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February 21, 2007 ~ Away Too Long
Wednesday.
a storm blowing in from the West
It had been months and months since I last climbed Jones Mountain. Part of it was the clear cutting of a huge swath of the southern mountainside, obliterating a mile of forest and some of my favorite trails. And then there was the day that Monty was attacked by an off-lead dog while we were hiking on Jones, which upset me so much that I never even wrote about it.
But to be honest, my neglect of the mountain was more laziness than anything. For one thing, the Jones Mountain trailhead is a mile down a curvy road with no shoulder and frequent speeders, so hiking Jones meant first bundling Grove into the car and driving there, which seemed a little silly when I have a perfectly good trailhead not fifty feet from my house. And Jones is always a two-hour hike, at least, and very steep in parts, quite a challenge when carrying Grove.
But today? Today I felt like a challenge.
woods by the clearcut
It felt like falling in love all over again. I didn't realize how much I had missed Jones until I was under its trees again.
I pushed my heart to pounding, breath growing ragged, as I scaled the last steep stretch of Ridgetop Trail to the peak. I checked on the little cedar on the east slope next to where I found antler velvet years ago. The standing stone near the top seemed to be gone or buried, and the huge downed oak had changed so much I almost missed it. I saw a yellow-bellied sap sucker. A large bird, but not a raptor, landed far up in a tree about a hundred meters away, and I knew it was a pileated woodpecker just from the graceful way in which it landed, and the way in which it folded its wings. Sure enough, it soon flew closer, and I saw the black and white stripes on the wings, the tuft of bright red on the head.
Grove called out to the birds, sang one of his strange songs back to them. He talked to me and to the trees and to the light and the wind. He exclaimed when birds came close enough to see, watched in wonder as squirrels rustled last year's dead leaves. I don't know why I kept from Jones for so long.
It wasn't all happy. We visited the latest clear cut, and I was surprised to find that they still have not done anything with it. Perhaps lots are not selling as fast as they would like. Saplings have taken root, and grass had grown high on the ridges--an ecological imperative, the ever-present push to grow and live and thrive.
This regrowth is not necessarily a cheerful thing. There may be setbacks, but I know that the people who cut this land are most assuredly determined to develop it. So those saplings, hope of the forest, stand very little chance. Their lives will be short and sad. The developers have taken root in these mountains, and they will breed their cookie-cutter "mansions" and choke out those young saplings, tenacious though they are. The forest stands no chance against such weeds.
grey woods
As we hiked, the light became muted, the woods started to look blurred, like a painting. The wind picked up. "Storm's coming," I explained to Grove as he looked up at the swaying treetops with concern. Even I was surprised, though, when we heard thunder. Odd time of year for that. I hastened down the mountain. When we reached the car, the first fat drops started to fall. Time to go home. This time, though, we won't be away for so long.
storm's a coming
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