a birch tree on a warm morning in May. It was a cool, clear night and a cold wind swept the sky clear so I could see more stars than usual in this light-polluted corner of the world. I paused, alone in the darkness, to peer into the vastness of space and wonder what secrets the stars held on this lonely night. I listened for the hoot of an owl, but the breeze blurred all sounds. As the cold began to sift through my shirts, it was good to know that a simmering pot would be waiting for me when I got home.

Back to the Future

2006-12-29T19:45:00.000-05:00

Even those of us who don’t observe Christmas (anymore) can’t help but notice the quiet that settles over the world on Christmas morning. As I left home on my bicycle on a frosty but clear calm morning, I saw barely a car as I crossed Main Street, rolled down the hill over the train station bridge and began my climb up Moose Hill Parkway.

I was just relaxing into the climb and casually scanning the woods for interesting sights when I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a large bird up in a tree. I spun the bike around and pulled off to the side of the road. It took only a moment for it to register that this large brown bird was a turkey. I fumbled for my binoculars and camera and started slowly walking into the woods. As I looked up I saw first the one, then six, then nine and finally ten large turkeys – all hens as far as I could tell – up in a large white oak and a few neighboring trees. I guess I knew these big birds roosted in trees, but I don’t think I’d ever witnessed it before.

The birds began to stir as I approached and rousted them from their rest and – as I imagined it – their comfort in the knowledge that they would not be in pots for this Christmas. As their nervousness grew, they stretched, flapped their wings and began to move about high overhead. I watched a good-sized oak limb sag as a bird hopped from one branch to another, indicating that these meaty creatures would be weighed in pounds and not ounces. Then, one after the other, they took off rather clumsily with a loud beating of wings against both air and branches. Once airborne and clear of the trees, I was impressed by how smoothly and quietly they could glide. Before I walked back to the bike, I paused to study the scratchings made by the turkeys in the oak leaf litter as they hunted for food. I wondered if they preferred white oaks to red for their less-bitter acorns. I made a mental note not to assume all scrapings on the forest floor are made by rutting bucks. These big birds can tear things up pretty well.

I was hoping for a few moments of quiet reflection on this morning to try to crystallize a few things that have been drifting around in my head that have been staying stubbornly in solution, but I also had a geographic destination. Moose Hill Sanctuary has nearly 2000 acres and 25 miles of trails, and I look forward to many wonderful days in these woods before I’ve carefully explored them all. Following a tip, I was headed for an area I had never seen before. I parked my bike – as I have often done before - near the intersection of Moose Hill Parkway and Upland Road and walked north along the Vernal Pool Loop/Warner Trail.

The woods were very quiet. I saw one small animal scurry for the shelter of a rock wall. At first, I assumed it was a chipmunk, but I thought they would be hibernating by now even though the winter has been very warm. I later saw a couple of red squirrels, so I’m not sure if the first furry flash I glimpsed was chipmunk or squirrel. As I passed the Boulders – a spot I’ve enjoyed a few times before – I paused to watch a downy woodpecker. Few other birds were stirring. Even the interstate in the distance seemed especially subdued on this morning of peace and quiet.

A short distance beyond the Boulders, the Vernal Pool Loop turned back on itself, but I continued on the Warner Trail. This pathway was likely once a road, and it was long and straight, affording views a long distance ahead. I looked up just in time to see the white flag of a whitetail deer bounding across the road ahead of me. If not for the bright white of the tail, I would have missed it, and I wondered what could be the possible selective advantage of this signal that so often is the only reason that these otherwise stealthy creatures are seen at all.

Populations of both deer and turkey are booming around here these days and I was thinking about what it must have been like before Europeans arrived with their appetites and technology. How difficult was it for the natives of these eastern forests to hunt for their food? What must it have been like for the hunter to carry on his shoulders the responsibility to feed his family? For me, finding wildlife is a pleasant diversion. For the original human inhabitants of these lands, it was a matter of life and death.

