I Miss My Woods

I miss my woods.

I miss getting lost to the world in them.

I miss the anonymity they bestowed upon me, the namelessness...

I miss the absence of judgment among the trees and low-growing things...the things that crept across the ground, unnoticed, unremarkable in their own anonymity…

I miss the silence. Profound. Deafening in its stillness. Pure. Even despite the noise that tried to insinuate itself from “out there,” it was complete as only it was able to be complete. Because that noise “out there” can never mesh with the music audible only there…the notes never look right upon the page...never sound right...

The music of the wind in the trees...sighing...soughing...whispering...moaning softly...of tree boles touching, embracing, swaying together, crying out in their ecstasy…of a tired one tipping too far, snapping, coming to rest finally but not completely. Never completely. For nothing in there ever dies...not completely...

I miss my woods.

I miss the pre-spring lack of color, the browns and grays set against what will soon be green...not long now...not long at all...against the low blue sky...against clouds just brushing past...low, white, faultless…

I miss my woods.

That place where nothing tainted, defiled, infected...made ill...pronounced finality...for there IS no finality there...among the low-growing and creeping things whose lives continue endlessly renewed, reawakened, rejuvenated, recreated...but always different if only slightly from what came before…

I miss my woods.

I miss the place where I could forget “out there...” where it never quite reached me albeit how short my time there was...how few minutes my feet tamped the still-winter-damp ground as I went...no destination in mind...none needed...the place being all that mattered.

I miss my woods.

March 16, 2020

And Spring Slips In

　

According to those who monitor these things, spring arrived at 6:29 this morning. For days now, I've been listening to the birds, noticing how different their songs are as they sing about the passing of yet another winter into memory. Oh sure, we might get a few more flakes or maybe even another full-fledged weather "event." But as the earth turns her face toward the sun, anything the clouds send down from here on out won't create much of an impact and will be gone much more quickly.

　

It's interesting to note that, while I wasn't up at that time this morning, I was awake, listening to a loud symphony of crow music outside my window. I do sometimes get up a bit sooner than that and toss some bread out, and it seems I've created some sort of ritual in the process, as it doesn't take long for the crows to swoop in from somewhere to get at the scraps before the turkeys and gulls and squirrels do. But beyond that, I also heard a cardinal, and the tufted titmouse was finally singing its spring notes.

　

Not long ago, a snow-removal crew shoveled all the snow off the roofs here, and they bent my shepherd's hook over in the process. At the time, the ground was still frozen solid, so I couldn't do anything about it. Yesterday, though, I was easily able to bend it back to some measure of straightness, as the soil it's standing in was very pliable and cooperative. I also shoveled some of the snow away, exposing more of that soil in the process. And now, that whole area is bare and dark brown against the surrounding banks, a welcome sight for these winter-weary eyes.

　

One thing is certain: if the temperature does approach 50 degrees F. today, as predicted, there will be plenty of melting going on. The trees are also ready to leaf out, as is evidenced by the fat swollen buds on the ends of the maple branches across the parking lot. I read somewhere that the maple sap stopped flowing once the weather turned cold again, so hopefully the tappers will be in business again now that the days are warming...

　

...which they can't help but do as the earth turns her face toward the sun and continues to do so at the rate of 1,000 miles per hour until what snow there is no longer stands a chance.

A Stewardship of the Heart

“…in any true sense there is no such thing as ownership of the earth and the shadow of any man is but for a time cast upon the grass of any field.” Henry Beston, Northern Farm.



It would be all too easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I own this land, this wooded five-acre hillside that slopes down from Grant’s Hill to Swan Pond. One of my neighbors has perhaps a better claim to that thinking, as this entire area, including my own humble parcel, once belonged to his father. So I’ve come to understand his attachment to it that extends even to my land, as it was once in his family, and he’s never stopped thinking of it as such. I, however, am a relative newcomer here, and unless I will the place to my own heirs, someone else will someday invariably take stewardship of this knoll.



