tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-252099542024-03-21T07:20:08.528-04:00Moose Hill JournalThoughts and observations from, on, about, around or inspired by Moose Hill in Sharon, Massachusetts.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-82590092632920248822016-03-21T21:31:00.000-04:002016-03-21T21:31:04.097-04:00Dipping into the Stream #3
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our town of Sharon, Massachusetts hosted a series of "One Book One Town" events this year featuring "10% Happier" by Dan Harris. The book is about how meditation and mindfulness can help most people be at least a little bit happier. One of the events was a writing "contest" using the theme of "happiness." I quickly remembered how my quiet walks and contemplation on Moose Hill helped me find no small measure of happiness and self-awareness. I remembered one blog post in particular about how I spent a morning sitting on a rock, eating breakfast and observing as nature and my own thoughts passed before me. I condensed the blog post (A 500 word limit is draconian!) and submitted it, hoping to share my experience with others who might seek solace in the forest. </span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was appropriately "happy" to learn that my entry won second place and I might get to read it live in a few days. </span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">My contest entry is below. The original appeared in this blog in August of 2007. </span></span></h3>
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Dipping into the Stream #3</h3>
I have discovered that sitting in quiet solitude in the woods is a
way to help bring peace to a troubled mind. Among the trees, the
noise and tumult of the modern world fall away and I can simply think
about things. I am lucky to be within walking distance of the Moose
Hill wildlife sanctuary. I like to hike up there and sit on my
favorite rock, face the rising sun and enjoy my breakfast and coffee.
I sit and listen to the subtle sounds of the forest and idly dip into
my thoughts and daydreams as they flow by.
<br />
On one visit I was thinking about how I saw Dr. Wayne Dyer talking
about the <i>Tao Te Ching </i><span style="font-style: normal;">on
PBS</span><i>.</i> One point I heard Dyer make was “Change your
thoughts and change your life.”<br />
I have discovered that sitting alone in nature helps me focus on
things that are bothering me. I might discover, acknowledge and
confront previously hidden problems that are causing unease. I find
that once a problem is identified, writing it down in my journal
might help me find a solution. Sometimes the solution may be simply
understanding the error in the way I am thinking about something.
Maybe something is bugging me and all I need to do is realize that it
really has nothing to do with me, it’s none of my business, it is
of no concern to me, and I should just let it go.<br />
While some may teach that changing our thoughts in this way is all
that matters, and this may sometimes be true, I also believe that to
be happier, many thoughts should lead to positive action. It’s
through our actions that we change our lives for the better and
through our actions that people know us. That’s why, after I
identify what it is that is troubling me, I often find peace by
visualizing a plan of action. These plans are a means to smooth out a
turbulent life and bring calm to the mind. Some of these actions may
be simple, like finishing a nagging task I’ve been putting off.
Others might be a bit more challenging, like fixing a broken career
or wounded relationship. Sometimes, just seeing a path forward can
still the emotions and bring hope.<br />
Actions are important, especially if they spring from thoughts
that bring peace to a troubled mind. I like to think that peaceful
minds lead to a peaceful world. Upon first meeting, it is almost
customary for people to ask: “What do you do?” Perhaps a more
important and interesting question might be: “What do you think
about?”<br />
This is the sort of food for thought I seek in the forest, and at
that point, my real food is usually gone so I go on my way, satisfied
with the mental nourishment Moose Hill has provided. I head for home
hoping I might be able to incorporate a little of my Moose Hill
dreaming into my everyday life.<br />
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MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-61165524074518734732010-12-12T11:21:00.005-05:002010-12-14T22:52:59.975-05:00Running Into DarknessSunday December 12, 2010<br /><br /><br />Boomer Moose Hill run<br />Should I stumble, should I fall<br />Old man age behind<br /><br /><br />Not feeling up to going out for my birthday last night, Nancy and I spent a quiet evening at home watching Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson in “Last Chance Harvey.” Probably not the best film fare for one prone to critical self-examination and observing a late-fifties birthday. (One of my favorite quotes is from (I think) George Plimpton: “One going on a journey of self-examination should go well-armed.”)<br /><br />I woke up this morning feeling generally crummy. Knowing one of my problems was a major lack of exercise this week, I did what I often do when feeling down: I headed for Moose Hill. Weather radar showed a gap in the big, cold rain storm blanketing New England so I donned hat and gloves, put the cell phone in a bag, and headed out the door.<br /><br />By linking the Hobbs Hill Loop, the Kettle Trail and the Summit Trail I was able to run for over an hour almost entirely on trails. Feeling out of shape, my plan was to run slowly and steadily, gently bathing my cells in cleansing oxygen and endorphins. Planning to run slowly and long (for me) has the advantage of allowing for a gradual warm-up. Not only does this loosen the joints, but it allows time for thinking and, perhaps, working on a little haiku, counting syllables with wool-clad digits. There was a moment as I began the steep ascent up to the summit of Moose Hill that I thought about channeling my inner Rocky, but the Acela from Philly was late and The Rock was nowhere to be found, so I walked. At times when I'm feeling weak, I think about <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iw5kH7civTo">this video</a> (Caution, strong language!) and push harder, but not today.<br /><br />The longer I ran, the better I felt. The light, fresh air and cold raindrops helped lift the fog in my head. I think part of my problem is this damn disappearing December daylight. I always find myself in a funk at this time of the year and figure I suffer from SAD - seasonal affective disorder. But there's nothing better than a little exercise to lift the spirits. By the time I got home, the rain was falling harder, but a good run was behind me, and I knew soon the season would be turning and we would start climbing back to the light.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-56656010893123797862010-05-21T20:13:00.006-04:002010-05-21T21:42:56.093-04:00A Thing Which Could Not Be Put Back<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIMdwlulsV8A2_tUch5lWfNnJS5vMemIoqIr4uhPOQLWBLesLsV7cKrHhoFJrSxIk-pu-l18Cw9ZrGA7lpjwuq9VAU1MdfN2y0FmY4tXMDDFUb-ERiOAdSkWp9h0WBtXXEkZJsg/s1600/TheRoad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIMdwlulsV8A2_tUch5lWfNnJS5vMemIoqIr4uhPOQLWBLesLsV7cKrHhoFJrSxIk-pu-l18Cw9ZrGA7lpjwuq9VAU1MdfN2y0FmY4tXMDDFUb-ERiOAdSkWp9h0WBtXXEkZJsg/s320/TheRoad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473881392886019074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculite patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not to be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.<br /><br />- </span>from Cormac McCarthy, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Road<br /><br /><br /></span>I read <span style="font-style: italic;">The Road </span>by Cormac McCarthy several months ago<span style="font-style: italic;">. </span>I wanted to write about this haunting book here, but I had no words to express the dark world this story plunged me into. It's the tale of a father and his son moving through the skeleton of a world left behind by a man-made cataclysm. In their struggle for the barest survival, they encounter challenges and horrors that are nearly unspeakable - unspeakable except by geniuses like McCarthy.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>This is truly the stuff of nightmares.<span><br /><br />The dark images this book planted in my mind often come welling up. It doesn't help that when I see the book in a store, I'm prone to picking it up and re-reading the closing paragraph (Above). Not long ago I found myself standing, like an idiot, in a big-box warehouse store with a tear running down my cheek.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-QFGJwGpNRCulqPFXOAqIDTWc6VkZ6CMiPONVHxQSe5qulhbXAk16ZUvdaqKcQvAyXcVSWQ4XyTLMHfmBZISXkiS_X0fE_ZiQok4H_INuj880N_947Y6qqNygkJRRVooZqzN0w/s1600/eaarth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-QFGJwGpNRCulqPFXOAqIDTWc6VkZ6CMiPONVHxQSe5qulhbXAk16ZUvdaqKcQvAyXcVSWQ4XyTLMHfmBZISXkiS_X0fE_ZiQok4H_INuj880N_947Y6qqNygkJRRVooZqzN0w/s320/eaarth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473881157398229554" border="0" /></a><br /><span>I did it again last night at Barnes & Noble, but this time something clic</span><span>ked</span><span>. I </span><span>just started reading <span style="font-style: italic;">eaarth</span> by Bill McKibben. In the early pages, McKibben explains that global cl</span><span>imate change is not something that might - if we don't get </span><span>on the stick - affect our children and grandchildren as is so often said. No, in fact, it's already happened. We have already pumped so much greenhouse gas into the air and are so far from getting our fossil fuel use under control that we have entered a time of irreversible feedback-fed warming that has changed our pale blue dot into</span><span> another planet altogether. We've triggered a chain reaction where a warmer climate promotes release of carbon dioxide from a thawing tundra and release of methane from warming Arctic seas. These additional gas releases warm the climate further, and so on and so on, in a self-sustaining loop that is beyond our power to control no matter how many bicycles we ride or light bulbs we change.<br /><br />So, unlike the blinding flash that ended McCarthy's world, our world - the real one- was ended slowly but surely by puff after puff of invisible gas. Sudden death, or slow tortured death, we are left with a thing that could not be put back, could not be made right again. I think of my children and I think of the soft green forests of spring, and a tear rolls down my cheek.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-41003847496149932372010-03-17T22:51:00.005-04:002010-03-17T23:26:21.271-04:00Dinner and a Show<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYea-XBSxc1zdJJ2352MOZ_5GFcz0dQXLvqT7Wyr_57aUXMVXA_cObLGbNe9h6xgM17pit_DIiBbkkVDRv2WM5YpOqOjJnDEWlvSuFnxfJ80KeQPyWNq1N6c6ECu4R_G53dai0g/s1600-h/March+17+2010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYea-XBSxc1zdJJ2352MOZ_5GFcz0dQXLvqT7Wyr_57aUXMVXA_cObLGbNe9h6xgM17pit_DIiBbkkVDRv2WM5YpOqOjJnDEWlvSuFnxfJ80KeQPyWNq1N6c6ECu4R_G53dai0g/s320/March+17+2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449802628582236802" border="0" /></a>I went to see Gary Snyder last night. A friend told me he'd be in Acton, Massachusetts to collect a poetry prize. (Thanks, Wayne!) Acton is a full hour away by car and I was debating about going, but Wayne wanted to go too (Having a friend along always lends a bit of validity to my crazy ideas.) and, as he said, Snyder is 79, after all. In other words, who knows how much longer he'll be around.<br /><br />I'm not worried. If I can look as good and seem as bright at 79 as Gary Snyder does, I'll be doing OK.<br /><br />I'll confess that I didn't know who Gary Snyder was until just a few years ago. I had a significant chunk of time on my hands as I recovered from surgery in 2007 and I used it to immerse myself in Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums, inspired by those other <a href="http://newdharmabums.blogspot.com/">Dharma Bums</a>. I learned that the main character, Japhy Ryder, was patterned after the real poet, scholar and activist Gary Snyder. When I think about it, it's pretty amazing to be able – in 2010 – to see a living character from a 1958 Kerouac novel. Maybe all that outdoor living kept Snyder healthy enough to outlive so many of his contemporaries.<br /><br />I've since started exploring Snyder's vast body of work. I'm no student of poetry, but I find many of his poems striking a chord. So far, my <a href="http://moosehilljournal.blogspot.com/2008/07/dear-readers.html">favorite</a> is “For the Children” in Turtle Island. Snyder is also an essayist and so many of his writings from the 60's and 70's foretold and warned of many of the social and environmental perils we face today. If only we paid more attention to our visionaries.<br /><br />Snyder was in Massachusetts to collect the<a href="http://www.robertcreeleyfoundation.org/"> Robert Creeley Award</a>. This prize was created in honor of Robert Creeley - another poet I need to learn about – who grew up in Acton. Starting his presentation, Snyder read “ I Know a Man”, one of Creeley's best-known poems. (Or, “po-ems” as Snyder calls them.) There's much discussion and speculation about the meanings of this little poem, but it ends with the lines:<br /><br /> for christ's sake,<br /> look out where yr going<br /><br />To this, Snyder said, a Buddhist's interpretation would be:<br /><br /> Pay attention.<br /> Pay Attention!<br /> PAY ATTENTION!<br /><br />He also told us to live, big, outrageous lives.<br /><br />Well, it's a little late for me to start living a very big and outrageous life, but for the time I have left, I can try to pay attention. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to pay attention to, probably life as it is happening. It would be sad to look back on a long life, wonder where all the time went, and realize I wasn't paying attention. I also want to be on the lookout for signs and wonders. When I get a sign, I don't want to miss the wonder.<br /><br />I got <a href="http://somewhereinnj.blogspot.com/2010/03/march-means.html">a sign</a> a couple of weeks ago reminding me it was time to head up to Moose Hill for the annual spectacle of the peenting woodcock. It was a perfect night for it unless it was a bit early in the season. When I <a href="http://moosehilljournal.blogspot.com/2008_04_01_archive.html/">first went</a> to Moose Hill specifically to watch woodcock two years ago, it was April 8th, but this night was too good to pass up. The sky was free of clouds and wind and it was 60 degrees when I left home at about 6:30. Sunset was around 6:56, and from experience I knew I had plenty of time because the show doesn't start until after sundown.<br /><br />I rode my old touring bike up the hill and headed straight for the old field beyond the Billings Barn. With the mown stubble of the field surrounded by woods and a red maple swamp, this is a perfect spot for woodcock vernal nuptials. I leaned the bike against one side of a trail-marker post in the field and used the other side for a backrest. Even though the day had been warm and sunny, I could feel the cool air slowly draining from the hill behind me, so I put on my hat and jacket and had my blanket ready to throw over my shoulders.<br /><br />I unpacked dinner – veggie bake, one of my winter favorites – and poured a cup of Earl Grey from the vacuum bottle. I enjoyed my dinner, but started thinking I would have to go home without a show because everything was quiet. The only bird I heard was a cardinal chipping in the brush behind me, and no peepers were calling from the swamp. Then, a great blue heron flew low over the treetops with slow, silent wingbeats, giving me hope. I peeled an orange, sipped tea, and thought about Gary Snyder to pass the time.<br /><br />I heard the first tentative peent at 7:08 from down by the swamp. By 7:14 I heard two or three birds on the ground. At 7:21 I heard the first twittering flight and peered into the darkening blue dome above hoping to catch a glimpse. I didn't see that flight, but was reminded how the flight is usually followed more vigorous peenting from the ground after the showoff lands.<br /><br />It was getting so dark, the trees around the field were little more than silhouettes. The oaks and maples, in their nakedness, were revealing their forms against the sky, and the white pine were turned black by the night. Just then, a woodcock flew directly overhead like a big, silent beetle, before climbing in preparation for his plunging display. I could hear but not see his twittering decent. It was getting so dark, I couldn't see the words I was scribbling in my notebook. A honking flock of geese flew right over the field but I couldn't see them and wondered if they might be navigating by Orion's twinkling stars above.<br /><br />At the height of the peenting activity I was a little surprised to see a trio of young men emerge from the dark woods. Actually, I heard them clomping over the Bluff Trail boardwalk long before I saw them. They were carrying backpacks and seemed like nice guys, not ne're-do-well teenagers old guys like me expect to see in places like this. Who knows, maybe they are rucksack revolutionaries. I told them they were just in time to hear the woodcock and they paused and heard. I wonder if some day far in the future they'll remember the moment and perhaps seek signs and wonders of their own in valleys and pastures where we can meet.<br /><br />They went on their way and it was getting too dark to see anything. I had a last bit of tea, packed my bag and pushed my bike down the trail. When I got to the flat part of the gravel road leading back to the street, I hopped on the bike and rode slowly, guided only by the center part of the old road where the leaves had blown away, exposing the lighter sand and gravel.<br /><br />Back on Moose Hill Parkway, I pedaled quickly down the hill, hoping to avoid cars since I was poorly dressed for the dark. My shadow was chasing behind, and then racing ahead as I approached, and then passed the street lights.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-87379420397583618802010-02-06T15:49:00.013-05:002010-02-07T16:48:29.756-05:00Five Seven FiveWith the energy and optimism of youth, a <a href="http://danielaaronhalpern.wordpress.com/">young man</a> here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.<br /><br />I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.<br /><br />These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">May on the Deck</span><br />May 2007<br /><br />I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">chimney swift catbird</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">sky above forsythia</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">good to have them home</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Running to Another Place</span><br />June 2006<br /><p> </p><o:p></o:p>One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"> Warm summer rain run.</p><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> </div><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"> Endorphins bathe open mind.</p><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> </div><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"> Pewee calls from woods.</p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /></p><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cold Blood</span><br />June 2007<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.<o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal">Rain lets bullfrog move<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal">Warm road feels good to cold blood</p><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Driver does not care.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How Quickly We Fall</span><br />June 2007<br /><br /><br />In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.<br /> <p> </p><o:p></o:p><st1:date year="2007" day="8" month="9"></st1:date>Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto <st1:street><st1:address>Moose Hill Parkway</st1:address></st1:street>.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Shagbark hickory.</span><o:p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.<o:p> </o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> One last fatal bite.</span><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><st1:city style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><st1:place>Walker</st1:place></st1:city><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> sees squirrel.</span><o:p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Maggots dine on rotting flesh.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>No life is wasted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br />This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.</p><p class="MsoNormal">As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.<br /><o:p></o:p></p><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><br /><p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When does youth turn old?<br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Like summer turning to fall,</span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We want to hold on.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?</p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p></span>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-91877514089387074092009-11-21T07:40:00.016-05:002009-11-21T17:02:10.938-05:00Unhappy Update<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkQwplg_tsPIZBRWcIgbkIl4TZH5IQx_66N9ZUNTb7aoOS5eZIzbu_69-xKk71h2V4uRhdVtGSPT3qvJeS8IERZeYEuMkD5JVNFtAVLHHeEgBGdQYSZAtyNr9aDn78Kj55-GDAQ/s1600/img_0431.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkQwplg_tsPIZBRWcIgbkIl4TZH5IQx_66N9ZUNTb7aoOS5eZIzbu_69-xKk71h2V4uRhdVtGSPT3qvJeS8IERZeYEuMkD5JVNFtAVLHHeEgBGdQYSZAtyNr9aDn78Kj55-GDAQ/s320/img_0431.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406536796827173298" /></a>Maybe it's the American way. We did it in Iraq, and we do it here. Those with big money, big power, and small ideas destroy things first and let somebody else worry about putting things back together.