Woods Wanderer

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

Daylight Savings Time ends and suddenly it’s dark very early in the evening. This always comes as a shock, even though we know it’s coming. Our bodies take a week or so to adjust. But the upside to a morning person like me is that the sun comes up earlier, as well. That means I’m able to catch some beautiful sunrises right before breakfast.

The delightfully colorful fall foliage doesn’t last long here in northern Vermont – a few weeks at best. A couple days of strong winds and the leaves start raining down, exposing naked branches. The trees will stay naked for the next six months. That’s a sober thought.

A hard frost struck a few days ago, a little later than usual. Now the mums I planted in my front yard are dying back, as is all other vegetation. The growing season is over for the year.

I’m scrambling to winterize both house and yard. Took in the garden hoses yesterday, along with the patio furniture. Will seal up the windows and put up driveway markers for the snowplow guy. Yeah, the white stuff will appear very soon.

I’ll be wearing blaze orange during my next hike. Deer hunters will be all over the woods in a week or so. Meanwhile others are getting ready for the holidays. For some people, Christmas is the best time of year. That’s only seven weeks away.

There are still a few relatively warm days left, when a flannel shirt, a sweater or a light jacket is all one needs to be comfortable outdoors. I cherish these bittersweet days as most nature-lovers do. I like kicking up leaves while walking through the woods this time of year. There will be plenty of time to enjoy indoor light and warmth during the frigid months ahead. No need to rush into that.

Tags: hunting season, late autumn, stick season, time change

A couple days ago, I drove over to Isle La Motte to visit the Goodsell Ridge Preserve. I haven’t been there for several years, so I had to follow directions on my cell phone to find it. But once I arrived it looked quite familiar. It’s not the kind of place one easily forgets.

The Chazy Reef is on full display at this preserve, just as it is a few miles away at Fisk Quarry that I’ve written about before. This reef was created by sea sponges that lived 480 million years ago. Plate tectonics has moved it from the tropics to Lake Champlain over that immense expanse of time.

I walked through a field and over patches of exposed rock loaded with fossils from the Ordovician Period – long before there were dinosaurs or any other land creatures. I have delved deep into natural history recently, reading dozens of books about life on this planet since it first appeared over 3.5 billion years ago. The Cambrian Explosion, 540 million years ago, is when all kinds of strange and wonderful creatures inhabited the Earth’s seas. This is as close as I can get to encountering that event while still being in Vermont.

As I walked, I could see the faint outlines of ancient creatures in the rock underfoot: cephalopods, gastropods, bryozoans, and much more. It’s a surreal experience for anyone who can grasp the reality of what has been written in stone.

I had the place all to myself on a calm, cloudless day with temps in the 50s. Late afternoon shadows cast by surrounding cedars made the fossils a little hard to see so I gravitated to sunnier spots. At first I followed the White Trail, but soon I was wandering all over the preserve, through field and forest, from one rocky outcropping to another. It felt as if I was sleepwalking through one of the natural history books I had just read.

A spider crawled over a fossil, juxtaposing the past with the present. I am just as clueless as this contemporary creature is about the nature of things – why it all came to be. All I have are the stories I tell myself, scientific or no, as I walk through time. Somehow that’s enough.

Tags: Chazy Reef, fossils, Goodsell Ridge Preserve, natural history, walking

To treat Lyme Disease, I took two powerful antibiotics for a month. That seemed to do the trick, but the friendly microbes inside me became collateral damage in the process, so I ended up with a fungal infection. Treated that next. Declaring myself well again, I went for a short, easy hike in early September up Prospect Rock. That wiped me out. That’s when I realized I wasn’t out of the woods yet – not healthy enough to do the things I usually do, that is.

Then my wife Judy suddenly tested positive for Covid. A few days later, so did I. That kept me moping around the house for a week and a half. I was tired, yes, but mine seemed like a relatively mild case. So yesterday, when I tested negative, I went for a short, easy walk in the nearby town forest.

Even though I set a deliberately slow pace, creeping along the trail like an old man, I broke a sweat after going no more than half a mile. And my whole body ached. I enjoyed being in the lush, quiet forest all the same, putting one foot in front of another. I spooked a deer. That was a pleasant surprise. But the tick I pulled from my neck wasn’t. That only reminded me how I became so worn down in the first place.