After a surprisingly long walk, the old road left the woods and I came upon an old farm site. There is an old rock-lined cellar hole, the foundation stones being slowly reclaimed by the earth with the help of gravity, frost and some trees growing from the old basement floor. Old fields on both sides of the road are being reclaimed by the forest. Hardwoods from the old hedgerows beside the road are moving up and pines from the surrounding forest are moving down. Without intervention, the fields will eventually disappear. This is a situation sanctuary managers must struggle with. Should these meadows be artificially maintained for the views and diversity of habitats they provide, or should natural succession be allowed to take its course? For now, I was glad these fields are here and I promised myself to return in the spring to see if the new nesting boxes placed here attract any bluebirds.

I retraced my steps and went back to the Boulders for breakfast. When I was last here in September, the place looked more like a stadium parking lot after a big football game than a nature preserve. It was littered with discarded lawn chairs, inflatable mattresses, empty beer cans and charred logs. It was now remarkably clean, with only the old fire pit remaining

On the path up to the Boulders I found a yellow birch (Betula alleghaniensis) growing, as if on stilts, over a very old stump. Birch seeds often germinate on stumps or old logs and put down roots around their decaying hosts. When the seedbed rots away, the birches look as if they’re standing on legs. If a number of birch trees germinate on the same nurse log, they grow in a straight line and when the log is gone they look as if they had been planted in a row. My guess is that this birch sprouted after the last time these woods were logged which, by now, must have been several decades or more ago. Left alone, these woods will return.

Hiking out of the woods after breakfast, I admired some big white pine. Some are about two feet in diameter. It’s been a long time since I last saw virgin white pine in Warrensburg, New York and I recalled how different the very old sentinels look from the youngsters that are so familiar. The really big trees look a bit like redwoods with reddish bark that is deeply furrowed into long plates. I hope these trees would last long enough to look that way.

Walking along the path through woods so quiet on this peaceful morning, I pondered their future as they evolve into their past. These 2000 acres are protected and are slowly approaching a condition not seen here for two hundred or more years. Large game animals like deer and turkey have returned. Large predators like coyotes are coming back, too. Traces of old farmsteads and pastures are fading. Without logging, the forests themselves will revert to their climax states as the pioneer trees give way to more shade-tolerant species of later stages in the succession. It will take generations, but these woods may eventually give us a hint of what the forest primeval was like.

There are clouds on the horizon, of course. As large as this sanctuary is, it is only a small island in a sea of development. Every available parcel of land in this part of the world is highly prized by developers. I am saddened repeatedly as I pass by new roads and house lots being torn into the beautiful woodlands that surround Moose Hill. In addition to the many small projects with one or a few houses, there are new plans to level 26 acres adjoining the sanctuary to build 104 housing units in 54 buildings. Small, site-sensitive homes are unknown around here. Every lot is denuded for the largest possible house to appeal to affluent buyers and to repay the speculator for the high cost of the land.

With new roads and housing pressing in from all sides, and deer and other wildlife leaving the woods, problems and conflicts are almost inevitable. I can only imagine what may happen as newcomers find large animals munching expensive landscaping and crashing through Beamer windshields. Picture the apoplexy when a recently-arrived pet lover sees the beloved cockapoo hanging limply from the jaws of a wild coyote.

I recovered my bicycle and rode it like a time machine down the hill from the past to the present. I knew that when the holiday was over, the bulldozers would roar again, and I wished the best for these woods in the uncertain future.

Climbing to the Light

2006-12-21T23:59:00.000-05:00

The sun set on another season over Moose Hill tonight. I climbed the trail to Bluff Head to watch the sun disappear for the last time in the fall of 2006. Tomorrow, the sun begins its slow climb to the north. Winter began at 7:22 EST tonight.

Maybe I suffer from a wild case of SADD because the short days of December always put me in a strange state of mind. I don’t think of it as depression, really, because I’m not in a bad mood, but rather a low, quiet, somewhat melancholy state of mind. I tend to turn off the radio, which is a near-constant companion most of the year, and listen to music instead. This year, I seem to be in a particularly dreamy state of mind. Maybe it’s the light deficiency without the usual cold of December. I feel a little sheepish about saying we’ve been enjoying a very warm December after my “Cold Moon” post when it seemed like the door of winter had been slammed behind us, but since then, we’ve had mostly warm days in the 40’s and 50’s with few hard freezes.

