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.

Hidden Treasures

A short visit to Moose Hill Saturday morning and an interesting discovery got me thinking about things we take from the woods and things we leave.

I only had time for a quick breakfast visit, so I headed back to my rock on Hobbs Hill. The trail to this nice spot is only about half way up Moose Hill Parkway and since I was there not too long ago (See “Faith,” August 5, 2006.), I knew I could get there and back quickly. I parked the bike, headed down the trail, went over the boardwalk and up the trail to the hilltop. Just as I approached the summit, something unusual caught my eye. In a space under a big, flat rock was a plastic food storage container. At first I thought it was trash, or that perhaps someone had stashed a lunch there. Examining the box, I quickly realized it contained some kind of log book with a rubber stamp. It was a letterbox.

I was only vaguely aware of the sport of letterboxing. I guess it’s a little like treasure hunting or geocaching. People hide these boxes in the woods, publish clues as to their locations, and folks go hunting for them. A little web searching tells me that this hobby may be quite popular, but I knew almost nothing about it. It reminded me of the log books placed at the summits of some mountain tops in the Catskills and Adirondacks of New York that I used to sign on my hikes back in the 1970’s. Peak-bagging was a serious sport for some people who, for example, would try to climb all the Adirondack peaks over 4000 feet in elevation. They called themselves, I think, “Forty-sixers.” The letterbox also made me think that we might be making progress. Where people once left their mark in the woods by carving hearts and initials in the bark of beech trees, now they can leave a stamp and a note in a sketchbook.

I guess any sport or activity that gets people outside, exercising and into the woods in a non-consumptive, low-impact way is a good thing. It’s good for the participants and, ultimately, good for the woods if it inspires people to appreciate and protect our wild places. I imagine there are those who would be so focused on finding their treasure, letterbox or peak that they might miss the wondrous details of the forest they travel through, but I would hope most take the time to look around and absorb the beauty.

I sealed the letterbox back up and put it back under the rock. It seems it has been there for several years and many people have singed the logbook, but I missed it completely on my last visit.

I walked among the hickories on the hilltop and found my breakfast rock overlooking the little valley. The morning was cool and dry enough that there were only a few not-very-aggressive mosquitoes. Crickets provided a steady background sound, but the cicadas of my last visit were quiet. I saw one chipmunk moving silently among some rocks nearby, while another was clucking in the distance. A lone robin was picking through the brown oak leaves on the ground. The soft sounds of the forest and the quiet activities of my woodland hosts helped me to ignore the human noises of voices and machinery in the far distance.

Suddenly, a new movement caught my eye. Along the draw below my vantage point, a brown bird flew among the trees, close to the ground near where I had just seen the robin. At first, I thought it was the robin, but quickly realized it was about twice as large and must be a hawk. This silent, graceful bird landed on a low-hanging oak branch, pausing long enough to give me an obstructed view with my binoculars. Based on its habitat, small size, streaked breast and banded tail, I’m pretty sure it was an immature sharp-shinned hawk. I imagine the robin was as pleased as I was disappointed when this bird-eater moved along. I see red-tailed hawks soaring overhead in the open or sitting by the roadside all the time, but these small woodland hawks are harder to spot and identify. I love seeing them, but always wish I knew more about them.

People go to the woods for all kinds of reasons. Some might leave hidden treasures and take letterbox scorecard checkmarks. Others might leave footprints and take photos and life bird lists. On one late summer morning, I was content to leave my mark in a little log book and take away a sense of peacefulness that a few moments of quiet and solitude in the forest can provide.

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.

The Empty Nest

One of the advantages of being self-employed and working close to home is that I can usually schedule lunch at home. This is particularly advantageous in July when I can catch the finish of the daily stage of the Tour de France en vivo. Another bonus is that I can keep an eye on the robins nesting on top of the floodlights on the side of our garage.

I am quite certain this is the same pair I wrote about on June 7^th. They were nesting on top of a nest box on the side of the shed and two or three babies fledged on June 6^th. I was surprised to see them building a new nest only two or three days later about 10 yards away on the side of the garage. I never saw the little ones again. This new nest is in a great spot for watching since it is clearly visible from the kitchen and deck. I have to walk past it several times a day on my way to the shed or backyard. My casual interest became a little more focused in the past few days as I noticed the three little robins straining higher when the parents arrived with one of their regular deliveries of worms, and I started seeing them flapping their little wings, no doubt exercising them for what would soon be their big moment. It has been just about five weeks since nest building began, and I was sure they would be leaving the nest any day now, and I was hoping to see it. Little did I know.