Bugs, fungi, microbes, and viruses. There are more of these life-forms in the natural world than all the birds, flowers, furry animals, and other things that we love so much. A lot more. Truth is, they are more a part of what we are and how we live than any of us care to admit. In this regard, the world we inhabit is as horrifying as it is wonderful.

The splash of color that I saw in the trees at the small pond during my walk saddened me. Autumn is here already; summer is long gone. It feels like I’ve been cheated out of the best two months of it. And I’m still not really IN the woods yet. It’ll be a few more weeks before I’m back to my old hiking self. That’s no big deal in the greater scheme of things, I suppose. Life goes on.

Tags: Covid, fall color, hiking, life-forms, Lyme disease, microbes, nature

Last May I went to Concord, Massachusetts to complete my research for a collection of 19th century American nature writing. It is my conviction that it all began with the publication in 1836 of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s little book, Nature. Similar ideas were put forth at the same time or shortly thereafter by a handful of Unitarian ministers and other free-thinking writers known collectively as the Transcendentalists – Henry David Thoreau among them, of course. Concord was ground zero for that movement.

Since then I have put together a book of various excerpts, essays, journal entries and poems from that era, along with an introduction that I’ve written. TRANSCENDENTAL NATURE: An Anthology of 19th Century American Writing on the Divine in the Natural World is now in print. The subtitle is a lengthy one, but it best describes what this book is all about. It is the ineffable quality of Nature that has moved thinkers and writers from Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Bronson Alcott, and Thoreau, to Walt Whitman, John Muir, and John Burroughs, to many of us living, writing, and grooving on the wild today. And yes, I think there is a distinctly American quality to this shared worldview.

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

Tags: anthology, divine nature, nature writing, Transcendentalism

Forget bears. The real scourge of the forest is the notorious deer tick, who carries the bacteria Borrelia burgdorferi, better known as Lyme disease. I always wear long pants tucked into my boots whenever I hike in the woods and check myself afterwards. I’ve pulled scores of ticks off my clothing through the decades, and even a few dug into my skin. Fortunately, I’ve escaped this scourge. That is, until recently.

I didn’t believe it when I first saw the rash inside my thigh. With long pants, how could a tick get in there? And I never saw the one that bit me, so I assumed that the inflamed area was due to a spider bite or something while lounging on my patio. Then I realized that a tick would also have easy access to my thigh while I’m wearing shorts. I often brushed up against the understory of the wild, wooded perimeter of my back yard while doing yard work in shorts. And I never thought to check myself afterwards. Duh!

As the rash grew larger, I was treated with a steroid then a light-duty antibiotic by urgent care providers making their best assessments about what was causing it. Then the lab report came in stating the obvious: I had contracted Lyme disease. My primary care doctor put me on a pair of heavy duty antibiotics to knock out the bacterial infection. So now, ten days later, I’m on the mend.

I read somewhere that roughly half of the deer ticks carry Lyme Disease. When I was a hiking guide back in the 90s, I warned my clients of the risk, but it was a fairly low risk in Vermont back then. Now these disease-carrying ticks are common throughout the Northeast and elsewhere. Our changing climate doesn’t help matters.

This threat has to be taken seriously. From now on, I’ll be treating my pants with an insecticide called permethrin, and I’ll be wearing those pants not just when I go in the woods, but when I do yard work as well. I don’t want to tangle again with this particular bacteria. It packs a nasty punch.

Tags: back yard nature, forest understory, hiking, Lyme disease

One of the many pleasures of late summer are the berries that grow in wild places. While hiking in higher elevations I often come upon patches of low-bush blueberries, especially along Adirondack ponds. I pick and eat them simply because I can. They are tiny explosions of wonder and joy in my mouth.

Closer to home, in my backyard in fact, there are blackberries. I often walk barefoot to the edge between my backyard lawn and the woods beyond to visit the wild blackberry bushes. There I witness how the berries are ripening from red to a dark purple. I can’t resist picking a few. Their tangy sweetness is the taste of Nature’s endless progression through the seasons.