With sunset so early (4:15), I didn’t have a lot of time, so I parked the car at the sanctuary parking lot and headed on foot for the bluffs. I took the Cistern Trail to the Bluff Head Loop. I wanted to run to make sure I would arrive at the rocky overlook with time to spare, but a cranky knee limited me to a fast walk. The sun was already out of sight below the rise in front of me, but an orange glow through the trees told me I would make it. When I broke out into the open of the rocks I found a young couple and I wondered if this was a solstice tradition of theirs. I wondered if the ancient ones came here to build bonfires to ward off the darkness of this longest night of the year.

I moved along the ledge to find a spot where I could be alone with the sun. I thought about the summer solstice when I ran up here with my son. I remember promising to myself to come back on the other side of the year, and I was glad I could keep my promise. I thought back to the warmth and sweat of the run that night and recalled how the call of the wood thrush signaled the change of the seasons. The woods were quiet on this night as the sun slipped below the horizon far south of where it did in June. Lacking the sarsen stones and heel stone of Stonehenge, I lined the setting sun with a broken-topped redcedar and the water tower at Gillette Stadium. Sometimes, we have to make do.

It might have been more appropriate to make this solstice observance tomorrow morning. I like to think of this as the time when we begin our annual climb to the light, when we start leaving the darkness behind and make the turn and begin our journey back to the days of light, warmth and life. I would like to mark this renewal with a view of the sunrise from these woods, but I don’t yet know of a good spot with views to the east.

Sunrise or sunset, this is a muted celebration here in New England. Thanks to the lag time in the cooling and heating of the Earth, our coldest days lay ahead. Every winter, I watch the temperature charts in the Globe and have a private celebration of my own when the average daily high temperature graph finally bottoms out and makes its first tick upward.

After the sun was out of sight below the horizon and the streaks of red and orange across the sky began to fade, I headed back into the woods. With the sun gone and no moon, the forest grew dark quickly. I was in no rush so I took the long way back along the Old Pasture Trail and had just enough light to see the path in front of me but not enough to peer into the woods around me. I tried to imagine how ancient people in the wilderness may have been terrified to be alone in the dark woods at night. These woods were quiet and peaceful. I pulled my hat off my ears, hoping to hear some sylvan night sounds, but the loudest noise was the roaring river of rubber and steel that is the highway to the north. I knew I wouldn’t meet any other people out here. I counted my blessings that while others were fighting through rush hour traffic, I could steal a few moments to be alone among the trees of Moose Hill. I paused in the darkness and looked up to see the stars of the first winter’s night twinkling through the oaks.

Living Waters

2006-12-17T13:01:00.000-05:00

This morning offered yet another example of how I can never know what to expect when I head to Moose Hill. Maybe it’s because I had a birthday this week and this was a gift from the Hill. I had a wonderful morning in the woods filled with both joy and sadness. Won’t you come with me?

I had plenty of time this morning, so I took the touring bike over Moose Hill to make a preliminary exploration of a section of the sanctuary that is separated from the main body of the property by busy Walpole Street. An old jeep trail leads from the street up the hill into a nice, natural stand of white pine. After a while the jeep trail peters out into a footpath. All along the way I saw signs of a big buck where he had pawed the ground, left droppings and assaulted all manner of trees with his antlers. This path intersected the Warner Trail near the top of the hill. I should do a little research on this trail to see how long it is and where it goes. It might be fun to hike.

On the way back down the hill, I found myself looking up into the crowns of the pines and imagining how I would thin them if they were mine to manage. I plumbed the depths of my memory for things I studied in silviculture classes about dominant and co-dominant trees and live crown ratios; information used in determining when to thin and which trees to take.

I rode over to the big field at the corner of Walpole Street and Moose Hill Street. I wanted to stop at a place where my wife and I saw a bunch of birds last week. Just as I slowed to dismount the bike, my greeting to a passing jogger scared up a big red tail hawk that was perched on one of the bird boxes in the field. I watched as it soared circles over the meadow, its broad orangeish-red tail spread, catching the sun against the brilliant blue sky.

On cue, smaller birds started to filter from the woods, across the road and into the trees and brush along the edge of the field. Juncos, goldfinches and bluebirds made their way out into the field to land on spent milkweed and spikes of young sumac that are invading this old field. I followed and was greeted by the rich nutty aroma of the meadow plants warming in the bright sun.

