Woodland Guideposts

When walking in the woods, my eyes grow accustomed to the lack of signage and focus on subtler clues: boards along a muddy path, a dry gully, the curved white trunk of a sycamore.

Failure to notice these guideposts has consequences, like the boxy bridge I missed on Friday which meant I sidled right into someone’s backyard, complete with kiddie gym.

A woods walk sharpens the powers of observation. It keeps me on task, and for that reason, the thoughts that come seem more my own.

Mud Seasons

The lay of the land is beneath my feet, the roots and ridges, the mud I'm not always able to avoid. When I lived in New England, mud had a season. It followed winter and preceded spring. But here in these more temperate climes, mud is often with us.

Today, for instance, as I decide whether I'll walk in the woods or on the street, mud must be factored into the equation. Will I squish and squash, or simply plod?

Mud trips me up and slows me down. To avoid it requires detours or balancing on a two-by-four that another hiker has thoughtfully left behind.

On the other hand, mud means warmth ... or at least a semblance of it.

(One of the best mud pictures I have is from a work trip to Bangladesh.)

Fits to a T

I entered the woods at the intersection of Folkstone and Fox Mill, a T intersection with more than two choices. Although the driver must turn left or right or left at that spot, for the walker there’s another way; hiking straight into the woods.

And so I entered the park, map in hand, to search for my own Northwest Passage. But I was mindful of that extra option I had at the beginning of my stroll.

Walking is like that. It reminds me of choices I might otherwise miss.

A Map, A Direction

It's often this way in the morning, the competing urges. Should I walk ... or write about walking? Today's early rising has left me even more muddled. I remembered a website with trail maps from the area, and I've spent the better part of an hour exploring the site.

One of the maps charts a park near me, a park with poorly marked trails I've always wanted to explore. If and when I figure them out, I'll be able to reach the Reston trails without driving to them  — or at least that's the plan.

The map is printed. All that remains is to drink the tea, eat the breakfast ... and set off.

Proud to be ... Bipedal

In class last night we talked about our earliest ancestors, about Australopithecus, Homo Erectus and the whole gang, the distant relatives on our ever-so-shaggy family tree.

A key trait, of course, is bipedalism, walking on two legs. In Maps of Time, David Christian talks about the hazards of this posture, especially for women, who had to bear children with large heads that required turning as they passed through the birth canal. 

For this, they needed help. Thus did a physical trait engender cooperation, social behavior, the collective efforts of women helping women during childbirth. And later on, the collective efforts of raising young humans, who are far more helpless at birth than most mammals. 

We don't walk on two legs because we're human. We're human, in part, because we walk on two legs.

(One of my favorite toddlers shows off her stride.)

Black and White and Blue

A winter walk is monochromatic, color drained by sun and shadow, leaving only form and contrast behind. 

This was evident on my stroll yesterday through D.C., from Metro Center to Chinatown, then down Seventh to the Sculpture Garden, where I watched ice skaters fly by. They were a study in black and white, too.

From there I made my way to the Mall and the Monument, where I finally found color ... in the sky. It seemed like an afterthought, though, as if it were crayoned onto an already printed page. 

Writing in Bed

With Copper gone,  I've no need to rush downstairs in the morning. Which means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes, writing in bed. 

Churchill did it. Marcel Proust did it. Mark Twain, Edith Wharton and Truman Capote did it, though the latter said a bed was not required. A couch would work just fine, as long as coffee and cigarettes were available.

I can't relate on that score. More my speed was Wordsworth, who wrote poems in bed but made up for it by walking 10 miles a day, striding all over the Lake District, often with his sister Dorothy. 

It makes perfect sense to me, a great expenditure of energy, followed by an equally great period of rest. 

(Marcel Proust writing in bed.)

Mourning Copper

When a human being dies there are rituals and ceremonies, ways to process the passing. When a pet dies, not so much. But I've been touched beyond measure by the calls and messages from family and friends that have comforted us these last several days. 

The outpouring heartens me — and tells me how important animals are to us. It reminds me that we homo sapiens are not alone in this world, that we share it with many creatures, and that we could do worse than  look to them for a model of how to live. 

Copper did not complain in his final days. He suffered silently and took life as it came. Yes, he could be silly and rambunctious. Yes, he tested our patience at times. But you always knew where you stood with him. He was always completely and utterly himself. 

So just as we grieve people by recalling their uniqueness, what they brought to the world and how we might emulate it, so do I mourn Copper. 

Copper Capehart: 2005-2023

He was a ball of fur on legs, a streak of black and white, contrast in motion. Copper was our daughter’s Christmas present, the dog she had dreamed of for years, and he was running away from us as fast as his little legs could carry him. He had slipped out of his collar and was making a break for the territory. He would do this often in the coming years.

