Open Book

Sometimes I compare Moose Hill to a book. Anyone can open a book and flip through the pages. If there are photos, they can look at the images, and they might recognize some things in the pictures, but can they read the captions? Can they read the text? Someone might enjoy a hike in the woods or a picnic in a field on a sunny day. It’s enough to look at the pretty pictures. Others might want to read the captions, so they learn the names of some birds and trees. They learn to recognize some birds by their song. Eventually, the nature lover might want to read the text. They begin to study the richness of the world around them by delving into things like ecology and history, and begin understanding how things work, how they got they way they are and how they may be affected by our actions.

I was thinking about these things on my Saturday morning walk a few weeks ago. I was previewing a walk I was to lead on Sunday for a friend’s birthday celebration (What better way to mark an important milestone than a walk on Moose Hill!?) and I wanted to refresh my memory about some trails and think about what I wanted to say.

I took the trail to Bluff Head. This rocky outcrop is probably the most popular Moose Hill destination because it offers impressive views over the countryside to the south with the ever-expanding scar of Gillette Stadium off in the distance. Not far from the bluffs, in a white pine and oak forest I heard a bird trilling. I’d heard this before and wondered what a chipping sparrow was doing so far from a roadside where I usually see them. Determined to read the caption, I left the trail and headed into the woods to find this wayfaring sparrow. Hearing the song coming from a tall pine, I suspected it was not a sparrow at all, and just as my determination and patience began to squabble, I spotted a warbler with lots of yellow and wing bars. A quick look in my old field guide informed me that the pine warbler has a song a little like the chipping sparrow.

Happy that I exercised enough discipline to learn something new – to read the caption, as it were - I found my way back to the trail. Soon, a little further up the hill where the soil is drier and the trees are shorter, I heard another pine warbler. Hoping to get a better look at the field marks, I left the main trail again and followed a deer trail into the woods. It was easier to spot this bird and there was a nice spot to sit on the rocks and have a little breakfast while watching the bird. The show quickly got interesting when I noticed the warbler was feeding one of its young!

While singing frequently, the little warbler would flit around in the pine looking for caterpillars and bring them back to the hungry youngster. I quickly noticed that the baby was nearly twice the size of the parent, and I figured it had to be a juvenile brown-headed cowbird. Cowbirds don’t build their own nests but, rather, lay their eggs in the nests of many other species and let the unwitting hosts raise the cowbird young as their own.

Thinking that could be a good story to tell the next day, I went back to the trail, walked along Bluff head, paused to take in the view, and moved on through the woods to Allen’s Ledge. It was getting warm so I found a place in the shade to eat some fruit and have some more coffee. I was a little unsettled by the responsibility of having to lead a walk the next day, so my thoughts were not as free to wander as I like while sitting alone in the woods. What could I possibly tell these people that would interest them? I wanted our time together to be more than just a stroll through the summer woods. I wanted to help them read some captions by pointing out some trees, birds and any other interesting things I could identify for them. I wanted to read them some text by talking about inter-relationships of land, plants and creatures. I could use the cowbird as an example of how human activity – in this case forest fragmentation – could impact on the lives of a variety of bird species. Through development, we break the forest up into ever-smaller patches, allowing the parasitic cowbird of open fields to more easily find its hosts. I thought it perhaps best not to go into the way seeing things while sitting alone in the woods can launch me into long daydreams of all sorts and explain how seeing this wild parasite in action might lead me to ponder parasites of other kinds, particularly the two-legged variety.

I’m happy to report the guided walk went pretty well. The twenty or so guests tended to get strung out along the trail, usually busy with conversations, so when I spotted something I wanted to talk about, I’d stop and address the smaller, more intimate group of people who happened to be nearby. An American chestnut sprout gave me the chance to talk about how imported diseases can virtually wipe out a major tree species and forever change the face of our forests. A red-cedar with scraped bark allowed me to talk about our exploding deer population. The chipmunks scampering everywhere showed the connection between an abundant acorn crop in the fall and a healthy rodent population the following spring. A small sassafras tree let me tell a story about making tea. The flute-like song of a wood thrush gave me a chance to tell my cowbird story and explain how a beloved bird – already threatened by winter habitat destruction and dangerous migrations - can be further pressured by brood parasites that are encouraged by our development activities.

All in all, I think my remarks were pretty well received. Some of my fellow hikers asked questions that showed interest and encouraged me to have confidence that - even at my limited level of knowledge about these woods - I have things to share that might be new and interesting for others. One guest even came to my house days later for help with a bird feeder. It’s satisfying to think that I helped some people to open the book that is Moose Hill, to see the pretty pictures and to start reading the words that might help them appreciate and protect the natural world around us.

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.