Woodstock, Vermont Getaway

(covered bridge in Woodstock over the Ottauqueechee River)

Nearby Vermont is always a draw for us.  This year we planned a two-night trip to Woodstock, a town of 3000, about 120 miles northeast of Albany.  Having vacationed there decades ago, we felt well overdue for a return visit!



(pretty New England homes line the streets)

Voted the prettiest small town in America by Ladies Home Journal in 1998, Woodstock continues to acquire awards, most recently the 2011 Great Streetscapes of America commendation by the American Planning Association.

(Farmer's Market on the village green)

We agree that, with its buried power lines, well-kept 200 year-old homes, a picturesque village green, and Elm and Central Streets shopping area, all nestled in the rolling farm and forestland of the Green Mountains, Woodstock is a great getaway.  We spent a few hours wandering the streets, taking pictures, admiring flower gardens, and perusing charming shops.

(Hey, I thought we were going to hike the Long Trail!)

Although restaurants abound in town, when we got hungry, we headed a few miles west to Bridgewater Corners and the Long Trail Brewery, definitely one of Bill's reasons for wanting to visit this area.  I admit that, although I've seen my share of breweries and once you've admired those big cylindrical tanks and pipes and smelled the hops you pretty much have seen them all, Long Trail was one of the nicest breweries I've been to. 

Advertising a German-style beer garden, this offered a little of Germany and a lot of Vermont.  I was pretty content sitting under tall shade trees next to the Ottauqueechee River with some yummy pub fare and a slight breeze.  And, as Bill debated his beer options, I walked down the rock stairway and explored the riverbank.


(1836 Taftsville covered bridge is half destroyed)

Later, as we drove on back roads and through nearby villages, we saw considerable remaining damage from Hurricane Irene. Now, a year later, we could hardly imagine how devastated the area must have been. 

(This sugarhouse washed into a pile of rocks, has a sign on it that says, "we lost everything.")

A mobile home on its side on top of rocks in a field, tall trees lying cross-ways in the rivers, another house propped up on its foundation at both ends but with the middle a gaping hole...and everyone we talked to had a hurricane story. 

Along with the loss of fall foliage tourism last year, followed by a poor winter for snow, and a very brief maple sugaring season, Vermont's economy has struggled. Still, hardy New Englanders joined together in the recovery and Vermont's timeless beauty remains breathtaking.

(carriage path going up Mt. Tom)

Hiking Mount Tom in the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park was on my list of things to do.  Like so many 19th-century estates of the rich and famous, this property is riddled with carriage paths laid out to maximize views.  We chose to hike on a traditional hiking trail to Mt. Tom's summit and to descend via carriage paths, making a loop of just over four miles with 600 feet of elevation gain.

(looking towards New Hampshire from the summit of Mt. Tom)

This National Park was founded "to tell the story of conservation history and the evolving nature of land stewardship in America."  Although the Marsh, Billings, and Rockefeller families had little connection beyond their love of this area and consecutive ownership of the property, each made major contributions to conservation from the early 1800s through the late 1900s.  Successive generations struggled to find new ways to protect natural resources within the economic and technological demands of their times...ideas that continue to ring loudly for us in 2012.

(The Pogue, a pond tucked in the Park's mountains)

Despite the scenic trail and gorgeous summit views, the warm humid weather left us eager for some ice cream on Central Street in town.  Bill chose cookies and cream gelato from an Italian shop we had passed, while I went straight for homemade coconut chocolate chip ice cream a few doors farther along. We found a comfortable bench, next to a babbling brook across from an old mill, to sit and enjoy our treats.

(an amazing variety of flours is available at King Arthur)

Our second day, we made a pilgrimage to nearby Norwich to visit the King Arthur Store. Heading straight for the bakery, Bill bought a bear claw and I had a sticky bun.  I've had enough sticky buns in my day to know when I've had one that's really fabulous.  This was the best sticky bun I had ever eaten. The bakery also has a wide variety of breads and an array of sandwiches, but we were holding off for a later meal at the Harpoon Brewery just down the road.

(me on King Arthur's throne, Lancelot, and my bag of purchases)

I had not really thought of buying much at King Arthur, but you can see I came home with a pretty full bag. Taken with the flour and cocoa options, I bought a package of Harvest Grains that would add interesting texture and nutrition to my everyday bread recipe, and I couldn't pass up the Black Cocoa that would make my brownies and favorite chocolate cake even richer. 

It would have been easy to spend a lot of money on kitchen supplies, cookbooks, and more varieties of baking chips, extracts, specialty ingredients, and baking mixes than I had ever seen.  Every one looked delicious; I had to exercise considerable self-restaint. 

