Just Over the Horizon

Sunday, March 9, 2008

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 Moose Hill Street. 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.

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 Depot 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.

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.

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. 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.

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,” December 17, 2006.) 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.

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.

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 Babylon” (Sidebar) for pointing me in that direction. I was even lucky enough to score Kunstler’s new novel, World Made By Hand, 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.

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.

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.

Rattlesnakes, Raptors and Robbers

People head into the wilds for all sorts of reasons. Some search for birds, some hunt, some fish, some bag peaks. I’m sure there are those who feel their time was wasted if they come home with an empty creel or no new checks on their life list. Some of us are content with a day afield even if we come home empty-handed. A few people I know have seen me on my bike riding to or from Moose Hill. I hesitate to explain the true nature of my visits. It’s so much easier to say I’m going bird watching or that I went hiking rather than to try to explain that I was going to sit or wander alone in the woods to allow natural wonders and random thoughts come to me. In this age of goals, priorities and multitasking, wandering aimlessly might seem a bit wasteful or odd. Sometimes, it’s helpful to have a tangible objective as an excuse to get out.

When I know ahead of time that I will be able to spend a few hours on Moose Hill, I try to plan where I want to spend that precious time. So, even though I try to remain as flexible as possible so I can respond to mood and opportunity, I usually prefer to start with at least an outline for the visit. Three sources of inspiration converged to send me to the rocky cliffs know as Bluff Head and Allens Ledge on Saturday morning. Bluff Head is where my son and I watched the summer solstice sunset (See “Running to the Sun,” June 22, 2006.).

A couple of weeks ago, Greenman Tim posted at “Walking the Berkshires” (See sidebar.) about the decline of one of the few remaining timber rattlesnake dens in New England. Then, a reader interested in Massachusetts geology and caves e-mailed asking if I knew anything about a “Robber’s Cave” on Moose Hill. Finally, Lene of “counting petals” (See sidebar.) suggested that I keep my eyes open for migrating hawks. Usually, I require only the flimsiest of reasons to head to a particular place on Moose Hill, but here were three very good ones to head for the rocky outcrops.

I rode over the hill and down the back side to sneak in the back way from Walpole Street. Even though the trail here is part of the Bay Circuit Trail and the Warner Trail, it is far removed from the parking areas and sanctuary buildings, so it doesn’t get much traffic. Part of the beauty of using a bicycle to get around is that I am not limited by the need to park a car. I can slip into the woods at almost any point, unseen.

The forecast of a cloudy, rainy morning was fabulously incorrect and I was thrilled by the clear air and blue skies. Sunbeams piercing the pines and oaks overhead caused the water droplets from the night’s rain and fog to glisten and sparkle on the ferns and young pines along the path. My footsteps were quiet on the moist duff of the little-used trail.

I climbed through the quiet woods to the first rock outcrop, Allens Ledge. I left the trail to follow an informal path along the base of this small cliff to see if I could find any caves or remnants of historic quarrying activity that could have been the basis of robber legends. I didn’t spot any caves at all, but I did see some amazing lichens growing on the well-shaded rocks. One type looked like someone had thrown big pieces of limp, green seaweed against the stone wall. Some were about as large as my hand. Indeed, in the course of the morning, I saw several varieties of lichens and mosses growing on the rocks. The abundance and variety of these fascinating non-vascular plants made me wish I had an expert along with me, or at least a hand lens and good field guide.

I made another discovery at the base of the ledge that made me wonder if maybe the bird messengers who were talking to me all summer were truly trying to tell me something important and that I was on a very unusual quest. I found an old galvanized steel trash can, upright and partially filled with water. In the putrid swill at the bottom of the barrel, along with leaves, twigs and acorns was a drowned baby squirrel. I have no idea how or why this can was in the middle of the woods, but as I turned it over to eliminate this death trap, I thought of another barrel I emptied this summer that had claimed a baby robin (See “That One May Live,” June 7, 2006.). Maybe my place in the world is to become “He who Dumps Trash Cans.” That would be my kind of luck.