As I followed the birds, I saw more and more bluebirds until as many as a dozen were flying from place to place. I don’t recall ever seeing so many bluebirds in one place before. Perhaps all these nesting boxes are having a real impact. I thought about sitting in the warm sun of the meadow for coffee, for who wouldn’t love breakfast among the bluebirds, but my mood was drawing me to the rocks and woods.

You see, an old friend died yesterday. I felt a need to have my view and thoughts pulled in closer, not spreading over the wide expanse of the open field and reaching for the blue sky. Martin was one of my high school hiking buddies. I took my first extended backpacking trips on the Appalachian Trail with him and a handful of other guys. These trips helped cement my love of adventures in the wild. With his passing, yet another bit of my youth has slipped away. Martin was one of those kids that took all the honors classes, scored high on all the standardized tests, and went to an Ivy League school. Great things were expected from him. We lost touch soon after high school until I received a few puzzling e-mails last year. It seems this guy who was so smart, talented and confident as a young man had fallen on hard times, and a heart that was once so strong couldn’t stand the strain. Knowing few details, I could almost believe he died of a broken heart.

I stashed my bike and headed for some rocks up in the woods I had seen from the road many times. I stumbled on an old path and decided to follow it for a little while. I liked the idea of a little-used path that was not part of the official trail system. It led me past the rocks I was aiming for, but I soon saw another outcrop off in the woods glowing in the sun. These rocks were much more attractive than my original destination because they were far from the road. Just as I left the path, I came upon an amazing sight. There in the woods, virtually undisturbed be recent human visitation, was a rock-lined spring hole.

The pool was about six feet long and four feet wide. The carefully stacked rocks that lined it where covered with soft green moss. It must have been built generations ago by the farmer who worked this land. The water was crystal clear and at least two feet deep. The trickling outlet passed unseen under the rocks so the basin had an unbroken rim. Shrubby witch hazels spread a sheltering canopy over the area. As I approached I almost expected to see a woodland nymph in a gossamer gown peering at her own reflection in the water. Had I been in a different mood, I might have expected to see a troll protecting this perfect spot. As I kneeled to peer into the water, I watched in amazement as a small whitish-blue frog pushed off from the edge and swam for the depths with slow-motion thrusts of his hind legs and disappeared as if fading from a dream. Frogs in a New England mid-December? This was a magical spot indeed.

Climbing up to the rock outcrop, I found a nice flat stone, right on the top, perfect for sitting and enjoying the view of the surrounding woods as I had breakfast. I spread my old quilted down vest on the stone to insulate me from its coolness. It occurred to me that I probably wore this vest on my winter hikes with Martin. It’s so old, it was actually made in the USA. It was a quiet morning in the woods. My only companion was a tree creaking steadily in the gentle breezes, sounding a little like a small, hyperactive woodpecker. The trees around the rocks were mostly oaks and white pine with a few red maple and struggling dogwood. An old redcedar clung to life in the understory, telling tales of pastures and cows long gone.

Larger versions of these rocky promontories can take on legendary significance around here. We have King Philip’s Rock, King Philip’s Cave (A jumble of huge boulders with a space between that looks like a cave.) and Devil’s Rock in town. These are said to have been meeting places for native chiefs preparing for war with the invading Europeans. From my modest perch, I only hoped to find a few moments of peace and reflection. I thought about long hikes with young friends at a time when my whole life lay ahead of me. I wondered how a young man who seemed to have every reason to expect a long, healthy, prosperous and happy life could suddenly fall off the tracks and turn into ashes blowing in the breeze.

After breakfast, I made sure to pick up all pieces of my orange peel, just in case there was a troll lurking nearby. As I left the rocks, I paused at the redcedar to confirm the presence of obligatory antler scrapings. I stopped at the spring again to appreciate it’s beauty. It occurred to me that it would make a perfect mikveh; a pool used for ritual immersion. People immerse themselves in the waters of life for spiritual renewal and to help them heal or to mark transitions through important life changes. I wished I could have brought my friend here to cleanse him of the pain that was taking his life.

I paused to look at my own reflection in the water. I’m no Narcissus and I was not thrilled by the face looking back at me with the toll taken by the years. I thought again about the passing of my friend and the reminder that life slips away, sometimes all at once and sometimes gradually. I wondered what else might be taken away, suddenly or slowly. If I thought this pool was the fountain of youth, I would have plunged into the chilly waters. I took some comfort in knowing that what my life may lack in great potential and expectations may be made up for in calm and stability.

