I found the woods again tonight.
Not the woods that I own and I walk through on a regular basis, with the manicured path exactly the width of two lawn-mowers. I do that walk on average twice a day now, a convenient loop for letting off puppy steam that requires no leashes and no "doggie bags."
No, these would be the untamed woods beyond. With Lucky heeding my call more faithfully these days, I stepped confidently off the beaten path and into the woods beside us. There was a path we followed there too, but narrow and faint, with grass barely bent by the footfalls of deer at dawn and twilight rather than sheared by swirling metal blades. Even the width zigged and zagged, as branches crossed at waist height and brambles tugged at my sweatpants.
A thunderous noise greeted us, and Lucky sprang forward, the hackles on his back stiff with anticipation. What on earth could be making such a clatter, I wondered. Perhaps some deer, I thought, giving the crashing of branches and rustle of leaves. A glance upward revealed the mystery--a flock of turkeys had taken to the trees, springing from branch to branch as they landed and teetered and swayed back and forth, improbably large for their perches.
We retreated to the familiarity of the road more traveled, but stepped back into adventure a little ways on. Again we navigated a deer path, this one taking us into a stand of tall saplings with plenty of elbow room. Lucky cheerfully blundered about, then spied his first squirrel off the leash. He was a streak of greased lightning...though of course the squirrel made it forty feet up the tree before his pursuer arrived.
I caught a glint of sunlight off a tree-stand about fifty feet away, and once again we retreated. I couldn't tell if a hunter was sitting there or not, but just in case, I didn't want to spoil his efforts.
We rounded the back of the trail, and headed for home. But a few steps along the return leg, I felt the pull of curiosity again. "Hey Lucky," I called, and retraced another faint deer path up to the ridge behind the property. This was a trip back in time for me. When the children were little, we spent hours hiking back here, admiring the forest of sumac that fell away down the hill, meandering along the traces left of a snowmobile path than had been maintained before a highway and protective fencing cleaved the woods and fields. I stood in a familiar place, looking around me to get my bearings, searching for a "good" way down the hill.
But nature doesn't just abhor a vacuum, there are times it steps in and actively plants a "keep out" sign of its own. All around me, at waist height where I had once happily traveled with a pack of inquisitive children, was a forest of shrubs with wickedly sharp thorns. They looked like some type of demonic hydras of myth. Lucky snuck through, with his narrow head and thick coat navigating the sharp points. But as the light started to fade and the shadows deepen, I knew there would be no revisiting spots further down the path where I had picked violets in the woods with my children and followed streambeds through the forest of oaks trees down below.
At least not on this night. We headed back to the house as the temperatures dropped. I walked along at a leisurely pace, while Lucky tore through the tall grass on either side of the manicured path at ninety miles an hour, doing figure-eights in front of and around me in a giant herringbone stitch. So much for wearing him out. I can always dream...
One thing I'll certainly dream about, though, is going back "into the woods." It's going to take a little more daylight, and a little more daring. But somewhere along that Maginot Line of briars and vines has to be a narrow place where the deer get through and thread their way down the steep hillside to the forest floor covered with acorns. And one of these days, Lucky and I are going to find it. There are wildflowers, and memories, to be picked.
Not the woods that I own and I walk through on a regular basis, with the manicured path exactly the width of two lawn-mowers. I do that walk on average twice a day now, a convenient loop for letting off puppy steam that requires no leashes and no "doggie bags."
No, these would be the untamed woods beyond. With Lucky heeding my call more faithfully these days, I stepped confidently off the beaten path and into the woods beside us. There was a path we followed there too, but narrow and faint, with grass barely bent by the footfalls of deer at dawn and twilight rather than sheared by swirling metal blades. Even the width zigged and zagged, as branches crossed at waist height and brambles tugged at my sweatpants.
A thunderous noise greeted us, and Lucky sprang forward, the hackles on his back stiff with anticipation. What on earth could be making such a clatter, I wondered. Perhaps some deer, I thought, giving the crashing of branches and rustle of leaves. A glance upward revealed the mystery--a flock of turkeys had taken to the trees, springing from branch to branch as they landed and teetered and swayed back and forth, improbably large for their perches.
We retreated to the familiarity of the road more traveled, but stepped back into adventure a little ways on. Again we navigated a deer path, this one taking us into a stand of tall saplings with plenty of elbow room. Lucky cheerfully blundered about, then spied his first squirrel off the leash. He was a streak of greased lightning...though of course the squirrel made it forty feet up the tree before his pursuer arrived.
I caught a glint of sunlight off a tree-stand about fifty feet away, and once again we retreated. I couldn't tell if a hunter was sitting there or not, but just in case, I didn't want to spoil his efforts.
We rounded the back of the trail, and headed for home. But a few steps along the return leg, I felt the pull of curiosity again. "Hey Lucky," I called, and retraced another faint deer path up to the ridge behind the property. This was a trip back in time for me. When the children were little, we spent hours hiking back here, admiring the forest of sumac that fell away down the hill, meandering along the traces left of a snowmobile path than had been maintained before a highway and protective fencing cleaved the woods and fields. I stood in a familiar place, looking around me to get my bearings, searching for a "good" way down the hill.
But nature doesn't just abhor a vacuum, there are times it steps in and actively plants a "keep out" sign of its own. All around me, at waist height where I had once happily traveled with a pack of inquisitive children, was a forest of shrubs with wickedly sharp thorns. They looked like some type of demonic hydras of myth. Lucky snuck through, with his narrow head and thick coat navigating the sharp points. But as the light started to fade and the shadows deepen, I knew there would be no revisiting spots further down the path where I had picked violets in the woods with my children and followed streambeds through the forest of oaks trees down below.
At least not on this night. We headed back to the house as the temperatures dropped. I walked along at a leisurely pace, while Lucky tore through the tall grass on either side of the manicured path at ninety miles an hour, doing figure-eights in front of and around me in a giant herringbone stitch. So much for wearing him out. I can always dream...
One thing I'll certainly dream about, though, is going back "into the woods." It's going to take a little more daylight, and a little more daring. But somewhere along that Maginot Line of briars and vines has to be a narrow place where the deer get through and thread their way down the steep hillside to the forest floor covered with acorns. And one of these days, Lucky and I are going to find it. There are wildflowers, and memories, to be picked.
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