I worked my way along the base of Allens Ledge and then climbed up on top. There is an old, rough, stone chimney standing on a flat spot on the ledge, built from local stone that probably came from the ledge itself. If there was ever a building attached to this chimney, the traces of it are long gone. There is an “eat locally” movement afoot these days. People try to eat food produced by local farmers so they can enjoy the freshness, know that they are supporting local growers, are helping to preserve open space and know that vast amounts of energy were not consumed transporting their strawberries across the continent. I wonder if anyone is trying to launch a “build locally” movement. Many homes around here have Douglas fir beams and cedar siding from the Pacific Northwest, granite countertops from Brazil and marble bathrooms from Italy. Perhaps it makes sense to try to focus more on using local materials or locally recycled materials. Not only would transportation costs be reduced, this might help preserve and enhance local architectures that help make places unique.

Getting hungry, I moved up the trail to find a spot to sit on the higher and larger Bluff Head (Elev. 491). I found a spot offering great views to the south, hoping to spot some migrating hawks. I sat there on that massive rock with miles of landscape stretched before me. If I could ignore the power lines, cell towers and water tanks sticking up, most of the many highways, roads, buildings and other works of humans were hidden by forest. The world looked large and I was, as an individual, feeling small and insignificant. Directly overhead was the white crescent of the moon. In the distance was the humongous Gillette Stadium. I thought how, when united in a common purpose, many individuals could pool their energies and resources to do impressive things like fly to the moon or build a giant sports arena. Now, I’m not a big fan of paving miles of landscape to build stadiums out in the country or cold wars that lead to space races, but I thought of the wonderful things we could do if only we were united in our efforts to build a better world. I wish we had found something better to do with our peace dividend.

Scanning the open air before me, I saw a lone swallow fly by. Soon, like my swifts, the swallow will be gone for the winter. A hawk flew by, low over the trees. I didn’t see any migrants soaring overhead. Maybe there would be some later in the day as the sun warmed the earth and rising cushions of thermals provided a south-bound magic carpet. A tiny, silent greenish bird with a yellow breast was working the branches inside the dense foliage of some redcedars not ten feet away. At first I thought it must be one of the notorious confusing fall warblers, but now I think it might have been a kinglet since it was so small.

Breakfast finished, I got up to explore the rocks. I had a fantasy of discovering an unknown den of rattlers. I had visions of a fat, gravid female warming herself on the rocks in the bright September sun. The slimness of the odds kept me from searching too hard, but I did notice a number of bear oak (Quercus ilicifolia) growing in the small pockets of soil in fissures in the stone. This scrub oak is a tree of the hard places, and this place is about as hard as it gets around here with its thin soil and exposure to hot summer sun and cold winter blasts.

Although the cycling shoes I was wearing are fine for walking, they are not well suited to rock climbing, so I quickly gave up on any search for hidden caves that sheltered bandits. I did notice potential loot for amateur archeologists where generations of hikers tossed their trash off the cliff after snacking on the ledge. There must be a veritable midden heap of old cans and bottles buried in the forest floor at the base of the rocks.

A power mower and string trimmer started to roar and whine in the valley below, so it was time to go. I found the trail off the rocks and back into the forest. I heard other hikers coming as I left the main trail to take the less-used trail back to my bike. I watched them pause at the intersection to check their map and then continue on to the ledge. I wondered how many unseen silent eyes watched me as I moved through the woods.

As I slowly approached my bike, I was looking for any excuse to linger a bit longer. I wanted to surrender to serendipity. Just then, off the trail in a pool of sunlight hitting the ground through a hole in the canopy, I saw a movement. Binoculars at the ready, I crept closer and sat down at the base of a tree in a bed of pine needles. I was looking for what I thought would be a titmouse or chickadee, when I saw a heavily streaked breast. Then I saw a second bird. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the light eye-rings and tawny caps with black borders. These were ovenbirds! All summer I heard these naughty pupils screaming for the teacher but I never got to see one. Finally, here at the end of their school year when they are silent, I found them. With some soft ‘pishing’ I lured this curious duo to within about eight feet of me. After about five minutes of mutual inspections, they moved on, perhaps on their way to winter vacation.