But can any of us, no matter how long we’ve occupied it, truly own the land? Are the trees, hills and fields to be owned, or do they simply allow us the luxury of our imagined dominion over them? We’ve all witnessed the ravages of progress, how it can strip away acres of trees and replace them with shopping centers and apartment complexes. Yet, once abandoned, does the earth not take over again, with nature slowly but inexorably reclaiming what is hers? No legal proceedings are involved, no hand needed to sign deeds or easements. She simply moves in quietly, and over time, refashions the hills and fields into something more befitting her eclectic preferences.



Our history is full of stories of those who held unwritten rights to this land for centuries before the Europeans decided it was theirs simply to take. Who better to attest to the fleeting nature of ownership than those very souls who now eke out their existences in the places allotted to them by those with the power to decide such things? I think I know a little of how they must have felt as they left their ancestral lands, I, who have only been here a few years and who is hardly rooted yet can feel how tenuous my grip is on this place.



A good friend of mine once said that no one ever really owns the land, that we are all merely stewards, a reality that extracts from us a promise to leave it as we found it. He and his wife owned 80 acres of pine-studded wilderness not far from here, and he, too, had a healthy reverence for that wild place that held him in tenancy only. Even in death, whatever small space any of us occupies passes to someone else: heirs, new unrelated owners, even developers, and all perhaps thinking it is theirs, all theirs, to do with as they will.



None of us knows what lies ahead, and it’s perhaps better that way. If I should have to reluctantly leave this place someday, I hope that whoever comes after me will see the light golden in the pines at sunset and hear the wind approaching from the west on a stormy night. I hope they care for it, give back whatever they take from it, and not interfere too much with processes that have gone on long before any of us were here. But most of all, I hope they hear what it has to say and that they, too, take comfort in the truths it has to share.

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Layers

There's an intriguing quality to woodlands that I like to call the layered effect. It's most obvious when staring into a forested area that spans a large area and is composed of many different species of trees and other growth. Those in the foreground appear, of course, the clearest and offer the most detail. Pine needles, branches and leaves are all visible, distinct one from the other. But as the eye moves more deeply into the denser growth, images begin to blur, until they appear as layer upon layer of subtly different shades of greens and browns.

There, the edges of distinguishable shapes like leaves and branches blur, and smaller objects, such as individual pine needles, join to produce a tufted look when framed by the more delineated shapes of large boughs and trunks. Colors soften, and from that distance, pine boughs take on a bluish tint depending the slant of the light, becoming the stuff that woodland fantasies are made of.

This so-called layering process extends to all of life, from the air masses that exist above us to the ground we walk on. From its core outward, the planet we call home is a series of mineral masses that have continued to build on top of each other over billions of years. The uppermost layers, called plates, move constantly, releasing some of the intense pressure trapped beneath them in the form of earthquakes and volcanoes.

The oceans are composed of layers of water that start out relatively warm at the surface and get progressively colder toward the bottom. Clouds are layered masses of moisture, the air we breathe is just one layer in what we call our atmosphere, and in winter, snow accumulates in layers between storms. As all things grow, they do so by a process of new growth covering, or being covered by, old growth, as illustrated most distinctly in trees, whose new tissues emerge as rings that can be counted once they are cut down. As smaller plants grow, they do so as layers of new tissue displacing the old, snakes shed old skins to make room for the new, and even we humans evolve through growth that involves a layering process that takes place within and without.

Stylists speak of hair layering, painters apply pigment in layers toward the perfect finish, and masons put down stacks of foundational materials. We polish our nails with multiple coatings, we dress in layers against the cold, and even our lives could be said to be layers of experiences, one following another, each resting upon those that came before it.