They didn’t fledge at lunch time, or in the mid-afternoon when I stopped home to pick up a ladder, but when I got home at about 6:00 in the evening I quickly noticed that only two heads were peeking over the rim of the nest. Since I conveniently happened to be returning the step ladder to the shed I approached the nest and stood on the ladder to make sure one baby was missing. As soon as my head was within a couple of feet of the nest, the remaining two youngsters practically exploded in my face, launching themselves across the yard as the parents suddenly appeared and began chirping angrily and flying at me. I quickly put the ladder away and started looking for the fledglings, feeling a little guilty that I may have prompted a premature departure. I eventually found one quietly sitting in a shrub. I tried to photograph it, and then decided the best thing I could do was leave the area and let the parents locate and tend to their wayward trio.

I had the rest of the evening to myself. During the school year, I spend many evenings alone. Our daughter is living and working on the west coast. Our son is in college. My wife works or has meetings a few nights a week. I like the quiet time to do some slow cooking, go for a run, do a little reading, do a few things around the house, or – on a weak night – surf channels or the web. It's also a good time to think about where I came from, where I've been and where I'm going. Even though it’s summer, tonight was like that with my wife at a meeting and our son - home for the summer - staying in the city after work to meet a friend. I decided to make my solitude complete by packing a light meal and biking up to Moose Hill for dinner.

I rode to a new spot for me. I found a paved but gated road that allowed me to bike away from the main thoroughfare and quickly be alone in a nice stand of second-growth oaks and hickory. I parked the bike and found a nice rock that afforded a view down the hill and through the woods. It was warm and quiet and everything was soft and green after yet another day of rain. I came prepared for mosquitoes with long pants, long sleeves, bug spray and a hat with a bandana tucked underneath to protect my neck and ears.

I had a great view through the woods and I realized that was because there was almost no leafy vegetation from the forest floor up to a height of about five feet. The whitetail deer population is booming around here and in many places a clear browse line is visible where the deer have eaten all the twigs they can reach. It’s a good thing no one tries to manage any forests around here, because deer would make regeneration almost impossible.

Other than enjoying an hour of quiet and solitude, it was a pretty uneventful evening. Sitting quietly on my rock, I thought I had a good chance to see a deer or turkey coming up the hill, but it was not to be. I caught a glimpse of a hairy woodpecker and saw a couple of robins. I think of robins as regulars around the yard and on the roadside, but they often surprise me in the forest. I heard a nuthatch, and a couple of wood thrush were singing just out of sight down the hill.

I’ve written about the wood thrush a couple of times before. There’s something about his song that captivates me, like a piper calling from the wilderness. As much as I love his flute-like melody it also makes me a little sad. I associate the song with the evening. I seem to notice the sweet but somehow melancholy tune just before the sun goes down and the day is over. It’s as if this pretty little bird has come to remind me that time is passing by and another chapter is finished. The nest is empty, both for the robins and for me.

We are blessed in that both our kids are doing very well. We are very proud of them and, while we try to continue our support as much as possible, we are optimistic that they are both on their way to happily independent lives. Sending the fledglings off is a big milestone. For many years now – just about half of my life – my identity has been largely defined as husband and father. It has been all too easy to forget who I was and what I wanted to be. Now, we are beginning a new chapter and it might be time to renegotiate some contracts. I’m not anticipating any major reinventions but, rather, I'm hoping for a chance to focus more on a few good friendships and one great marriage. I also want to remember the dreams of my youth, and before this book is done, I want to make a few of them come true.

Stolen Moments

We can’t always control our moods. Sometimes we head out with every good intention to have some fun, but the mind turns to melancholy thoughts instead.

I knew today wasn’t going to be very productive from the start. Most of the morning was committed to taking my wife for a routine medical checkup that requires a companion to drive the patient home. (Most of you 50-somethings may know what I’m talking about!) The late afternoon was promised to my son for the continuing search for his first car. So, I figured there would be no harm in stealing a few minutes to stop on Moose Hill for some exploration and bird watching as I drove through on my way back from a small item of business.

Sometimes, thoughts have a way of sneaking up, assembling and attacking when we least expect it. I guess it started in the doctor’s waiting room. The exam took an especially long time. For the first hour or so, I was enjoying the chance to sit quietly and read. I had my new copy of John McPhee’s Founding Fish. After a while, as I saw the nurses calling the other companions into the back for reports, it began to sink in that, although these procedures are considered routine, for some people they do present bad news. Just a few weeks ago, our good friend and neighbor passed away, at the age of 56, only 69 days after diagnosis. Only a few months before that, another friend, in her early 50’s, died of breast cancer. Another neighbor up the street is ill. When my turn finally came to go into the back to see my wife, I didn’t take it for granted that everything would be fine and was very happy to learn that everything was.