I went to the woods with the excuse of looking for raptors, robbers and rattlesnakes. That was my cover story. I knew I wasn’t going to find snakes or caves. I thought my chances of seeing migrating hawks were reasonable, but not great. I didn’t get to put any checks on my to-do list, but that was fine with me.

With that, thinking I had more than my share of discoveries for a day, I pushed my bike to the road and headed for home. Along the way, I encountered some snapping turtles, and that, is another story.

Two Little, Too Late

Are you an animal killer? No matter how green you may consider yourself, even if you’re a card-carrying member of PETA, if you drive a car, you kill wildlife. Get used to it.

I was cycling down Moose Hill Parkway from another wonderful Saturday morning in the woods (A post about that part of my day resides, at this point, only in my notebook and mind.) when, on a lower stretch of the road near the swamp where I searched for my thrush this spring (Dreams and Reality, June 2, 2006), I happened to spot a black spot on the road. Just as it registered in my mind what it was, I saw another. Now sure, I slowed and turned back, saddened by what I saw. On the road, squished to varying degrees of unrecognizability were baby snapping turtles.

Clearly, a female had climbed out of the swamp this spring, made it across the road and laid her eggs in the sandy slope above the street. Now, the eggs were hatching. As I counted the remains of five or six tiny terrors with their serrated tails, little shells and big heads, some leaving little spots of blood, I saw one, and then another live turtle! I quickly picked them up. Before I moved them off the road and down the slope to the edge of the swamp, I remembered I had one of these new-fangled portable telephones with a camera built right into it! I held the two little survivors in my hand and snapped a picture, wondering if one of them might try to cross this same road 50 years from now, when my own babies are old.

It’s no surprise that so many had died. They are so small; not much bigger than a quarter. Their gray shells are exactly the color of the pavement. Even on my bike, I barely saw them. Even careful, considerate drivers would smash them under their wheels without the slightest hint of the carnage below. I drove over this exact spot just yesterday. Did I kill snapping turtles along with the frogs that died with them?

As I climbed on my bike to continue riding home, I remembered another snapper I had seen. In mid-June I stopped traffic on a local street to pick up a medium-large snapping turtle heading back to a pond, I assume, after laying her eggs. I am happy to report that the drivers who had to wait didn't seem to mind at all. This snapper had a shell about 14" long and I grabbed her by the back edge of the shell with two hands. She was so intent on getting across the street and back to the pond that she never even looked back at me. She must have thought she was morphing into a bird as I picked her up and carried her right in the direction she was pointing.

Before going home, I rode across town to check that spot. Sure enough, I saw three or four reptilian grease spots, along with a dead garter snake, its hind quarter crushed into the asphalt. I wondered how long its head had lived as its tail was dying.

Later in the afternoon, on a bike ride with my wife through a neighboring town, I found another baby snapper in the road. It was intact but showed little or no sign of life. I placed it at the edge of a pond, just in case.

Even those of us who love wild places and wild creatures, unwillingly or unknowingly, take our own toll. From the cars we drive, to the food we eat, to the houses we live in, we have an impact. I may have saved two little turtles today, but I was too late for the others. Ironically, I may have killed them myself. We may hope to tread gently, but tread we do.

Waiting for the Light

I knew there would be times like these, when time or inspiration would be in short supply, or when my thoughts were so scattered that I couldn’t draw them together into a coherent whole. I’m not worried, though. I made no firm commitment to a blog schedule. I know how things are, both in my world and in my brain. I want to write when I feel something there. So far, it’s worked as well as I could have hoped, especially when I have the opportunity to spend a little time quietly in the woods. I don’t want to feel forced to write, although it is natural to want to be consistent, just in case there are actual readers out there.