Physically or philosophically, much of life evolves by degrees that often manifest themselves as shapes, objects, events or outcomes superimposed one upon the other. And the woods mirror that, in the detail they show us up close and layered against blurred masses of color and substance that act as backdrops, lending perspective and assigning meaning to what we are seeing. In this sense, nature is forever making connections between all forms of life, between the real and the abstract, between the clear and the hazy, between the lives of woodlands and wild creatures and our very own.

Looking deeply into the woods is an exercise for the mind and the eye, as both take in the myriad shapes, planes, surfaces and configurations that work together to produce what we see. And at some point in the farthest reaches, clarity dims as does reality and the imagination takes over. What is that over there, I often ask myself, when some shape, shade or shadow in the distance is too vague to identify. It could be nothing, I answer, or then again, it could be everything.


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Death of a Tree

As I write, the old dead tree out back is coming down. A crew stopped early this morning to ask if they could work on this side of the fence, so I gave them the landlord's phone number. Since they began slicing off the side branches, my eyes have remained glued to the multiple holes that several woodpeckers have called home since before I got here. My hope is that, by now, the birds have vacated the premises and have started canvassing for other digs. Yet, it isn't without some measure of sadness that I observe the drama unfolding before me, not unlike a bird's wings, one feather at a time. And I hope that the fact that I haven't heard the woodpeckers' characteristic cries indicates that they are nowhere near. I'm not sure if birds mourn disruption as much as humans do, if they decry having to part with familiar surroundings and be forced to adjust to new. Come to think of it, it's really not unlike what we go through when we leave beloved places behind.

Watching these birds go through the motions of building a nest, then bearing and raising their young, was actually one of the things that helped me through my own transition from wooded to urban living. I kept my field glasses near that back window so that I could be quick to see what they happened to be up to at any given time. That's how it is with birds. You've got to be quick to catch the special moments that are over all too soon, and it is this vigilance that eventually rewarded me with observing the newborn's beak finally poke out of the hole in search of food. This happened some time in late May or early June, and at which time both parents began flying themselves ragged each day to keep Junior fed, and it was only at night that the process stopped or slowed. As fate would have it, I got busy with other things and never did see the moment when the young 'un finally left the nest. I seriously doubt that any bird will come anywhere near that old tree while chainsaws rip through its ancient flesh, putting the final touches on its demise. It wasn't completely dead. There was still a lot of greenery at the bottom on the healthier branches. But it has apparently become someone else's bane, so down it is coming, with many many thuds, and, if I'm not mistaken, groans of protest.

Later, when I went back to the window, despite the fact that I knew what I'd see, it was still a shock to see that vast empty space where that tree had stood. I stared at the spot a long time, then closed my eyes and tried to envision its beginnings as a tiny seedling straining to make its presence known among what might have been those many years ago a thicket of other growth. Most trees with trunks that wide have seen many rings added to their girth, so I'm guessing this particular old timer had seen many moons grow full and wane and even more sunrises and sunsets. And while its bottom half was still struggling to survive in this world where it is every tree for itself, the top had become home to creatures that might not otherwise have taken up residence in such a place as this.

I accepted this tree's removal with a sort of resignation that is still seeking to find a space in my own thinking. My life has undergone a lot of change lately, and I'm not quite sure just how I feel about a lot of it. But I can say this: for a lover of trees, it's never easy to bid one farewell. I must once again choose how to feel, and this is what I've come up with...that I don't have to go very far to find renewed comfort in the fact that, for every tree that is dismembered and sacrificed for the sake of aesthetics, there are dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions of others awaiting my gaze and appreciation. And knowing trees and their ways, I wouldn't be at all surprised if, at some point and unbeknownst to most, a new seedling, or maybe even two, someday poked through the soil in that very spot and whispered, "I'm back."

That's how it is with trees.


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Again, Trees

Trees are wondrous things, and I often take them for granted. Caught up in my daily preoccupations, I often rush by them without giving them a second glance, focused as I am on matters at hand, most of which, truth be known, I can't do very much about.

