Woods Wanderer

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

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

I’m pleased to announce the release of my collection of short hiking narratives set in Vermont. It’s called Wandering in Vermont Woods appropriately enough. A few years back, I published a collection of hiking narratives set in the Adirondacks, and that has gone over well. My bookseller friend Donna at The Eloquent Page suggested that I do the same for narratives set in Vermont – my home turf. So here it is.

This collection opens with a relatively long account of a solo excursion in the Breadloaf Wilderness 35 years ago called “Tracks Across the Forest Floor.” Some of you may remember that from a previous publication. I’ve reprinted 10 other pieces from previous publications, as well – several of those books now out of print. There are two pieces in this collection dating back over 20 years that haven’t been published until now, and three brand new pieces seeing print for the very first time. It’s quite a mix, actually. But the spirit of the wild graces them all.

The Long Trail, southern Vermont, the Northeast Kingdom, or close to home – I’m all over the map in this collection. Sometimes backpacking; other times just out for the day. Sometimes bushwhacking; occasionally trout fishing some mountain brook. Usually alone, but not always. Sometimes contemplating philosophical matters while banging around in the Green Mountains; often just being being in the moment. Always the woods wanderer.

You can get a copy from Amazon.com, or by going to the Wood Thrush Books website. I hope this book inspires some of you to venture into the woods this summer. There’s nothing else quite like a little time spent in a wild place.

Tags: bushwhacking, Green Mountains, hiking, nature writing, trout fishing, Vermont

Earlier this week, I went into the woods overnight just to get away from my work and chill out. I walked up a logging road winding into the Green Mountains, cut across an overgrown meadow, then bushwhacked along a crystal clear stream until I found a beautiful spot to camp.

Setting up my tent and making myself right at home didn’t take long, but the woods were wet from rain the day before, so it took a while to strip off the bark on the wood I gathered. Wood without its bark dries out fast and burns well. After gathering plenty of it, I ate lunch, did a little naturalizing, and wrote in my field journal before taking a long nap. Backwoods adventure? No, more like seriously goofing off.

That evening I placed some birch bark in the middle of the campfire ring I had created, built a small tipi of tiny sticks over it, then struck a match. Ten minutes later I had a good fire going. Another ten minutes after that I had water boiled up in my handy little one-quart pot. I kept the fire going as I drank hot tea with my dinner. I continued tending the fire long after its usefulness.

The sun disappeared behind a nearby ridge. Daylight faded away. The campfire slowly became the center of my universe. I fed sticks into it, carefully placing them to maximize the burn. My thoughts wandered. The water in the nearby stream rushed over rocks incessantly. The fire snapped and crackled, occasionally kicking out a blue flame. It mesmerized me as darkness closed in. I lost track of time.

Late in the evening I let the campfire slowly die out, becoming embers. Then I hit it hard with several pots of water from the brook before going to bed. In the morning I fired it up again, letting it die out quickly after breakfast. Then I dismantled the campfire, tossing the stones in the brook and burying a couple handfuls of cold ashes. No trace of it remained when I hiked away.

Pity the poor souls in the distant or perhaps not-too-distant future who will be unable to build a campfire anywhere. You can’t buy the kind of solace a campfire provides. It is a good reason to go in the woods, venturing off-trail, if you ask me.

Tags: backpacking, bushwhacking, campfire, Green Mountains, mountain stream

This time of year, when the trails are wet and so easily damaged, I like to walk a brook. The one that first comes to mind winds through a valley in the Green Mountains shadowed by Camel’s Hump. I’ve been walking it for decades. It’s like an old friend to me.

You could call this a hike, but the way I do it these days it’s really more of a walk. I take my time, traveling half the speed I did when I was half my current age. I want to bushwhack into my 70s and 80s, you see, so I’m setting the right pace to do that now. Slow but sure.

After leaving a nearby dirt road, I follow a rough track a quarter mile to the brook. Then I start bushwhacking. I have a compass tucked into my shirt pocket, but it’s not necessary. The brook guides me through the woods and every feeder stream is a way home that I’ve taken before. So my mind is free to wander, or to groove on the wildness all around me.

Evergreen woodfern and Christmas ferns are still pressed firmly to the ground. It’s early spring and the snow cover has just melted off. Polypody ferns rise from moss-covered boulders, though. That, the clubmoss, and hemlocks green up the otherwise bleached, brown landscape. A few icy patches still lurk in the hollows of rocks, but this is a springtime world not a winter one. The spongy, half-thawed earth underfoot is proof of that.

