Musings from the Woods
Monday, December 8th, 2008    Yesterday I took a most satisfying and enjoyable walk in the woods.  The morning was windy and very cold. But as I turned off the dirt road along the top of the ridge and descended along a trail, deeper into the woods, the wind’s might was chastened by the mountain and the trees.Â
    After a few minutes, the frozen earth under my feet gave way to a springy, pleasant sponginess. I looked down to see what was different on the trail and saw a long, broad swath of bright green, parts of it obscured by a fine layer of snow. The moss, despite the cold, dry air, had kept its moist verdure. And in the light film of snow were some faintly etched lines, crisscrossing each other here and there. They resembled animal tracks, except they had no ’shape.’  I realized then that they had been made not by animals but by whorls of needles that had fallen from the pines and skidded across the thin layer of snow to create these little tracks.
    Then I noticed a tree I was happy to see, a witch hazel. This slender, little tree that lives in our local forest is easily recognizable during the winter because it keeps its yellow ’flowers,’  unruly little  clusters of pencil-like petals going every which way.  I’m always happy to see a witch hazel because it’s one of the trees I can recognize without its leaves. Somehow, knowing trees’ names makes me happy. Why is that, I wonder.
    As I walked farther down the hill, toward the tiny stream that runs through the crevice between ridges, I came upon the giant anthills. Ever since I first saw them 16 years ago, I have wondered why these huge anthills , a couple of feet tall and three or four feet wide, dot a single small area just uphill from the stream.  I assume the ants are interested in the stream water. But there was no sign of life at any of the hills yesterday. In fact, the tops of some had that abandoned home look; no one had been clearing the debris away from the door. And I wondered, like Holden Caulfield wondered about the ducks in Central Park, what the ants do in the winter. Do they hibernate? Something to investigate. . . . .
    On my way back up the hill, I stopped to watch as a chickadee behaved in a curiously hummingbird-like fashion. The bird perched on a branch. Then it lifted into the air, almost stationary for a moment or two, with its fluttering wings a soft blur. Then the bird ascended to a higher branch and perched. Then it lifted again, ‘hovered,’ and chose yet a higher branch. One more brief stop mid-air until it finally settled on a branch where it rested briefly before darting out of sight.
    Speaking of birds, I also watched as a pileated woodpecker did its little march, high up, tracing the circumference of a tree.  Dramatic both in size and color, pileated woodpeckers are most visible this time of year around here. In fact, as I’ve been writing this, sitting in my living room, I’ve paused to look out the windows at three of these birds beating their heads against branches in trees near the house. And do these birds ever work hard! As their bright red crested heads pounded the branches, bits of wood burst forth and fall away. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to get my food by beating my head against a tree!
   Â
                                                                                                                  
 Â
   Â