I walked back to my bike to find it being guarded by a guild of woodland birds. There were downy woodpeckers, chickadees, a golden-crowned kinglet, a brown creeper and a nuthatch. I think they were guarding my bike as a signal to guard the secret of this special place, the place of living waters.

Misunderstood

2006-12-12T23:20:00.000-05:00

A poison ivy vine (Toxicodendron radicans) grows in my backyard. I had to work around it Sunday when I was cleaning the garage gutters on a lovely warm, sunny late fall day. The vine has been there for years. I know what poison ivy is. I’m mildly allergic to it and I know how to identify it and I stay away from it, for the most part. I am also perfectly capable of removing this noxious plant.

Over the years, a few people have noticed it. I’ve had to warn a few guests to stay away from it. Almost invariably, people say, “Oh, poison ivy! Why don’t you get rid of it?” Good question. I may be a little sloppy in my yard maintenance, but that’s not why I leave the poison ivy alone.

Poison ivy can be a real pest when it spreads across the ground and creates tangles of toxic vegetation among rocks, brush and other plants. My plant, on the other hand, is a rather well-behaved climbing vine that clings to a big Norway maple beside the garage and also twines up and around an old fence post at the base of the tree. The woodchucks that den under the woodshed love it and help keep it from spreading across the ground. I watched baby ground hogs this summer stretching as high as they could on their stubby hind legs to get every glossy green leaf they could reach.

That tough old vine hugs that old fence post as if it wanted to cling to the memory of a world where people lived with nature but did not dominate and suppress it. The post is a relic from days long gone when the old lady who lived here had chickens. I’ve been here for 20 years and the post was old when I arrived. It is exceptionally decay resistant. It serves no purpose. The chickens and even the wire it supported no longer exist. Like the poison ivy, I should probably cut it down and dig it up, but I am reluctant to destroy this little trace of the history of this place.

If I take time to look, the poison ivy is a pretty plant. I like the way it spreads its bright leaves of three compound leaflets out in flat fans to catch the light. In the fall, it provides a crimson splash of color in the backyard. The woodchucks seem to love it and, I assume, they consume it with impunity. I wonder if it produces berries for the birds. I’ll have to pay closer attention.

My poison ivy does not threaten me. If I stay away from it, it does me no harm. I try to see its good points and resist the knee-jerk desire to kill and destroy it, the way I fight the near-instinctive drive to step on bugs. In time, I have developed a desire to protect it precisely because others loath it.

Recently, I’ve had a few encounters with a mentally ill man. He suffers from some kind of crippling anxiety disorder or compulsive behavior problem, or some combination of both. That, combined with some annoying personality traits can make him difficult to deal with and troubling to be around. People avoid him. Some leave when they see him. People ask, “Why don’t you kick him out? Why don’t you call the police?”

I talked with him a few times. He’s an intelligent man and he knows perfectly well that he is sick. I'm convinced he's harmless. I tried to understand his needs but at the same time make it clear that there were limits to how much unusual behavior would be tolerated. I like to think we reached some level of mutual understanding, but it’s hard to be sure. I told others we should try to be tolerant and try to help this man to the extent we could. I tried to resist the urge to simply get rid of a problem. I hoped to understand the needs a fellow human being. I know the human mind is a complex and unpredictable thing, and I certainly have no training or skills in dealing with the mentally handicapped, but it seemed important to try. I would like to report that behind that bizarre and tortured exterior, I found a smart and likeable character that I have grown to like, but that would be premature if not highly unlikely. For now, I just hope my patience and desire to do the right thing lasts through my next encounter with him.

Sometimes society teaches us that there are plants and there are people that we would rather not have around. First impressions and gut reactions are things we come to accept without examination. Perhaps by thinking about a plant in a new way it is possible to see value where before there was only danger. Maybe by learning to be tolerant of a plant, we can also learn to be more understanding of a fellow human being.

Cold Moon

2006-12-05T21:52:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the seasons blend into one another gradually and the world changes slowly or in sensible stages. That’s not what happened this week. Winter slammed the door on the balmy fall we had been enjoying. Just over a week ago, I was sitting in the woods watching a big flock of robins gulping berries and digging for worms among the maple leaves. Just a few days ago, I was working outside in a warm drizzle. The days were December in name only.