That first escape was a shock because we had just picked him up from the shelter. Later escapades were less surprising but more terrifying. We knew by then that he had no fear of cars and we imagined the worst every time he got away.

But ever so gradually he settled down. He used his powerful shoulders to dash down the deck stairs instead of catapulting himself over the couch. He bared his teeth to smile instead of bite. He decided he would stay here a while.

Seventeen years later, time finally caught up with our dear pup. Today was his final escape, and darned if we didn’t engineer it ourselves. But only because we loved him so much.

Rest in peace, Copper. We will never forget you.

Walking's Worth

If I ever needed proof of walking's worth I got it yesterday. A sad day, as the last have been, but out on the trail, the rhythm and the movement brought me around.

It was good to be outside, to make my way past the tennis courts, around several small ponds and then down the long straightaway through the Franklin Farm meadow. 

It was only 45 minutes on my way to the grocery store, but sometimes, that's enough.

Familiarity

Some light rain, the sky a washed-out gray, tree limbs a study in contrast. I look outside as if at another world. The days have turned inward for me, as our dear dog Copper is ailing. 

It's a comfort to glimpse the sparse azaleas, the ragged hollies. Even the open space where the tall oak stood is familiar now.

I know these places, these absences. My eyes rest easily on them, until I look inside again. 

Sharing the Trail

The Capital Crescent Trail. A Monday afternoon that felt like a Sunday afternoon. A jumble of humanity — and mammal-anity, too, since there were plenty of dogs on hand. 

Without realizing it, I went into auto mode. That's "auto" as in automobile, glancing over my left shoulder before "changing lanes"  Cyclists use the trail, too, and they don't always sound their bells in warning.

Sharing the trail sometimes means walking defensively. 

Forty-Five

The outdoor thermometer needs a new battery. For the last four days it has recorded the temperature as 45. That's 45 night or day, sunny or cloudy, morning or afternoon. 

It has me thinking about 45 — the middle-ness of it, its commodiousness. Want winter? Forty-five will do. Scarves and gloves aren't out of place in the mid-40s. If you live in warm climes and are looking for an excuse to take your wool sweater out of mothballs, 45 provides it.

And yet, 45 can go warmer, too. You don't need a hat in 45, for instance.  And if you're moving briskly through space, which I often am, 45 can feel like 55 in a jiffy. 

If your thermometer must be stuck, then, it could do worse than to be stuck at 45. 

Short Order

I'm thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

"Cooked in Sight. Must be Right" read the sign on the wall. I'd have to agree. 

Before the Rain

On a woods walk yesterday there was not exactly a traffic jam, but there were more people than usual. 

"It's not raining ... yet," said a tall man in a lightweight jacket. (You could get away with one of those, though I was donned in parka and gloves.) 

It must have been the threat of showers that drove us out and into the forest, one last dash before the deluge.

This morning the drops move out and the wind moves in. I foresee a basement walk for me this morning. 

(A photo from the Blue Ridge, not my neighborhood stream valley park.)

Too Soon!

Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall's raking. 

Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th? 

Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you. 

A Sunset, An Intersection

Asheville is a small city with big scenery,  including a road called Town Mountain Drive. I drove it by accident the other day on the way to see the sunset, which was stunning. 

The road was a different matter, winding up and up and up, mildly terrifying in spots, especially for the cars on the outside, but an adventure just the same.

I read later that Town Mountain Drive connects directly with the Blue Ridge Parkway, so this morning (back in Virginia) I looked up the two roads on a map. And sure enough, they intersect, at the exact same spot where we parked for our hike, Craven Gap.

Craven Gap

"There are four reasons people come to Asheville," the ranger said. "Beer, bears, that big house down the road (the Biltmore) and the Blue Ridge Mountains."

The ranger didn't have much to say about the first three, but oh, could he talk about the last one. He seemed to know most everything about the Blue Ridge Parkway, which sections were closed (many of them), the detours and work-arounds, which trails to hike and the views you'll see from  them. 

This is the vista that greets you on the hike up from Craven Gap: mountains beyond mountains, purplish green in the foreground, smudges of blue in the distance. 

10,000 Books

A quick trip before school starts later this week lands us in Asheville, North Carolina, a place I've always wanted to visit. And when you visit Asheville, you visit the Biltmore, the Vanderbilt retreat and largest private home in America. 

There are four acres of floor space in the mansion including 250 rooms (43 of them bathrooms), 65 fireplaces, a bowling alley, swimming pool, pipe organ and a banqueting hall with a 70-foot tall barrel-vaulted ceiling. The mansion is crammed with priceless art, portraits by Whistler and Sargent and landscapes by Monet, and during World War II it housed treasures from the National Gallery of Art. The garden and grounds were landscaped by Frederick Law Olmsted. 