I often drive along with my left arm hanging out the open car window, and I have acquired quite a prominent farmer's tan that way. It's particularly dark this year, considering all the rambling I've done in search of fodder for this column and the photos to accompany them. One day, oblivious to the sun's intensity, and forgetting the weather forecaster's warning that the ultraviolet factor was dangerously high that day, the tender skin on my arm just above the elbow was burned and required several applications of that blessedly soothing concoction known as aloe gel. Despite my sunburn, it was along one stretch of Route 5 in Saco that I was reminded that afternoon of what a blessing trees are, especially on hot cloudless days.

From the intersection of routes 5 and 35 in Dayton to the Waterboro town line several miles west, the woods alternately deepen and thin on either side of the road. My arm becomes a sensing device of sorts as it picks up the changes in temperature that occur between the wooded areas and sections where the tree line is farther back from the road and more open sky appears. Along one particularly dense wooded stretch, the temperature dropped by a good 10 degrees, and my arm was actually chilled. Then, when the tree canopy opened up again to allow the sun through, it got decidedly warmer. I tested the theory all the way to Waterboro where the road widens and the trees no longer join together closely enough over the road to alter the temperature until the turnoff to Shaker Hill on route 202 in Alfred.

The coolness that trees impart is due to several factors beyond their ability to provide us with shade. Trees are natural air conditioners that operate exclusively on solar power to chill the air around us and keep it chilled for long periods of time. This is where water, good old H-Two-0, comes into play, much as it does inside an electrically-powered air conditioner. Trees take in hundreds of gallons of water from the soil each day through their roots. This water travels to every part of the tree to keep it hydrated and to assist with the production of food in that amazing process known as photosynthesis.


Water molecules are composed of hydrogen and oxygen. In a complex process, the sun stimulates the hydrogen molecules that are utilized during the food production process, while the oxygen is given off through the leaves. Any excess water not used during the production of the sugars necessary to a tree's survival is also released in yet another process known as transpiration, which closely resembles what we call perspiration, or the process by which our own bodies produce water, or sweat, to keep us cool. So not only do trees intercept the sun's damaging rays, they also keep us cool with the water they release into the air around them. This cooling ability increases exponentially depending upon the number of trees in any given area. Thus, the denser the forest, the chillier it will be, because the air around and between the trees is saturated with cool water.

Trees also do not retain heat in the general sense. Thus, once the sun sets, they and the air around them cool almost immediately as opposed to the asphalt and concrete that weave their way through cities and towns and that store the heat long after sundown. This is a welcome effect during the winter, but it quickly becomes the bane of city dwellers during the hottest times of the year, especially in places where there is little or no vegetation.

The next time you are out of an evening, notice how much cooler it is in the more wooded areas as opposed to the city streets. Take note of the decided chill in the air in places where the treetops join hands, if you will, to do what they were designed to do which is to naturally and efficiently keep us cool and refreshed and all without our having to flip a single switch.


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Summer in York County

Roaming the York County countryside means seeing fields shorn of their tall grasses and corn standing knee-high right about now. Raspberries are filling out on their canes, and blueberries are ripening a little more each day. Birds linger longer on tree branches, particularly among the flowering varieties whose blossoms have given way to yet another year's-worth of seeds. It's July, the seventh month, which means that we are over half-way through yet another year. The heat rests heavily on the land, and the sun shines down more intensely than it will at any other time.

I'm not a big fan of hot weather, so when I do venture out, I try to get as early a start as I can. Driving along with all the windows down, I bask in the still-cool morning air that, by noon, will feel more like the heat pouring from an oven. On hot days, even the trees seem weighed down by it, their leaves barely moving in the moisture-laden air moving in from the south and the west, completely resigned to the elements that constitute summer in southern Maine.