After a fair amount of time at King Arthur's, we were ready for a pub lunch at Harpoon. We were both a little disappointed that the afternoon had become way too hot to eat in their beer garden.  Still, Harpoon fortified us for our next adventure back in Woodstock.

(Jersey cows in soft light provide cream for Cabot and Grafton cheeses)

Across the road from the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park, the Billings Farm and Museum was the farm that went with the estate. We debated whether to tour the farm.  Besides our own childhood farm experiences, we have visited many places like the Farmer's Museum in Cooperstown.  Did we need to see another one? 

In the end, we decided that the combination of a quilt show in the main display area and our interest in the Billings Farm's relationship to the National Park made this an attraction we shouldn't pass up.  While the farm was interesting and the quilt display beautiful, our greatest fascination did indeed lean toward the connection between the wealthy estate and its farm. 

Besides the economic affiliation, an unusual respect and friendship existed between the mansion's residents on one side of the road and the farm family on the other.  In addition, the farm manager came up with, and put into practice, agricultural methods consistent with the natural resource and conservation philosophies of the wealthy owners.


(corn as high as an elephant's eye)

After walking the mile-long trail past Jersey cows, gentle work horses, tall cornfields and the Ottauqueechee River, we again felt the need for ice cream.  Fortunately, we didn't have to go far.  Museum staff served up generous portions of Vermont's Wilcox ice cream next to the Buttery under a big shade tree.

We lingered as long as possible before heading back to Albany's hot humid 90-plus degree weather.  The rural ride down Route 100 postponed our departure from bucolic scenery, and a stop at the Vermont Country Store in Weston broke up the drive.  By the time we got home, we felt like we had been gone a lot longer than a couple of days, and, after all, Vermont is just across the border.  It shouldn't be that hard to go back for a future getaway.

Skunk Buddies

I have been enjoying nights at home after a packed academic year of evening rehearsals for two orchestras, meetings of the Sierra Club and Adirondack Mountain Club, and regular overnights at my parents' house in Saratoga, as well as an occasional night out with Bill or weekend trips to see our kids.  Summer is a time for reading and I look forward to heading out to our screened-in back porch along about 9:00 most evenings.

Our cat, Ally, follows me wherever I go and joins me on the porch.  For a while, she watches bugs inside, birds and squirrels outside, and then, exhausted by such high-demand activity, falls asleep on the cedar chest next to my seat in the lounge.  Often a cool breeze, as darkness arrives, adds to a sense of complete relaxation. This week I have had the opportunity to be home every night.

Last Sunday, at just about 9:20, I heard a great scuffling just on the other side of the screen.  Ally perked right up.  I spotted a white stripe and a white tail-tip in the darkness.  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a skunk digging in the dirt and scattering leaves.  Ally and I remained very still, watching.  Often, when various critters come around, Ally makes noise, chattering or taking an aggressive stance, but not this time.  I welcomed her quiet behavior with surprise and relief--no scaring this guy, please.

The skunk wandered across the lawn, checked out tidbits under the bird feeder, dug a little in the parched lawn and meandered farther back behind the garage.  Ally fell asleep and I went back to my book, but in about a half-hour, the skunk returned making a steady stride for the front yard, out of my sight.

Over the years, we have occasionally seen skunks, and even more often, we have smelled them.  I remember a time when I always turned on all the lights or carried a flashlight on trips to the garage--no point in surprising our nocturnal neighbors!  Mrs. Mendleson, next door, still talks about the time a skunk went through with her four little kittens, all tumbling over each other in play. Far less appealing, a skunk sprayed our porch this past winter. The stench made my eyes water even as I stood inside the kitchen behind closed doors.  It took weeks for the smell to go away.

I thought little about my summer visitor until the second night, when he came again at just about 9:20.  Ally and I watched quietly, as we had the night before.  And, in about a half-hour, he scampered back through, but this time with a friend! The new skunk was a little smaller, his girlfriend perhaps? She had a lot to say.  Clearly, she was lacing the guy out for something.  Her voice sounded raspy and accusing. 

By the third night, I was ready.  I took my place in the chair with my book and had the garage light on for better viewing.  Both skunks arrived, although a little late, about 9:35.  Apparently, they were a little slow getting out of their house, or had to discuss something first, or wanted to make sure they were both on the same page with this outing.

Despite their delay in appearing, they ambled through quietly until they decided to play.  Rolling over, jumping up, bounding on top of one another, they appeared to be in good humor.  The only part of their antics that alarmed me were their erect tails.  I hoped their fun didn't turn into an argument!  I leaned down closer to the back of the porch to get a better view.  Ally, finding the novelty of me on the floor more fascinating than skunks in the yard, rubbed my face with a loud purr. 

Eventually the smaller skunk headed behind the garage while the larger one sniffed along the driveway right under the outside light.  I had a great view.  Then  he, too, moved on.