I leave most of the berries on the vines for the deer and other wild animals passing through. I don’t need to harvest this fruit. The local farm stands provide plenty of fresh produce this time of year, and it is all delightful: berries, tomatoes, corn, melon, and much more. But what I do harvest when I visit those bushes in my backyard is wildness itself.

The naturalist John Burroughs wrote: “Life is so great a mystery that we need not invent others.” I concur. I feel it each and every day of the growing season. I feel it every time I witness a mayfly hatch, push through dense vegetation while bushwhacking, or spot a creature that I’ve never seen before. I marvel at the mechanics of the simplest life-forms, bacteria, hard at work in my gut or in a compost heap. A huge mushroom suddenly appears in my garden after a thunderstorm and I greet it with all the reverence that most people reserve for church. In early spring, I bite into the leaf of a wild leek. This time of year, I eat a wild berry, making its divine energy my own. We are all connected in this incredible, interwoven tapestry of living things.

The more I delve into the intricacies of wild nature, the more astounded I am by it all. My attitude towards Nature – the whole of it – is nothing short of being religious. Scientific inquiry only reinforces this, revealing as it does the forces that generate everything both animate and inanimate. The laws of nature explain why the berry plant puts forth such a tantalizing, seed-bearing fruit –– one that birds, herbivores, and creatures like me consume then drop elsewhere with ample fertilization. But it doesn’t explain why all this is happening in the first place. The answer is beyond comprehension. So I pick and eat a wild berry, letting the taste of it enlighten me.

Tags: divine nature, endless growth, late summer, the laws of nature, wild berries, wild nature

Every once in a while, I feel an urge to bushwhack through the woods, preferably without even a semblance of a trail. So last week I did just that. Not wanting to drive far, I went to a so-called tree farm on French Hill, where a sign invites all comers to recreate. It’s not exactly deep woods, but surprisingly wild for being only six miles away from home.

I started out on an old skidder trail overgrown with waist-high ferns and other vegetation. Ideal tick country to be sure, but I had my long pants tucked into my boots and held my arms high above the brush until I cleared it (would check myself for ticks later). Then I slipped off the trail, following a compass bearing north, feeling my way through the thick understory, catching a glimpse through the trees now and then of the beaver pond on my right.

I’ve done this hike before and know the terrain well. Basically, this bushwhack is a 2-mile circumnavigation of a sprawling beaver pond and its wetlands. My brand new hiking boots got their baptism of mud and water as I negotiated the rough terrain. An old, half-submerged stone fence enabled me to cross the wetland on the far side of the pond without getting too wet.

Once I was clear of dense alders, the forest opened up somewhat. Then mine was an easy, slow-paced tramp. The trick is to get through the woods without tripping over something and falling down. That requires patience and a keen eye – two qualities every bushwhacker must possess.

Eventually I came around to the south side of the beaver pond where I could step out for a good view. The sun shined brightly through a nearly cloudless sky. No wildlife in sight, though. I continued another quarter mile around the pond to the overgrown skidder trail then exited the woods. And that satisfied the urge for a while…

Not long after the French Hill excursion, though, I drove an hour east into the Green Mountains and did a right and proper bushwhack. I went to Basin Brook, which flows through a high valley of wild country between Laraway and Butternut Mountains. This is my number one go-to place whenever I need a deep woods fix. I drove a mile up a logging road before ditching my car and continuing on foot. Another half mile up the dirt road, I slipped into the forest on a snowmobile trail.

Upon reaching the brook, I left the snowmobile trail and bushwhacked upstream to a place where I had camped a couple years back. The stream was low, clear and inviting, but my old campsite has been washed out – presumably by last year’s heavy rain and floods. No matter. I stayed long enough to eat lunch, make an entry in my field journal, and groove on the infinite green world all around me. Then I made my way back to the snowmobile trail and hiked out.

That satisfied the bushwhacking urge for the time being. But I’ll go out again before summer’s end for sure. Next time to stay overnight and really get into it.

Tags: beaver pond, bushwhacking, deep woods solitude, Green Mountains, mountain stream