It seems commonplace for bloggers to announce their intentions to call it quits, take a break or change directions. Self doubt and second thoughts run rampant. Other writers simply stop and disappear, taking the road to blogger hell paved with good intentions. I was instinctively aware of these pitfalls. So, from the start, I made no promises to myself about how often or how much I would write. And besides, being a guy, commitment is scary.

Travel and other commitments have kept me from spending a morning on Moose Hill for a few weeks now, and it’s not looking much better for the next couple of weeks. It’s getting to be like missing a run or bike ride with feelings of withdrawal symptoms. I want to get back. The best I could do was take my bike to run a business errand last week, and on the way home take the long way around up and over Moose Hill.

It was a wonderfully clear and dry late summer morning. The cool wind felt good on my face and the exertion of standing on the pedals to climb the hill was invigorating. Just as the blood was rushing through my head and taking my mind to that dreamy place, I heard – or thought I heard - my peewee. This little flycatcher has been calling to me all summer. I haven’t heard him for a while, and I figured he was done calling for the season, or maybe, he had even started moving south. But there he was, calling to me.

That’s the way it was this summer. I’d find myself alone in the silent woods, or even half asleep at dawn in my bed and a bird would talk to me. First it was the wood thrush, and then the peewee started in. Now, I heard dozens of bird calls and songs, most familiar, some bringing back old memories, some prompting me to search through guidebooks to identify them. These sounds were lovely, exciting, stimulating , or even comforting. But the thrush and peewee seemed to be carrying a message.

The flute-like song of the thrush and the message he carried seemed easy to understand. It was a prompt to reflect fondly, but with the tinge of melancholy. I imagined him calling to remind me that time is short. Youth is fleeting; I had mine, it’s gone, and all I can do is hope I used it as wisely as I was able. Life is ephemeral. Times past and lives past are gone and will not be coming back. Loved ones and friends were lost, either through mortality or stupidity. Mistakes were made and it’s OK to feel sad about them. He would warble his invitation at dawn to seek him out and then again at sunset as I thought about these things, allowing me to simply feel the emotions that come with the growing knowledge that the hour is getting late.

The eastern wood peewee’s call is more enigmatic. If I could choose, this bird would not be at the top of my list of potential mystical messengers, with his cartoon-character name, small size and child-like call. But there he was, first as I ran through a warm summer rain, later as I walked through the quiet forest, and even as I bicycled up the hill. Is it a language barrier? Is he speaking clearly, but I just can’t interpret? Or, is he calling from a plane of understanding I simply cannot reach?

Sometimes on a winter Friday night with the week drawing to a close and the period of rest beginning, I’ll sit reading by the fire. With the warmth of the blaze in the stove, it’s not long before the book droops to my chest and I start to doze off. I’m reminded of the story of Kekule discovering the structure of the benzene ring while dreaming about snakes dancing head-to-tail as he slept by the fire. I sense something out there, or in this case, in here. Something nags from the back of my mind. Do I feel it, or can I hear it? Lacking the intellect of a Kekule, I can’t decode the signal. Something, someone is trying to communicate, but beyond that, I cannot grasp the message. At this point, I don’t even know if it’s a statement, a question, or a command. Maybe it’s feelings like this that turn people into seekers and wanderers. Maybe I’m on a quest and I don’t even know it yet. Maybe I’m hearing voices, and we all know exactly what that means!

The peewee gives me the same feeling. Claude Lacombe says in one of my all-time favorite movies, “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” when referring to those risking their lives to climb Devils Tower: “They were invited.” My peewee in no Francois Truffaut, and Moose Hill is no nerve gas-shrouded national monument, but I feel an undecipherable invitation to climb and explore, both the outer and inner world.

