Heading off the Trail

Hooray! Finally the long anticipated first day of the summer institute had arrived. I knew I'd be a fish out of water and hoped that the newness of trekking into the forested landscape would give me a feel for the new experience that others have when they follow me to the sea. The sea is such a comfortable and familiar place to me, and the Merrimack River, that I tend to forget what small things collectively add to the whole of the new experience for our program participants. Surely it is good to be pushed out of our comfort zone, because that is where learning takes place. For our students, the comfort zone is immediately lost once they step aboard the boat. For me, it was lost immediately upon stepping off the trail. Sure I've taken walks in the woods, and skiied and rode my snowboard down mountains, but always on the trail, and always, when in nature, I take the most direct route. It never occurs to me to step off the trail--it nver even occured to me nor did I think that it was OK to step off the trail. When walking sandy beaches of Plum Island, you cannot walk off the trail for fear of damaging the dunes, so to step off the trail on the first afternoon during a walk through College Woods seemed at once odd and obvious--of course OFF the trail is where the good stuff is. Off the trail is where I met my tree--a lovely half dead beech. One part succumbed to fungus and decay, the other limb still stretches off into the sky. Off the trail is where my new understanding of trees and forests has begun.
In just one afternoon in the woods, I learned how to identify trees, to measure diameter, to begin to look for clues as to what happened and learn what the story the forest, or landscape is trying to tell. Looking for the story in the experience is very familiar to me as a journalist, and something I preach to my students who often tend to try and use the experience as the story. But never before have I looked to nature and natural cues as to what has happened here. We learned that the Paul Bunyan tree had fallen during a winter gale, as evidence by the southeasterly orientation of its fall. I learned to distinguish a beech tree from an oak or maple, a white pine from a hemlock. All of these tree types are familiar only in how they manifest themselves in the types of woodworking my father, and boatbuilders I have written about, have referenced. It was exciting to be able to see the tress and be able to begin to know them, too. First we came to know them by name, and then to take ownership of our tree, which we sketched, and then our own plot, which we studied in terms of tree type, size and density. With just a few measurements, we were able to gather the cues to tell some of the larger story of College Woods. As the day drew to a close, I knew that I would begin to see the world around me with a sharper eye, and in a new way that would help me to better understand the landscape along my home waters.

On day two, we ventured into the Barrington Headwaters on a scavenger hunt. There would be five stops. At the first, we stopped to explore why the trees on the northern side of the trail were smaller, younger and more deciduous than the trees to the south. As the birds sang overhead, the constant traffic on Route 4 whirred to the south, and the wind rustled the leaves, we considered that perhaps there had been a fire, which opened up the southern size of the road. It was more open, more diverse and plentiful low plants, oaks and maple. Happily lulled into what we thought would be a pleasant walk in the woods, we set down the path. And we walked, and walked, and walked, and talked and talked and talked as we continued to get to know each other and share experiences looking for common threads and interests in our diverse and varied backgrounds. We told stories from Maryland's Eastern shore, Alaska and South Africa..and maybe a few sea stories. A half hour later, we reached marker 3, and the fun began. The road led straight, but the beaver pond to the north had flooded and blocked our path. We had to go off trail.

We had to go off trail.

This is where my comfort zone ends. I chose to go last, lingering for a moment at the waters edge, where the bullfrogs croaked and reminded me of the pond in our neighborhood. Three leapt into the water, and I wanted to linger longer, but the group pressed on and I didn't want to miss their lead. I wondered who was, in fact, leading, and how confident said leader was in the chosen direction. I considered my own wilingness to follow--how much trust is reasonable in this situation? Where does courage crash into sound judgment? Is it wise to follow blindly, or is it courageous to trust the leader? Or were we being foolish, pushing too far off course, when perhaps a more prudent path would have been closer by the trails edge? As a seafarer, I tend to look for the most direct route. But I knew that pretty much everyone in the group has more trail experience than I, so I opted to trust. And it worked out--just as I was beginning to second-guess the path ahead, we returned to the trail.....

Only to find another massive puddle.

Back off the trail we went for a shorter path around. An hour later, mostly back on the trail, we reached marker 5, and the open field of the power lines. My gaze fell to the ground where I spotted rosa rugosa, or beach rose. This immediately comforted me, because this is something I have seen at home, and the familiar plant species, reminding me of my many treks on the Isles of Shoals. This connection to something I knew, found in an unknown landscape, helped to connect me to it. I started to think again of the ocean, and the principles of ocean literacy, which we preach and profess can be applied and understood regardless of geography. I'm wondering what evidence one might find in the headwaters of the ocean's effect on this forest. How is the ocean connected to these headwaters?

And then the rain begain.

And the thunder, so like the great children's book stories of going on a bear hunt, a mile-and-a-half back we walked along the old logging road, back by the edge of the beaver pond, back past the hardwoods and conifers, the ferns and the downed leaves, past the moose tracks, the wood frogs, the broken branches and stems, toward marker #2. Here, we saw the evidence, as the sheets of rain fell, of a long ago homestead. There, cradled by three tall stone walls of an old cellar hole, lie a headstone for Alice, who died in 1865(?), age 11 months 10 days. It was so sad, and so beautiful. I immediately wanted to know the story of Alice. This discovery of a real person who once lived here, if only as an infant, fascinates me. As a writer, I am all about stories about real people. To know this land more, I want to know the story of who lived here and how they used it, and how they adapted to it. This is what kids need--stories of who walked this path before them immediately connect them to it because kids can relate to tales of other kids and families. I am hoping to learn more about the forgotten families of the Tamposi land. This may not be something that I can use in my own work, but the process is one that I could then transfer to a story-finding tale of the landscape along our home waters....

Today, in the rain, we walked the land again, this time with a tracker...and began to learn about the animals who live in the forest now....which is a great story in and of itself....