Yesterday morning we had the first snow of the season: about two wet inches that turned to slush during the day and re-froze in the evening. I noticed a full moon rising in the East: the Cold Moon of December. I had been in denial about the season, but here was a celestial wake-up call.

On my way home from a class at the gym last night I took a detour over Moose Hill. I wanted to see the field where I had enjoyed the swallows of spring and the butterflies of summer in its new coating of snow illuminated by the full winter moon. Only the gentlest of breezes passed through the trees, causing a few icy branches to clack like dry bones. Otherwise, all was quiet.

Tonight, I ran up the hill with the rising moon at my back, lighting the way. Even at the evening rush hour, few cars go over the hill and it was good to have the lunar light to help me avoid the icy spots. As I left the road to run up the dirt road to the old farm, the frozen gravel crunched underfoot. The bright moon in a clear, starry sky lit the old field where I spent so many wonderful moments this spring, summer and fall; listening to peepers in April, watching a spotted fawn in July and being overwhelmed by the simple beauty of a red tree in October. I walked up to the old barn and admired the elegant simplicity of its lines as the moonlit lit its old cedar sides. My breath turned white in the cold and drifted toward the stars.

By the time I got home, frost had formed on my vest as the moisture leaving my body froze into white crystals on my shoulders. I knew that my trips to Moose Hill had entered a new season and I looked forward to seeing the woods and fields in a new way.

Observations

2006-12-04T17:16:00.000-05:00

I left home on a frosty Saturday morning last week with plenty of time to walk, explore and think. There was ice on the roof and cars, but the warm earth kept the puddles on the ground from freezing. I biked up the hill, pushed the bike far enough down the trail that it could not be seen from the road and started walking quietly along the Kettle Trail. My plan was to keep moving for a while, looking for wildlife and hoping to stumble on a new place to sit, have breakfast and daydream. I had no real goals or destinations. I’ve learned that this relaxed approach often leads to satisfying mornings in the woods.

I started out on the Kettle Trail, and rather than taking the branch off to Hobbs Hill as I have already done a few times, I stayed on the Kettle Trail. This was a new route for me and I was looking forward to new discoveries.

At first, the trail passed through the now-familiar oak forest. These woods were especially quiet on this late-November morning. There was little wind and no droning of insects that was so constant in the summer. Even the birds were quiet here with only an elusive nuthatch, a few chickadees and a tapping woodpecker to be heard.

This trail was no doubt named after a series of glacial kettle holes that it passes. These are deep sinkhole-like depressions created when huge blocks of ice deposited along with geologic materials by retreating glaciers melt and leave hollows in the landscape. One kettle hole in particular was interesting in that a thicket of rhododendrons was in the bottom. These well-known ornamental plants grow wild in the East but are not common in the wild around here. This depression also had some hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) and black or sweet birch (Betula lenta), reminding me of places further south like Connecticut or my native Long Island. I cut a twig of birch to taste the cool wintergreen flavor.

Continuing along the trail, I could see, in the new carpet of oak leaves, that this trail is also used heavily by deer. Hearing more tap-tapping on a hollow tree, I left the trail to find it and soon found a female hairy woodpecker working on a dead oak. I was off the official trail but could see several deer trails paralleling an old stone wall. I decided to follow one and thought about how early humans and wildlife shared common pathways that eventually evolved into major thoroughfares. Even the streets of Boston are said to follow old cow paths, as if that helps explain the craziness of the drivers there.

I was now off the trail and in an unfamiliar area. It occurred to me that I could be lost, but no part of Moose Hill is very far from a trail or road. I was in no rush on this day, so I didn’t care if I momentarily lost my bearings. A mental check of the contents of my pack found my compass, just in case. I needn’t have worried, for these deer were not wandering aimlessly as I might have been doing. I soon hit an area where the woods was transitioning into an open area that I soon recognized as my field of swallows and monarchs in months now past.