Faith

After a week of extraordinarily hot weather and a major wind storm, I was up early this morning hoping to head out into the woods and take advantage of a break in the weather. Other than the weather – or maybe because of it - no subject settled on my mind this week. As I studied a Moose Hill trail map last night trying to decide where I might want to go today, I found a destination but no goal. I set out this morning for a place known as Hobbs Hill (Elevation 342’). The map showed an interesting-looking trail circling a summit that offered the potential for a breakfast spot with relatively few mosquitoes. Even though I had nothing special on my mind, I set out with faith that I would find something to write about.

I knew exactly where the trailhead was even though I had never followed the path. After only about 10 minutes of cycling, I was there. I walked the bike down the trail, flicked the kickstand, and continued on foot. The trail went downhill and soon crossed a swamp on a very impressive boardwalk. The walkway seemed like an expensive and ambitious project for a trail that seemed to get so little use, but I was glad it was there. It is a broad and beautiful swamp and I penciled it onto my mental map for future visits. Today, however, I was seeking higher ground.

On the other side of the swamp, the trail soon turned uphill through oak, white pine and huckleberries. In a short while a faint, informal trail branched off to what I took to be the top of the hill. As I climbed higher, the oaks gave way to short hickories and the Vaccinium surrendered to grass. The forest here was almost park-like with good views through the woods and scattered boulders to sit on. In the understory were a few eastern redcedar (Juniperus virginiana), a dwindling reminder of the pastureland this once was. In contrast to the rich, moist maple forest of last week, the soils here were rocky, thin and dry. I assumed the hickories were bitternut hickories (Carya cordifirmis), but I need to double-check on my next visit to make sure they are not shagbark hickories (Carya ovata), too small yet to be shaggy. One of the goals of my Moose Hill explorations is to refresh my fading dendrology skills. The grassy forest floor on this rocky hilltop made me wonder if I was seeing the effects of fire, or hungry deer reducing competition from woody plants.

Looking for a spot to eat breakfast, I selected a flat-topped rock on the edge of the hilltop rather than the summit itself. Almost instinctively, I wanted a vantage point where I could survey a small valley below with eyes peeled for any wildlife. In the primitive parts of my brain, was I a predator on the lookout for game, or was I probing deeper to the primordial recesses where I was prey on the lookout for carnivores that might be stalking me? If I were to observe a real-life struggle between hunter and hunted – say, a hawk pouncing on a squirrel – could I be a neutral observer, or would I have to take sides?

I sat there taking a few notes and eating my PBJ and drinking my coffee; one making me want more of the other until I didn’t have enough of either. I marveled at how quiet the woods were. After the long heat wave, everything seemed suppressed and I knew why Rachel Carson didn’t write Silent Summer. I heard a few goldfinches tootling by overhead and a blue jay squawking in the distance, but otherwise, the forest was quiet. The only birds I saw were a small flock of robins working in the leaves and grass. I wondered if these woods robins could be the same birds seen nesting in dooryards and bopping around on freshly-mown lawns, or were these characters cousins from the other side of the tracks, picking through the leaves to get at the moist earth below?

The woods were quiet, but the air was full of the drone of cicadas, their sound swelling and throbbing, and then subsiding. This reminded me that I noticed my first katydid of the summer Wednesday night, making me think that despite the oppressive heat of the moment, the season would soon be slipping away. I can still remember my mother teaching me the song of this green cricket-like insect: “Katy did, Katy didn’t,” starting in mid-summer and croaking ever more slowly as summer gave way to fall. I didn’t know about that, but this Katy sounded like someone I might like to meet.

I was enjoying the warm, but dry, morning with a gentle breeze and a blue sky above my umbrella of hickory leaves, but it was time to go. I found my way back to the main trail and followed it as it continued around the shoulders of the hill and dropped back down into the oaks and pine. I spotted a young deer streaking through the woods and then spooked what may have been its mother. I regularly see whitetails as I drive or bike by the fields, but less frequently do I see them deep in the forest where they usually move quietly and inconspicuously.