Opulence is not my style but there is one room in the house I seriously covet — the library with its collection of 10,000 books. I stood a long time in that room, imagining the guests who visited, including writers Henry James and Edith Wharton, the conversation that flowed, led no doubt by Biltmore's original owner George Vanderbilt, fluent in eight languages. Ah yes, I could spend some serious time in the Biltmore library.

Celebrating Epiphany

It's a day in need of rescue, so that it isn't buried at the bottom of an ornament box as we strip the tree and take it down. Or, since 2021, to separate it from the taint of the Capitol insurrection. 

In western Christianity, the Epiphany celebrates the visit of the magi to the infant Jesus. It marks the presentation of Jesus to the Gentiles, the revelation of his divine identity. It has also come to mean a sudden intuition, an aha moment. 

I've always appreciated this day, because it ends Christmas with a bang not a whimper, with a quest, a star and a sense of wonder. Despite the rich robes of the three kings, it has always reminded me that inspiration doesn't lie in the grand occasions of life but can be folded into the lowliest of enterprises: sweeping the floor, raking the leaves, feeding the birds. 

We don't know when the aha moment will strike, only that it will — if we pay attention. 

(The Adoration of the Magi, Edward Burne-Jones, courtesy Wikipedia)

 

Once More to the Breach

There is something both unsettling and gratifying about charging into a project that you've left idle for a month. Never mind the explanations for your idleness — a research paper due, the holidays to prepare for — the work itself has been left behind, and it lets you in on its annoyance. 

Surely nothing else can account for the way a once-admirable essay shrinks in power and perceptiveness. Nothing else explains the inelegant phrasing, the lack of insight.

And yet ... with the power of time and distance, suddenly there is potential again, too. A new overview, perhaps even a revised table of contents. It's a good way to enter the new year, with rolled-up sleeves. 

Strange But True

It's been in the 60s these past few days, a welcome blast of warmth that almost makes up for late December's frigid temperatures. But it's also a little strange, as unseasonable weather tends to be. 

The holly berries look out of place in this balmy air, as do the Christmas lights still decorating houses up and down the street. 

This time last year an unexpectedly heavy snow blanketed the region, shut down Interstate 95 and left motorists stranded overnight in their cars. Today, it's hard to imagine that. 

But this is weather in the age of climate change. 

(A photo from last year's snow storm.)

Up in the Air

The crane seems like a stunt double from The War of the Worlds, a 100-plus-foot behemoth that takes up most of our suburban lane. It was brought in as reinforcement when two men and a chainsaw were unable to complete the removal of dead limbs from a lopsided oak last week. 

In a move that has gotten our carbon footprint off to a bad start for the new year, I'm afraid, the crane and two other large vehicles pulled up to the house early this morning. After 30 minutes of waiting for the crew to assemble, the real show began, duly recorded for two-year-old Isaiah. 

First, the crane operator slowly raised the contraption's arm, extending it high before swinging it over the neighbor's house to reach the troublesome tree. Next, in an act of derring-do seldom seen outside a circus, one of the guys who had been calmly putting on gear was hoisted up into the air. 

He hung suspended for what seemed like hours but was only a minute or two before reaching the tree, chainsaw swinging from his belt. A few minutes later, he was joined by another acrobat. Together they've been slicing the deadwood away from this (knock on wood) still-viable oak.

I write this post from the basement, the only sensible place to be. I can hear the grinder machine whirring. Most of the branches are down, I think. The show is almost over. 

(I generally prefer horizontal shots, but this post cried out for a vertical.)

Tropical D.C.

Most people who live in or near Washington, D.C., avoid humidity whenever possible, knowing that in time it will find them. After all, the District was built on a swamp, and it  has the miasmic air to prove it. 

This usually appears in the summer, however. Winters tend to be bright, dry and clear. They're the only time when you might actually seek a steamy environment. 

Which is what we did yesterday, strolling through the tropical plant display in the U.S. Botanical Gardens. There were banana trees, palm fronds, poinsettias in their (semi) natural state. There was air so thick you practically had to push it aside, a heavy curtain on a breezeless August afternoon. 

On frigid winter days, the place is  a welcome antidote, but yesterday it was 60 degrees outside and the tropics were ... a  little too close for comfort. 

2023!

The new year padded in on little cat feet, like the fog in Sandburg's poem. It swirled in with the firework smoke that clouded my view of the Christmas lights extravaganza behind us. 

It rang in on the Westminster chimes of the mantel clock, working again for the first time in decades. 

And now, almost nine hours into 2023, we're having a peach of a morning, sun-softened, bright with promise. 

Happy New Year!