<br /><br />In June of 2006, I walked a scene of obscene greed. (See "<a href="http://moosehilljournal.blogspot.com/2006_06_01_archive.html">Forgive Us Our Trespasses</a>.") Terrified by ever-escalating property taxes, the town gave a slimy developer the green light to clear about 20 acres of unbroken, beautiful, mature hardwood forest to build an "Over-55" community of about 50 houses. The rationale being that 50 retirement homes is better than 20 regular homes that will add kids to the already over-burdened school budget. The woodland was stripped and violated. Not an oak, maple, lady slipper, whitetail deer, scarlet tanager or salamander was spared. The place was bulldozed, rock-crushed and dirt-trucked literally back to the Pleistocene.<br /><br />For marketing purposes, a sign was erected, a community center with pool was showcased and a few houses were built. The houses were crappy little plastic-sided boxes built on concrete slabs. Of the half dozen or so built, only one or two sold before the developer (Well, no doubt some shadow corporation.) went broke and the scene of the crime was left abandoned for someone else to worry about.<br /><br />Now, the site has been acquired by another local developer who is also fond of despoiling raw land for profit. The cute little retirement coffins - brand new and never occupied - are being bulldozed (photo) and replaced with mini-mansions. Such simple-minded waste. It's enough to make me sick.<br /><br />Once again, a crisis of imagination and leadership took us back to the old formulas of the 20th Century. Destruction, sprawl and waste always led to profits in the past because many of the true costs of such greedy enterprises were borne by others.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzUzILxpeS_wUMCvXQgBg6valnVhSyyzYyWDOmB1XXP3obkkJEwK5Rxi8hqQMdYaRUYxoFlsYE-PpOctD2Z8Fd9pDX1SDmXmFhDucsmw22gkNQPu5YTFeptXtaxHVipdiFoZj1g/s1600/img_0478.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzUzILxpeS_wUMCvXQgBg6valnVhSyyzYyWDOmB1XXP3obkkJEwK5Rxi8hqQMdYaRUYxoFlsYE-PpOctD2Z8Fd9pDX1SDmXmFhDucsmw22gkNQPu5YTFeptXtaxHVipdiFoZj1g/s320/img_0478.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406536410935394418" /></a><br />In August of 2008 - well over a year ago now - I went to visit the site of a proposed "Lifestyle Mall" on the edge of town. (See "<a href="http://moosehilljournal.blogspot.com/2008/09/missing-target.html">Missing the Target</a>.") It's the same story, only on a bigger scale: Children and taxes - Bad. Shopping malls, concrete and asphalt - Good. Nobody seemed to care that the economy was swirling down the toilet and the last thing we need around here is another effing shopping mall - upscale or otherwise. The bulldozers were warming up. These guys just can't wait to tear things apart! Now - well over a year later, as the photo shows, the land still lies cleared and barren. The developer gropes around for a way - any way - out of this debacle, and guess who will come out holding the dirty end of the stick? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgUILLiwIopxXW8F-DKLWzASmvQdIBgbN-Rin_4BbZNJS_9vKLINe9edYDMSR7-haJ5O-Oy_kCrTT88B3B-YGxP_qLskoYth6p3rMnKVJ676WPM1bWJCrW_TJPBXYppV7GwelqQ/s1600/img_0439.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgUILLiwIopxXW8F-DKLWzASmvQdIBgbN-Rin_4BbZNJS_9vKLINe9edYDMSR7-haJ5O-Oy_kCrTT88B3B-YGxP_qLskoYth6p3rMnKVJ676WPM1bWJCrW_TJPBXYppV7GwelqQ/s320/img_0439.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406537541782267154" /></a>And what have we learned from all this? Nothing. <br /><br />Now, another developer wants to build a retirement and nursing facility on yet another tract of unbroken forest in town. This project is even more outrageous in scale and disruption. Not only will this project erect a cluster of towers reaching high above the tree canopy amidst state park and conservation land, it's construction will clog every street in our quiet town with literally thousands of construction vehicle trips for several years. At every turn, the developer threatens that - should his demands not be met - he will see to it that 88 McMansions, or - God forbid! - <span style="font-style:italic;">affordable housing</span> will be built instead.<br /><br />A minority of town residents strongly oppose this project. Some of the opponents are conservation-minded treehuggers like me while the rest are NIMBY types who likely never uttered a peep about the other fiascoes in town. At a recent town meeting the developer raised another curtain on the true scale and intent of his plans, revealing that he needed to use a quiet winding dirt road that runs right past a lovely state park to conduct operations in a way that was most efficient and profitable. No matter that this access would put all the construction traffic through the very heart of town; the camel's nose was already under the tent. Voting citizens were so mesmerized by the promised benefits of commercial tax money that they held their noses and grabbed their ankles. <br /><br />One strong and vocal proponent of the project on the planning board said he had a spreadsheet that shows how this project is good for the town. It might be interesting to examine this spreadsheet and look closely at the lines where the value of the environment is calculated. What cost does he assign to the bulldozing of a tree? How much does it cost when a child is sickened by diesel fumes? What is the value of a quiet stroll down a country road?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZuDS2_EacUE66CR74sFHG4x-8Yb_EyUR2k9b5gzHUZEQ66MSnI8nJTtjEqO7EaxrDYlQqCH35GWUet87OW1_Z17BixgFQCbt_Vf6cvx_HCyKZHRQKYWx2X9ZtizMqhQxeW_jZQ/s1600/img_0441.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZuDS2_EacUE66CR74sFHG4x-8Yb_EyUR2k9b5gzHUZEQ66MSnI8nJTtjEqO7EaxrDYlQqCH35GWUet87OW1_Z17BixgFQCbt_Vf6cvx_HCyKZHRQKYWx2X9ZtizMqhQxeW_jZQ/s320/img_0441.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406537961949841970" /></a>Now I'm no Nostradamus, but I've had a vision about where this project is headed. This scheme simply makes no sense. Sure, maybe we need to look to the future when an aging population needs retirement homes and nursing care, but I can't imagine a more inappropriate location for such a facility. The proposed site isn't near anything - no shopping, no public transportation, no services. All traffic, both during and after construction, must travel on two of the narrowest and windiest roads in town. There is NO infrastructure. We have no sewer system in town - on-site septic systems must be built. They don't even have water mains in the area. There is a reason the 300 or so acres of this property has never been developed: It sits on bedrock and boulders (photo). Giant equipment and dynamite will be required for every hole in the ground. Sure, the bulldozers will roll and the trees will fall any day now. Just around the time the destruction is complete and the building is supposed to begin, money will suddenly get tight(er) and suddenly and unexpectedly the cost of diesel fuel will spike (again). The devastated landscape will fall silent and the developer will slink away. Bills will go unpaid. Promised benefits to the town will vanish with the songbirds. We will be left with yet another moonscape of blowing dust and discarded plastic coffee cups.<br /><br /><br />Note to Readers: I know that since I was consumed by my morbid fascination with the impending exhaustion of our fossil fuel supplies and the inevitable demise of the American suburban/consumer lifestyle my already-limited readership fell off a cliff. That stuff is boring and depressing. I've tried to move the gloom and doom stuff to one of my other blogs, <a href="http://moosehillnotebook.blogspot.com/">Moose Hill Notebook</a>. I put this story of development and destruction here because it is a follow-up to two earlier posts. In the future, I'll try to keep this blog more focused on quiet walks and contemplation on Moose Hill. In the mean time, you might find (I certainly hope!) more upbeat stuff on my newest blog: <a href="http://blisshilljournal.blogspot.com//">Bliss Hill Journal</a>.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-25927362487504880212009-03-19T21:42:00.005-04:002009-05-17T21:52:02.304-04:00A New Way of Seeing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TsMzr4iMNq-g7PzXJSznseDECIcadRNeXIzNnryMhl5cb-_huP78ajhBAubHOgzbul5VCIFsGriS2PCgHFLYfVUTB2OF4GVAwQWCOIYitqce89uI3yDbkCwjvRLmwakH0nyPqQ/s1600-h/Boulders0309A.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TsMzr4iMNq-g7PzXJSznseDECIcadRNeXIzNnryMhl5cb-_huP78ajhBAubHOgzbul5VCIFsGriS2PCgHFLYfVUTB2OF4GVAwQWCOIYitqce89uI3yDbkCwjvRLmwakH0nyPqQ/s320/Boulders0309A.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315079857389019330" /></a> Saturday, March 14, 2009<br /><br />It was still in the mid-20’s when I left home for Moose Hill Saturday morning, but that was OK because the forecast was calling for clear skies and temperatures in the 50’s. It was a great day for walking, with bright sunshine and little wind.<br /><br />As soon as I stepped out the back door, I was greeted by sounds of Spring: One of the neighborhood cardinals was tooting away. At the end of the driveway, I saw the first two robins of the year to be in the yard. Doves were cooing along Pleasant Street, and a pair of grackles flew over the train station. Along the road to the tennis club, I saw one of my first chipmunks of the year. On Lover’s Lane I saw that the lovers haven’t been waiting for Spring. (Note to lovers: It’s probably not a good idea to leave your latex evidence laying around, announcing to the world the location of your secret spot.) A pair of hooded mergansers took flight from Beaver Brook as I crossed the new bridge over the dam. In the cedar swamp, the redwings were calling <span style="font-style:italic;">chink-ker-ee</span>! The new season was truly underway. Soon, I’ll be heading up in the evening to watch the flight of the woodcock. <br /><br />I didn’t have any firm plans, but I thought I’d head to one of my favorite breakfast spots on the Boulders. Rather than hike up the road, I ducked back into the woods to take the Hobbs Hill trail. Away from the road and the brook, the woods were quiet. I walked along quietly and steadily, feeling my body warming and loosening. Thoughts were rolling through my mind without organizing themselves into any particular themes or patterns.<br /><br />In time, the Hobbs trail took me back to the road, and I crossed it to take the Vernal Pool trail toward the Boulders. I tried not to hurry, but breakfast was calling from my pack. I had two big slabs of fresh homemade whole wheat bread slathered with peanut butter (the peanuts-only kind) and drizzled with pure maple syrup. I was going to use the usual jelly, or maybe the classic honey, but in honor of maple sugar season on Moose Hill, I tried something a little different. In the vacuum bottle, I had some shade-grown coffee. I knew these token efforts to eat as if food matters could make me seem like something of a Fauxhemian, but what the heck.<br /><br />As I approached the Boulders, I paused to peer through the thin ice into the clear water of the vernal pool that is alongside the old road there. It seems it will be a few more weeks before the amphibians that depend on these ephemeral ponds for breeding will arrive.<br /><br />I climbed up onto the Boulders and found a stony seat that afforded the warmth of the sunshine and a view back down on the trail passing below. I put my little foam pad on the cold rock and draped my fleece blanket over my shoulders. Before I could finish unpacking breakfast, I heard the yanking of a nuthatch behind me. This was followed by the tooting of a group of titmice and the tapping of a small woodpecker. This little guild stopped by just long enough to check out the new curiosity in the neighborhood before going back to the important business of finding something of their own to eat.<br /><br />I sat enjoying my sandwich and coffee. A gentle southerly breeze reinforced my hopes for a warm afternoon. A couple of crows flew over, cawing loudly just over the treetops. A couple of hikers passed on the trail below, but they never glanced up to see the blanket-clad boulder troll peering down at them. <br /><br />My thoughts mostly lingered on the state of the economy and, more particularly, what the current disarray might be telling us about our future. I remain convinced that, as <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/08/opinion/08friedman.html?_r=1">Tom Friedman</a> puts it, we may be at an inflection point where both our economy and environment are hitting the wall at the same moment. <br /><br />On Friday afternoon, I was watching one of the major cable business networks as President Obama was telling us that it’s time to start building a new clean-energy economy and start laying the foundation for post-bubble economic growth, and that no longer can we drive our economy with an over-heated housing market and maxed-out credit cards. Those days are over, he said. A funny look came over the pretty high-def face of one of the program hosts. She just couldn’t grasp what that might mean. The concept of an economy that did not depend of constant growth and expansion with ever-increasing consumption and spending was beyond comprehension. I was struck how this crisis of imagination is typical of most people who have had it so good for so long. I was troubled by the on-going belief that all the bailout money we are throwing at the recession will prove to be a last-gasp futile attempt to prop up a system that is destined to failure no matter what we do and that all this new debt will only make things much worse for many years to come. What we need is a new way to look at things.<br /><br />I was getting cold and these thoughts were not particularly fun or comforting, so I decided to get moving. I packed my bag and started looking for a way to walk around and down off this rocky outcropping. A ledge of granite, four or five feet tall, was in my way and, as always, I looked for a way to walk around it. Suddenly, an idea coalesced. For a while now, I’ve been entertaining rock climbing fantasies. This may have started a couple of years ago when we were in the Ansel Adams museum at Yosemite National Park. In the gift shop they were playing one of those New-Agey videos where an amazingly fit and graceful athlete was climbing on boulders to the accompaniment of soothing music. It struck me that it must be so wonderful to move through space like that with nothing more than skill, nerve and power.<br /><br /> Now, I’m an overweight middle-aged man with a bad shoulder. Even in high school when I was in pretty good shape I could never do more than 10 pull-ups. I have what I euphemistically call a low center of gravity. So, I have no business even thinking about rock climbing. But suddenly I started looking at the boulders all around me differently. I started looking for routes, hand-holds and toe-holds in the stone. Starting with the small wall in front of me, I found a way down the rock face rather than around. It was fun, so I walked over to the base of the tallest outcrop. There is a big fissure in the rock, and I started to climb up. My binoculars were tangling from my neck so I went to slip my pack off my shoulders so I could put them away. The pack promptly slipped from my grip and tumbled to the ground about 10 feet below, teaching me an early - if unnecessary – lesson about the dangers of combining height and gravity.<br /><br />I spent several minutes moving up and down the rock. I was quickly learning a few lessons about this sport: As in chess, every move - and a few beyond that - must be planned in advance. Attention and focus are critical because a careless move can quickly lead to a situation prompting a cold sweat. It’s important to make a plan and follow through with it. It’s very helpful to know where you’re going, or you might wind up in a place you’d really rather not be.<br /><br />It felt good to be stretching, reaching, grabbing and pulling. I felt like I was using muscles that don’t get used often enough. I was also exercising the parts of the brain that provide focus, concentration and discipline that can always use a workout. More importantly, I was seeing these familiar rocks in a new way.<br /><br />Feeling like I’d pushed my luck enough with these first baby-steps into the world of rock climbing, I made my final descent and retrieved my pack. I was in a happy mood as I headed down the trail back to the road. The sun was shining and the Spring air was getting warmer. I’d had a fun new experience. And while I won’t be free-climbing El Cap any time soon, I knew that from now on I would be seeing the world around me with new eyes.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-79592652739012256862009-01-13T23:01:00.005-05:002009-01-13T23:26:48.411-05:00What’s for Dinner?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9-Q7OTBaPgPchdoKgnO60wvMfFAdSglVAH-FbMira6gGwT1ZTB2-34x4ZPgft2ALchK629ez-fs5c9aIIw1oAt75CnwLDIguFlWT5XI6RvJNeaPuPfSIqVIM1L4Rz8hfKjZ75A/s1600-h/Trapped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9-Q7OTBaPgPchdoKgnO60wvMfFAdSglVAH-FbMira6gGwT1ZTB2-34x4ZPgft2ALchK629ez-fs5c9aIIw1oAt75CnwLDIguFlWT5XI6RvJNeaPuPfSIqVIM1L4Rz8hfKjZ75A/s320/Trapped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290995178175729890" border="0" /></a><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CALFRED%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="date"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CALFRED%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We are entering a period of change, and it is with some curiosity that I look for signs of significant changes on the horizon. I can see that our world will likely change in fits and starts rather than suddenly and profoundly. For example, just as the bludgeon of four dollar gas get Americans thinking about more fuel-efficient cars and maybe even adopting lifestyles that involve less driving, gas prices plunge and we slip back into our old habits. As a nation, we have the attention span of a bunch of eight- (or eighty-) year-olds.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">One of the things I’ve been thinking a lot about lately is how we will be eating in the future. There are predictions that we will be eating much more food from local sources. That makes so much sense in so many ways. In fact, today I finally signed up to participate in a local community farm at the Moose Hill Audubon sanctuary. I’ve had good intentions to do this since they opened a few years ago, but thanks to my normal procrastination (and never feeling like I had a few hundred bucks for the up-front payment lying around in January) I always got closed out of this popular project. I vowed this year would be different, and I dropped off my application on the very first day. I look forward to a summer of working cooperatively with my neighbors to coax sustenance from the soil of Moose Hill.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In my darker moments, I imagine a future where food will be scarce. Our economy is collapsing and the oil will soon run dry. We will squander dwindling resources in a pitiful attempt to preserve the old ways, unable to see the tidal wave of destiny bearing down on us. Too many of us will fall into a paralysis of despair instead of preparing for the new reality. The fossil fuel feeding frenzy will be over and fast food and cheap calories will be a fond fading memory. Too long will people cling to there pointless jobs as tanning salon attendants and life coaches. Not soon enough will Americans be working on their farmer’s tans and falling asleep at sundown after a hard day in the fields, too weary, hungry and broke to worry whether or not the <i style="">feng shui</i> of their vacation retreat is correct.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In these fatalistic fantasies I wonder if we will start harvesting the abundant living protein that is all around us, unused. My on-going war with the squirrels bent on chewing holes in my house has more than once had me wishing people would start craving savory squirrel stew. Not long ago, I counted seven fat gray squirrels on my small back lawn, and I’m not even feeding the birds this year because I don’t want to encourage the squirrels. As if reading my mind, friend Suzanne sent me<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/07/dining/07squirrel.html?_r=1&ref=dining"> an article from the <i style="">New York Times</i> </a>about efforts in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Great Britain</st1:place></st1:country-region> to get the public to eat non-native (North American) gray squirrels that are displacing beloved native red squirrels. These English reds look a lot like the cute but annoying red squirrels that are trying to take up winter residence in my walls, but they have cute little tufts on their ears. Maybe in the not-too-distant future, squirrel will be on our menus as well. After all, how many war movies have we seen where the platoon sharpshooter was a good old boy squirrel hunter. Back to the future.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Just this morning I was talking with a friend on the other side of town. Outside his family room window, we watched as four whitetail deer nibbled the shrubbery in his backyard. Deer are everywhere and I wonder if it won’t be long before many more of them wind up in freezers. I was jogging along our <st1:street><st1:address>Main Street</st1:address></st1:street> a few weeks ago and a fat doe, killed by a car, was lying in the woods just off the road. I wondered if in a few years the motorist would have stopped to claim his prize rather than letting it go to waste.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Massive flocks of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region> geese fill the farm fields adjacent to Moose Hill this time of year. At other times they become pests as they waddle and poop on our beaches, lawns and golf courses. I can imagine a day when a hungry hunter will sneak up on the flock with a small crossbow and put a goose in the oven for his happy family.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In my deepest nightmares, I visualize clean statues in city parks after all the pigeons were roasted on sticks over gutter-trash campfires. When the rock doves get too wary, maybe starlings and sparrows would be next.