Woods Wanderer

While vacationing with Judy on the Maine coast last week, I did a little tramping around on my own. Hit a couple of the usual places, like Wells Reserve, then checked out a new trail. On the map it’s called Bridle Path, which isn’t very appealing, but I walked it anyway. Come to find out that another name for it is Mousam River Outlook Access Trail, which better reflects what the trail has to offer.

A nearly straight, wide path follows the Mousam River, just outside Kenebunkport, for a mile or so before passing into a neighborhood. The Mousam River and its salt marshes pop into view along the way. The trail crosses a few quiet tributaries that captured my attention. Not much going on there, it seemed, but I found the blend of woods and brackish waters quite alluring.

The southern Maine coast is a busy place, chock full of homes, vacation places and commercial development. But there are pockets of wildness here and there for those of us who are looking for them. An immature bald eagle perched on a dead tree along the river reminded me of that, as did the chipmunks scurrying across the trail. Wild nature, it seems, is never as far away as we think it is. And in quiet, backwater places, life goes on pretty much the same way it has for thousands of years.

Admittedly, I prefer deep woods to manicured parks and managed reserves, but wildlife, wildflowers and most other wild things don’t seem to care how far away they are from human busy-ness. This never ceases to amaze me. Migrating birds are apt to show up anywhere. Weeds growing in the cracks of an abandoned lot underscore a truth that most of us find difficult to accept, that civilization – human presence, that is – is a temporary arrangement in a world that could easily go on without us.

Tide pools scream fecundity. Salt marshes are much more subtle about it. I collected a water sample from a Mousam River backwater, looked at it under a microscope when I got home and found it to be a very busy place. Lots of microbes there. This makes me wonder how much of what’s going on around us we don’t see, or simply ignore, or shrug off. This makes me wonder how important humankind is in the greater scheme of things. Certainly not as important as we think we are.

Tags: development, Maine coast, salt marshes, wildlife, wildness

Back in Niquette Bay State Park yesterday, a hermit thrush sang its morning song as I meandered along the perimeter trail. I took my time, hiking as slowly as possible, checking out the wildflowers along the way.

White trilliums flowered conspicuously. Miterwort, columbine, wild ginger, and a host of other wildflowers were also in bloom. False Solomon’s seal and a few more will flower soon. They’d better hurry, though. The leafy canopy overhead is already thickening.

Dozens of other hikers, mostly gray-haired like me, were also enjoying the sunshine, warm temps, fresh air, and mostly dry trail. I chatted briefly with some of them in passing. The general mood was delight at being in the woods on such a beautiful day in May. On a day like this, it seems like all is right with the world, despite the darkness that humankind brings down upon itself.

I broke a sweat while ascending the hill to a lookout. I was wearing a wool shirt when a T-shirt would do. Flush with vernal joy, I listened to robins, chickadees and the familiar song of a bird whose name I couldn’t recall. No matter. That didn’t make the chorus any less pleasant to hear.

After cresting the summit, I stopped at the lookout to snap a picture of Mount Mansfield in the distance. I marveled at the unfurled ferns all around me during the descent. I hadn’t noticed them before. Upon reaching the brook, I squatted down next to the clear running water and gave thanks for simply being alive in such a wonderful world. Then I finished my walk, with a pileated woodpecker appearing along the way.

This morning a hermit thrush sings once again as I write this from my backyard. The sun shines brightly from an azure sky, illuminating the verdure all around me, and the natural beauty of it all is almost too much to bear. How could heaven be any better than this?

Tags: songbirds, springtime, vernal green, walking, wildflowers

I drove into the Adirondacks the other day to spend a night in the forest. The following day I would hike with my friend Rob at Ticonderoga, but I wanted to camp out before then. It had been too long since I’d last been alone in the wild for more than a few hours. I desperately needed a woods fix.

I left my car at a trailhead parking lot then hiked a mere half mile to a small, nondescript backwoods pond. The trail to it went straight up the mountainside like a goat path. The so-called primitive campsite at the pond was nothing more than a large stone fire pit surrounded by trees. I pitched my tent nearby. The open ground between my camp and the pond was too boggy to walk on, but a narrow path went down to an abandoned, overgrown beaver dam at the pond’s outlet. There I could draw water.

Temps dropped fast that afternoon as it started raining. While I was in shirtsleeves at first, I soon donned a sweater, jacket and rain hat. I wandered around for hours, grooving on the deep forest quiet as it rained. I took shelter beneath on old white pine for a while. The rain stopped just before dusk, so I peeled away the plastic bag covering the wood I had collected beforehand and started a fire. I enjoyed ramen noodles, a beef stick and hot tea while tending a small smokeless campfire.