At some point during the day, I remembered that next week, June 19th, marks the seventh anniversary of my mother’s passing. Perhaps it was a blog entry I read just yesterday about a recently-departed father enjoying one of his favorite beers for the last time that had me thinking about my parents and the way simple things could bring them happiness. Just before I headed out on my errand, I read an e-mail notification that another acquaintance of ours, not much older than us, had also succumbed not long after receiving a bone marrow transplant that was meant to give new hope.

Considering the thoughts that snuck into my mind, perhaps I can be forgiven if, as I approached Moose Hill, I stopped at what looks like a small family burial plot along the edge of the street. There are about five marked graves and all of the headstones are damaged. Perhaps time has taken its toll since the two dates I could read were from the 1820’s and 1830’s, but some of the damage looked like vandalism. The one name I could see was a prominent name in our old town and a few fresh flowers marked the graves, so I know these graves, while looking rather forlorn, are not totally forgotten.

After driving slowly up the hill to the sanctuary parking lot, I decided to visit a pine grove that is nearby. I remember watching a flock of turkeys scratching through a light snow under these pines while pausing during a winter jog, but this mid-afternoon in June it was sunny, warm and still. High in the trees, a tiger swallowtail butterfly flitted through the sunbeams and a few small birds worked quietly among the soft white pine foliage. The tall trees and soft, brown forest floor reminded me of a place called “Cathedral Pines” along the Appalachian Trail that I hiked though many years ago. I wasn’t standing in a cathedral, but I could imagine a chapel; a place suited to quiet contemplation about those who are gone and those we would leave behind.

I have respect for traditional customs surrounding death and burial. I figure most of them have evolved because they work for the societies that embrace them. I am also increasingly aware that new approaches are taking root. Last year, I heard a piece on the radio about burial grounds where the natural beauty of the cemetery is maintained and disturbance is minimized. Graves might be dug by hand by family members. Headstones might be made from native rocks, or burial locations marked only by GPS coordinates.

Standing in the quiet forest today, alone with my mood, I hoped I would have many happy healthy and productive years left. I hope I can do some good things in this world, and when my time comes, I hope I’m placed in a quiet natural place where those who knew me can sit and enjoy the breeze through the pines.

Dreams and Reality

Was I dreaming or was it reality? Like Kokopelli the water sprinkler with his flute, the wood thrush came to me before dawn, calling to me with his sweet melody.

I had been thinking about wood thrushes. I had been hearing them calling from deep in the woods as I rode my bike on Moose Hill. I had also been hearing the eager “teacher, Teacher, TEACHER!” of the ovenbird, another species I associate with deep forest. For the past couple of weeks, I had been thinking I should slip into the darkness of the hardwoods to look for these two favorites that I hear quite often but see so rarely.

Then, a few days ago, he came to me. In the twilight just before dawn, I was awakened from a sound sleep by the unmistakable song of the thrush outside my window. In my dreamlike state, I imagined he knew what I was thinking and in the darkness he dared to venture from the protection of the forest to fly through the sleeping town to tell me my visit was overdue.

I was up early this morning and had an hour to spare, so I hopped on my single speed and rode to a spot near the beginning of Moose Hill Parkway where I had been hearing a thrush. I wasn’t off the bike and down the trail more than a minute when I flushed a big great blue heron from the shallows of a marshy pond. Not long after I was beyond the noise of the water cascading over the small dam that forms the pond, I heard the thrush.

As I hunted for the bird along some unfamiliar trails and woods roads, I noticed that birding in June was going to be a bit harder. On this morning, the sky was overcast and the light was not good. The trees are in full leaf, so any bird high in the treetops would be difficult to spot as I discovered with the orioles and vireos I could hear but not see. The warm, humid weather was ideal for the mosquitoes that were benefiting from our wet spring and rising from the ostrich ferns to greet me.

As it turns out, what I had imagined as something of an epic quest was little more than a walk in the park. After following thrush songs for only a half hour or so, I spotted one calmly and cooperatively sitting on a dead branch 20 or so feet above a gravel road, singing away. Even in the low light, I could plainly see his rusty back and spotted breast. I watched him for a few minutes, happy to hear him play his flute for me, and happy to know he was here at all. These birds struggle to survive because they nest in large, unbroken tracts of forest. As the woods are chopped up into smaller parcels by farming or development, their nests are more easily found by parasitic cowbirds that love to lay their eggs in thrush nests.