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Those are my nightmares. In my daydreams on a sunny morning I see healthy and peaceful neighbors working shoulder-to-shoulder to reclaim our land for the production of water, food and fuel. Again we will work with the soil and learn its ways. Honest labor and sweat of the brow will be respected. </span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Those who make real things will be honored. We will trust and love our neighbors because we have worked side by side and helped each other through hard times. We will share and rejoice in the bounty and understand how close we came to losing it all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CALFRED%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p></p> MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-75413203153209239762008-11-27T20:25:00.007-05:002008-11-27T20:59:56.927-05:00Thanksgiving Traditions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsHo2x3A_iS4KC6-3DwdYVWL_4HFluh02y251kbhXZhmpAf8ILGECtPM2Bi-qVfX3YSKqPgQmoRV-q8JooutycWVXxAOzJEvKAimafD2XXk4mP-7zAyYFR8vomQOxmoRhNrjEzw/s1600-h/Firewood2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsHo2x3A_iS4KC6-3DwdYVWL_4HFluh02y251kbhXZhmpAf8ILGECtPM2Bi-qVfX3YSKqPgQmoRV-q8JooutycWVXxAOzJEvKAimafD2XXk4mP-7zAyYFR8vomQOxmoRhNrjEzw/s320/Firewood2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273515184341272914" border="0" /></a>It has been my tradition for the past several years to work on my firewood supply on Thanks- giving morning. I like to go out in the late November coolness and take stock of the wood pile. Depending on what needs doing, I might move some wood around, say from the outdoor rack under the tarp into the shed, or I might split some logs, or cut up some small stuff with the bow saw. Out of respect for the neighbors on a holiday morning, I wouldn’t fire up the chainsaw.<br /><br />In the past I would run an extension cord from the garage and turn on the radio. A local station used to play Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” ever year, but I didn’t find it this morning. It seems many good things are coming to an end these days. Anyway, my decrepit little woodshed was an old chicken coop that came with the house that I’ve remodeled into a shelter for my hoard. I take satisfaction in stacking wood in the shed, thinking of it as money in the bank, its interest compounding every week as the logs dry.<br /><br />The bending, lifting and chopping is a workout more satisfying than a visit to the gym. I recently read <span style="font-style: italic;">In Defense of Food</span> by Michael Pollan. In it, he comments on how much exercise by Americans is really so much pointless expenditure of time and energy and if we would spend more time doing things like gardening, we would get more exercise and have something to show for it. Now, as one who loves a good bike ride or the occasional run up Moose Hill, I’m inclined to think there is no such thing as totally pointless exercise, but I understand what he’s saying. I can still remember many years ago when my parents sold one of the houses my father built almost single-handedly to a family with a couple of young, strong weight-lifting sons. He watched in dismay as his carefully-tended lawn went wild. “Why don’t those guys try pushing a lawn mower instead of lifting those weights?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKw_7-XNATXrkan0MsR9I3__otNQzuDMW9m8wy4KhrOOW9Oq_nFimuHd0Vv-abL4nUPQZrKZkGLIv909L6RfgcEYL8FJDHc-sAo3gKIxQ34FRMm4__rXXLJ9ahssl-om8tH1RVA/s1600-h/HobbesBell.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKw_7-XNATXrkan0MsR9I3__otNQzuDMW9m8wy4KhrOOW9Oq_nFimuHd0Vv-abL4nUPQZrKZkGLIv909L6RfgcEYL8FJDHc-sAo3gKIxQ34FRMm4__rXXLJ9ahssl-om8tH1RVA/s320/HobbesBell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273514845412595890" border="0" /></a>When I first went out, I was greeted by <a href="http://moosehillnotebook.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-juncos-bad-cats-dead-squirrels.html">Hobbes</a> sunning himself on the ramp to the bike shed. This is the cat that killed a couple of young red squirrels in the yard a couple of weeks ago. He’s a friendly and pretty little guy and I find it difficult to stay mad at him, especially now that the squirrels are even more aggressively invading the house. They’ve actually found a way to get into the walls and ceilings. I’m happy to report that “Calvin,” at my request, outfitted Hobbes with a new and larger bell. Maybe now I can enjoy his company more and worry about the local wildlife less.<br /><br />Much of my firewood is a random assortment of wind-fallen branches from here and there and lumber scraps from my carpentry projects. Recently, friends have been kind enough to let me clean up some big oak and beech branches that came crashing down in their yards during heavy storms. One of my favorite things about this Thanksgiving tradition is using the time to daydream. I like to think about a day when I have a woodlot of my own and can use my saws and axes to do a little timber stand improvement and cut some real firewood. Although I’m closing in on an age that used to qualify one for senior citizenship and my dream account has shriveled along with the rest of the stock market, some dreams die hard. I imagined myself walking through the woods, deciding which trees to cut and which to favor, and stoking the stove in my little tight cabin at the end of the day.<br /><br />It was a fine, crisp New England November morning. I had about two season’s worth of wood stacked and ready to go, and I could look forward to many evenings of dozing by the woodstove. My arms and back had that comforting ache that is the reward for earnest effort. I went back into a house warmed by a fire in the living room and a turkey roasting in the kitchen. I was looking forward to the annual family feast and was thankful that, even in hard times, life can feel pretty good.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-58597658953615873142008-09-28T21:04:00.006-04:002008-09-30T21:58:50.204-04:00Nut Case<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGIPJ3feGXcVk6yudcQbnScOWB6v568Aos9e7jdB2TZs09OQN06exq0crHiUXpQIwV0WEOqAaY6n3GheA95lC0gJUBqKQ2K5UoPHIy9Q9VJFIKk4-iemOUuMc0YibO9Yygm0KQQ/s1600-h/WhiteOak.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGIPJ3feGXcVk6yudcQbnScOWB6v568Aos9e7jdB2TZs09OQN06exq0crHiUXpQIwV0WEOqAaY6n3GheA95lC0gJUBqKQ2K5UoPHIy9Q9VJFIKk4-iemOUuMc0YibO9Yygm0KQQ/s320/WhiteOak.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251502327714649714" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVP_JC731isJbuBLuxMsMQa-bfZoUfGTUeQiamepzkKltjQ8HZ7q1L0Wf7Fl5U8DqgqlO-LX3VVyRouSYC_X-bx7x68Le_28Hi3Taw2TjcPcum24xa3XpmIUq0G8GVKsyZb1iqoA/s1600-h/RedOak.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVP_JC731isJbuBLuxMsMQa-bfZoUfGTUeQiamepzkKltjQ8HZ7q1L0Wf7Fl5U8DqgqlO-LX3VVyRouSYC_X-bx7x68Le_28Hi3Taw2TjcPcum24xa3XpmIUq0G8GVKsyZb1iqoA/s320/RedOak.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251501902669971762" /></a><br />Saturday, September 20, 2008<br /><br /><br />Saturday dawned clear, cloudless, calm and cool. It was 45 degrees when I left home, so I layered on a few old shirts and wore wool gloves for the first time this season. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I planned a quick trip to Hobbs Hill for breakfast. I pedaled the single speed up to the Kettle Trail near the intersection of Moose Hill Parkway and Upland Road. This wide, inviting trail had been beckoning to me for the past few weeks every time I drove over the hill. As I would drive by, I’d think of the quiet times I’d spent sitting and thinking and I yearned to go back. I wanted to enjoy a few minutes of peaceful reflection away from the worries of the world.<br /><br />I pushed the bike far enough down the trail to be invisible from the street and headed down the trail. I paused at the yellow birch that drops its golden leaves before all the other trees, scattering a golden throw-rug across the footpath and noticed it was already starting to change color.<br /><br />Crossing the boardwalk across the swamp that is the source of one of the headwater streams of Beaver Brook, I looked at the tall, green ferns that carpet the muck. I’m still not sure if they’re cinnamon ferns or ostrich ferns and I thought about how much easier it is to learn how to identify things in the natural world from a knowledgeable companion than it is struggling alone with a field guide. The Audubon sanctuary offered a fern walk last year, but it was canceled for lack of interest. I know a few people had signed up, but I guess they have a rather rigorous way of gauging interest.<br /><br />On the other side of the swamp I went right on the Hobbs Hill Loop, heading for my usual breakfast spot. There is a flat-topped granite erratic poised on the brink of the steep easterly slope of the hill that affords nice views of a flat area in the forest below and treetops of oaks and hickories that rise from there. I like to sit there and gaze down through the forest, waiting for the small dramas that Moose Hill so often provides. While waiting for the show to begin I try to open my mind to thoughts that drift up through the trees.<br /><br />On this morning the woods were quiet and still. Sunshine hitting the hillside warmed the air just enough so that gently rising currents caused fine strands of spider silk suspended between the trees - and illuminated by the same clean light - to flex and wave. I thought about how this energy from the sun flows through our world and gives us everything, really, from the water cycle, to weather, to erosion and deposition, to life itself. I pondered how fossil fuel is also solar energy that has been stored away for eons. I started thinking about how the energy we release from this storehouse of power also flows through our world, bringing us many things as well, both good and bad. I told myself to stop thinking about that. Friends and family tell me I’ve become boring and depressing with all this talk of collapse and long emergencies. They’re right, of course. No one else wonders why NASCAR drivers race on in the name of Jesus Christ while the greatest transfer of wealth in history in the form of oil money flows from America to countries that hate us. Why should these things bother me?<br /><br />Just as I was starting to consider how the sun is really a giant nuclear reactor and maybe nuclear energy was really a way to tap into the energy of the cosmos without the carbon middleman, a shadow flashed across the forest floor. Working upward and backward from shadow to sunshine, I found first one, and then a small flock of blue jays high in the oak trees. Never silent for long, these birds soon started squabbling over acorns. Chipmunks started up a rhythmic clucking, a red squirrel chattered in the distance, and gray squirrels did some squabbling of their own. This was becoming the morning of the acorn eaters.<br /><br />Somewhere from the little flat at the base of the hill, I heard a steady clacking of large nuts hitting limbs as they fell to the ground, thudding on the forest floor. I could see gray squirrels working high in the branches and I wondered if they were smart enough to be cutting hickory nuts loose and picking them up from the ground later. Recent battles with these critters around the house taught me not to underestimate their capabilities. I started thinking think about what would happen if some clever squirrel invented sub-prime acorn mortgages that could be securitized, chopped up and sold so he wouldn’t have to deal with all this bothersome collecting and hoarding and leave all that to squirrel litters yet to be born, but I reminded myself to stop thinking that way.<br /><br />It was time to get moving, anyway, so I packed my bag and took the trail around and down the back side of Hobbs Hill and started looking for that big hickory. I didn’t find it, but noticed a concentration of deer droppings and an area of disturbed forest floor under a white oak. Red and black oaks predominate on Moose Hill but we do have a smattering of white oaks. I imagine that deer and other mast eaters seek these out for the sweeter acorns they produce. I found one on the ground, peeled off the shell and ate it. It was nutty and entirely palatable. I recalled that natives collected white oak acorns, boiled them and ground them into flour. I thought about how hard life could be without the benefits of modern civilization and wondered why we couldn’t enjoy those benefits without the accompanying burdens until I reminded myself that there were more fun things to think about, like the up-coming fall TV schedule or the brand new NFL season. If someone would just invite me to an f-ing tailgate party, I too could be a care-free shit-faced Pats fan and stop thinking about all this depressing crap that’s making me crazy.<br /><br />There may be real things to worry about in this troubled world of ours. Just this week after speech by our President reassuring us that his administration was busily preventing the collapse of our entire economy, a TV commentator felt moved to refer to the leader of the free world as a “high-functioning moron.” (You can find that on YouTube.) But who am I to worry that our next Vice President seems reasonably well suited to be the leader of a community college pep squad? Clearly, there’s nothing I can do or say that would change anything, so why not accept my true role as happy idiot. Simpletons, after all, never get ulcers.<br /><br />No, perhaps next time I go to Moose Hill, I should eat some mushrooms. After all, <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=gdjPWtt_VgQC&pg=PA116&lpg=PA116&dq=serene+Psychotics&source=web&ots=NRiQsDWF-W&sig=xIpyv4gQ6w1zq7qxcRJbJtduzLw&hl=en&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=3&ct=result#PPA116,M1">Timothy Leary</a> wrote that the peace and wisdom of the universe can be found among those who look at sunsets, those who walk in the woods, and people who sit by the fire. That’s all I really want to do anyway. Maybe I’ll stick with things like that.MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-62099370097953066072008-09-11T21:12:00.006-04:002008-09-12T07:09:37.885-04:00Missing the Target<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWj72nY9Ku71DrfaxTbEIoL9ZjnpSXnJeXblhW-Oht2SLtqucck3uFgw_xrx1aHwwjOgoQyiCUkSUE-e4fw3fNIRS4emZqGc2HXJnxsm-1fZi0Zlkqg4i2eFeW7HjWuRHhN9Reng/s1600-h/TargetRape.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWj72nY9Ku71DrfaxTbEIoL9ZjnpSXnJeXblhW-Oht2SLtqucck3uFgw_xrx1aHwwjOgoQyiCUkSUE-e4fw3fNIRS4emZqGc2HXJnxsm-1fZi0Zlkqg4i2eFeW7HjWuRHhN9Reng/s320/TargetRape.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244937418051746914" border="0" /></a><st1:date month="8" day="23" year="2008">Saturday, August 23, 2008</st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With a string of cool, dry, fall-like days recently, I overcame my lingering fear of deer ticks and gave in to my desire to get back to Moose Hill. I slept in a little in the wonderful sleeping weather so I didn’t leave home until nearly <st1:time hour="9" minute="0">9:00 AM</st1:time>. I made my usual PBJ and brewed a pot of <st1:place><st1:placename>Green</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> coffee, a fresh souvenir from our recent trip to <st1:state><st1:place>Vermont</st1:place></st1:state>. I pulled the single speed out of the shed and headed to Moose Hill for the first time in many weeks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead of my usual plunge down the hill toward the train station, I headed down <st1:street><st1:address>South Main Street</st1:address></st1:street> to <st1:street><st1:address>South Walpole Street</st1:address></st1:street>. I wanted to witness the destruction perpetrated in the name of our proposed so-called “lifestyle” mall. Maybe it’s me, but I just can’t quite grasp the idea that one can buy a lifestyle. Our town has given the green light to the developers to strip away scores of acres of forest in a desperate bid to buy a break from high residential property taxes. This town has little commercial tax base, so the ever-increasing burden of taxes for ever-decreasing services falls heavily on the homeowner. Like all good Americans, we can’t live within our means and we don’t mind throwing a little of our natural heritage into the furnace of greed in a futile attempt to make up the difference.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The future home of our mall butts up against <st1:street><st1:address>South Walpole Street</st1:address></st1:street> right across from some Audubon land and right near some brand new mini-mansions. Something tells me the owners of these houses feel differently about the destruction caused by the mall than they did about the carving of their own lots from the woods.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At this time, the construction site looked like a large clearcut with an orange plastic fence around the entire perimeter. Unlike a silvicultural clearcut, no forest trees will ever grow here again. Developers just love to hop on their machines and strip a site bare to create a self-fulfilling prophesy. Potential mall tenants will not sign up unless they can see progress on the future mall, and they can’t giddily visualize the flat-topped big-box stores and acres of hot black petroleum sludge asphalt parking lots with all those damn trees in the way. So, they denude a site as quickly as possible – stripping it absolutely bare - <span style=""> </span>to attract tenants and to get it done as quickly as possible before the locals realize the magnitude of what they’ve done and raise a cry of protest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m sure there are places - and I’m sure there will be many more – where the rape went ahead and no tenants signed on or they backed out, and a community was left with a vast, empty wasteland. I continue to believe this will happen here. The developers recently proudly announced the commitment by a major national big box retailer, but this same company already has a new store just a few miles to the south and will soon be opening another a few miles to the east. Not only is the local market already saturated, but the economy and the future of gasoline prices can’t bode well for retailing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And for what? Do we really need more places to buy cheap, disposable plastic crap from <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>? How much are we willing to sacrifice in the name of more shopping? Will one teenager buying the latest sweat-shop fashions ever mourn the loss of yet another woodland? Did the heavy machinery operator say a prayer as he drove his behemoth over the spot where generations of oven birds made their nests? As they ripped the oaks and pines from the earth and pushed them into massive heaps, did anyone ponder how no trees would ever grow there again?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The loss of this forest is not the only thing that saddens me. Sure, as a homeowner, I’d like a break from taxes. Our governments take more and more of our wealth and squander it in so many wasteful and destructive ways. What depresses me is the unimaginative, formulaic ways that we develop places. When it’s built, this mall will look just like every other lifestyle mall that has popped up across <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region> in the last few years. Another mall – lifestyle or otherwise – with its shoddy goods, tawdry entertainment and minimum-wage jobs will do little to enrich the quality of our lives. All we build anymore are places designed to suck the last bit of dwindling wealth from us by amusing us and distracting us and making us feel temporarily good by selling us more unneeded junk.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Imagine what could be done if the same amount of money and energy went into revitalizing an existing downtown area with modern mixed-use development with restaurants, affordable housing, small shops for local merchants and craftspeople, offices for professionals, markets for local produce, banks, post offices and local schools. Nearby could be small factories where people actually make things and have real jobs. Much of it could be powered by renewable energy. After all, <st1:place>New England</st1:place> was largely built with water power. All of it could be connected by a network of walkways and bike paths.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But no, we get more of the same. Cheap, soulless buildings surrounded by impermeable parking lots, gluttonous energy consumption and car-only access. I guess what it comes down to is that we don’t produce anything anymore, we only consume. I looked out over the vast emptiness and wondered if this was the only future we can hope for. Are we destined to live our lives according to the vision of guys that see the world over the blade of a bulldozer?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was ready for breakfast and some scenery that hadn’t been sculpted with a Caterpillar D-9, so I walked my bike down an unfamiliar dirt trace that disappeared into the woods across the street from the devastation. This soon opened onto a power line right-of-way that I followed to a familiar back road that I knew would lead me toward Moose Hill. I followed it to <st1:street><st1:address>Walpole Street</st1:address></st1:street> and I took this to the trail that leads to Allens ledge where I pushed my bike into the woods, out of sight from the street.