The trail took me along the edge of a mature pine plantation on a sandy slope. I heard an avian ruckus up ahead that I thought might have been prompted by my intrusion until I heard the shriek of a hawk. There were calls of more jays, a nuthatch and another unfamiliar sound. There was a sort of mewing sound and some chucks or clucks. A catbird? A towhee? Then I saw my wood thrush fly over to pose politely on some nearby dead pine branches. It was as if he had come to say goodbye; as if his flute was packed away for the season and he was making plans to head south. I’ll be sad to see him go.

No particular issues were burning in my brain this morning. No rant was raging; demanding a voice. No thoughts from the depths came welling to the surface. No moody musings were longing to be shared. I left home with faith that I would be struck by a topic. I felt sure I would stumble on a few slender threads that could be braided into a line of thought. None of these things happened. My faith went unrewarded, but as coasted down the hill on my way home, somehow, I was not disappointed.

Back to the Hill

I was finally able to repeat the trip that initially inspired this blog. A combination of work, personal commitments and about 10 inches of rain in the past few weeks has kept me from visiting Moose Hill aside from the usual drive-throughs, jogs and bike rides. I went to bed early last night thinking that if I got up early enough and the sun was shining, I'd bike back up there for breakfast. I was up in the middle of the night for an hour or so for no apparent reason, so I thought that once I finally fell back to sleep, I would sleep too late for breakfast on the hill. Thanks to a squirrel helpfully chewing on my house at 6:15 AM, I was indeed up early enough and the sky was beautifully clear.

At the top of the paved road, I continued onto the gravel road, past the 'no bikes' sign, and rode to the first meadow. As I hoped, a bluebird was there, warbling away at the tip of a tall dead pine. I found a sunny spot at the edge of the field and settled down with my back to the old stone wall. The bluebird flew off, but a pair of tree swallows was busily flying in and out of one of the two nesting boxes set up in this small clearing in the woods.

I was relaxing, having coffee, enjoying the warming early-morning sun glistening off the dew on the meadow plants and enjoying the show provided by the swallows. I was surprised to see the birds repeatedly landing on the ground, picking something up and flying back to the box. I was a little surprised, because I assumed swallows fed primarily on the wing. I was probably on my second cup when it dawned on me that they were not busily feeding a hungry brood, but were building a nest. For the most part, it looked like the female flying regular sorties from the box to a spot about 30 feet in front of me. She would select a short segment of bracken fern stem that had been chopped by the mower and ferry it back to the birdhouse. The male was supervising the proceedings from his perch atop the box. It was fun to simply sit there and enjoy the moment.

Breakfast over and with a few minutes to spare, I walked up the road a bit to another clearing. I saw a few birds moving about and heard a few others, but things were quieter than I expected in mid-May. I saw chipping sparrows and phoebes and heard several red-eyed vireos. Deeper in the forest, I heard the eerily mysterious melody of the wood thrush. I'm not sure if I missed the peak of the migration while I was huddled inside to escape the rain, or if many birds were simply too busy nesting to make a lot of noise.

It was also great to see a few other birders. As long as there a people who appreciate these woods, they may be safe for future generations.

Just as I was getting ready to head home, I saw a small bird land among the electric-green leaves of a small birch at the edge of the small field. As I studied the picture-perfect scene of the fresh Spring leaves weeping over the lush green of the grass, backed by the bright white bark of the birch, I noticed the bird had landed on a nest. Fumbling for my binoculars, I was a little surprised to spy a vireo nesting only about 8 feet above the ground. It seemed to be putting the finishing touches on a nest that looked like an old gray sock dangling from the twigs.

With that, I hopped on the bike to coast down the hill toward home. In no more than 90 minutes, I had enjoyed an invigorating bike ride, had breakfast in the sun, and witnessed miracles of life. How cool is that?

"The Moose"

One of the anchor points for my week is the Sunday morning bike ride. We have an informal group that meets every Sunday at 7:30 (8:30 in winter) in the town center. We ride road bikes and try to go fast. Since most of us are in our 40's and 50's, 'fast' is a relative term, but we do OK. We typically ride about 25-35 miles and the group ranges in size from just a few when the weather is bad to nearly 20 in the summertime. We had 14 today, which is great for early April.