Because the stream is running lower than usual this time of year, I ford it several times to avoid large mudslides. My boots get wet and my feet get cold in the process, but I don’t care. That too is part of this springtime ritual.

A couple miles back, I bask in sunlight while stretched across a flat boulder next to a deep pool that harbors brook trout. Here I eat lunch. A moth flutters before my eyes. A chickadee sings in the distance. The leafless trees all around me reach toward the deep blue sky. Meltwater rushes past incessantly. I have daydreamed about this place for months. Now here I am. And the walk out that follows is a moving meditation.

Soon the world will green up and the warm season will unfold to everyone’s delight. But it’s enough, for me at least, to tramp through snow-free woods when there’s still a chill in the air and the first wildflowers haven’t risen yet. It’s a different kind of beauty and happiness – subtle and anticipatory. It’s a humble pleasure.

Tags: bushwhacking, early spring, Green Mountains, mountain brook

Yesterday afternoon Judy and I bushwhacked along a mountain stream to a favorite old campsite of ours. We were on a mission. In my daypack was a can holding Matika’s ashes. Matika was a wonderful, long-haired German shepherd dog who played an integral part in our lives for twelve years. A year and three months after her death, we decided that it was finally time to put her to rest.

Before leaving home, we buried a handful of her ashes in our Buddha garden just to keep part of her close, and to ward off the squirrels invading the back yard. I swear there are times when I can hear Matika barking from her ashes whenever the squirrels are scurrying about. She never had any patience for those pesky rodents.

Upon reaching our old campsite, we each took some of her ashes and released them into the brook. The ashes clouded the water for a few moments, looking rather ghostlike as they floated downstream. Then the water cleared. We both shed a few tears in the process.

After that we buried the remainder of Matika’s ashes at the base of a maple tree, next to where the ashes of our other German shepherd dog, Jesse, are buried. Two stones now mark their graves. In the future I’ll stop by occasionally to visit our deceased canine companions. As for Judy, well, she had a hard time reaching the old campsite so there’s no telling if/when she’ll be back. All the same, this is where she and I both want some of our ashes buried when we die. Then the whole pack will be back together again.

Tags: burial, bushwhacking, German shepherd, memorial, mountain stream

What a dramatic change in weather! Frost warnings one week; temps climbing into the 70s the next. At long last, I can go into the mountains overnight without freezing my ass off. And no rain in the forecast, either. So without hesitation, I load up my pack and am out the door.

With a desire to avoid people altogether (pandemic or no), I head for the Calavale Brook. It’s located somewhere in northern Vermont and that’s all I’m willing to say. The access road to it is too heavily eroded for my little car so I approach the brook from another dirt road a mile away. Sort of. Actually, I drive that road until it becomes a track, then walk that track until it ends at someone’s deer camp. Then I bushwhack along a NNW bearing through the woods. Eventually I hear water. Then I see it.

I find a relatively flat spot near the brook and set up my tarp amid wild lilies. Then I create a campfire circle a little closer to the water. Home sweet home, with three painted trilliums marking the boundaries of it. A good place to relax, meditate, and scribble in my field journal. The constant sound of water rushing past is quite soothing. The black flies aren’t too bad. The sun slowly settles into the ridge behind me and soon I am staring into a campfire. Once I’ve had enough of that, I go to bed. The naked trees (leaves not yet unfurled) point to a thousand stars illuminating the heavens above. And it’s good to be alive.

Despite my tossing and turning, I manage to get a fairly good night’s sleep. But getting out of bed and into the chilly morning air is a bit rough. Temps dropped significantly overnight. I snuggle next to a morning campfire and life is good again. When the black flies come back out, it’s time to go. After making the campfire circle disappear, I head out the same way I came. Only now I’m in a much better frame of mind. A solo overnighter is good for that.

Tags: bushwhacking, overnight camping, springtime

I’ve heard a lot of people complain about all the rain we’ve had lately, but I don’t relate. Rain makes everything grow, makes the forest lush, and the vegetation is a more vibrant green as a consequence. I like that vibrancy. So this afternoon I went out to simply enjoy it.

I didn’t have to go very far. Stepped right out my door, in fact, and slipped into the green. My dog Matika followed, happy to get out of the house.