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I walked up the path to Allens Ledge. This is a nice rock outcrop surrounded by oak-pine forest. A little further up the trail is the bigger and more popular Bluff Head, but I didn’t want to gaze out at Gillette Stadium and the surrounding new <st1:street><st1:address>Patriot Place</st1:address></st1:street> mall. This is another prime example of the sort of consumption/entertainment complex that passes for progress in early 21<sup>st</sup>-century <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and I just didn’t want to look at any more of that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From Allens Ledge in August, I can gaze out at the oaks, pines and sky and see no roads, no malls, not even houses. With all the hard rock around me with little bits of moss and grass growing from the cracks I could almost imagine I was back on Camel’s Hump in Vermont or even the Sierra of California. A few small bonsai-like pines cling to the rocks and blue stem grasses grow in small patches of thin soil. There are a few red-cedar trees that are typical of these rocky ledges and a small patch of scrub oak. The rocks themselves are scored with striations in many directions and I can’t help but think some of them must have been left by the continental ice sheets that once covered these hills. The old stone chimney reminded me that people have been enjoying this spot for a very long time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8Af7RuqSlM5wGqDSiJv5d6Or-soNkRUKv6dF0d_r3qdezFGV3vAfKlc0nA1AjiTjL71kBAHw68xHeZXG6Gfqfaqhc2FA18Q4xpc_tszNk7Dn-mulRenhpuH8D0_7FF7g9vBBsg/s1600-h/AllensPine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8Af7RuqSlM5wGqDSiJv5d6Or-soNkRUKv6dF0d_r3qdezFGV3vAfKlc0nA1AjiTjL71kBAHw68xHeZXG6Gfqfaqhc2FA18Q4xpc_tszNk7Dn-mulRenhpuH8D0_7FF7g9vBBsg/s320/AllensPine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244937667387957762" border="0" /></a>I sat on the stone, enjoying my sandwich, cantaloupe and coffee. I gazed at the infinite blue sky with a white half moon overhead. There was barely a puff of breeze in the warm, dry air. I was so alone I felt it would be okay to pull off my tee shirt to feel the sun on my skin. No birds sang and the few that flew over seemed to have distant locales on their minds. Big dragonflies patrolled lazily in the soft air above the rock.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The September-like air reminded me that yet another summer season will be drawing to a close and the remainder of my life will be one season shorter. I hoped for a better world in the years ahead but I felt as if we faced years of desolation and darkness before we find the peaceful valleys of our dreams.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Please Note: Don't forget to check out the <a href="http://moosehillnotebook.blogspot.com/">Moose Hill Notebook</a> for shorter, more frequent posts.<br /></p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-17055038180052927332008-08-14T21:00:00.007-04:002009-11-23T20:14:34.931-05:00Hedge Fund<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-LGe-ta0oaoO1GDWkHLl9o7ECiK0ozF01Ne8iSTCWNj34jCB46ng-fYYNv-13uuixyrUxRcqt6AXhZ84Ye_sCG7P4IQLDXVvYMwZkC2Pl4JGop1IgeRo-UAs5ee9JlyOXnqZPw/s1600-h/HedgeMaple.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-LGe-ta0oaoO1GDWkHLl9o7ECiK0ozF01Ne8iSTCWNj34jCB46ng-fYYNv-13uuixyrUxRcqt6AXhZ84Ye_sCG7P4IQLDXVvYMwZkC2Pl4JGop1IgeRo-UAs5ee9JlyOXnqZPw/s320/HedgeMaple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5234543370416163554" border="0" /></a>As they say, nostalgia ain't what it used to be. <span style=""> </span>Memories of things that once seemed important may fade while other seemingly trivial things can pop to the surface without warning. Sometimes, even something like a simple tree sighting can dust off old memories from the back of the mental bank vault.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Tagging along while my wife was at a conference in <st1:place><st1:city>Burlington</st1:city>, <st1:state>Vermont</st1:state></st1:place> this week, I was out on a solo bike ride, enjoying the <st1:state><st1:place>Vermont</st1:place></st1:state> countryside and searching for the <st1:place><st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Vermont</st1:placename></st1:place>'s <st1:place><st1:placename>Jericho</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Research</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>. UVM was kind enough to let me live there for a few weeks back in 1976 while I was doing field work along the nearby Winooski River, but I haven't been back since. With the help of the web and a bike map I was able to locate the forest and the old house where I stayed. The house looked somewhat familiar, but I was amazed at how little I remembered about the area and the roads. I must have driven the approaching roads and up the dirt road to that house a few dozen times 32 years ago, and other than the house itself, nothing looked familiar. I reminded myself that a child born on the day I was last there could now be a fully-grown adult with kids of their own. I reflected on how pretty much all of my adult life has happened since those days.<br /><br />But, wow, I was surprised about how little memory of the area I have. In fact, I have yet to see much of anything in the <st1:city><st1:place>Burlington</st1:place></st1:city> area that pops out as being familiar. I did locate the road I used to drive down to get to one of my research areas near <st1:place><st2:sn>St.</st2:sn> <st2:middlename>Michaels</st2:middlename> <st2:sn>College</st2:sn></st1:place>. I walked the bike down the steep gravel road toward the river. The mosquitoes were familiar enough, and reminded me how determined I was to get my work done to endure that misery, but I couldn't identify anything else from those days so long ago. That didn't surprise me as much as my Jericho visit, because 30+ years is a long time on a floodplain.<br /><br />Anyway, I was nearing the end of my long, leisurely ride when my cell phone rang. It was my buddy from back home, so I walked the bike as we talked. I was on the sidewalk in an older modest Burlington neighborhood on the slopes above the old mill buildings situated on the river. I imagined mill workers lived there until the mills closed in the 1950's or so.<br /><br />As I ducked under a small street tree in front of one of the houses, I came to a stop. I recognized it as a<span style=""> </span>maple, and it looked a little like the ubiquitous Norway maple (<i style="">Acer platanoides</i>), but in miniature. The leaves were smaller than those of a Norway maple and three-lobed rather than five. The wings of the seed-bearing samaras stuck out at a 180-degree angle from each other. The bark was distinctive with plates that break up in a way that makes it look corky.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This was a hedge maple (<i style="">Acer campestre</i>) and there were a few along the same street. It is a small European tree that is common in British hedgerows - hence the name. In America it has been planted as an ornamental, but like the Norway maple, it can escape and seed itself. I've only encountered this species in a few places, but I'll never forget it. Now, I'm not generally a big fan of escaped non-native species, but forgive me if I make an exception for this one case.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I was a kid on Long Island in New York, there was an entire stand of these trees in our side yard. The soil and climate there must have been especially favorable for this species. Hedge maple is a small tree, growing to only 30 or so feet tall, so the scale of the tree and the forest it can create is just the right size for children. Growing in the open, it tends to be a shrubby, multi-stemmed tree, but growing close together in a stand it can grow reasonably straight. The trees cast a dense shade and little else grows in the understory so, to a small person, the woods seem dark, cool and mossy.<br /><br />When I was very young, this was “the woods.” I spent hours there exploring and playing. I pitched my old canvas pup tent there. My father built a fish pond on the edge of this miniature forest and there I watched with glee as toads trilled in the springtime. It's where childhood friend David taught me an early lesson about violence by brazenly splitting my scalp open with a rock. My father built a tree house for me there and it's where, inspired by a similar event at the New York World's Fair in about 1965, friend Ricky and I buried a time capsule made from a coffee can. It's where I learned an early lesson about how trees grow. When very young, I stapled little pulleys to two trees and ran a string between them creating a miniature cable car, or something. Years later, I found the staples with the trees growing around them, still only a couple of feet off the ground where I had hammered them, teaching me that trees grew from the tips rather than the roots.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">These trees were an every-day part of my life, but I didn't know what they were. I collected the leaves as part of my seventh grade biology project. My mother called them “swamp maples.” I couldn't find the species in any of the tree books I had, so that's what I called it. My teacher told me that was wrong, but didn't tell me what it was. It wasn't until the late 1970's as a graduate student visiting an arboretum in Connecticut that I was thrilled to see the tree and learn its identity as hedge maple. Other than a few visits back home over the past few decades, I'm not sure I've seen this tree anywhere else. It's a pretty nondescript little tree and easy to miss.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <span style="">I’d like to go back to </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:street><st1:address><span style="">Cocks Lane</span></st1:address></st1:street></span><span style=""> in </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="">Locust</span></st1:placename><span style=""> </span><st1:placetype><span style="">Valley</span></st1:placetype></st1:place></span><span style=""> one more time to see my little trees, but I fear what I might find. The last time I drove by there, in about 2002, I was saddened to see how much the neighborhood had changed. A couple of small houses – including the fist house I had lived in, one my father had built in 1950<span style=""> </span>- had been bulldozed to cram in six mini-mansions. My trees were still there next to another house my father built behind the first and where I lived until I was about 13. I stopped to say hello. They were looking a little cramped and put-upon, but they were still there. I'd like to go back again one more time now that these deeper memories have been reawakened, but maybe some things are better kept as memories.<br /><br /><br /><br />Please Note: Another post about my trip to Vermont can be found on the <a href="http://moosehillnotebook.blogspot.com/">Moose Hill Notebook</a>.<br /><br /></span>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-55998454066330514262008-07-01T11:54:00.006-04:002008-07-01T14:02:49.957-04:00Dear Readers<span style="font-weight: bold;">In the next century<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">or the one beyond that,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">they say,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">are valleys, pastures,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">we can meet there in peace</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">if we make it.</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p style="font-weight: bold;"> </o:p><br /> - from “For the Children” by Gary Snyder</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My mind is in a fog lately. Since I started reading books and web posts by James Howard Kunstler during the past few months, everywhere I look I see signs of impending doom. My senses are alert. I listen to the news on the radio. I read the Globe. I look around. <span style=""> </span>Every tidbit about the war, the election, the global food crisis, the energy crisis and the credit crisis falls perfectly into the pattern of collapse that Kunstler predicts. I’ve pretty much always felt it would come to this, but the crisis took longer to get here than I imagined. I couldn’t articulate my concerns in an organized way, but Kunstler gives these issues a structure that shows the interconnectedness of our follies in a way that helps make things clear, and the vision is not a pretty one. Even though they were written a few years ago, his books, particularly <i style="">The Geography of Nowhere</i> and <i style="">The Long Emergency</i>, shed a bright light on the errors of our ways.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just imagine a family of four, five or six in a big new cul-de-sac out in the country. They took out a second mortgage to pay for the two SUV’s in the driveway and the power boat, ATV and jet skis in the three-car garage and the hot tub out back. That wasn’t a problem because the value of the house went up year after year. Mom drives the kids to school, dance class, Gymboree, baseball and soccer and then ferries them to the mall. Dad works in town for a big financial company and drives 50 miles each way because they could get so much more square footage a couple of towns further out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course, no one is going anywhere if the parents can’t drag themselves out of the master bathroom. You see, it’s like a mini-spa in there with heat lamps, whirlpool bath and one of those showers with eight shower heads. The house is so elegant. There are bedrooms and bathrooms for everybody and a special room for every use. It has a grand entrance that is open to vaulted ceilings two stories up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The kitchen is state-of-the-art with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. There is a machine for every chore, but luckily there aren’t many chores to do because such a busy family eats out often or does take-out. When they do cook, it’s really easy because everything is pre-packaged, pre-cooked and heats up in the microwave. Cleanup is a snap because all the packaging simply goes in the trash compactor. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The house is always so comfortable with air conditioning in the summer and oil heat in the winter. They never have to bother with opening and closing windows; the thermostat takes care of everything automatically. The kids are too busy to mow the lawn, being so busy with their cell phones, iPods, and all, but Dad doesn’t have to worry either because the lawn guys come every week and keep the sweeping lawnscape perfect and green with their fleet of stand-up mowers and roaring hive of leaf blowers. The sprinklers are on a timer and come on automatically every morning and the latest chemicals prevent those embarrassing weeds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, imagine gasoline at four, five, six dollars a gallon. It costs a hundred bucks just to fill up the <st1:state><st1:place>Durango</st1:place></st1:state>. Imagine the monthly payments on those two (or three) adjustable-rate mortgages after interest rates jump up a couple of points. Not only are the payments higher, but as society realizes the unsustainability of this lifestyle and more and more similar houses come on the market, the value of the property will drop and the family will be upside-down on the loans. That is, they will owe more than the house is worth and even if they are able sell, they will still be deep in debt.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> Dad’s job at the finance company is looking less secure as the mortgage securities that made them so much money just a few years ago become worthless as more and more people default on loans. The oil truck pulls up to fill the tank with winter on the way, and that first bill of many comes to $1250.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But still, little Sis will simply have a total meltdown if Mom doesn’t score those Hannah Montana tickets, and Dad has plans to drive up to <st1:state><st1:place>New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state> for the big NASCAR race. McCain wants to drill in <st1:state><st1:place>Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>. Obama wants to use more crop land to produce corn ethanol. Thanks to the Jimmy Carter implosion of the 1970’s, you can be absolutely certain that not one major candidate will ever don a sweater and sit in front of a wood stove and tell America that they need to wake up and start living like very hard times are just around the corner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">These are the kind of things I find myself thinking about lately. I’m constantly looking at my own life and the lives of those around me and I wonder how things will be in just a few years. I worry about our kids who are just now launching into their own lives. At least they haven’t screwed those lives up yet and I tell them to build lives where they don’t depend on cars and stay out of debt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m not getting into the woods much these days. We are in peak deer tick season and I have zero interest in getting Lyme disease again. I’m doing more cycling this summer, so my weekend mornings are pretty busy anyway. But I think the main reason I’m not coming up with any posts for the Moose Hill Journal is that I’m so preoccupied with the events unfolding around me that my thoughts just aren’t going in that direction. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I feel that we are on the verge of a major turning point for America but the scale and scope of the forces bearing down on us are way more than a simple man like me can ever comprehend. I want to observe the changes and write about them, but it’s all beyond me. I do know that driving Priuses, screwing in compact fluorescent light bulbs, shopping at Whole Foods and putting recycling bins on the curb will not save us. That said, I don’t want to get all preachy and stuff. Glass houses and all that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, dear readers, I’m still here and still thinking about things to write about. I just haven’t figured out how I want to do that yet. Until I do, please check back here once in a while and check my <a href="http://moosehillnotebook.blogspot.com/">Moose Hill Notebook</a> where I post shorter, more scattered thoughts and observations. I would love to read your comments about where you see our world headed and how we can stay ahead of the crushing wheels of history. Until then, I leave you with the closing lines of the poem “For the Children” by Gary Snyder. This wonderfully prescient poem was passed along to me by Robin Andrea of the <a href="http://newdharmabums.blogspot.com/">Dharma Bums</a> and I find myself clinging to these words as a life ring of hope:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">stay together<br />learn the flowers<br />go light</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-75727472028593756252008-05-05T22:10:00.008-04:002008-05-05T22:46:52.472-04:00Dispatches from the Dark Side<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dBPTjeOi6bHUxtbTlUOsS6TmbD9iiJAFT8dn8fdoBQYYa3kHGTS3PWIJcda06Lyhv_3Txam6p_nxHjueZSIjQD84yB8NRa45eb5XgSGClopDq7iwduwA5hQZcvaujG0Qtwqjhg/s1600-h/AZ_2008+024.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dBPTjeOi6bHUxtbTlUOsS6TmbD9iiJAFT8dn8fdoBQYYa3kHGTS3PWIJcda06Lyhv_3Txam6p_nxHjueZSIjQD84yB8NRa45eb5XgSGClopDq7iwduwA5hQZcvaujG0Qtwqjhg/s320/AZ_2008+024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197085073126095202" border="0" /></a><o:p></o:p>WARNING TO READERS: This post is not about a happy nature walk in the woods. Persistent reading may cause eyes to glaze over and promote cravings for the latest Nancy Grace show on “Where the White Woman At?”.<br /><br /><o:p> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place><st1:city>Scottsdale</st1:city>, <st1:state>Arizona</st1:state></st1:place></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:date year="2008" day="24" month="4">April 24, 2008</st1:date><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We live in a time and place full of contrasts, variety, freedom, mobility, opportunity and distractions. There are times when my life is going in so many directions at once, it’s a chore just trying to grasp how – and even if - it all fits together and makes sense. One week I can be riding my bicycle to Moose Hill to wait for woodcocks on a chilly evening, and the next I can be sitting by the spa pool at a five-star resort. But I can’t relax because all the rich people around me can’t just turn off their cell phones and enjoy the moment. Last night, back at home, I was at a live concert and a young boy sitting in front of me was listening to his iPod. In <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iraq</st1:place></st1:country-region>, people are killing and dying in our name, but our news sources tell us of the outrage over a 15-year-old pop singer posing for a photograph with bare shoulders, and a prominent news figure spills her guts about an illicit relationship with a <st1:country-region><st1:place>U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> senator just to pump up book sales. We are so busy rushing ahead, we never pause to think about where we are headed. As they say, we don’t know where we’re going, but we’re making great time. <span style=""> </span>I find myself wishing <span style=""> </span>a magical sprite would whisper the Truth in our ears. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:place><st1:city>Scottsdale</st1:city>, <st1:state>Arizona</st1:state></st1:place> is a place where they’ve been making very good time, indeed, but every time I go there, I see lemmings rushing forward, not seeing the cliff just over the next hill. It is a world of highways and big box stores. It is populated with Escalades, Expeditions and Yukon XLs. Even in the warm, sunny, dry weather of April, there were very few people on foot or bicycle. There are fancy new sidewalks and bike lanes, but they go mostly unused. The bright sun shines every day, but there are no solar panels in sight. The bewilderment I felt when there last year (See “<a href="http://moosehilljournal.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html">Wandering in the Desert</a>,” April 13, 2007.) was only reinforced this time.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the past, when going on vacation, I would take a stack of books and magazines, fantasizing about endless hours of quiet reading. With age comes at least a little wisdom and I now know that our trips are much too busy for that. Now, I try to bring one good book and immerse myself in it for the whole trip. Last year, it was Bill McKibben’s <i style="">Deep Economy </i>about how we need to start decentralizing everything and start building lives close to home based on the inter-connected web of community.