Much has been written of late about conservation and the actions of many dedicated individuals geared toward protecting unspoiled land for future generations to enjoy and appreciate. While their efforts are indeed commendable, it occurs to me that conservation can take different forms and that it can be deliberate or simply the result of of land being left undisturbed for many years. The long swaths of open field and meadow that I see in my many travels illustrate what I like to call passive conservation. Such acreage emerges from beneath the snows each spring, sprouts a full component of grass that is eventually cut back to ground level. That is about as much as ever happens to such land, and year after year, it is wisely left in nature's domain. The hay or straw harvested from these lands fills many needs, but such undisturbed lands provide another benefit as well by enhancing the countryside and making a lot of lovely scenery possible. Visual beauty, as well as the survival of relatively untouched places, are indeed valuable components of conservation, passive or otherwise, that sometimes get lost in the shuffle of providing areas for people to enjoy in other ways.

We all owe a debt of gratitude to those landowners who quietly, and without much ado, leave large portions of their land in nature's care. Because of them, we have many places to escape to in this part of the world where life's busy-ness and the wilderness live in close proximity to each other. And although much of this land is private and, in some cases, posted against trespassers, I feel that just having it to look at as I drive by or stop along a road somewhere to enjoy is a gift.

I sometimes park my car and walk along the by-ways that border such properties, camera in hand, always on the lookout for that special something that would be missed if I'd just passed by without a second glance. From such a limited vantage point, I am still able to gaze out upon rolling pastures and deep into dense woods where the leaves split the sunlight into glimmering beams. I can gaze down from a bridge into flowing water or look up at clouds that break up a rich blue sky above a field of golden grasses bending in the breeze, thankful always to those wise landowners who know that, when nature is given full rein, nothing short of the spectacular will do.


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Stormy Weather

As I write, nature is unleashing her power with rare ferocity as my neck of the woods experiences the latest phase of the storm called Irene. Appearing to be tracking northwest and toward upstate Vermont and the Adirondacks of New York, the storm is still wide enough to be expressing itself here in southwestern Maine via tossing trees and roaring wind. While I hope she remembers to practice wind economy, I am aware of what could happen were nature to vent her full fury upon this wooded place, a fact of which she is reminding me over and over again at the moment...



Such was my journal entry for Sunday, August 28, 2011. Craving a change of scenery and relief from the stale close indoor air, I went out to the potting shed at one point during the afternoon with my book and journal and sat awhile observing the storm from another angle. I realized quickly that this provided me with too alarming a production, and after seeing the trees dip down to the roof more times than I'd expected to, I went back inside and contented myself with a more narrowly framed view through a window. Once darkness settled, there wasn't much left to do without electricity but to light a few candles and, well, listen to the wind.

Earlier, around 10 a.m., I took a walk up and down the road and out through the woods to my neighbor's small pond. On the way back, I looked up and realized how close the trees hold me to them, evidenced by the branches that seem to hold my humble dwelling in a sort of embrace. A neighbor who occasionally flies over in his plane told me recently that he can no longer see the roof as it's now completely obliterated by the trees. While that did present me with a cause to fear during yesterday's storm, it seems that they did, after all, protect me. Most of the wind activity occurred in the outermost smaller trees, while the old nearby faithful oaks, pines and maples stood their ground, creating a barricade of sorts between the tempest and me. As low as a couple of them dipped at times, I just knew they would persevere.

What a welcome sight was the sunlight this morning after a long dark and uncertain night, as was feeling a wind that is now more friend again than foe. In my journal today, I will mention the sweet scent of the air at the height of the storm as the trees, their bark taxed to the extreme, exuded their fragrant sap at every turn. I'll devote a few lines to the sound of chainsaws in the distance as residents clean up and, in the process, benefit from debris left in the storm's wake that will warm both hearts and hearths in the cold months to come. And I will touch upon the frenzied dance the treetops did as they gave themselves totally over to the wind's lead. I notice quite a few leaves today dangling precariously from their stems, their bonds already weakened long before the trees are due to discard them. I wonder if this will hasten their fall and if I will see them turn crimson, orange and yellow sooner this year than they normally would. When I looked up into the maples in the back yard early this morning, it appeared that their topmost leaves have already started to wither and dry. Not surprising, considering what they endured yesterday.