Darkness settled slowly over the dripping forest. A few spring peepers called out, then more chimed in, then more, until a full chorus broke out. After dousing the remnant embers of my campfire, I donned a headlamp and meandered down the narrow path to the pond. I expected the frogs to quiet down as I approached, but they ignored me. I knelt on a flat rock at the pond’s edge, turning off my headlamp and setting it aside while splashing water into my face. The frenzy of amphibious mating calls seemed to grow louder as I knelt there. Looking up through total darkness, I noticed that the sky had cleared. I saw the Big Dipper pointing towards the north star. And that’s when I felt it: my presence in the universe, on a planet teeming with life. The chorus was deafening.

A barred owl joined the peepers as they sang all night. I slept the best I could as temps continued dropping. I turned over frequently to keep my old bones from aching too much. The peepers quieted down as the sun rose, falling silent as I munched a granola bar in morning warmth. Then I packed up and hiked out, happy to have gotten what I came for.

Tags: Adirondacks, early spring, forest solitude, spring peepers

The day before yesterday, I went for a short hike around Niquette Bay State Park. With temps in the 50s and the sun shining brightly, it was a good day to be in the woods. I wasn’t alone. The parking lot was nearly full, and I passed about 20 people during my 3-mile jaunt. Usually I don’t care for crowds, but on a day like this in early spring, who cares about such things?

I had hoped to see some wildflowers. I wasn’t disappointed. Not more than five minutes into my hike, I spotted a patch of round-lobed hepatica in bloom. Then I saw another patch of them, then another. Every time I looked down, in fact, I saw yet another patch – all the way around the park. I also saw a solitary bloodroot in bloom, but it became quite clear to me that it was Hepatica Day. And rightly so, since hepatica is usually the first wildflower to bloom in these northern woods.

While it may be a few more days before spring beauty flowers – their scent giving me an instant case of spring fever – the mere sight of hepatica breaking through the bleached brown forest duff exhilarates me. Soon the landscape will be awash in dazzling green vegetation.

A woodpecker knocked loudly as I raced along, dancing around the roots and rocks on the trail. I moved fast enough to break a sweat, even though I could have avoided that in the cool forest air. Peepers peeped from a wetland spilling into Lake Champlain. Moss and overwintering ferns hinted at the vernal explosion soon come. Snowmelt rushed through the ravine. And suddenly it felt like all is right with the world.

Today’s a different story with a light snowfall dusting the ground here at home. No matter. Migrating birds are joining goldfinches at the feeders. The green thumbs of irises and lilies are pushing up through the mulch. And Chippy, my chipmunk companion, has awakened from his long winter slumber. This snow won’t last. Despite the fluctuations in temperature this time of year, the growing season is well underway. I look forward to getting out there and enjoying it again soon, very soon.

Tags: dayhiking, springtime, wildflowers

A couple days ago, while the sun was shining brightly at midday, I drove to the nearby Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge to go for a walk. I took my binoculars with me, just in case. Good thing I did. A fellow birder pointed out a sandhill crane shortly after I left the parking lot. It was airborne a couple hundred yards away, crossing a huge field. I got a brief look at that huge bird before it disappeared.

At the beginning of a short walk around Stephen Young Marsh, I stopped by the viewing platform to see if there were any other birds around. I spotted a few Canada geese and a pair of ducks at the other end of the marsh. That is all. But I had a small bottle in my pocket to collect a sample of water from the marsh for later viewing. Good thing I did. I would find algae, protozoa and tiny crustaceans in the sample I took – the first stirring of microscopic life I’ve seen this year.

Then my walk began in earnest. I tramped through patches of mud and meltwater before reaching a boardwalk then slightly higher ground. With temps shooting into the 60s last week, I wasn’t surprised to find the trail completely free of snow and ice. With the sun beating down through the cloudless sky, I was quite comfortable walking despite temps no higher than 40 degrees. A woodpecker knocked, robins foraged on the forest floor, and red-winged blackbirds chattered in the treetops. Otherwise the woods were quiet and still.

I say I went for a walk, but it was really more of a meander. I was dressed for hiking yet moving ridiculously slow. I stopped repeatedly to look around. I scanned vernal pools for more signs of life. No peepers yet – too early for that. But I found clusters of their eggs in the shallow water. It won’t be long before their chorus begins.

