Walks
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Walking the Gorge III: To the Top & Back Down
Some of the prettiest parts of the climb come between the Pinnacle Rock and the top of the trail. At that point, we cross the stream and descend a wooded trail with few glimpses of the gorge. The backs of our legs were feeling it by the end for sure, but there’s something fitting about the long descent and time to reflect.
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Walking the Gorge Trail II: To the Pinnacle
After resting at the first overlook, it’s time to climb again. The trail takes you along Buttermilk Creek, a kaleidescope of rock sculptures, patterns of light and color, and geological displays that prompt you to consider your own brief lifespan against the patient workings of water on rock over thousands of years.
- What shape are the experiences of my life carving into me?
- A place like this provides a disciplinary check on humanity’s sense of our importance and power in the universe. How do I hold onto that humility? How should it shape my approach to life?
The trail includes a shortcut – a bridge you can take to the Rim Trail on the other side of the stream, taking you back to the parking lot below.
Don’t take it. If you do, you’ll miss the satisfaction of the Pinnacle Rock marking the end of the steepest ascent.
But there’s still more. I’ll finish the walk in the next post. Meantime, here are the rest of my photos for this segment of the walk.
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Walking the Gorge Trail
Exploring Buttermilk Falls involves a steep ascent through many layers of Devonian shale and sandstone that have eroded for thousands of years under the relentless progress of water. It’s a lovely climb, but first, you take stock from the ground, where you’re greeted by a welcoming pool sporting an unnecessary warning not to jump in. (It’s too chilly even to be tempted.)
You take note of things like reflections on calm water, and the lazy drift of fallen leaves.
Then you start to climb. A humanly-constructed stone staircase ascends next to the natural staircase of the falls.
It’s short but steep, and you welcome the chance to stop for a bit, turning back to survey the view from a new elevation.
You can’t really see it yet, but from a little higher up you’ll discover a large mall with a Home Depot just beyond those trees at the bottom.
As I look, I remember a family photo experiment in the grass of that park when our daughters were young. We set up a tripod with a camera that shot a series of pictures as we dashed toward it, trying to look ominous but succeeding mostly in looking goofy and disorganized. So many walks trigger memories! The landscape bears an intimate record of our activities — not just the bad stuff, like dumping chemical waste or garbage, but good stuff from the times we spend together.
Turning to look across the stream, you note the daredevils: trees crowding to the edge of a cliff that will only ever crumble.
What comes next? The ascent is nowhere near completed. I’ll share more in the next post.
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Autumn Rambles
Green Heron On a walk, it’s safe to assume that surveillance is being conducted by some creature or other. This green heron is one example. It took a few minutes to ensure that we weren’t a threat before continuing the all-important business of hunting pond organisms for its lunch.
I’ve compiled images from three different walks into this gallery. There are enough photos that the slideshow spills over to a second page, reached by the arrow at bottom. It’s not a super colorful fall here — more yellows and browns than reds and oranges. But the unique autumn sunlight and odors of autumn give familiar trails a touch of enchantment just the same.
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Summer sights and sounds
This spot near one of the many beaver dams in a favorite preserve gives an impression of quiet peace, though it’s actually full of sound… so much that it’s hard to separate out the threads of the aural tapestry. I hear a red-eyed vireo, a song sparrow, robins and blue jays at different points, along with other sounds, including the quiet, panting excitement of my rambling companion Lucy as she continually spins and sniffs at — who knows what?
One of the things about revisiting familiar places is the reminder that nothing lasts forever. For example:
This spot is where we’ve often seen a chipmunk we dubbed “Carson,” because he reminds us of the butler on Downton Abbey who imagines himself “staying at Downton forever, and then haunting it forever after.” He was always perched there, watching us from his huge estate. But as a result of a complex disaster of wind taking down a tree that took down others as it fell, Downton is no more, and Carson is not in his usual perch as he used to be:
“Carson,” spring 2020 Still, the first stretch of open woods was lovely with the sun showcasing the many shades of green and dappling the ground.
Stopping to check out the vernal pool that’s usually filled to bursting with salamanders and frog’s eggs in the spring, I found it filled with grasses along with this fallen tree that reminded me of one of my favorite books: Elizabeth Goudge’s Scent of Water, with its epigraph from the book of Job:
“For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.” (Job 14: 7-9) On to the stretch of beaver dams, dotted with beaver activity…
woodpecker activity…
and general loveliness of the “leaping greenly spirits of trees / and a blue true dream of sky” variety.
This little nook at the end of the boardwalk always seems enchanted to me. I have a pic of my youngest sitting on it years ago here, working on a scavenger hunt. (How can it be 12 years have passed?) I couldn’t resist enhancing the photo to make it more like my sense of the place:
It was especially enhanced by the sight of a common yellowthroat that I’d heard singing over my head last time I was here, but I never got my eye on him. This time I did — as he fled the scene at the arrival of this yellow warbler, who took over the airwaves with his “sweet sweet I’m so sweet” song:
From there it was back along another beaver-engineered canal full of turtles and frogs. Only a few allowed themselves to be photographed.
Last stop: a quick wetting for Lucy in the creek — moving water not populated by other creatures — on the way back to the car.
“Can I go in? Can I? Can I?” -
One last morning view
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Morning Glory II
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Morning Glory
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Elizabethan Gardens
My daughter and I recently visited the Elizabethan Gardens in Manteo, NC. Meant to commemorate the lost colony established by Sir Walter Raleigh 400+ years ago, the gardens are an elaborate feast for the eye that conjure up memories of The Secret Garden, the discussion of walled gardens in C.S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength, and the continual emphasis in Wendell Berry’s writings on a cooperative relationship between human stewardship and ecological/agricultural health.
Lush colors, bees and butterflies and squirrels and lizards, symmetry and diversity were everywhere. But I didn’t photograph everything. One tree, an oak thought to have been growing since the colonists’ residence in the 16th century, was so striking to me that I forgot to take its picture. There were plenty of other alcoves and sculptures and flowers that escaped my camera, too.
All the more reason to return.
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Winter Dead
Robin’s song is crystal clear
“Robin’s Song,” E.L.M. King
Cold as an icicle,
Sharp as a spear.
I have seen Spring lift her head,
Snowdrops a-shivering,
Winter dead.
