Blanket Statement

Sunday, February 10, 2008

We have a saying in New England: “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.

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.

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.

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. 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?

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.

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 (Castanea dentata) sprouts. Most of the sprouts were dead and from the lone live branch hung limp, bleached, toothy leaves. I’d been reading American Chestnut: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of a Perfect Tree 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^th 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.

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.

Hope

I set out this morning in no particular mood. I had that all-too-common inertia where a body at rest on a dreary morning tends to stay that way, but I reminded myself that, like going for a run or swim, I never come back from a trip to the woods without being glad I did. So, I packed my bag and headed out the door, trusting that my wandering would lead me to a good mood.

As soon as I turned from the busy street onto the lower slope of Moose Hill Parkway, I began to hear a few birds. A Carolina wren, a robin and a catbird were singing and chortling. A chipping sparrow led me up the hill, flushing in front of my bicycle, flying up the road a few yards, landing and doing it again and again about a dozen times.

I found my mood changing to one of hope. Now, hope might be regarded as a luxury in what seems like a world gone mad. News from the Middle East offers no hope. Surely, missiles in Asia carry no payloads of hope. A source of hope is being snatched from those with incurable disease and injury. My modest hope at the moment was for a couple of hours of quiet exploration, observation and contemplation. I could feel my anticipation growing.

About half way up the hill, my hopes were raised yet again. Even shredding the cuff of my favorite field pants in the bicycle chain didn’t dampen my spirits. I paused at a house that is being renovated. This property is nicely situated just off the parkway where an intersecting street forms a switchback on a piny hillside. This house was for sale last year and, based on the fashion around here these days, I felt sure the lot would be scalped and the small unique home would be torn down to make way for the largest possible McMansion. To my considerable relief, it appears that the new owner is undertaking a careful and tasteful renovation. It gives me hope to see that there are still some people with the vision and courage to create a comfortable and sensible home that is appropriate for its site and for our times.

Nearby, I stepped off the road, walked down a trail and parked the bike. In keeping with the mood of the moment, even the deer flies and mosquitoes were hopeful as they quickly picked up my trail of carbon dioxide and body heat. I was prepared once again with long clothing, hat and spray. Moving down the trail, I soon heard the thrumming of a bird flying on stubby wings. A fledgling wood thrush paused to study what may have been its first human being before flying clumsily into the woods. I took that young bird as a sign of hope that in future years there will still be thrush melodies to massage my moods as I walk in the forest.

A little further along, I found a small American chestnut, Castanea dentata. This tree was once probably the most important species in the hardwood forests of the Eastern U.S. Then, just about a century ago an Asian fungus, the chestnut blight, began to destroy this majestic and valuable tree. Now, it is found only as sprouts from old roots and these sprouts soon succumb to the disease. They keep sprouting back, clinging to life for decades, as if hoping that some day a young genius will discover a miraculous cure and no one will be standing in the way with a veto pen.

It was an exceptionally still morning. No breeze stirred a leaf. Thick humidity from last night’s rain hung in the air. A heavy overcast muted the light. An occasional large drop of water fell loudly through the leaves. Few birds moved or sang. Suddenly, I heard a loud clacking coming through the mist and trees. Few things around here are large enough to make that much noise, and my hunch about the source of the sound was confirmed when I heard a loud snorting. The repeated forceful exhalations – obviously coming from a large, angry animal – could have been frightening if I didn’t recognize the sound of a deer. I couldn’t see the animal, but I assume it saw me and was snorting its irritation at my intrusion. Or, maybe it was just a buck signaling his hopes for the coming rutting season.

A little later, I discovered another great spot. A large, high outcropping of bedrock, like the hard old bones of New England sticking through the flesh and skin of the surrounding glacial deposits, offered a wonderful place to sit for breakfast. This place was so quiet, with the solitude and thick air that even the bugs gave me a break and my chewing on a bagel was the loudest sound in my head. Other than a few chickadees and titmice, only my loyal companion, the wood thrush, could be heard. Even my taunting pewees and ovenbirds were silent. A recent fire pit made me speculate about early explorers that may have camped on this vantage point in millennia gone by. I became thankful that this place still existed so a twenty-first century man could find a moment of peace, and I was hopeful that it would be this way for generations to come.

Breakfast done, I lingered for a few more minutes enjoying the moment and feeling happy to simply exist. I felt lucky to have a little time away from TVs, radios, advertisements, computers, telephones, cars and nagging voices. I picked up my pack and headed for home, wondering if there are ways to preserve and prolong good feelings when we find them.

Moods are funny things. Sometimes bad ones come crashing in. Sad ones may sneak up on us. Maybe good ones need a little help and cultivation. I opened my mind to good moods this morning and they found me. Even the rain that began to fall as soon as I stepped back onto the road didn’t dampen my hope.