I returned home with a touch of spring fever. Two days later, I’m still feeling that dreamy euphoria despite the winter storm now brewing at daybreak. Most people see snow and think winter, but I shrug it off this time of year just as the land does. It won’t stick. And a good run of 50/60 degree days is just around the corner, not to mention wildflowers awakening from their long slumber. This is my favorite time of year, chock full of promise.

Tags: awakening, bird watching, early spring, hiking, microbes, vernal pools

With temps shooting into the 50s yesterday afternoon, I pulled on my boots and went for a walk on the nearby Rail Trail. The sun shining through a mostly clear sky hastened the big melt-off currently underway. While there was still a thin layer of packed snow and ice on the trail, walking was easy. The punky ice and slush gave way with each step I took, and the slight imprint of my boot in the half-thawed earth of the exposed places made me smile.

Robins foraged along the edges of the trail. The nearby brook ran ice-free here and there. A gentle breeze rocked the naked branches overhead. The mildness of late winter air caressing my face came as something of a pleasant surprise. It’s not even mid-March – way too early to say winter is over here in northern Vermont. But I couldn’t help feeling that spring is imminent.

This morning I hear the unfamiliar call of some bird, or is it just my imagination? I step outside, binoculars in hand, glassing the trees for some newcomer. Temps are seasonably cold today, yet the sun burns with vernal potency, scrambling my thoughts. I had planned on staying indoors today and getting lots of literary work done, but now I realize that’s not going to happen. The natural world is awakening right now, despite the calendar, and I need to be a part of it. Are there any migrating birds moving up Lake Champlain yet? If so, which ones? There’s only one way to find out.

This morning early, I immersed myself in yet another long winter writing session, toying with my abstractions about the natural world. But now it feels like I need to get out there and mix it up with the wild. I need to get down and dirty with the reality of nature and witness the first hints of spring despite whatever cold temps and snowflakes may come during the next few weeks. I’m not being rational about this. Much warmer temps are only a few days away, and that’ll be a much better time to venture outdoors and celebrate seasonal change. But there’s no time like the present. Oh yeah, I’m a sucker for spring – even the slightest suggestion of it.

Tags: early spring, seasonal change, the wildness within, walking

While standing on top of Baker Mountain in 2019, I marveled at the vast Adirondack expanse all around me. How much of it had I explored during the past few decades? How much of it had I not yet explored? Too much of my focus had been on the High Peaks region. I resolved right then and there to visit as many wilderness areas and wild forests inside the park boundaries as I could during the next five years or so.

Beyond the High Peaks is a collection of twelve hiking narratives that recount my recent and more interesting outings in the Adirondack wilds – both day hikes and overnighters. Only two of these narratives have been previously published. I’m pleased to announce the release of this book. The print version contains black and white photos to enhance my descriptions. This is new for me. And while this is a slender volume, I think it contains some of my best writing to date. But I’ll let you, dear readers, decide that.

This book is now available at Amazon.com. It can also be purchased at my website, woodthrushbooks.com. Check it out.

Tags: Adirondacks, hiking, hiking narratives, wilderness

In the thick of winter, we have lots of visitors to our backyard feeders. I think of them as visitors, but most of them live in the surrounding trees. Robins and crows suddenly appear whenever the ground is free of snow, and migrators pass through the area in fall and spring. But this time of year, the denizens of the forest stay with us: woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees, etc. And goldfinches, of course. They’ve been coming around by the dozen ever since Judy hit upon the kind of food that they like: black oil sunflower seeds.

Credit where credit is due: Judy is the one who has developed our rather elaborate feeding stations. If it had been up to me, there would be one lousy feeder full of cheap bird food out there and the occasional visitor. But through research, along with trial and error, she has figured out what works best. As a result, we have birds in our backyard every day throughout the winter months.

Mourning doves forage on the ground beneath the feeders, accompanied by squirrels. The squirrels would get up into the feeders and clean them out if they could, but we’ve installed baffles on the poles that keep our feeders seven feet off the ground. One incredibly acrobatic squirrel managed to get up into the feeders anyhow, but he was the exception to the rule. So the squirrels, like the doves, are limited to what gets knocked to the ground. Or what we throw down there. Curiously enough, the squirrels and doves usually feed side-by-side without either party caring about the other. Go figure.