Many birding trips are planned to visit one or more habitats in the hope of finding as many species as possible. This trip was a little different in that I was looking for a specific species. Luckily for me, I was focused on a fairly common bird. Mission accomplished, I had a little time to wander around to see what else I could find. Since I wasn’t having much luck seeing the tree-top dwellers, I concentrated on the brushy thickets between the road and the pond. I soon heard the “whichety-whichety” of a warbler and saw my first yellowthroat of the year; a bird I prefer to think of as the burglar bird with his black mask.

I stepped off the road to look for the catbird I heard chattering away. I soon spotted not one, but two catbirds. When they saw me approach, they went quiet. To me, catbirds always seem to be making noise, so it gradually dawned on me that the silence of this pair might mean something. As I felt with the tom turkey in my post “Windshielding”, this behavior must have been significant. I realized there must be nest nearby and these parents were trying to keep a very low profile as they watched my every move. It took only a few moments to spot the nest not 15 feet away, right in front of me, about four feet off the ground. It was, appropriately enough, in a tangle of cat briar. I approached just close enough to see that it was neatly woven and inside, so naked and exposed, there were three glossy, greenish-blue eggs.

So, my goal of seeing a wood thrush took me to the woods this morning and serendipity brought me to a catbird nest. It’s remarkable how much there is to see when we take the initiative to get out of the house, and then open ourselves to the possibilities of new discoveries.

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?

Flying Tuxedos

There's a beautiful old field near the top of Moose Hill Street that is part of the Audubon sanctuary. There are about a dozen bird nesting boxes on posts scattered around the field.

Now, when I see bird boxes like these, I think of bluebirds. I've set up several boxes over the years, hoping to provide a home for bluebirds. I grew up on Long Island in New York, and while the bluebird is the state bird, I never saw one in my youth. I can still remember when I was a small child my mother reminiscing about the beautiful bluebirds of her childhood on her family farm in Hempstead, New York, and there has always been a special place in my heart for these birds. Bluebirds were not common in those days, especially on Long Island with it intensifying development, but I always hoped I would see one. I was in my twenties before I saw my first, and that was upstate. They seem more common these days, and here in eastern Massachusetts, I see several every year. I like to think that the efforts of those who set up nesting boxes have helped.

So, when I stopped by this field this morning, I was hoping to spot a bluebird, but it appears that every one of the boxes is occupied by tree swallows. These swallows are no great dissapointment. Now, house sparrows or starlings would promote some anger or sadness, but tree swallows are fun to watch. I do wonder, however, if swallows and bluebirds compete agressively for nesting sites. In any case, I've always thought these were sharp-looking creatures with thier trim tails, pure white bellies and sparkling iridescent purple-blue backs; a sharp contrast that always makes me think of flying dancers in little tuxedos.

And how they fly! Some birds - like the lumbering great blue heron I saw slowly flapping overhead - make flying look like a chore to be done to get from one place to another. But if birds can feel joy, these tree swallows are full of it. I watched as swallows (The males?) would launch from their perches on top of their boxes, circling the field as they climbed. In the air above the field they would swoop and zoom, at one moment chasing each other, and flying with each other the next. They seem to revel in the sheer fun their avian superpowers provide.

This exuberant display under a bright blue Spring sky offered a lift of spirits at the end of what was otherwise a difficult week.

Windshielding

As I go about my business, I can often find an excuse to drive over Moose Hill as a shortcut even though I doubt it saves any time. I enjoy the drive through the quiet forest as I take in the sights and dream of those times when I get to visit on bike or on foot. This morning was one of those drives.

Soon after I turned up Moose Hill Parkway, I saw a big tom turkey strutting across the road. His body was a rich brown, his head bright red and he was sporting a long beard. He didn't seem in a hurry to cross the road, and even though he was moving deliberately he may have been lucky that this particular vehicle was in no rush. It occurred to me that, this being Spring and turkey mating season was probably under way, there should be females around if this allegedly reclusive bird was so casually strolling through traffic in broad daylight. Sure enough, after scanning the roadside woods for a minute or so, I spotted a duller brown, well-camouflaged hen busily pecking away in the leaves.

We see lots of turkeys in eastern Massachusetts these days. In some places, they are even becoming bold and aggressive around people. I can still remember when living in Syracuse, NY in the late 70's and early 80's that restocking programs began to pay off and there were turkey hunting seasons for the first time in many years. I fear that the development pendulum is now swinging rapidly in the other direction and all the new robust wildlife populations that have been restored through changing land use patterns and conservation efforts will be squeezed into ever-smaller patches of wild land.

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.