There is laundry to hang out and plenty of kindling on the back porch to sweep into a pile. Here in the woods, one must wait till dawn to see the effects of a late night storm, and daylight now reveals the causes of some of the loud thumps I heard when there was no light to shed on them, larger branches that came to rest in odd positions against the porch railing, others piercing the earth where they fell. I look at them this morning and think of how much worse it could have been.

I will indulge today, too, in whimsical thinking, of how, because I insist on giving nature her due and never question her strength, she spares me time and time again. I will ponder, too, whether these trees and I have some sort of unspoken agreement whereby I afford them a slight edge by never tempting them to prove their might by falling on me. It's a delicate balance, this compromise between animal and plant, one of which I am reminded anew as the storm clouds part and the sun reappears.

Mere hours ago, this place was a dark maelstrom, and now, the sun-washed leaves float on the gentle air as though nothing had ever been amiss. Peace has returned once again to this green world, and though slightly altered for the experience, is yet still comfortingly familiar.


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Fall-like Mornings

This place sits roughly 15 feet above the dirt road, so that I essentially look down on any passing traffic, which at this time of year, is still quite substantial. Trees grow along this north-facing slope at different heights, and one oak is close enough so that its branches are now nearly touching the siding. The combination of the height and the tree's proximity give the illusion that I am actually sitting in its branches like a bird from whose perch I am afforded the most marvelous view of life going on below.



I sit often at that particular window, primarily because of those branches. They are visible proof that these woods hold me in their vast arms in that ineffable way that trees have of providing comfort and security. On rainy days, their leaves glisten with moisture, the droplets clinging to their leathery surfaces before slipping off and falling to the earth. And on sunny days, they reflect the light, casting shadows upon the ground, upon this place and upon each other. High winds set the boughs to swaying, and in winter, when only a few dried reddish-brown stragglers remain, snowflakes accumulate in the tiny bends created by leaf stems protruding from branches. The drama of an entire year of seasons can be observed in these few branches, one from which I never tire and that, on some days, is able to restore calm to my innermost workings.



I got a notion a few years ago to grab my loppers and trim that back slope of all of its excess growth. Lots of things grow there, some whose names I know, and others that would require a bit more research to identify. I was ruthless in my cutting, and the result was a neatly trimmed drop-off that opened up a clearer view of this side of the property, restoring its illusion of suspended weightlessness. Such positioning offers privacy of a rare kind, for it is impossible to see much of the inside of this place from the road, a vantage point that affords a view of nothing more than the ceilings if the lamps are all blazing. This advantage makes curtains and window shades unnecessary, as it would be the energetic intruder who would trudge up the hill to get a closer look, especially in the winter when the ice settles in. And at that, anyone under 5 feet tall would need a ladder to look in. As it stands, no one ever pokes around up here other than the occasional neighbor's child selling candy, the folks who read the electric meter, or an invited guest or two.



One's senses become more finely tuned from living in the woods, where even the slightest unfamiliar sound gives pause. In the dead of winter, when traffic is at its lowest point, the sound of any vehicle brings me to the window, if only to see which among my few year-round neighbors has dared to venture out that day. Of course, this dirt road is never a clear indicator of what the main road is like after a storm. What seems to be an impenetrable mass of snow here has usually already been removed by the time I have to go anywhere. Yet the sense of being snow-bound persists until I get to where the dirt ends and the tarmac takes over.



This all seems like a lifetime away at this point, but experience dictates otherwise, for in not that many weeks, the wind will shift once again, bringing colder temperatures with it. The days will shorten, and the sun will smile upon a different part of the earth for awhile, leaving us to close in upon ourselves for yet another year like so many spent flower buds. For now, I sit near my window gazing upon those oak branches, willing them to stay green for as long as possible before nature and the cycle of the seasons deem otherwise.


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