I’m partial to the woodpeckers, especially the red-bellied woodpeckers that feed on the suet we have hanging out there. I often whip out my binoculars to see them better whenever they come around, even though I’ve seen them a thousand times before. Their woodpecker nonchalance fascinates me. Unlike the skittish goldfinches, they aren’t easily spooked – short of us stepping outside. Even then…

The wild comes to me this time of year, even as I stay inside for the most part, doing my literary work. I love it. Yesterday I found deer tracks in the snow leading up to our feeders. Every once in a while, some other critter will stop by. Every wild creature is a welcome sight this time of year, even the sharp-shinned hawk who preys on the not-so-swift mourning doves. The birds and animals keep me entertained this time of year. They keep me from feeling disconnected, until I get out of the house on a regular basis in the spring. And Judy gets more photos of these birds than she can ever possibly use.

Tags: backyard nature, bird watching, wild birds, winter

I wake up one morning in a very dark place. A single rather annoying event usually triggers it, but that event is only one of several thrust upon me recently. These events don’t matter, really. It’s the avalanche of dark thoughts that follow. Suddenly I find myself in a world without hope. Theism, atheism, socialism, capitalism, rationalism, supernaturalism – it’s all terribly wrong. What we call civilization is a complete travesty.

The -Isms are just the delusions we cultivate, thinking that we have a good bead on things. But the daily news proves otherwise: famine and wars, con men in positions of power, suffering, death, destruction and for what? Homelessness and billionaires for chrissakes. For thousands of years, Homo sapiens has made a real mess of things, yet we pride ourselves on the latest technology, as if that makes any difference. And here I am right in the thick of it – frustrated, angry, depressed, and disgusted. Mostly disgusted. So I put on my boots, grab my rucksack and head out the door. The forest can’t fix things, but at least there I can rage.

I can feel it churning within me as I head for the woods: the biochemistry of despair. It can strike any time of the year, but when it comes this close to the Winter Solstice, it hits hard. The forced joyfulness and cheap sentimentality of this holiday season doesn’t help matters. I leave my car in a trailhead parking lot then head down the trail. I leave the trail as soon as I can, tramping aimlessly through the sprawling forest. I stumble upon an old cellar hole full of discarded, rusty maple syrup pails – the abandoned dream of some homesteader long ago. That matches my mood. I move on.

I tramp over patches of snow on the half-frozen ground, plowing through the forest, going nowhere. Once I’m out of breath, I stop next to a cascading brook to voice my grievances. But the brook is raging enough for both of us, so I just sit there listening. The leafless branches of the trees overhead rattle in a chilling breeze. The moss-covered boulder nearby is silent, solid and unmoved, as I will be someday. I scratch up a handful of detritus from the forest floor where living and dead things are completely entangled. What is it all for? There is no answer forthcoming from the forest regarding this the most pertinent of all questions.

Eventually I hike out, returning to the developed places where organized chaos reigns. The wild has solved nothing, yet somehow the darkness is more tolerable now. I understand why madmen go on rampages and why teenagers kill themselves, while the bulk of humanity drinks the Kool-Aid. There are questions, hard questions that we will never be able to answer. Foremost among them is why we thinking monkeys do all the foolish things that we do.

Tags: bushwhacking, delusion, existential despair, the human condition, the wild forest, winter solstice

With the sun shining brightly through a cloudless sky and temps hitting 50 degrees, I couldn’t resist going for an afternoon hike. I was not in the mood to drive far, so I headed for the Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge. It’s only 15 minutes away.

I donned a blaze orange vest and hat, then set foot on the Black & Maquam Creek Trail. Not long after hiking down the well-groomed main path, I heard gunshots in the distance. Yeah, the deer hunters are out in full force this time of year.

A few leaves still clung to branches, but the trees around me had clearly retreated into dormancy for the winter. Stick season, it’s called here in Vermont. During November, we Vermonters expect the snow to fly any day now. The snow is coming late this year. Oh sure, the mountaintops have been dusted, but the ground is still snowless here in the Champlain Valley – a little longer, anyhow.

At the first trail junction, I turned right, following the trail along Maquam Creek out to the lookout. The creek was incredibly still. Nothing was happening despite several beaver lodges being tucked into the banks. I meandered a lengthy boardwalk traversing a dried-up wetland adjoining the creek, then stepped onto something looking more like a footpath. Upon reaching the lookout, I scanned the surrounding waters for waterfowl. Nothing. Too late in the year.

My mind wandered as I backtracked a little then looped around, following Black Creek back to the main trail. Couldn’t help but think about the changing seasons, the passage of time, and me laying down so many tracks through the years. Life is a long journey, it seems – one foot in front of another, occasionally resting. The destination doesn’t really matter. Sometimes this simple fact is hard to grasp.

Tags: Champlain Valley, Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge, seasonal change, the passage of time, walking