Walks
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Serenity Wood
April 27 was clear and warm, so I ventured into the Serenity Wood to check out the sights and sounds of spring. The initial trail up through a meadow was muddy and full of bushes, from which a blue-winged warbler mocked me with its raspberry call as it successfully hid from me. In this same meadow, I got a good picture of him — or perhaps his father or grandfather — back in 2013, so I was glad to grant him his privacy and move on to the woods.
Along with the opening leaves, a few tiny flowers were pushing up on the forest floor.
Wood Anemone 
Bluet 
I paused to remember photos taken on this bench with my daughters, as well as brown creepers and yellow-rumped warblers we’ve seen in the trees lining this path in previous springs.
Down the hill and to the left, I turned in to the Tree Tunnel, so named by my youngest on our first walk here years ago. It’s dimmer, and to me slightly ominous, when fully leafed out; I like it best in spring, with the fresh, bright green of opening leaves and the light coming in.
From there, I turned and descended to a little bridge over this creek, where two chipmunks chased one another at dizzying speed over this tree that fell across the stream years ago and now seems to have anchored to both banks.
May Apples were sprouting everywhere. The ground was literally carpeted with them. In later May they’ll sport lovely white flowers under those umbrellas.
Many trees were toppled. I don’t remember it being a windy winter overall, but we did have a few very windy days, and they seem to have had a dramatic effect. (Maybe that accounts for so many May Apples — less leaf canopy = more sunlight.)
This one was covered with “wormoglyphics,” as my daughters used to call the exposed worm tracks beneath the bark.
It certainly does have the appearance of mysterious writing!
I walked on along the gorge, listening to the stream and surveying more fallen trees on the banks.
A pair of oven birds flitted worriedly around me, calling out “Teacher teacher TEACHER TEACHER TEACHER TEACHER TEACHER!!!“ I took a few fern photos and moved on.
Just before getting to this boardwalk I met two other walkers. We greeted each other, and as I walked on I heard one say to the other, “Nature is… dirty.” True enough! By this point my shoes were coated with mud, and I was glad to stump along on dry wood for awhile, following this runway back to the parking area.
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First Walk of Spring
It was April 17, and wetter than I expected, but the overcast was beginning to clear.
It’s always a delight to find color and texture after the long, monochrome palette of winter.
This stump is a study in change. It’s the same one I photographed in this post.
This preserve has a healthy population of large spotted salamanders. They close some of the roads so the salamanders can cross them — mostly at night, I think — in safety. When I got to the vernal pool, I found myself really hoping I might finally see one, but no. Just this fine fellow and his friends.
Lucy dislikes the boardwalk because it often results in long waits while her humans take pictures and exclaim over things they see. On this day we didn’t linger, though.
Once I saw this turtle, I started noticing them everywhere. There were a few tree swallows swooping over the water, as well as a phoebe observing us from a nearby branch.
All in all it was a lovely inauguration of the spring walking season.
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November Splendor
I’m engaging in a personal restoration project. For some reason, I can drift away from the things that bring me joy: walks, photography, playing the piano, journaling, even reading for pleasure. When I finished my master’s thesis years ago, I recall coming out of the exam and thinking, “I don’t have to study. Now I can do whatever I want!” But this was immediately followed by a sense of blank. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do!
It’s easy to sink into the daily routines and “tyranny of the urgent” and forget what energizes us. I’m trying to climb back out of such a place by incorporating those simple pleasures. Yesterday I took a walk at a nearby park, and even though the world seems barren and colorless in this season, I was reminded that beauty remains — and what color there is, is more potent against its largely monochromatic surroundings.
The gathering of trees to the left has always been in flux. It’s in a low spot and often floods; the trees’ shallow root systems have yielded a number of the company over time, as the stumps attest.
But it’s still lovely. The girls and I dubbed it “Buttercup Hollow” one spring years ago, but an entish name would be equally appropriate.
Dead leaves, rust-colored brush and bare trees. . . yet against the chilly blue sky, it doesn’t look blah. The subtle shades and textures are highlighted.
Lucy, in constant motion and always interested in the odors, is in her element. She’s getting older too — just turned 12 — but she’s still always ready for an outing.
The stream brings back memories of my children searching for crayfish, minnows, and rocks to throw for the dog — as well as one homemade boat that was tested in this stream.
I wouldn’t want to go in today!
The fallen tree to the left is new and serves as a reminder that the elements of any natural scene are temporary. But the overall impression isn’t of death, but serene beauty.
This trail is marked by plantings. We helped put in a few of them at this park when the girls were in 4H. They’re supposed to prevent erosion, and some of them seem to flourish. But I’ve never seen them freed from their little green tubes! Who’s allowed to take them off? Who decides when?
Still, they provide a neat border, as well as define a yellow-brick-road style path inscribed on the landscape. We followed it out to the end of our “little explore.”
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Where’s Waldo, Woodland Version
There are many tiny things to notice on walks — like this tiny frog. Things you don’t see unless you’re looking.
Damselfly The thing is to be attentively present. . . What is to be known is always there. When it reveals itself to you, or when you come upon it, it is by chance. The only condition is your being there and being watchful. (Wendell Berry, “The Long-Legged House”)
Carolina Wren -
Porcupine
At first glimpse, it looked like a huge nest – a large, dark, plump blob high in a tree… yet shaped like an animal.
But a second look (with the telephoto lens) revealed it to be a porcupine!
It’s the first I’ve ever seen in the wild.
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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?”