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This year, I learned more about exactly why that is by reading James Howard Kunstler’s <i style="">The Long Emergency</i>. (Yes, that guy again.) His basic argument is that the oil is already running out and, at the rate we’re going, it will soon be gone. In the past century, everything we have built was - and everything we do is- based on the assumption that fossil fuel will be cheap and plentiful forever. There is no magical technology on the horizon that will save our sorry butts when the taps go dry. I have the bad misfortune of believing everything he says. Life would be so much more fun if I didn’t find myself constantly looking around me and imagining what life will be like with no electricity, no natural gas, no gasoline, no diesel fuel, no heating oil. Where will plastic come from without petroleum? Food prices are on the rise now, but what will a loaf of bread be worth when we’re trying to grow wheat on the golf courses, by hand, without farm machinery, chemical fertilizers, pesticides and fossil water pumped from deep underground? God, I’m depressed. I wonder what’s happening on Wisteria Lane?<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I saw signs of the impending Long Emergency everywhere I looked that week in <st1:state><st1:place>Arizona</st1:place></st1:state>. One day on the front page of the <i style="">New York Times</i> there was one article about how one of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Saudi Arabia</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s last big oil fields is turning out to be more difficult to pump than expected. There was another story about a guy in <st1:place><st1:city>Boulder</st1:city>, <st1:state>Colorado</st1:state></st1:place> who is making a business of tearing up lawns to put in mini-farms (The neighbors are not happy.) because of the increasing cost of maintaining those lawns and remorselessly rising food prices. Another article describes how some warehouse club stores like BJ’s, Costco and Sam’s Club are rationing rice because people are hoarding it. Imagine that! Hoarding and rationing food in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>USA</st1:place></st1:country-region>. John McCain, and then the desperate Hillary Clinton, were crowing about a summer driving season (read voting season) gas tax holiday, further proving to me how gutless our leaders are on this issue.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s called cognitive dissonance, and I was exhibiting all the symptoms.There I was, jetting back and forth across the continent at something like 500 miles per hour, eating gluttonous quantities of imported gourmet food, swimming in heated pools, and enjoying a green manicured and watered landscape in the middle of a desert. We flipped on the air conditioning with barely a second thought and enjoyed the fountains and man-made waterfalls spraying water into the arid air. In the 10 days of our visit, our group went through literally thousands of bottles of spring water, all of it trucked in from elsewhere and none of the plastic bottles recycled. On one side of my brain I could clearly see how we are all headed to Hell in a hand basket, while on the other side I was having a wonderful time. It was great to be together with family and to have every creature comfort instantly available.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was a guest on this fabulous vacation, so I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I felt as though I was on an anthropological expedition to a world where money and privilege isolate some people from the realities of diminishing resources while poor souls elsewhere struggle to survive. I looked around at the hundreds of other vacationers and wondered if any of them even considered the eventual consequences of such decadence and waste. I also reminded myself that my own lifestyle back home – which I like to consider modest - is unbelievably extravagant in the big picture of things. I thanked my lucky stars to be an American and to have lived most of my life in the golden age of oil.<o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I clearly recall driving around in the mid-1970's, not long after the 1973 Oil Crisis, and thinking I'd better enjoy my driving now because we won't be doing it much longer. I remember my organic chemistry professor explaining, in 1973, that losing gasoline was only a part of the problem and that many vital organic compounds are derived from petroleum. It has always been evident to me that fossil fuel supplies were finite and that we should use what we have wisely and conservatively. I never understood why we wouldn't want to save some for our grandchildren.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, I know where we live in New England, we also drive everywhere and we have to heat our homes in the wintertime, but there’s something about the Phoenix area that makes the modern American lifestyle seem so much more foolish. Maybe it’s because <st1:place>New England</st1:place> was settled by Europeans long before fossil fuel powered everything and it’s possible - on some level – to imagine life without it. At least we have our own water and it’s easier to warm a home without petroleum than it is to cool one. We have lakes, rivers, oceans and the remnants of rail lines to travel on as the oil disappears. We can actually grow food here. The desert has lots of solar power, but there will never be enough of that to power all those cars and air conditioners. Without fossil fuel to power the pumps, the canals that carry their water will dry up. <st1:city><st1:place>Scottsdale</st1:place></st1:city>, as it is today, didn’t exist 40 years ago. In 40 years from now, it will be gone.<o:p> </o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_HBNi_NmbuK3CW1-mkdqelaN13pg1j1I1R7Twzw47sZYhoKGrApuAG4dtdvsJzZYTfJPv5aWAWxhsn8UrP0J-fyvlCxLXThnEBT_ILDyvfBfTiNxp0GDN7d47Bc0zkyfxRxIkQ/s1600-h/AZ_2008+035.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_HBNi_NmbuK3CW1-mkdqelaN13pg1j1I1R7Twzw47sZYhoKGrApuAG4dtdvsJzZYTfJPv5aWAWxhsn8UrP0J-fyvlCxLXThnEBT_ILDyvfBfTiNxp0GDN7d47Bc0zkyfxRxIkQ/s320/AZ_2008+035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197084686579038546" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Any drive or jog around <st1:city><st1:place>Scottsdale</st1:place></st1:city> will take the traveler past many gated communities. Along with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and three-car garages a gate and – better yet – a guard house at the entrance to the development is evidence of fine upscale living in 21st Century <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I would love to get some candid opinions about what these people think they’re fencing out. I suspect it’s Mexicans or, perhaps, judgmental tourists. But no matter how fancy the gates, or how high the walls, these people will not be protected from the disruption and upheaval that awaits us all during the Long Emergency.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-52572886607380518152008-04-10T22:20:00.006-04:002008-04-12T16:35:16.787-04:00Doodling in the Gloam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3RgG1hMS0O0N8I3pfHMUVj40ol4yvLWs9SGNDDimgDkwcJdMBC0MkY3fmAJzsQuDFKqVzE-HPLO62jdOR84e-u2z0gkPy5TbucVNW747zUzl62wN17UO5DoK4fwGYDk9qcLmFQ/s1600-h/MidBill0408.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3RgG1hMS0O0N8I3pfHMUVj40ol4yvLWs9SGNDDimgDkwcJdMBC0MkY3fmAJzsQuDFKqVzE-HPLO62jdOR84e-u2z0gkPy5TbucVNW747zUzl62wN17UO5DoK4fwGYDk9qcLmFQ/s320/MidBill0408.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187807190019154658" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2008" day="8" month="4">Tuesday, April 8, 2008<br /><br /></st1:date><o:p> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal">From pearls before breakfast to peents before dinner.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It felt like the scene from <i style="">Close Encounters of the Third Kind</i> where the local yokels are <span style=""> </span>waiting along a mountaintop roadside for the flying saucers to arrive. I had stationed myself below a clump of young white ash trees in the old field near the <st1:city><st1:place>Billings</st1:place></st1:city> barn. I had arrived by bicycle after taking the long, hilly way around on an after-work ride. I was relaxing with some cheese and crackers and a vacuum bottle of Earl Grey tea, waiting for the show to begin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had just heard the story of how Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post had arranged for Joshua Bell – perhaps <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s finest concert violinist – to play incognito in a busy <st1:place><st1:city>Washington</st1:city>, <st1:state>D.C.</st1:state></st1:place> subway station during morning rush hour to see how many people would stop to listen. Wearing a baseball cap and casual clothes with the case for his multi-million dollar Stradivarius open at his feet for tips, <st1:city><st1:place>Bell</st1:place></st1:city> played a series of difficult and dramatic classical pieces for nearly 45 minutes. In that time, hundreds of people passed by, most not even glancing in his direction. Here was a musician who regularly plays at packed concert halls for adoring fans who pay hundreds for tickets and no more than a handful of harried commuters paused for even a minute to listen. Only one person recognized him and he collected a mere $32.17 in tips.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, I’m no classical music fan - about the closest I get is when I enjoy Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring - <span style=""> </span>but when I read the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html">Post article online</a> and watched the hidden-camera videos, I felt my eyes welling up. What has <st1:country-region><st1:place>America</st1:place></st1:country-region> become? What are we doing to ourselves? Do we appreciate greatness only when we have to pay for it or when some anointed expert points it out for us? Has our popular culture dumbed us down so much that we are unfamiliar with true genius? Is our work so important that we can’t take a minute from our hectic schedule to bask in beauty? Are we so burdened by debt and taxes that we can’t afford to pause for a moment? Do our profit-hungry employers push us so hard that we dare not take a breath?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On this cool, early-April Moose Hill evening, I was pausing. There was no wind, but I could feel the cool air draining off the hill so I pulled on my fleece hat and draped my blanket over my shoulders. The peepers were singing loudly in the maple swamp and I strained to hear the calls of other frog species amid the din. I thought I heard a few different calls, but didn’t know any of them well enough to give them names. A robin chuckled in the swamp and a dove cooed gently down at the other end of the field. A cardinal stopped by to give a few chips before heading off to his roost. I was waiting for my vernal virtuoso. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunset was at about <st1:time minute="20" hour="19">7:20</st1:time> and by <st1:time minute="30" hour="19">7:30</st1:time> I could see my own tea-warmed breath in the air. It was getting late and I was starting to worry about biking home in the dark. I wondered if it might be too cold, but the peepers reassured me. At <st1:time minute="35" hour="19">7:35</st1:time> I heard the first call from the shelter of a big mass of forsythia up the hill behind me. My maestro was warming up. <span style=""> </span>The calling was followed in a few minutes by a twittering sound as the bird flew behind me and circled the perimeter of the field, spiraling upward. I watched his dark silhouette against the lighter sky until he rose out of sight as if in slow motion. A period of silence was followed by what I can only describe as a random chirping similar to the sound that comes from one of those little wooden Audubon bird calls that is held between the thumb and forefinger while twisting the metal thumbscrew with the other hand. A couple of minutes later, the ground calls – known as peents – began again and the entire performance was repeated.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The woodcock is a funny little bird. With his long beak that is used to probe the mud for earthworms, he looks like a shore bird that took an evolutionary wrong turn to wind up in the uplands. The timberdoodle has a long history as a game bird and as a target for pot hunters. This heritage may contribute to the fascination many have for this rich brown bird with big eyes and bigger feet that make me think of E.T. His ground call is a funny little squeak that Julie Zickefoose might say sounds like an accident, but his song as he falls from the sky is almost other-worldly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The show was just starting but I had to go and I heard more peents behind me as I <span style=""> </span>pushed my bike down the old gravel road. The upturned crescent of the moon did little to light the way. When I got to the pavement I turned on my blinking red taillight and plunged down the hill into the deepening darkness. A lone car passed and I chased it down the steepest part of the hill at about 30 miles an hour letting his headlights light the way. As the road flattened out, I could no longer keep up, so I pedaled happily from one pool of streetlamp light to the next.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-33133485704153567862008-04-02T22:36:00.002-04:002008-04-02T22:42:43.007-04:00Who Knew?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxx2cXBn1h84Etl2nhsmEzgruJ3kJndsklrSo2p9Wc4B24WxQcIRDwKEgAaJbL7-1xgoQadXA6_LbU4cYC-NDqztmI-0S5D4li8lFMG1CXp4KJYXYGfoX1h2BwlRfm0GqpOFuYjw/s1600-h/SapMar08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxx2cXBn1h84Etl2nhsmEzgruJ3kJndsklrSo2p9Wc4B24WxQcIRDwKEgAaJbL7-1xgoQadXA6_LbU4cYC-NDqztmI-0S5D4li8lFMG1CXp4KJYXYGfoX1h2BwlRfm0GqpOFuYjw/s320/SapMar08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184842874611056706" border="0" /></a>Moose Hill Journal is two years old!<br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I just read the first post on the Moose Hill Journal written two years ago and I am quite surprised that this effort has turned out much the way I had imagined it on that early spring day in 2006. I still can’t explain exactly why I felt a need to walk and sit in the open to explore nature and explore my thoughts. Most likely, it was just my version of a mid-life crisis; another case of Boomer navel-gazing. I had recently passed 50 and my wife and I were rather new empty-nesters.<span style=""> </span>I felt an urge to reflect on my life – what it was supposed to be, what it had become, and where it might be headed. I wanted to reconnect with the outdoors. Life in the woods had been such a vital part of my identity as a youth and I had let that part of my life slip away. I wanted that part of me back.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I can thank Julie Zickefoose (See sidebar.) for a big part of the inspiration. I heard her NPR commentary on blogging just a few days before I had that first breakfast on the hill. I found her blog and a whole new world was opened to me. Not only was I moved by her stories, photos and art, but by following her links I discovered a web of connections among dozens of thoughtful and talented souls. When I was thinking about how I should record my Moose Hill observations, a blog seemed like the perfect medium.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am surprised that I’ve kept at it this long. I suspect that one day I’ll just stop. Perhaps I’ll simply exhaust the supply of things I feel like talking about. Maybe all the walks will start feeling the same and offer no new surprises. Or, maybe I’ll wake up one day and ask: What’s the point? For now, a new season is arriving and I want to be there to watch.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m also surprised at how quickly and thoroughly this blogging experience has become an important part of my life. I spend a lot of time thinking about my time in the woods and about things I might want to write about. I’m constantly scanning my thoughts and experiences for post topics. <span style=""> </span>I think of it as exercise for an ageing brain. My wife likes to do sudoku puzzles. I ponder essay topics. I’m always thinking about my next trip to the Hill; where I might go and what I might see. In a way, for me, Moose Hill has become more than a geographic location. It has become something of a state of mind. Maybe if I keep this up for a few more years, I’ll be able to explain what that means.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally, I want to thank my readers. These days, I get about ten hits a day and most of those are click-throughs of people searching for something like information on “cheap tequila.” A typical post might attract five comments. About ten is the most I can hope for. I benefit from low expectations so I have learned not to dwell on or obsess about these things, but I value readers and their input. To the handful of readers who read and comment regularly: Thank you. Knowing that you read my posts helps keep me going. I try to return the favor and I truly enjoy the windows into your world that you open with blogs of your own. To those who may read but don’t comment: Don’t be shy! I want to know who you are, where you are, and what’s on your mind.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, the sap has been rising, the peepers are peeping and the timberdoodles are peenting. It’s time to go for a walk. Won’t you come along? </p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-85868064083639699162008-03-15T13:44:00.002-04:002008-03-15T13:56:42.805-04:00Just Over the Horizon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nzgOU42Mk9dETbzK02BtYA_UQkD_Gp6Nwwa9KxMcScTNbJnxDHz5ATEBdq8a0ZfwxNUhovICmKPJnY3rmhpo-R30PbvoAdd5I1N4yuFGwlJJXcfRlfpMh0t5y_KnolWmXEFlhw/s1600-h/Novara0308.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nzgOU42Mk9dETbzK02BtYA_UQkD_Gp6Nwwa9KxMcScTNbJnxDHz5ATEBdq8a0ZfwxNUhovICmKPJnY3rmhpo-R30PbvoAdd5I1N4yuFGwlJJXcfRlfpMh0t5y_KnolWmXEFlhw/s320/Novara0308.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178026206647456482" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><st1:date year="2008" day="9" month="3">Sunday, March 9, 2008<br /><br /></st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The bluebirds must have been feeling pretty cocky. The pair sat atop nesting boxes in the middle of the big hayfield near the top of <st1:street><st1:address>Moose Hill Street</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style=""> </span>They had their pick of over a dozen boxes and were hawking down into the stubble to pick up morsels I could not see. As I pushed my bicycle along the edge of the field heading for home, I imagined that they were dreaming of a happy and productive season as they perched in the bright spring sunshine. They selected just the right home, and thought of the limitless supply of insects that would soon be hopping around in the fresh grass. The small flock of robins that probed for earthworms in the soft soil along the edges of rainwater puddles presented no threat. They paid no attention to the loving pair of doves flying overhead. Could it be that they didn’t know what was approaching just over the horizon? At that very moment, millions of tree swallows were winging their way north like squadrons of dive-bombers, and soon dozens would descend on this field to swoop and squabble over nesting sites. Bluebird heaven would be transformed into a world of constant vigilance and stress.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I ride my bicycle because I can, not because I have to. Of course there were times when simply jumping in the car to run an errand was not an option. Simply traveling to work or to secure the things needed to survive was a chore, if not an ordeal. But in this age of wealth and luxury, biking and walking are things some of us do because we think them fun or good for us. Most adults who ride bicycles today, do so solely for recreation, exercise or sport. I suspect most of us, upon seeing a grownup riding a bike simply to get from point A to point B, wonder what’s wrong with them. Homeless? DUI? Broke? Unstable? I sometimes wonder if people seeing me returning from Moose Hill with my tattered clothing and backpack hanging from my shoulders as I struggle up <st1:street><st1:address>Depot Street</st1:address></st1:street> to the center of town might think perhaps I have a few loose screws, too. Surely, no middle-class, middle-aged American would ride a bicycle because they have no other choice. Well, the day may be coming when bicycling looks like the best choice of all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of my regular business chores involves a five-mile round-trip commute. Most days, I’m carrying tools, bundles or supplies, so I drive. I’m trying to arrange things so once or twice a week I can make the trip on foot or by bicycle. Sunday was one of those days. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I rode the touring bike to do my work and then took the long, scenic route home. This involved mostly climbing through the cool, very windy air to get to, and then over, Moose Hill. This was no race; I was just enjoying the feeling of the wind and sun on my face and the pulsing of blood through my body. I passed the Audubon visitor’s center where groups of young families were gathering to go see the maple sugaring demonstration.<span style=""> </span>I coasted down the south side of Moose Hill and pedaled over to our local farm stand where I bought a muffin and had my vacuum bottle filled with fresh coffee. I packed these in my bag and headed back to the woods. I had a few things on my mind and wanted to sit and think for a few minutes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found the abandoned and barely noticeable old trail that leads to The Mikveh. This is the old stone-lined springhole I stumbled on early last winter when I was thinking about my recently-deceased high school buddy, Martin. (See “Living Waters,” <st1:date year="2006" day="17" month="12">December 17, 2006</st1:date>.) I guess returning to this spot was my way of acknowledging the 20-year anniversary of the tragic passing of another high school friend, Marcie. No new insights rose out of the crystal depths of that pool; only that even the most gifted, kind, talented and beautiful of us can stumble upon unimaginable misfortune. For the rest of us, life goes on and we should try to be better people in the time we have left.