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October 1, 2003 ~ Death of a Good Friend
Wednesday.
As I passed the trailhead for Jones Mountain, a curious feeling overtook me. A heaviness in my chest, a tight feeling in my throat. Yet my legs were carrying me along at a quick pace, a pace that would seem almost eager. I had not planned to hike today. Didn't have time, and Morgan needed my help back home. But after what I had seen this morning, I had to know. I had to know for certain.
Apples underfoot as I followed the trail next to the orchard, the quickest way up. Brilliant red and orange early fallen leaves, the trees still lush and green as a whole. The last few days have been cold, very cold, early cold for this region, and the skies have looked like November. I blew on my fingers, continued up Davidson Trail, took Hung Tree to Ridgetop. Recent rains had tried to erode the mountain, but undergrowth had stopped it. Clots of leaves and mud around the bases of bushes. I turned left instead of right, away from the summit.
I passed the rhododendron stand, where two tufted titmice flitted from branch to branch, jumped over the old downed oak tree where a squirrel darted off the path, passed the spotted Joe-pye-weed, no longer in bloom (though "black form" Eastern tiger swallowtails had rested on the blooms not two weeks hence), and came to a section of forest that I'd not been to in months, since the trail is somewhat out of the way.
My feet slowed. Ahead, I could see more sky through the leaves than I could on my last visit. I could hear the traffic from the interstate more clearly than I should have. Jaw set and hands clenched, I plodded through the poison ivy and beautiful pink profusion of lady's thumb. Lady's thumb usually only grows around wasteplaces. Not a good sign.
It took my breath when I came upon the tracks seconds later. A bulldozer had cleared a path through this section of forest, a gaping wound of recently overturned red soil, plants knocked to either side. The Lady's thumb clung to the edges of the wound, pink flowers on a grave. The red soil glinted and glittered, newly unearthed chunks of mica scattered everywhere, little mirrors covering the ground. Everywhere there were miniature mesas. Chunks of mica, harder than the soil, had protected the ground that they covered, but everything surrounding each chunk had washed away in the rain. So strange, to see all of those flat, shiny earth tables poking up from the ground.
I looked up. White seed fluff was everywhere in the air, floating past, and I let out a shaky breath, because instead of the sound of the wind that they floated on, all I could hear was nearby grinding machinery. I followed the noise and the bulldozer trail, no hope left.
Through a few sycamores, maples, and oaks, I found it. A huge red-brown wasteland, riddled with bulldozer tracks and miniature ravines where the erosion had started. This, where a thick forest used to stand. This, where I watched a pileated woodpecker hop from branch to branch. This, where a red-tailed hawk had circled over. This, where I found the most amazing maroon and gold colored maple leaves last fall.
From a maple now most decidedly dead. Dead. All of those trees. I knew those trees. I knew the birds that nested in them, the squirrels who foraged under them, the shell-spiders who built so many webs between their trunks. Acres and acres of trees. And, from the exploratory bulldozer tracks leading off back into the woods, there would soon be more to mourn.
This morning, on my drive along Highway 70 on my way to the college, I could see Jones Mountain, the backside, the side that faces away from the college, the side that the college doesn't own. From the corner of my eye, I thought that I saw a huge patch of brown cut across the mountainside. I couldn't be sure then, though. Had to keep my eyes on the road.
I leaned down and touched the loose soil. Earthmovers and bulldozers lumbered about the bare mountainside below me. I could see the interstate, miles away, a sight that I couldn't have ever seen from here before. Waste bonfires burned at several points on the mountainside, the smoke making everything hazy. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my teeth clenching. Something hot and urgent was pressing it's way up my chest. I wanted to scream, I was so livid.
A clear-cut on Jones Mountain. There's a phrase I never thought I'd see. Or write. And probably a development to follow. Perhaps an extension of the trailer park already encroaching on the base of the mountain. May they enjoy their view of the interstate. A clear-cut of such a young forest can only mean one thing. Paper. Probably toilet paper, statistically. This forest that I loved, wiping people's butts. Fantastic.
About to choke on the bitterness creeping up my throat, I whirled around, back into the forest, angrily pushing my way through the lady's thumb. I don't want to watch this forest die. But I will. It will die, because we just never have enough. Every damn thing we do, so destructive. So destructive.
(woods on the other side of Ridgetop Trail, taken a few months back, on this hike)
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