A few minutes later, breaking the silent night with a huge bang, a neighbor set off a fire cracker.  Surely, this shocking sound would set off the skunks, but no foul aroma floated my way.


In about a half-hour, they scampered through alongside the porch just as they had each night before. This time I wanted to see where they went.  I went out the front door and turned on the light.  No skunks in sight.  Suddenly, two doors down, a motion-activated light came on. Two skunks bolted across the end of our dead-end street, through a gap in the fence, and into the field beyond.

Now it has been six nights.  Ally and I are getting bored.  When Bill decided that he should watch for the skunks, Ally just flopped on the floor in disinterest.

Although I'm finally making headway in my summer reading, I still like to see if the skunks keep up their routine.  Sure enough, between 9:15 and 9:40, one or both of them shows up.  At the scuffling alongside the porch, I take my eyes from my book but I no longer crawl on hands and knees for a closer look.  Ally barely turns her head. 

We have accepted their nightly visits...as long as they're well-behaved.

Still Hikin' at 88

Here I am on Balm of Gilead in North River, NY, with my father.  I have taken him on "birthday hikes" for many years, but who would have thought we'd still be hiking as he turned 88?!

I became my father's "hikin' buddy" back in 1971 when I was 14 and he took me up Mt. Marcy, my first Adirondack High Peak.  I thought I was going to die as we sweated our way up the trail, but it was worth it, when, besides the view, we found a patch of leftover snow.  I rubbed a handful across the back of my neck under my long braid.  Breezes cooled us, too. My favorite blue wool sweater felt great.

Now when I look back, I wonder how we carried full packs over the peaks.  Here's my father in 1972 when he was 48.  He never wanted to descend the way we had gone up so we carried all of our gear over the peaks, camping on the other side to make a loop.

(this Adirondack-style bridge is new since we were here last year)

Over the decades we've covered a lot of trails, making a tradition of annual spring and fall day hikes, often fitting them in between many other commitments. This year we chose the one-mile hike up Balm of Gilead.  With 400 feet elevation gain, this rocky outcropping offers a fabulous view over Thirteenth Lake and surrounding mountains.

These days, my father's pace is understandably slow. Sometimes, now, I take my camera; regular intervals for pictures give my father an easy excuse to stop for breath without making him feel like he's holding me back.

Let me tell you about our day as we walk a Spring path through a woodland garden.

(Red Trillium)

This year, Bill joined us for the outing.  I told him, "Sometimes we stop on the way up north for coffee, and we stop on the way back for ice cream."  Even though I had packed a lunch tailor-made for my father including a roast beef and provolone sandwich with lettuce and tomato on rye, chips, an apple, and a brownie, extra treats were part of the fun.

(Trout Lily)

As predicted, we pulled into North Creek for our 10:30 a.m. stop at Marsha's Family Restaurant.  Marsha's is an Adirondack classic with a busy local clientele.  No "new American cuisine" here, just good old-fashioned diner options for a low price.  Coffee is $1.25, and we each had a muffin, also $1.25.  We didn't need a more substantial meal, having had breakfast at home, but plate after plate of eggs, bacon, and homefries came out of the kitchen for hungry patrons.  From North Creek, the Balm of Gilead trailhead at the Garnet Hill Ski Center parking lot is just a short distance away.

(a toad or a modern version of stegosaurus??)

Three years ago, at the age of 85, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. At times he seems fine, but he is increasingly mixed up, and life at home is a trial of confusion over tasks that used to seem like nothing. What is particularly sad is that he knows what he is losing. Frustration is high and depression is frequent. 

(Bill and my father contemplate the huge pileated woodpecker holes in this downed tree)

But when he is out in the woods, he is very lucid.  He repeats sentences now and then, but his mind is sharp. I think nature is just working her magic.  My mother thinks his improved mental clarity outdoors is due to him having only one thing to focus on, exercise in a place he loves.  Either way, I see him at his best and am grateful for moments like this.

(fallen logs and glacial rock don't hold us back for long)

This day, my mother, just shy of her 87th birthday, chose not to join us.  She also is in excellent physical shape and could have hiked Balm of Gilead, but she needed some time for herself, knowing that my father was in good hands with us.

(my father loves "gear chat"--he and Bill discuss trekking poles)

My father talked of previous hikes here, such as during outings with his retired hiking group, the Crooked Canes. Looking down on Thirteenth Lake, he remembered days kayaking with the Canes on the cool clear mountain water.  He spoke of trips here with me in the past, when we saw turkey vultures flying below us as we sat on the rocks soaking up the Spring sun just as we were today.