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just beyond The Mikveh a bedrock outcrop rises above the surrounding forest and this is enhanced by a couple of granite boulders stacked on top in a way that makes me think of an alter. In the event I need to offer up any sacrifices, I’ll know just where to go. On this day, the only thing I was offering up was coffee and a muffin. I put on my fleece hat and jacket and put my little foam pad on the outcrop so I could sit in the warming sun and lean against the alter to get a little protection from the wind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I shuffled through my thoughts and tried to pick one to focus on. My thinking sometimes gets stuck on a theme and recently that theme has been the grim prospects for our future as prophesized by James Howard Kunstler (See sidebar), with thanks to Eleutheros at “How Many Miles from <st1:city><st1:place>Babylon</st1:place></st1:city>” (Sidebar) for pointing me in that direction. I was even lucky enough to score Kunstler’s new novel, <i style="">World Made By Hand</i>, at the library and read it in a few short days. Kunstler has been preaching for years that, in a nutshell, the age of cheap oil and cheap credit that has made the unsustainable expansion of the suburban way of life possible is just about over. Recent events on the nightly news make it hard to dismiss his claims. He marvels at our collective ability to suspend belief about the impending collapse of business as usual and at our willingness to think that technology and casinos will save us. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The prospect of life without fossil fuels can lead to endless daydreams. Will we plan a wise and orderly transition to conservation and renewable sources of energy, or will we descend into chaos as we squabble over the last few drops of petroleum. In the future, after the oil fields have gone dry, perhaps every one of us will have fantasies about what we could have done with the gasoline burned at just one NASCAR race. Just the night before, I was listening to a friend describe his one- to two-hour (each way!) daily automobile commute to a new job. Maybe he is among those who think we will soon discover more oil and more hours in a lifetime buried under distant blood-soaked desert sands.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was time to go, so I packed up and headed for the trail. I paused one more time at the springhole just in case there was new wisdom to be found there, but I saw only the same old bewildered face staring back at me from the smooth surface. I was worried about the troubles that may lie just over the horizon but I was also optimistic about the approach of Spring so I pedaled back up Moose Hill to see what was new in the big meadow.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-91809016038485035512008-03-04T22:49:00.004-05:002008-03-04T23:08:08.675-05:00Un-American Activities<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgr_wJU75AMc0jxVWn5JFKrXfrHPt62pFkXRTGvbKqxSrTxgvLQN715oSqRJgp9QsU24lVbLoR2bDQgHdn45OuyBK3IgahNZrJ36pAY_dCiEDkKhOna7AMf84hO3F0nBzhem8NA/s1600-h/DR1_030208.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgr_wJU75AMc0jxVWn5JFKrXfrHPt62pFkXRTGvbKqxSrTxgvLQN715oSqRJgp9QsU24lVbLoR2bDQgHdn45OuyBK3IgahNZrJ36pAY_dCiEDkKhOna7AMf84hO3F0nBzhem8NA/s320/DR1_030208.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174100493614818818" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2008" day="2" month="3">Sunday March 2, 2008</st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had to stop by a house I’m watching for an out-of-town neighbor this morning and it was on the way to some town-owned conservation land, so I abandoned my plans to go to Moose Hill and opted for a different route today. I packed my bag and when I left home it was cold and windy, but crystal clear and sunny. Friday night’s snow became Saturday’s rain and slush that set the stage for Sunday’s crunchy snow and ice. Walking through the neighborhood, I heard the cardinals staking out their territories and the singing of one of the song sparrows that have been back for a week or so. Woodpeckers were tapping out their staccato love messages. The 27-degree temperature could not completely hide the fact that we had entered March and spring was rapping gently on the door.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I walked down <st1:street><st1:address>Brook Road</st1:address></st1:street> and found the Town right-of-way that passes between two typical suburban houses. A public pathway passing through private back yards is unusual around here, to say the least. I always get a happy feeling when I take this path, similar to the way I feel when walking up and down the Berkeley Hills Paths. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but it has something to do with the legal recognition that people traveling on foot have rights, too; something we tend to forget in this age of the automobile.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took the trail – blazed with the blue marks of a side trail – into the woods and down to Massapoag Brook where I crossed the rain-swollen stream on a make-shift bridge of boards nailed to a couple of downed trees. A few more minutes of crunching through the snow brought me to Devil’s Rock. This is a huge granite glacial erratic that is 20 or so feet tall at its triangular peak. Its shape reminds me of a tiny Yosemite Half Dome. Nearby is another big stone, possibly the sheared-off half of Devil’s Rock, that has split yet again to form a cozy – if narrow - shelter. Like just about any big rock around here, this one has a stone-ringed fire pit. These fireplaces are used mostly by beer-drinking teenagers these days, but I have little trouble imagining that these big boulders were something of a <st1:place>Stonehenge</st1:place> to natives long ago.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found a sunny snow-free spot against a white pine where I could gaze at the Rock while I had breakfast. The woods were quiet. The singing birds up among the houses were absent here. I looked down at my shirt cuffs and my mind drifted back to the day before when I sat quietly in the house with needle and thread sewing buttons on some old shirts. I hate to throw things away if I think I might be able to fix them and use them some day. Besides, one of the shirts was from L.L. Bean in the days when they actually sold things made in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>U.S.A.</st1:place></st1:country-region><st1:state><st1:place></st1:place></st1:state> But, of course, I never get around to fixing anything and stuff just piles up and clutters the house. I’m still on my New Year’s de-cluttering kick, however, and I’ve been wanting to fix these so I could clean up another corner of the house. I’m also growing increasingly disgusted with our inclination to just toss stuff and buy more cheap imports.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, any good American would toss a shirt with a missing button in the trash and drive down to Mega Mart to buy a new one from <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Obviously, in today’s economy, the time I spent fixing four shirts was easily worth more than the cost of a couple of new cheap ones, so my efforts were clearly silly. That was time I could have spent watching commercials on TV or driving to the mall rather than sitting in quietude stitching together clothing and memories.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember my mother had an old tin candy box full of hundreds of buttons of all kinds. As a little kid, I loved to dig through the wild assortment and pick out the most unusual ones. Later, in high school, I would repair the worn-out stitching on the fly of my blue jeans with big loops of white thread. As an idealistic and enthusiastic college freshman I proudly sewed my forestry school patch on my green and black checkered wool jac-shirt. I thought it was good for an independent man to have skills – even if rudimentary – like that.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was getting cold just sitting there, so I packed up my stuff and headed for home. I retraced my steps on the blue side trail to join the main orange-blazed Massapoag Trail. As I understand it, this trail was created by the Sharon Friends of Conservation in about 1966 to traverse a green belt that runs through the center of town, but it was soon neglected. About a dozen years ago I tried to carefully locate the entire length of the original trail and refresh the orange blazes. Here I was, over a decade later, following my own paint. The paint was visible enough, but the trail was in tough shape. We had a tornado-like microburst a few summers ago and a nasty ice storm a few weeks ago so many large trees and branches are blocking the trail and making a general mess of the woods.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Maybe it was the torn-up nature of the forest, or maybe the Devil still lurks among the rocks and was following me out of the woods. He began to insinuate himself into my thoughts and my mood changed. They say the Devil is in the details, and that may be true, but at that moment I was thinking that the Devil is really in the big choices we make. I looked at the devastation around me and knew there were no Town resources to clean up this public land. The scale of the damage is much greater than any Cub Scout troop could ever make a dent in. I understand that the woods and wildlife don’t care and may even benefit from the disturbance, but to this human eye, the place is a mess and not much fun to visit. <span style=""> </span>The forester in me hates to see all that timber going to waste.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My mood continued to darken. How many shirts could I buy with my share of the Iraq War? How many buttons could I sew in the time it takes me to earn enough to pay my share of the obscenely wasteful <st1:state><st1:place>Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state> highway projects? How many compact fluorescent bulbs would I have to put in my house to save as much energy as it takes to light Gillette Stadium for one second? Why should I bother to save my cans and bottles and carefully bag my newspapers when my neighbor just chucks it all in plastic a trash bag? I was beginning to understand what our Vice President meant when he said conservation is nothing more than a personal virtue. It seemed that any effort I might make to lighten my impact on the world was pointless tokenism.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I neared <st1:street><st1:address>Billings Street</st1:address></st1:street>, I left the woods to head home on the pavement and sidewalk to avoid the downed trees and mud. Near Mann’s Pond a flock of two dozen robins flew in waves into a tree bearing a bittersweet vine where they snacked on the red-orange fruits. I wondered if they were hungry after a long north-bound flight. I was happy to see these harbingers of spring and had the audacity to hope that a fresh new season would soon be upon us.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I can’t help it if I worry about things like squandered resources and pointless consumerism. That’s just the way I am and I’ve always been that way. Maybe it was the influence of my mother who suffered through poverty as a child. Maybe evening walks along county lanes with my father when I was very young taught me a love of nature. Perhaps I just understand that if we use things up now, they won’t be there for our grandchildren. Maybe I’m just easily amused and don’t need a constant stream of new stuff to make me feel good.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the other hand, I know I’m no monk. I live in a single family home that uses natural gas and electricity from the grid. And, as I am growing all too aware, that house is full of stuff. I drive fossil fuel vehicles. My footprint is much larger than that of the average global citizen. I try not to be ignorant of my impact on the world and I try to be realistic about the positive effect my modest conservation efforts can have. It may be simplistic, but I think there is a deep wisdom in the belief that less is more and I want to live a life that seeks that wisdom.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My mood was lifting already. Who can stay depressed when cardinals are calling, woodpeckers are drumming and robins will soon be hopping across the lawn, pausing to cock their heads sideways and peer from one eye at fat worms below? </p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-9950042783983347112008-02-11T19:55:00.000-05:002008-02-11T20:09:02.690-05:00Blanket Statement<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTx-w_erAOf1BqpKyDT33j0xWlqSTCH9F_0Xpp2x37AQHI2LdBSU3wBVLNgAgPz_aQb9UtsMWbCtJzuca-PqyeOOEaCmhWLfofRu0STe5Fn3YI1bRp88V22-UfLg6Bv60UoB3lg/s1600-h/BoulderBlanket.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTx-w_erAOf1BqpKyDT33j0xWlqSTCH9F_0Xpp2x37AQHI2LdBSU3wBVLNgAgPz_aQb9UtsMWbCtJzuca-PqyeOOEaCmhWLfofRu0STe5Fn3YI1bRp88V22-UfLg6Bv60UoB3lg/s320/BoulderBlanket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165892168547367570" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2008" day="10" month="2">Sunday, February 10, 2008<br /><br /></st1:date><o:p> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal">We have a saying in <st1:place>New England</st1:place>: “If you don’t like the weather here, wait a minute, it will change.” Nasty weather was forecast for Sunday, but after doing a few chores and running a few errands in the morning, it was unexpectedly warm, sunny and calm. I knew a change was on the way but I thought I had time to sneak up to Moose Hill for lunch.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">By the time I got home, brewed a pot of coffee and cooked some oatmeal, the clouds had already moved in. I wanted to make this a quick trip, so I took the touring bike and pedaled the mile and a half to the beginning of the Vernal Pool Trail. This bike has fenders that were appreciated as I rode through the slush that was left over from overnight snow showers. By the time I pushed the bike up the trail a ways and traded my bike helmet for a fleece hat, it was drizzling.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I walked up the trail and in no more than a half hour after leaving home I was at The Boulders. This is a high bedrock outcrop just off the trail that I’d visited several times before. I usually sit on one of the high points on the rocks, but on this day they were slush-covered, so I went downhill a bit to find a place under the pines that was sheltered from the slush and drizzle. I sat down on an insulating piece of packing-material foam I carry to keep my rear warm and dry (Note to Self: Get a bigger piece of foam!) and draped my new fleece blanket over my shoulders.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d been thinking about carrying a blanket for a while. Sitting quietly in the woods in winter can get uncomfortable and I liked the idea of carrying a portable instant shelter. I might have preferred a natural wool made-in-America blanket, but I have a feeling such things are rare and expensive these days. The fleece blanket had the advantage of being warm, light and free. (It was a new-member premium from the Trustees of Reservations who manage Moose Hill Farm. Thanks TTOR!) I felt like I was rediscovering a bit of old-fashioned woods wisdom.<span style=""> </span>A simple blanket could be used as a wrap, or - draped over sticks or tree branches - it could make a quick shelter. On a nice day, I could imagine wrapping myself up in it and taking a sylvan snooze. I’m sure wilderness travelers of yore never ventured forth without a blanket, but who carries one today?<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After I settled in, I poured a cup of coffee and opened up the oatmeal. It was still warm from the kitchen and the raisins were perfectly plump, soft and sweet. In the past couple of years, I’ve had breakfast in the woods quite a few times, but this may have been my first lunch. I sat thinking about other meals I might bring to the woods and watched the clouds change form as the promised cold front advanced and the wind began to intensify.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I figured I should get moving so I packed my bag, wrapped the blanket around my shoulders to protect both my backpack and me from the cool air and light rain, and headed back down the trail. Along the way I stopped to examine a clump of American chestnut (<i style="">Castanea dentata</i>) sprouts. Most of the sprouts were dead and from the lone live branch hung limp, bleached, toothy leaves. I’d been reading <i style="">American Chestnut: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of a Perfect Tree</i> by Susan Freinkel. I thought how a century ago this tree was one of the most magnificent gifts offered by our eastern forests. It grew as much as a hundred feet tall and provided versatile rot-resistant lumber. In the fall, natural orchards dropped a bounty of delicious nuts, like manna from heaven, that fed all manner of wildlife, people and livestock. For many early Appalachian settlers, nuts harvested from the forest floor were their most reliable cash crop. The chestnut blight swept down the East Coast in the early part of the 20<sup>th</sup> century, killing virtually every tree. The tree longs to live and keeps sending up sprouts from stumps and roots, but the blight keeps slapping them back down. Even this sad little clump of sprouts bore orange fungal fruiting bodies.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took the sprouts as a reminder to appreciate the good things we have before they are gone. I hugged my little green blanket a little tighter, as if it were a prayer shawl, and promised myself I would count my blessings. I reminded myself to recognize and nurture the good things in life. As I rolled down the hill on my bicycle, the wind was picking up and the temperature began to drop. When I got home, I brought an armload of firewood in from the shed and got a big pot of soup going on the stove. Good food and a warm house are things we might not think about much these days, but on that winter afternoon, I felt lucky to have both.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-49343686895487227402008-02-08T07:25:00.000-05:002008-02-08T07:55:14.559-05:00The Perfect Spot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0wqhhnbZE0oaLPhauzqE_sKSVtjbHrpRg_fyvsvQ7oIT2QHm4xjD2D2A1g7k7i1-8nk4hlr1sziRKnuxQ4fnhkOMVBt32HVoPoXhoFu6w2FfAo_jy-a0wHXov5Flp-SZM8AbCA/s1600-h/BeavBrk0208.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0wqhhnbZE0oaLPhauzqE_sKSVtjbHrpRg_fyvsvQ7oIT2QHm4xjD2D2A1g7k7i1-8nk4hlr1sziRKnuxQ4fnhkOMVBt32HVoPoXhoFu6w2FfAo_jy-a0wHXov5Flp-SZM8AbCA/s320/BeavBrk0208.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164585096690273922" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2008" day="3" month="2">Sunday, February 3, 2008</st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s not as easy to find a good spot to sit in the woods as one might think. A good place would be sunny in cool weather and shady when it’s hot. Sometimes I like wide open spaces with sweeping views of sky and fields. At other times, I prefer to keep my view – and thoughts – close, so I look for a spot where the forest is thick. I usually look for a large rock to sit on. It should be large enough to have a place to set down my binoculars and coffee cup and I usually look for one that is elevated above the surrounding forest so I can hope to see passing wildlife. Oh, and no ATVs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday morning it was sunny and warm for early February, so I took the touring bike and rode up <st1:street><st1:address>Moose Hill Parkway</st1:address></st1:street> and down <st1:street><st1:address>Moose Hill Street</st1:address></st1:street> toward <st1:street><st1:address>Walpole Street</st1:address></st1:street>. My plan was to walk into the woods and find the back side of the hill I was looking for a few weeks ago. (See “Finding the Way”, January 16, 2008) Just before the big hayfield near <st1:street><st1:address>Walpole Street</st1:address></st1:street>, I walked the bike into the woods far enough that it couldn’t be seen from the street. I took a quick look at the topographic map and saw that if I walked around a large kettle hole I had seen once before I might be able to find an old trail the map said should be there. Looking for an old trail was tricky because the oak leaves were all matted down by the recently-melted snow and the over-abundant deer have made trails everywhere. I’ve been told the sanctuary people intentionally abandoned some trails to discourage unauthorized uses that they couldn’t control, and I was thinking this might be one of those trails. This part of the sanctuary is far from the visitor center and close to a neighborhood, so youngsters might be inclined to party here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t take any compass bearings, so my casual wanderings took me near that neighborhood and I saw plenty of beer cans and old mattresses that seemed to indicate the sanctuary people were right. The map confirmed that I had missed both trail and hill, so I adjusted course and headed deeper into the woods. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I came over a rise I heard a motorized vehicle. It’s seemed out of place because I thought I had moved away from the neighborhood. I soon recognized the sound as the putt-putting of an all-terrain vehicle. There’s an old woods road in the area and that might be an appropriate place to drive a four-wheeler, but this guy had left the road and was driving off-road through the woods. I guess if you’ve invested thousands in a toy like this you go to the woods you have and not the woods you wish you had even if those woods happen to be an Audubon sanctuary. I’m inclined to mind my own business so I said hello and went on my way. This seemed to be a one-off Super Sunday internal combustion joy ride, but if I thought this was a regular event that threatened to tear up the woods, I would have notified the Audubon people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">At this point, I was getting my bearings and spotted the hill I was looking for and headed north. