From an Undisclosed Location

"Late in the night I woke up, just in time to hear a golden- crowned thrush sing in a tree nearby. It sang as loud and cheerily as at midday, and I thought myself, after all, quite in luck."

John Burroughs, from Wake-Robin, 1871

I wanted to get off the road quickly and duck into the woods before any cars came by. As soon as I faded into the woods, leaving the road behind, I began to relax. The quarter-moon in the clear sky shed just enough light through the trees that I could see the trail, if not every root and rock. I slowed down and walked deliberately and quietly, almost as if I were in a grand cathedral at night.

In about a quarter-hour, I arrived at my destination. As soon as I saw this spot a few weeks before, I knew it would be a good place to sleep in the woods. It was off the beaten path and afforded the protection of a large boulder to sleep against. The forest floor was soft, even if there’s always one rock that can’t be moved. A small pine by my head defined the limits of my bedroom.

Just as I was preparing my bed I heard the sound of a strange animal. The closest familiar sound I can compare it to is the sound of mating cats. Actually, it sounded more like a combination of cats mating and purring. I visualized someone turning a hand crank attached through a gear box to a thin-bladed cheap tin fan to make a high-pitched whirring sound. The animal seemed to be moving around in the dark woods, almost circling me. It was a little spooky, particularly since I had no idea what it was. My best guess is a mink or fisher, but I really don’t know. (I’d appreciate opinions!) I was more annoyed than afraid, however, because I was tired and wanted to sleep. I moved my pack and shoes up by my head to increase the sense of shelter and protection. I heard the first mosquitoes of the year buzzing around my head, but was confident dropping temperatures would keep them from becoming a real problem. Little did I know my real attackers would be unheard and unseen.

Even though the sky was clear and the air was warm, I found the limited shelter of the rock comforting. There was no wind, but in my nest I could feel the subtle movement of air currents as if cooler air from the North was flowing over the boulder and down on me. I put on a fleece hat, put on a jacket and pulled my light sleeping bag up around my shoulders. A few stars were visible twinkling through the leaves along with the lights of jets on their final approach into Logan.

I was probably asleep before 10 pm only to be awakened around half past midnight by a bird. In my half-conscious state, I heard the loud teacher-teacher-teacher call of an ovenbird with an unusual warbled ending. I could have been dreaming the last part because I’ve never heard an ovenbird sing like that, but it seemed real at the time. I could have been irritated by the rude awakening, but instead, I was thrilled to hear the night song of one of my favorite birds.

I quickly fell back to sleep, only to have the ovenbird wake me again in an hour. I was less enthusiastic this time because I had some trouble getting back to sleep. As I planned this little adventure, I imagined myself getting lost in deep thoughts while alone in the woods at night. Instead, I was having fantasies about sending terminators from the future back to the past to eliminate the mother of the guy who invented the back-up beeper for dump trucks. Apparently there was night-time construction out on the Interstate and the sound carries for miles.

After falling asleep yet again, I had a series of dreams – nightmares, really - all about destruction of - and encroachment on - the woods around me. Solitude was impossible to find. There were logging machines, roads and house construction all around.

The dawn chorus of birds woke me at 4:50, before the actual sunrise at 5:17. It was a small glee club, however, with a noisy titmouse, a chickadee, the ovenbird and a tapping woodpecker. I wondered if the spring migration was just about over. I was happy to see that my nightmares were only dreams and the woods were still standing. I gave serious thought to getting up and looking for birds, but fell back to sleep and more weird dreams before getting up for good around my usual time of 6:30.

The old bones were stiff after a cool night on the ground, but the coffee in my Thermos was still warm and the bagel energy bars tasted good as I sat on a rock. There was a nuthatch, a clucking chipmunk and two or three competing ovenbirds politely taking turns singing. Otherwise the woods were pretty quiet. A few dogwoods were in bloom, providing white floral accents among the new bright green leaves of the forest. As the sun warmed the air, mosquitoes were coming out in good numbers and I knew I’d have to plan for them for the rest of the summer. In April and early May, it’s easy to forget how annoying they can be.

After breakfast I headed home. I missed the morning rush, so few people noticed the scruffy character with a backpack walking through town. As I showered, I discovered over a dozen tiny ticks on my body. They must have been attacking as I slept. There is no hunting in our town and few predators. Our unnaturally high deer population seems to create an unnaturally high population of deer ticks. A lingering concern about Lyme disease is the price I pay for my night of solitude.

There are those who might question the judgment of a grown man who wants to sleep in the woods when he has a perfectly good bed at home. There are those who would even forbid such activity. One of the books in my to-read pile is The Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv. While what we have done to keep our clean, weak, over-protected kids isolated from the natural world is tragic, I also worry about the adults. In my youth, I took many long solo hikes in the woods, often sleeping alone. It helped make me who I am. It created a part of my character. I like to think those early experiences are still with me, but one wonders. Modern conveniences, hectic schedules, changing tastes and social pressures make outdoor pursuits inconvenient, if not down-right odd.

The desire to spend this night in the woods began to take on more importance to me than one might expect of a single night’s sleep. It was to be a way to reconnect with the simple pleasures and enthusiastic adventurousness of my youth. It would be a way to more fully experience the outside world around me; to be more intimate with the woods that give so much. When my ovenbird woke me in the darkness, I thought of John Burroughs and his golden-crowned thrush. We have changed the name, but the bird and the song are the same. I was thrilled that a little bird could give me a connection to one of the great American naturalists, and a connection to the person I used to be.

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.

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.