With no real plan in mind, I just walked. I decided to circumnavigate the quarry once I was under the forest canopy. I’ve been meaning to do that since I moved here last year. There’s no apparent trail along the backside of the quarry, so I figured it would probably be a rough bushwhack. And it was. But I was fine with that.

I wasn’t disappointed. Plenty of lush vegetation all around me, and the sketch of a trail most of the way. But Matika wasn’t in the mood for bushwhacking. First chance she got, she popped out onto a nearby road, hoping that I would follow and take one of the more beaten paths back home. And that’s exactly what I did.

I often indulge the old girl these days, knowing that her hips don’t like the extra up-and-down work that bushwhacking entails. Whatever. I got my woods fix for the day. That’s all that really mattered.

Tags: bushwhacking, early summer, lush vegetation

A few days ago, I drove to a nearby state park for a short walk at dusk after a full day’s work. My dog Matika enjoyed it, but it wasn’t nearly enough for me. So the next day I did only as much work as necessary before stuffing a few essentials in an old rucksack and heading for the mountains. Time for a taste of wild country. Actually, it was long overdue.

The inch of fresh snow covering the icy woods road provided sufficient traction so the Microspikes stayed in my pack. A mile up the road I turned onto a trail hidden beneath a couple inches of crusty snow. I crunched my way down to the brook, which was still open surprisingly enough. Yeah, it has been a squirrelly winter so far: freeze and thaw then freeze again.

The trail petered out beyond a downed tree. Suddenly I was bushwhacking the familiar route to a favorite spot along the brook. There I once buried the ashes of my first German shepherd dog, Jessie. Matika romped through the woods like a pup despite her eleven years. I was happy to see it. Looks like she’ll be hiking with me a while longer.

Just above the campsite, recent storms had ravaged the banks of the brook, creating mudslides and thickets of downed trees. It was rough getting through there, but it felt good to be in the trackless woods again. I took cover from a chilling breeze coming down the mountain then ate a quick lunch with Matika. My wife Judy had given me an energy bar that’s good for both dogs and people, so Matika and I shared that after our respective meals. People food or dog food? – hard to say.

With temps hovering around 20 degrees, I didn’t linger at the lunch spot. I tagged the trace of an old skidder trail leaving the brook then slowly made my way back to the woods road. Matika negotiated the slippery slope with no difficulty. I dropped to all fours once to do the same.

Out came the Microspikes as I descended the woods road. That made the walk easy enough where I could lose myself in the beauty of the surrounding landscape. In the distance the mountain summits looked cold and forbidding. No matter. Here in a heavily forested hollow, I was having no trouble. In fact, I got back to my car a bit sooner than I would have liked.

A good winter bushwhack. Won’t wait so long before getting out again. There’s more to life than work, work, work.

Tags: bushwhacking, Green Mountains, hiking with dogs, mountain stream, winter hiking

After reading John Burroughs’ Time and Change yesterday morning, I felt an overwhelming urge to get outdoors and stretch my legs. A blue sky underscored the urge. My dog Matika is always ready to go, of course. So we climbed into the car and drove to the pocket of woods on nearby French Hill.

Since it was the first day of deer season, Matika and I wore blaze orange. Usually I stay out of the woods when hunters are in them with high-powered rifles, but yesterday I simply couldn’t resist the urge to tramp through the woods without the constriction of a trail underfoot. I have days when only a good bushwhack will do.

It’s stick season now. All the leaves are down. They rustled loudly as I plowed through them, scaring off the local deer. Gunfire in the distance. Trees threw long shadows across the forest floor at midday, thanks to a drooping, late autumn sun. I crossed an old, stone wall, and that gave me my bearings while skirting a large beaver pond just out of view. Been here before. Without the distraction of a trail, it’s a lot easier to read the terrain.

There’s something about tramping through a trackless forest that calms me as nothing else can. It’s the absolute freedom of movement, I suppose, combined with a total lack of purpose. I tramp therefore I am. There’s nothing more to it than that.

Yet I couldn’t resist following the old logging trail that swept southward back towards the car, even though it muddied both my boots and Matika’s paws. The deer tracks we found there got our attention. And for a short while I was a hunter without a gun. It’s like that sometimes. I go into the woods with one purpose and end up doing something else. That’s what bushwhacking is all about.

Tags: bushwhacking, freedom, hunting season, November, stick season