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk was circling and shrieking in the clear blue sky above the tall pines as if sharing my annoyance at the motorized invader. I found a place to hop over one of the headwater branches of Beaver Brook and started to climb. I found a faint trail running along the north-south axis of the hill, but Hobbs Hill is to the northeast of this unnamed hill so I didn’t think it was the trail I was looking for. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I walked back and forth along the hilltop a couple of times looking for trails and a place to sit with my coffee. Unlike Hobbs Hill, I couldn’t find any large rocks to sit on here, leading me to think this was a glacial deposit whereas the larger <st1:city><st1:place>Hobbs</st1:place></st1:city> has a heart of bedrock. Every time I tried to explore the south side of the hill I heard and saw the ATV driver and I certainly didn’t want that sort of company when I was hoping to sit quietly and just think. I finally settled on the northeast side of the hill where I leaned against a tree. The warming sun was just over my shoulder and I had a nice view of another Beaver Brook tributary. The gentle babbling helped me to forget the drone of the four-wheeler. The brook tumbled over rocks and formed small pools under the roots of trees growing along the bank.<span style=""> </span>I remembered the thrill of finding small trout in places like this but I’m quite sure this creek is too dry in summer to sustain fish.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Movement caught my eye, and I saw robins flying like silent ghosts low through the forest. I’d seen them along this brook before, but robins deep in the woods always seem out of place to me. I wonder if it’s the running water or the rich soil of the small alluvial flats that attracts them. The robins were quiet, but I heard the deeee-dee of a chickadee and the tooting of a titmouse, making me hope that winter was loosening its grip on Moose Hill.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Time was growing short and my seat was not as comfortable as I like, so I dropped down to the brook and followed it up to the road where I walked back to my bike. I was a little surprised at how far my wanderings had taken me.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Exploring new places is fun, but it’s also good to have a few favorite spots to go to. If I feel the need to disappear into the woods but only have an hour or so, I like to retreat to a familiar perch. I can get there quickly and spend more time quietly observing and thinking and less time wandering. I liken it to a musician having a repertoire of old standards, the angler having favorite fishing holes, or the hunter having traditional coverts. I can pick my destination depending on my mood. I like to go to a place I’ve been before and see how things have changed over the seasons. I sometimes find that being in a particular place reminds me of daydreams I had there before as if the thoughts wait for me there, waiting for me to return. I didn't find a perfect spot on this trip to Moose Hill, but I hope to go back soon to check up on some old dreams.<br /></p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-14757074779099914222008-01-29T07:41:00.000-05:002008-01-29T07:51:20.937-05:00Sweeping Changes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyaA9KUlgHiD9uI35ZYc1oJh7EnHOhMbtb2B7ymFKOA3NOvpe4exLXDpL77syLrDVgcGS3Z9tJ6zhFtn4FL3ZLdPEJM03fvaMMapOEOecEcQXsydfBhL3AcUvWP5WaO_o3VKRaw/s1600-h/MH_Wall_0108.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIyaA9KUlgHiD9uI35ZYc1oJh7EnHOhMbtb2B7ymFKOA3NOvpe4exLXDpL77syLrDVgcGS3Z9tJ6zhFtn4FL3ZLdPEJM03fvaMMapOEOecEcQXsydfBhL3AcUvWP5WaO_o3VKRaw/s320/MH_Wall_0108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160878320870493810" border="0" /></a>I like to sit by the woodstove in the evening and lose myself in deep thought. The only problem is, lately, when I sit by the warm fire after a long busy day, I soon find myself in deep sleep instead.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before I dozed off yet again Sunday night, I was planning on contemplating something I’ve been thinking about for the past few days. The days have been getting longer since the winter solstice, but an event I celebrate with similar glee is the day when the “normal minimum temperature” graph in the Boston Globe bottoms-out and starts to tick upwards. This happened last week when we spent a few days with a normal low of 21 degrees (F) and finally clicked up to 22 degrees. Spring is on the way! Now, every snowstorm and cold snap can be faced more bravely knowing that warmer weather is surely on the way. (An average number on a graph doesn’t mean we can’t still plunge into the teens and single digits now and then, just that it’s less likely.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friday morning when I was out running my errands, I noticed that the thermometer in the car read 22 degrees. It registered in my mind that this happened to be the normal low temperature for that date, and it was cold. (I trust my <st1:state><st1:place>Minnesota</st1:place></st1:state> readers will forgive me for referring to +22 degrees as cold.) I looked down the road at all the houses and businesses and thought about how every single one of them and the people inside are sustained by the burning of fossil fuel. I wondered what would happen if the gas and oil were suddenly shut off. I also considered how the fuel that makes (relatively) comfortable wintertime living in the North possible also created the forests we enjoy today.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t that long ago that most of the Northeast was denuded of forest cover by farming, grazing, fuelwood cutting and charcoal making. Most of the farmers have long since moved west where the soils are better suited to agriculture. We no longer need charcoal and most of our wood fires today are more recreational than life-sustaining. As a result, the forest has grown back, but I tried to imagine what the woods would look like if we still had to get our energy for cooking and heat from trees. Life would be very different and our forests would be unrecognizable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That night, I was watching a local weekly TV talk show about the news media.<span style=""> </span>They were discussing how the daily newspaper is on the verge of disappearing, thanks largely to readers and advertisers moving to the web. I wondered what would happen to our northern forests if there was no longer a demand for all the pulpwood that goes into the manufacture of newsprint. I wondered if yet another technology-driven cultural shift was about to have a major impact on our forest landscape. I wondered how long it would be before I’d have to get my temperature charts online.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday afternoon, I was leading a group around the Moose Hill Farm loop trail. On such hikes, I always pause to ask the young people why on Earth anyone would bother to build all those stone walls in the middle of the woods. After a few lame jokes about how much the colonists could achieve because they weren’t distracted by TVs and computers, I tried to get them to visualize what the rolling hills may have looked like with open fields and rocky walls as far as the eye could see.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I like to sit by a wood fire in the evening. I enjoy my stroll down the driveway to fetch the morning paper. When I’m sitting in the woods, I like to watch a chipmunk sitting on an old stone wall as he works on a fat acorn. The changing needs and desires of our society may spawn trends that sweep across the face of our forests, but the forests have always been there for us. The next time I fall asleep by the fire, I hope I dream of a future where forests continue to thrive and people value them for all the blessings they provide.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-35751915031695307132008-01-16T08:16:00.000-05:002008-01-16T08:25:01.673-05:00Finding the Way<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPbZnwGOholUemfo16-Z-Vz8IuVQIZ6IaIP7TLtBlMb07JQcf8OblNIROaAAoyWXBsyZwU0MzJg8wo48zZKvoXIog8SHlWyhTqA3eNJqPm5PimxHIr0KrqxVrzq1TxyAO_zq_Ig/s1600-h/TopoComp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLPbZnwGOholUemfo16-Z-Vz8IuVQIZ6IaIP7TLtBlMb07JQcf8OblNIROaAAoyWXBsyZwU0MzJg8wo48zZKvoXIog8SHlWyhTqA3eNJqPm5PimxHIr0KrqxVrzq1TxyAO_zq_Ig/s320/TopoComp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156063036728300610" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2008" day="5" month="1">Saturday, January 5, 2008</st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I left home at <st1:time minute="30" hour="9">9:30</st1:time> in the morning. It’s a bit harder to get an early start on these winter days. It was 29 degrees, calm and clear. A few wisps and puffs of cloud were in the blue sky, offering just the kind of light I love when I’m in the woods. I cut through the train station and took the new bridge over Beaver Brook and hiked on the road just long enough to get to the Hobbs Hill trail. I climbed through the pine plantation before breaking out into the more open natural oak-pine forest. The crunching of my footsteps in the thawed and re-frozen snow precluded sneaking up on anything.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stopped on Hobbs Hill for breakfast. I just sat in the sun and listened to the quiet. There were human sounds off in the distance, but the woods around me were silent. It was so quiet, the only nearby sound was the ringing in my ears. Maybe it’s my age, or maybe it’s too many hours listening to power tools, but I prefer to thinks it’s just caused by everyday stress and if I could only sit here long enough it would go away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I sat daydreaming, the sun rose enough to shine through the space between the trunks of a double-stemmed hickory and warm my face. It shined through the naked oaks and hickories to illuminate the patient pines below, their soft deep green needles glistening in the clean light, shining all the brighter on the background of<span style=""> </span>white snow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wanted to linger and allow friendly thoughts from the forest to creep into my mind, but I had a plan. As part of my (no doubt temporary) New Years ambition to clean up and de-clutter, I was organizing a box of bike-related maps and such when I found a<span style=""> </span>misplaced<span style=""> </span>topographic map a friend gave me some time ago (Thanks, George!).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Moose Hill is in the northwest corner of the <st1:place><st1:city>Brockton</st1:city>, <st1:state>Massachusetts</st1:state></st1:place> 7.5 x 15 minute metric quadrangle. (I’ve always wondered how mapmakers always manage to put every item of interest in the corner of a map so you have to buy four maps to cover the area you want to explore.) One thing that caught my eye on this map was the indication of a trail running from Moose Hill Parkway, over Hobbs Hill, across one of the headwater streams of Beaver Brook, over another hill, and then on to Moose Hill Street. The first part of this trail was well known to me as part of the Hobbs Hill Loop, but as far as I know, the rest of the trail may be abandoned. It was my plan to use map and compass to find this new hilltop and look for remnants of this trail.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my youth, I spent a fair amount of time hiking and bushwhacking in the Catskill Mountains of New York with map and compass, but with the exception of one fun attempt at orienteering with my son a few years ago, it had been quite a while since I’d navigated in the woods this way. Of course, map and compass is so old school. Everybody has GPS these days, but I’m nothing if not behind the times.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Using my old Silva Ranger forester’s compass, I oriented the map and took a bearing from Hobbs Hill to this new hill and set off through the woods. Sighting through the notch in the compass cover while peeking in the mirror at the needle, I would look ahead and pick a rock or tree as my destination. All I had to do was pay attention long enough as I meandered through the landscape to allow me to get to my landmark where I would take a new sighting. My path kept intersecting deer trails and I was tempted to follow them, but I wasn’t convinced the deer were following the old hiking trail so I resisted the urge.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I knew it would, my course took me to a brook, but what I failed to notice was that this part of the brook formed a small swamp. I thought it had been cold enough that I could cross on ice, but I was mistaken and promptly broke through, soaking my feet with black muck. This got me thinking about a Jack London story where a trapper gets wet in the arctic and has to kill his dog to cut it open so he can warm his hands inside long enough to start a life-saving fire with his only match only to have the incipient fire warm the snow on an over-hanging pine bough causing the snow to fall, snuffing out the fire. In my case, it was a dry sunny day and the temperature was on the way up and I was no more than a half mile from a road, but my imagination is like that. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacv4B3vdXVWV4pKCS7ezUWojJcCe-dvzQpv4y6kwl_9Y1pRwEFATXlGtZYlVZLo40f0Iij7-53kL2GcwS7cA9n9dHHd2MldIdPG0wQeyMeshp9DoYfw_Lj3QTMyC9wTan696Maw/s1600-h/TrailCan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacv4B3vdXVWV4pKCS7ezUWojJcCe-dvzQpv4y6kwl_9Y1pRwEFATXlGtZYlVZLo40f0Iij7-53kL2GcwS7cA9n9dHHd2MldIdPG0wQeyMeshp9DoYfw_Lj3QTMyC9wTan696Maw/s320/TrailCan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156063298721305682" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">My mishap did cause me to abandon my course and head upstream, looking for a place to cross where the stream was narrower. Misfortune turned to luck when I found a place to cross that was well used by deer and looked like the old trail I had been seeking. This was soon confirmed when I saw some old painted tin can lids nailed to trees. I’d seen this method of marking another old trail in town – the Massapoag Trail – and I wondered if these markers had been placed by the same person decades ago.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I saw the hill I was seeking rising through the trees, but cold feet and a late hour prompted me to save conquering it for another day. I decided to follow the creek up to the road and head for home. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Exploring with map and compass brought back many fond memories. I thought back on those days when I was young and optimistic and I had my whole life in front of me. A good chunk of that life is behind me now, but on that bright sunny January day, it felt good to have a whole new year in front of me. A tough 2007 was behind me, and I had a chance to make a fresh start in 2008. I could see good things on the trail ahead, and I had a feeling a few hours of quiet reflection on Moose Hill might just help me find the way.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-60358233956017683502007-12-25T08:30:00.000-05:002007-12-26T11:01:27.192-05:00The Longest Night<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19CyZGFOXLczrj2TL1O37FaxSQolUbFOvLyGpPuOJsbyx0LRtCGVokJfn2nY5ryyOAunOA3w28axczqNYw3ccyTBL-gquGTGlLZvVbq8pKFgWetCdUVMTSd0HqCztbQg2kXkuOA/s1600-h/CoyKill1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19CyZGFOXLczrj2TL1O37FaxSQolUbFOvLyGpPuOJsbyx0LRtCGVokJfn2nY5ryyOAunOA3w28axczqNYw3ccyTBL-gquGTGlLZvVbq8pKFgWetCdUVMTSd0HqCztbQg2kXkuOA/s320/CoyKill1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147902909814096754" border="0" /></a><o:p></o:p><st1:date year="2007" day="23" month="12">Sunday, December 23, 2007</st1:date><o:p><br /><br /></o:p> <p class="MsoNormal">(Despite appearances to the contrary, this is not the Dead Deer Journal, but, as they say, stuff happens.)<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Imagine the terror. Alone in the long dark night – the longest night of the year – the young whitetail was pursued relentlessly by a pack of strong, vicious, hungry beasts. She tried to run, but her sharp hooves kept breaking through the crust on the deep snow, slowing her down and causing her to stumble. The coyotes, seemingly floating over the smooth surface on their wide paws, came on, closing the gap. Finally, when she could flee no more, they were upon her, tearing at her flesh, scattering her hair. It was over quickly, but how could such a thing ever end soon enough?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGDX5d4mVud3bX5ob5K7WhONLYssky1Oa842tu2s43_bxBdFJ9el2_DEsstCZxjHJe3AS0W_e0y31EO-3XQg9TFB2iLCRTsGud5sbvp4N7Njo_p8ndpBbhe1Ps40ZdytQxZMOA/s1600-h/CoyKill3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraGDX5d4mVud3bX5ob5K7WhONLYssky1Oa842tu2s43_bxBdFJ9el2_DEsstCZxjHJe3AS0W_e0y31EO-3XQg9TFB2iLCRTsGud5sbvp4N7Njo_p8ndpBbhe1Ps40ZdytQxZMOA/s320/CoyKill3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147903438095074194" border="0" /></a>I can only imagine what the attack was like, but the tracks, blood and remains in the snow told the tale. We went skiing on Moose Hill Farm on Sunday morning, the first day of winter. We had just started and were only a few minutes from the parking lot when, in the distance, I saw a dark form in the snow in the middle of a large hay field. I had heard that there was a significant population of coyotes in the area and I knew there were many whitetail deer, so even at a distance I had a feeling I knew what I was seeing. As we approached, I could clearly see the looping path where the predators drew the first blood, then tore into the coat scattering the hair, and finally, where they began to feed. A few organs had been pulled away and left in the snow. The head and legs were intact, but the carcass was stripped to the vertebrae.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Shooting is illegal in our town.<span style=""> </span>Hunting of any kind is very unusual. Constant development pushes the deer into ever-smaller natural areas and their population density soars. Over-browsing, disease and car-kills are inevitable. It’s only natural that – given just enough room – predators will move in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmi4TLV2q9v28Y3zqW339e3C5_XchKtXroxc4eXx5s0SQuK8vRcuB7g9hEyAoDYw9TPm-IpEZsp2wUmixHoglc42YEQSay5KOpMhVCGsUWON8_BWqwCts2PuDMJl6QwthtqXzFQ/s1600-h/CoyKill2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmi4TLV2q9v28Y3zqW339e3C5_XchKtXroxc4eXx5s0SQuK8vRcuB7g9hEyAoDYw9TPm-IpEZsp2wUmixHoglc42YEQSay5KOpMhVCGsUWON8_BWqwCts2PuDMJl6QwthtqXzFQ/s320/CoyKill2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147903133152396162" border="0" /></a>This is the way it should be; the way it has always been. So much of the beautiful life around us is sustained by killing. To a caterpillar, even the most colorful and delicate warbler is a heartless predator. But, the death of a deer, with its brown hair and red blood, its big black eyes and white backbone stripped of flesh, is death on a scale that people really notice.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">To me, the amazing thing is that it happens here. Moose Hill is less than 20 miles from <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>. The towers of downtown can be seen from a <st1:city><st1:place>high point</st1:place></st1:city> in this same field. Within a mile or two in every direction are fancy suburban homes with backyards where pets and children play.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It crossed my mind that this death should be kept a secret. Roaming packs of large meat-eating predators may be more than we suburbanites can tolerate. I see an earnest TV news reporter interviewing a soccer mom and a NASCAR dad on their manicured lawn next to the minivan. They are calling for action to protect their children and cockapoo. <span style=""> </span>If we would just put some townhouses and a lifestyle mall up there, we wouldn’t have to worry about these things.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My reaction to this deer kill is a little different. Knowing that there are large carnivores at the top of the Moose Hill food chain authenticates the wildness of the place. There is enough contiguous wild space to sustain a complete ecosystem with checks and balances. All around, we may be screwing things up by fragmenting the landscape, but on Moose Hill life is returning to a more natural state.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look forward to the day when I am sitting in the woods, quiet and alone. I hear a sound behind me and I turn to see large yellow eyes staring into my wide blue ones. After a moment of indecision, the big coyote lopes away. Excitement mingles with fear in a way that must be primordial. I never look at these woods in the same way again. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-48889367633073571912007-12-12T08:08:00.000-05:002007-12-12T08:29:25.286-05:00Blood in the Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJJF6ySXMzDA6alFKzsym__GUjsPzJ6ek_tRPH9RdBGZVLYbpnC2RFzI7FgmLtSQpQSOnA3wuT0vfRed8Lnui0X7JnJrpd4wXi7QurVq8IjJesMAfE7FTNZGgGneU0x6apAjBxA/s1600-h/TorShed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJJF6ySXMzDA6alFKzsym__GUjsPzJ6ek_tRPH9RdBGZVLYbpnC2RFzI7FgmLtSQpQSOnA3wuT0vfRed8Lnui0X7JnJrpd4wXi7QurVq8IjJesMAfE7FTNZGgGneU0x6apAjBxA/s320/TorShed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143073727121499634" border="0" /></a><o:p></o:p><st1:date year="2007" day="8" month="12">Saturday, December 8, 2007</st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Warning: This post is not for the squeamish!</p><o:p></o:p>Tracks in a dusting of snow can tell tales we might hear in no other way. I always assumed that because I live in the center of town, deer would not make it to my yard, but I now know that’s not the case. Over the years, thanks in part to a motion-detector light in the backyard, I’ve seen opossums, raccoons, woodchucks, skunks, cottontails, gray squirrels, red squirrels and chipmunks, but no deer. We had an unseasonably cold week followed by a light snow Friday night. When I went out to get the paper Saturday morning, the tracks of a good-sized whitetail in the snow showed where a deer had walked up my driveway to sample our neighbors’ yew. As it would turn out, that is not the only mystery revealed by the snow that day.