In the brushy transition between the oak-pine forest and the open meadow I saw a robin at the top of a tree eating bittersweet berries from a vine that had twined its way up there. I used to like bittersweet. It has pretty red three-segment berries and some people like to use the vines to make decorative wreaths. This plant was often featured in the paintings of one of my favorite artists. Eric Sloane is well known for his renderings of old barns and dramatic skies. He would often show bittersweet climbing on the old wooden fence posts in his trademark barn paintings. Recently, I read in the Globe that this vine is actually an alien invader that is aggressively taking over many natural areas. Now that I know this, I seem to be noticing it everywhere and I can see how it is climbing and strangling trees. The South has kudzu, we have bittersweet.

I broke out into the field. Looking out at the vacant bird boxes, ruptured milkweed heads and the various shades of brown, I recalled the warm days of summer when this field was alive with zooming swallows and fluttering butterflies.

Movement in the woods caught my eye, so I dove back in. A flock of robins and another of mourning doves were busy among the brush and trees. In the distance I heard an unfamiliar roar, but soon realized that the small trickle I visited in the heat of July (See “Water, Water Everywhere,” July 29, 2006.) was now a loud tumbling creek after heavy Thanksgiving rains. I headed there and was greeted by the palpable excitement of another robin convention not unlike the one I was so thrilled to observe in October (See “Promises to Keep,” October 14, 2006.). Scores of robins were hopping and fluttering through the woods. They seemed as attracted to the tumbling waters as I was. They were hopping on the rocks near the brook and working in the leaves under the hardwood trees growing in the rich soil there. There were other species of birds as well, including titmice, blue jays and a downy woodpecker. Down the slope, a flock of flickers seemed to be feeling the excitement, too, their wings flashing yellow in a moment of sunshine.

I found the spot where I sat in July and settled there for breakfast. It was hard to relax because every moment presented a new movement to examine in hope of seeing a new bird, only to see yet another robin. Among all the robin clucks, chuckles and warbles, I thought I heard the more delicate call of a bluebird. Sure enough, in the same maple windfall that harbored the cute winter wren in July, there was now a female or immature bluebird.

It was interesting to contrast this lively spot with the quiet of the oak forest where I started this walk. This rich hardwood forest of maple and ash had the stream, the brushy transition and the open filed all with a hundred yards or so. This diversity of habitats in a small area is ideal for observing birds and other wildlife.

As much as I wanted to stay to watch the birds and let my thoughts wander, a nagging sinus headache was getting worse, so I started to head for home. I walked along the edge of the field, by the road this time. Another bluebird – a male – perched on one of the nesting boxes. I wondered if he might roost there that night. I passed a large tree, full of ripe berries, growing in the wooded strip along the road. This tree appeared to be one reason the robins seemed so gleeful on this day that was starting to feel more like April than November. They would fly to the tree for a beakful, and then fly back to the woods. I wracked my brain to identify the tree, but came up empty. I’ll have to go back and take a closer look and collect a twig to help figure it out.

It looked like someone had driven a small bulldozer along the edge of this wooded strip, scuffing the bark off the trees. I knew, of course, that these scrapings were the work of bucks polishing their antlers for the rutting season. This was yet more evidence of how large our deer population is getting.

I wondered how I could see so much deer sign and not see more deer as I walked quietly through the woods. I know they like to lay low during the day and move about early and late. I didn’t have long to wait before I was taught a lesson about observing deer in the woods. I chose to walk back to my bike down the Trillium Trail that roughly parallels the Kettle Trail I came up on. I was moving steadily as my headache urged me homeward, but tried to keep my eyes open. Scanning the woods on both sides of the trail, I was suddenly stopped in my tracks by a face staring at me intensely. On top of a small ridge about 30 yards off the trail was a deer watching my every move. I lifted my binoculars to study the ghost-like face of a doe. I was struck by how gray she looked in contrast to the reddish-brown of summer. Scanning the area, and moving a few feet and stopping to look from different angles between the trees, I eventually spotted four does silently watching me from their beds on the forest floor. By the fourth time I stopped, they couldn’t take it any more so they rose from their resting places and walked off quietly, white flags waving.

I then understood that I must have been watched many times by deer only a few yards off the trail, but I was not observant enough to see them. I hoped this experience would help train my eyes to see. I took my throbbing head home to bed. I was sad that I couldn’t relax and let my mind wander as I love to do when in the woods, but as I think back on that beautiful morning and write, I don’t remember the pain as much as I recall the excitement of the robins and those big, black eyes staring at me through the trees.