I like bicycles and bike riding of all kinds. I have a shed full of bikes. One aspect of riding that gives me the biggest kick is a spirited group ride. I won't try to describe how much fun a group ride can be. Like many things in life, you just have to be there to understand. It is simply exhilerating to be with a bunch of strong, fit, like-minded riders working as a team to go fast. Over about 20 mph, aerodynamics begins to play a big role in a ride. At high speeds, it's much easier to ride behind another cyclist, so we take turns 'pulling' and 'drafting.' When all the stars align, we might have a pace line where a long string of riders goes single file, each taking a short turn at the front, then pulling off to the left and drifting to the back of the line as everyone else slides forward. On a flat, smooth road it's possible for us to cruise along at 25 or so mph. The speed and endorphines provide a real rush. Needless to say, this has its risks. Should one cyclist fall, everyone behind might go down too. Luckily, we haven't had any such pile-ups. It's important to ride with experienced bikers you can trust.

Most of our rides finish by going over Moose Hill. It's one of the biggest hills we have around here, and the light car traffic and forested setting make for great riding. In this context, Moose Hill is more about gravity than nature. By the time we start the climb after a long, hard ride, the legs are rubbery and the lungs raspy. There is usually a mad dash for the top. Since I carry too much weight to be a good climber, I usually get to watch the race from a few spots back. But, I always try hard and give an honest effort as we scale "The Moose."

Breakfast On The Hill

Every once in a while, I actually follow through on an inspiration.

I thought it would be cool to get up early, pack a breakfast and thermos of coffee, take the touring bike and pedal up to Moose Hill for a few moments of solitude in the country. Well, this morning, I actually did it. What's doubly amazing, is that it worked out pretty much as I had hoped. I happened to wake early today (About 5:15, out of bed by 5:45.) and the forecast rain seemed like it would hold off for a couple of hours. So, I dug out the old Stanley thermos bottle and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. A few slabs from a fresh loaf of whole wheat bread and natural peanut butter with an orange would be breakfast. I found my binoculars, stuffed everything in a backpack, pulled the bike out of the shed, and was on my way.

It's a short ride from home to the top of Moose Hill, just over two miles of mostly climbing. To the top of the road, that is, the actual summit itself is a hike on the trails somewhat higher up. At the top of the paved road, I pedaled a bit further on a dirt woods road to a spot that probably sparked this idea in the first place. The road passes through a forest for a short while before opening up to a series of old stone-lined pastures. Several bird nesting boxes are mounted on trees and poles, and on a jog last week, I watched as a beautiful male bluebird scoped things out. I found a sunny spot to sit near a nice new but old-style pine carriage shed that offered views over a meadow.

I didn't stay long, but long enough to do some normal daydreaming about the way things were supposed to be and the way things have become. In my dreaming, I thought it might be nice to make these visits a regular thing and keep a journal of observations. Things like birds and trees that provide a connection to my past life. Later in the day, it dawned on me that - this being the 21st century - the way to record my thoughts and observations would be in a blog. So, here I am.

I'm realistic enough to know that this effort is not likely to succeed in any serious way, but I'll give it a shot. I'm thinking it might be fun to try for an average of about one post per week. I'd like to visit Moose Hill in different seasons and different times of the day. I can explore its many habitats. I can go for different reasons. I can go on nature excursions, like today, or - probably more often - go up there for exercise. Other times, I'll just drive through, as I often do, taking the 'scenic route.'

My posts might be inspired by the place and what I encounter up there. Or, they could simply be something on my mind at the time. We'll see how it goes.

We'll enough for now. If this works, I'll have lots of chances to expand on things. Let's just start by saying that this morning among the birds I saw were a phoebe, a goldfinch and a group of tree swallows twittering overhead. There's not much of any green yet, but things are just about ready to pop. The frogs and peepers were going at it in the swamps.