<br /><br /><o:p> </o:p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I walked up to Moose Hill a little later that morning, I decided to stay off the road as much as possible. By ducking into the woods at the end of the train station parking lot I was in the woods quickly and was thrilled to encounter a Boy Scout troop working on a new trail.<span style=""> </span>I’m happy to think we’ll soon have another way to get to and from the Hill on foot without walking on the street.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My route took me over the dam at the low end of the cedar swamp – where the scouts are also building a new bridge. <span style=""> </span>I did have to leave the trail to walk on the street for a few minutes before reaching the Hobbs Hill Loop. Back in the woods, with nearly every step I took, every time I looked down, I was likely to see that I was not the first to pass over any stretch of trail that day.<span style=""> </span>It seemed deer were everywhere. Large canine prints could have been from a coyote which are said to be common now. On the boardwalk across the swamp on the way to the Kettle Trail, more delicate canine tracks may have been those of a fox and wider prints showing long claws made me think maybe a fisher was poking around. A fresh snow reveals how much activity goes on in these woods that most of us never see and many of us never imagine.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Where the Kettle Trail hits <st1:street><st1:address>Moose Hill Parkway</st1:address></st1:street> near <st1:street><st1:address>Upland Road</st1:address></st1:street>, I crossed the street and took the Vernal Pool Loop trail past The Boulders where I sometimes like to stop and sit. Rather than take the <st1:place>Loop</st1:place> back toward the sanctuary visitors’ center, I continued straight on the abandoned section of <st1:street><st1:address>Everett Street</st1:address></st1:street>. Like <st1:street><st1:address>Summit Road</st1:address></st1:street> on Moose Hill Farm, this old road that once probably carried horses, wagons and carts now carries weekend walkers through the woods. Old fields and a cellar hole reminded me that this land was long ago the home of a hopeful farmer. New tracks in the snow informed me that I was not the first human to pass that way on that day.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:street><st1:address>Everett Street</st1:address></st1:street> eventually hits the power lines and I turned left (southwest), thinking I would follow the right-of-way to Moose Hill Farm. Again, marks in the snow told me that the path along the power lines was a busy thoroughfare and a few walkers and many deer had been there ahead of me. Because of all the interesting things to see in the new snow I was looking down more than up. About the time I was daydreaming about how someone looking for a break from the city could hop on a train in Boston’s South Station, take the train to Sharon and, in literally two minutes could be walking in the woods on a trek that could last much of the day, a red spot in the snow caught my eye. At first I thought someone had stepped on a bittersweet berry, but that didn’t seem right. I stopped and looked more closely and realized I was looking at blood. I noticed it was in an area of compressed snow. For a moment I thought perhaps someone was pulling a child on a plastic toboggan, but soon enough the puzzle pieces came together and I knew what I was seeing. Someone had dragged a deer along the path. I knew there was poaching in the area; I had seen the cut fences and part of a tree stand before, but this trail was fresh.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I decided to follow the trail, hoping to flesh out the story. I turned around and retraced my steps, noticing I had been walking on the drag marks for a while without realizing it. Because the animal had been dragged in that direction the amount of blood was diminishing. Once again, my eyes were cast mostly downward and I didn’t look up until the drag marks left the path. I raised my gaze to the wooded edge of the right-or-way and saw a large dark shape in the snow. The hunter had left his burden barely concealed at the tree line. I don’t know if he was tried of dragging the big carcass and planned to come back for it later or, not wanting to be caught in the act of poaching, had been scared off the trail by an approaching hiker – possibly me – and was lurking nearby.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SYLOwHgaeySKbGvQBAfTbVLXqcq1TJ5MNr0hvT8aNy-1GmYsfrhMSKkfRSKqqynbfXUZvb22rYayerjmJ9GiyA9qYEI0f1tNluzEyskjOo57B2TFxRXobY77WwlPtvjMfZQeCw/s1600-h/HuntKill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5SYLOwHgaeySKbGvQBAfTbVLXqcq1TJ5MNr0hvT8aNy-1GmYsfrhMSKkfRSKqqynbfXUZvb22rYayerjmJ9GiyA9qYEI0f1tNluzEyskjOo57B2TFxRXobY77WwlPtvjMfZQeCw/s320/HuntKill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143074899647571458" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That last thought kept me from lingering too long, but I studied the dead buck long enough to snap a couple of photos and observe that it was an eight-pointer and that one of his antlers had been damaged – maybe in a fight with a bigger buck. The deer had been gutted and I saw an entry wound in his flank. The strap the hunter had been using to drag the animal was still around its neck. I wondered when he would be back and if the rising temperatures might spoil the meat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I reversed direction yet again, following the drag marks in reverse this time in a way that reminded me of watching a film backwards. As I walked, the spots of blood became larger and more frequent. Near a low spot in the right-of-way the drag marks left the path and went through weeds, then brush, and then into the woods. I followed the trail through the trees and over old logs, the blood now leaving big splotches of red in the fresh white snow. I knew what I would eventually find, and I didn’t have long to wait. In deep woods by a small brook, in an area trampled by footprints and marked with smears and spatters of bright blood, was the gut pile. Along with the intestines was the liver. Off to the side, cut in half, was the heart. I wondered if the hunter was looking for parasites, or performing some sort of barbaric ritual. I’ve never killed a deer, so I don’t know if these organs are usually wasted. I wondered if he said a prayer of thanks to the deer, but I thought not.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y7LnSInmuRF4l9UkWQHTCYmxZfAAluttX9hRYLMJG6IymGK1PY031u26OaTfDD1W-2BWIDOhyNlMrrrscJMZDCjLv6ZHoxQhXbjBxyz8TF1MofHLBrcXW1MckIeqjuYqV76ghA/s1600-h/GutPile.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5y7LnSInmuRF4l9UkWQHTCYmxZfAAluttX9hRYLMJG6IymGK1PY031u26OaTfDD1W-2BWIDOhyNlMrrrscJMZDCjLv6ZHoxQhXbjBxyz8TF1MofHLBrcXW1MckIeqjuYqV76ghA/s320/GutPile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143073508078167522" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was starting to get a little creeped-out, but I did a little more CSI. I saw where the buck had been in his death throes along a path of broken branches and sprays of blood. I saw where he took his last steps before the razor-edged broad-head arrow sliced into him. I knew the hunter’s perch must be close and, looking up, I soon found his tree stand. Steel hooks for climbing were screwed into the trunk of the tree and a nylon cord for raising and lowering his weapon was hanging down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was feeling quite a mix of emotions. I didn’t think much of this poacher for killing a deer on private (and probably sanctuary) property without permission, but I had to admire his efficacy. As one who had enjoyed a delicious beef brisket for dinner the night before, I was in no position to feel moral outrage over the harvesting of a little venison. I later determined that this was indeed the last day of deer hunting season, so this guy was not hunting out of season and – for all I know – he may have been carrying a valid hunting license. As one who recently suffered with Lyme disease and one who sees the damage over-browsing does to the forest, I do worry that we have too many deer around. I sometimes have trouble seeing things in black and white. Maybe it’s a good thing for we suburbanites and city-dwellers who eat meat to see something like this once in a while just to remind us that the burger on our plate means that something had to die.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d had enough of blood and guts, so I moved on. As I headed up the hill toward Moose Hill Farm, an uneasy feeling came over me. I wondered if this dead buck was the same one I’d seen twice before among the high rocky outcrops and cedar trees near Moose Hill Farm. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I like my favorite resting places on Moose Hill to have names. If I find a name on a map, like Hobbs Hill, the Boulders or Allens Ledge, that’s fine. Sometimes I make up my own name like the Lower Meadow, or the Mikveh. I’ve started to call the rocky hilltop near Moose Hill Farm the Tor. These bare rocks rising from the surrounding forest with their scattered scrubby cedars and scraggly pines makes me think of Sherlock Holmes stories with tors rising from the mists of the moors, and I think of the buck there as the Stag of the Tor.<span style=""> </span>(I try to ignore the high-voltage power line running so close by and to tune out the roar of I-95 coming through the woods.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are actually two or three rocky hilltops that make up the high ground in this area. I climbed the steep slope from the power lines up to the first one to find a fire ring. I imagine generations of walkers have been attracted to this place and I was looking for a spot for breakfast, but this one was too close too the wires. I dropped down into the saddle between two summits, following natural pathways that, as more tracks in the snow revealed, were also used by deer. I was also keeping my eyes open for my buck, hoping to see him bounding off through the oaks as I had twice before, telling me he was still alive and well. No sooner had I completed those thoughts when I found something I’d never seen before in all my hours in the woods. At my feet was a whitetail deer antler. It was fresh and clean and the tissue at the base where it had been attached to the buck’s skull was still white with flecks of red as if it had fallen off that very morning. It was perfectly formed with four large points and a small stub near the base indicating that it likely came from an eight- to ten-point buck. This was a lucky find because, as I recall, rodents love to chew shed antlers, so they don’t last long on the forest floor. More importantly, because of its location and size I felt sure this antler came from the buck I had seen in the area. This meant the dead deer I had seen earlier was not the buck of the Tor. I even wondered if the damaged antler I saw on the dead deer could have been broken in a fight with this one on an adjacent territory. I was hopeful that he would live to fight another day.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found a nice spot to sit on a rock in the sun to eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I sat high on the hillside and looked out over the <st1:city><st1:place>oak forest</st1:place></st1:city> below, maybe much the same way the buck would survey his domain.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t sit long because I had a long walk home and had already been afield for quite some time. I found my way through the woods to old <st1:street><st1:address>Summit Road</st1:address></st1:street> and the new loop trail through Moose Hill Farm. When I broke out of the woods into the big hayfields I could see across the rolling hills to the tall towers of downtown <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, gleaming in the bright sunshine through the clear winter air. I found it remarkable and a little amazing that a little fresh snow could reveal so much wild drama within sight of this major east coast city. I felt more than a little lucky that I had been there to take it all in.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25209954.post-36746766391864307052007-12-05T22:10:00.000-05:002007-12-12T17:03:31.962-05:00New Ground<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DzThyxgCeTD1Lr0V8iUfRpmsq3CwR7rvFK3oGffWm5FUepGyglGHB0yxd4X4OC_9ImgJzr6OV5HLaRKBxIKkEOha7RV-bPnlDlhR2sf0uBy3lmqQFhNggWK8agkyZ1i9GHXviw/s1600-h/I95Doe07.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DzThyxgCeTD1Lr0V8iUfRpmsq3CwR7rvFK3oGffWm5FUepGyglGHB0yxd4X4OC_9ImgJzr6OV5HLaRKBxIKkEOha7RV-bPnlDlhR2sf0uBy3lmqQFhNggWK8agkyZ1i9GHXviw/s320/I95Doe07.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140693273783415122" border="0" /></a><st1:date year="2007" day="1" month="12">Saturday, December 1, 2007<br /><br /></st1:date> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">December arrived with a roar. It was the kind of cold wind that strips the heat from an old house with rattley windows or from a too-thinly clad body. When I left the house at <st1:time minute="0" hour="9">9:00 AM</st1:time> it was 28 degrees and the wind chill was a source of some concern so I piled on five light layers. With wool gloves and a balaclava under the helmet, I was surprisingly comfortable. I was on a mission, so I took the single-speed in spite of the weather so I could spend more time in the woods and less time walking on the road. I was off to explore new ground.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our town is blessed with many acres of conservation land. The town itself has set aside several large parcels and the Massachusetts Audubon Society – where I’ve been doing most of my recent exploring - has nearly 2000 acres. Now, there is a wonderful new preserve known as Moose Hill Farm, owned by The Trustees of Reservations, a venerable <st1:state><st1:place>Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state> conservation organization. First opened to the public just a few months ago, this property of nearly 350 acres has a wonderful mix of hay fields, marsh, and forest, providing a wide variety of wildlife habitats. I am particularly excited to have this property close to home because The Trustees have a philosophy that is somewhat different than many environmental organizations. They aim to protect the cultural and historical heritage of the landscape along with its natural features. This sometimes means working the land in traditional ways. In the case of Moose Hill Farm, there are plans to raise grass-fed beef and free-range chickens. There is talk of a community-sponsored farm where residents can participate in the production of their own food. There are many acres of mature forest on the property, and I have hopes that silviculture might someday become part of the management plan.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The cold wind bit through my gloves as I coasted down the hill from the town center to the base of Moose Hill Parkway but the steady climb from there on warmed me up. I didn’t even feign an attempt at pedaling the single speed up the steepest part of the slope. With the low temperature, full backpack and all the extra clothing, I gladly hopped off the bike and pushed it to the top of the hill. From there, it was and easy ride along the flattish shoulder of Moose Hill over to Moose Hill Farm.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The reserve is bisected by an old road, known as Summit Road, that is now little more than a foot path, but judging by the old stone walls that line most of the route it looks like it may have once been a significant thoroughfare. Other stone walls mark the edges of fields and made me wonder how the land was used decades and centuries ago. I suppose there are those who wonder who would build walls out in the woods, not realizing that most of New England was denuded of forest long ago and most of the woods we enjoy today grew back only after the farms were abandoned.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My plan was to walk all the way across the property on the old road to where it is truncated by the Interstate. For most of the way, the old road is used by part of a new two-mile loop trail, but by some old stone-lined cellar holes the trail turns left. I kept going straight northwest, following the remains of the old road that is being slowly reclaimed by the forest. As I neared the steady roar of the Interstate, I noticed that there was evidence of traffic in the leaf litter. There is a wire fence paralleling the highway, but where the old road hits the fence, it had been cut open, possibly by poachers. Since there were no parking places nearby I couldn’t imagine that enough trespassers came through the cut to beat the path I was seeing in the forest floor. I went through the fence to see if I could recognize the spot along the highway, and just as I was thinking that the tracks in the dry leaves must have been made by deer and I was wondering if the gap in the fence funneled deer out onto the highway, I spotted a dead doe on the shoulder.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I ducked back through the fence and followed it northeasterly, continuing along the property line. The deer have created a path of their own as they too follow the fence. At about the point where I thought I might be near the property corner I hit another old woods road. This one was not as wide or well defined as Summit Road, but it was good enough for the deer and certainly good enough for me. It was heading southeasterly – more or less the direction I wanted to go - so I took it.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The forest in this part of the reserve is not exactly scrub land, but the trees seem to have limited potential. Perhaps a series of fires has burned out the fertility, but it’s also likely that the soil there has always been poor. More stone walls define old fields. I tried to imagine the hard life lead by the farmers who cleared those fields and piled those rocks. It’s no wonder that so many of them left the land, first for early New England industries, and then for rich stone-free lands to the west.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was probably daydreaming about what it must have been like to try to scratch a living out of this dry, bony soil when I came upon a buck scrape in the trail. Just then, something – a snort perhaps –<span style=""> </span>made me look up and I saw the white flag of a deer bounding off through the woods and saw the sun glinting off a 6- or 8-point rack. I was happy that the old boy had so far been able to elude the poachers and stay off the highway.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then, I spotted just the sort of rocks I like to sit on for breakfast. I climbed up on a granite outcrop that rose through the thin soil like the spine of the Earth erupting through its skin. I imagined the big buck climbing up there to survey his territory. I picked a spot to sit that was somewhat sheltered from the wind, but I didn’t hunker down too low because that would have meant sitting in leaves and the last time I did that – just a couple of weeks earlier – I found two deer ticks on me. I have no desire to go down the Lyme road again anytime soon. So, I sat on a rock and used the small foam pad I’ve started carrying for moments just like that. The wind was cold, but a bright sun allowed me to sit long enough to have breakfast and to scribble a few notes. I was thinking I should carry some kind of wrap to throw over my shoulders so I can sit quietly and comfortably long enough to see more wildlife and enjoy the peace and quiet of the winter woods.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The wind chill pushed me on eventually, but I didn’t mind. A lone red squirrel streaking along a log was my only company. The wind howling in the treetops drowned out any other sounds. There were no birds to be seen and I imagined they were all fluffed up and lying low.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before long, I hit Summit Road not far from where my walk began. I walked down the road to my bicycle and was getting ready to leave when a movement in some brush by an old vacant house caught my eye. A <st1:city><st1:place>Carolina</st1:place></st1:city> wren was poking around in the tangle of leaves and red-stemmed dogwood. A pair of golden-crowned kinglets came by. Across the old road titmice and juncos were moving through the trees.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It seemed as though the birds were attracted to this old house even though it has been unoccupied for a few years. Standing in the bright sunlight for a few minutes, I found myself lost in thought. I was wishing I could see history sweep over this land. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me that birds like to linger around old houses and deer like to follow old roads. This is <st1:place>New England</st1:place> and the landscape has long been shaped by its human inhabitants and the creatures that remain have adapted to the ways of people.<span style=""> </span>There is a human scale to the land. These forests and fields are wild but are not wilderness. The stone walls and traces of roads tell of early American farmers and English settlers. Native Americans had been working this land – probably with fire – long before the Europeans arrived. In a way, it wasn’t all that long ago that these hills were buried under a glacier. The effects of the ice can be seen everywhere. The first humans probably arrived not long after the glacier retreated.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was happy with the possibility that the new owners of this property would conserve it without preserving it. We have been here for millennia. The face of the land has changed, but, so far, it endures. And, as on the face of an old man, the scars and wrinkles tell the story of its past. I hope this place will help us remember how we can live on the land and work with it without destroying it.</p>MojoManhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11283343683800473324noreply@blogger.com1