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.

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.

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.

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?