(the view across Thirteenth Lake to Peaked Mt. shows us that Spring still has a ways to go)

Looking past the lake to Peaked Mountain beyond, he thought about the pristine wilderness ponds along that trail and how beautiful they are in the fall.  He was pleased with his ability to come here again.  "We've hiked to a lot of nice places, haven't we? When I'm gone, you can remember all the places you went with your old Pop," he said to me.  I was already remembering.

(with binoculars, we were able to see a few canoes and kayaks on the lake)

Having Bill along gave my father a fresh audience for old tales. "What do you think, Bill," he said, "pretty nice up here, isn't it?"  Bill and I had snowshoed Balm of Gilead a couple of years ago when the temperature barely reached zero. Being here on a 60 degree day was a treat.

(Painted Trillium)

Eventually, we had to start back down the trail.  A few black flies were out and circled our heads. In another week or two, they would become a formidable force.

(Dutchman's Breeches)

We made pretty good time going downhill.  "It's a trade-off," my father said.  "On the way up, it's hard to breathe, and on the way down the legs get a little shaky."  Bill helped him over logs and downed branches.  There seemed to be a lot of blow-down which we attributed to Hurricane Irene.

(Spring beauties next to rough tree bark)

About a quarter of a mile from the car, where the trail leveled out, he stopped a couple of times.  "My legs are talking back to me," he said.  I took a few pictures.  We all marveled at the Trout Lilies that we had seen in the morning, now standing tall with their petals curled back in the sunshine.  Going slowly had its benefits.

(Butterflies like this one flitted nearby all afternoon)

We reached the car and opened the windows.  The mountain breeze felt good as we drove on dirt roads back to route 28.  Tucked in the woods were a few beautiful log homes, reminding my father of his visits to a friend's vacation home nearby.  Then he rambled on a bit about the hunting camp on the Indian River where he spent many deer seasons over five decades.  We discussed how the camp could be remodeled for a summer house, since the younger generation had little interest in hunting.  The Adirondacks are full of good memories.

(Fiddlehead Ferns just peaking out of the leaves)

And we never skip Stewart's.  To our surprise, the new shop in Warrensburg already had 2012's seasonal flavors.  Stewart's Ice Cream comes out every summer with a few creative new flavors named for local places and traditions such as Kayadeross Cream,  Adirondack Bear Paw, Happy Camper, or the horse racing favorite Chocolate Trifecta, voted #1 dark chocolate ice cream in the world at the World Dairy Expo 2010 in Madison, Wisconsin.

(Yellow Violets)

I had a cone (to me the best way to consume ice cream), while Bill and my father each had double scoops in a dish.  We needed that boost to help us get back down the Northway and home.  When we reached my parents' house in Saratoga, my father's legs were no longer "talkin' back," and he regaled my mother with details of the view, the roast beef sandwich, and our great day on the trail.  Not a bad way to ring in an 88th birthday!

(lack of foliage on this May day allowed for lots of sun on the trail)

Half-Day in Hudson

Hudson has been in the news as a great place to visit for about a decade.  I was very interested when my friend, Lynn, suggested we go there for lunch at Cafe Le Perche.  Every time we planned to go, the weather was uncooperative or a conflict arose, so I had an extra month or two to read up on the new and improved City of Hudson.  Coming from a few decades of poverty, drugs, gambling and prostitution, Hudson has re-invented itself as a New York City getaway, especially for anyone interested in antiques, art galleries, gift shops, and restaurants.

Google recommends driving down route 9 from Albany which may be a bit faster than my choice of route 9J.  On this early spring day, the 38 mile trip took me 55 minutes. I enjoyed my drive along the Hudson River with its rural and charming scenery and occasional views of the Catskills. Lynn, coming from her home in nearby Chatham, arrived a few minutes ahead of me.

Le Perche is a bakery/cafe in the French style.  The owner studied the textures of French baking flour and now commissions local Wild Hive Farm to grow and grind bread grains to order.  In addition, the imported French bake oven, housed in  a carriage house behind the cafe, is so huge that it takes days to cool if the business closes down for a vacation.

A recent article in the Chronogram had touted the bakery's signature baguette.  When Bill heard that I was headed to Le Perche, he requested a loaf.  I also purchased half a loaf of still-warm peasant bread that Lynn recommended. 

After perusing (and salivating over) the bread selection, Lynn and I chose to have lunch in the cafe area. In warmer weather, outdoor seating would also be very appealing--one of many reasons to go back!  My brie sandwich with pear cranberry chutney on walnut sourdough bread was delicious, along with a refreshing glass of lemonade flavored by crushed fresh mint that tasted like summer.

Having met while working at Honest Weight Food Co-op, Lynn and I spent a pleasant couple of hours talking about food, family, and a variety of topics we had touched upon during fleeting moments at the Co-op.

Afraid that dessert goodies might sell out, Lynn had bought a buttery chocolate croissant when she first arrived for us to share. Sure enough, that had been the last one. I definitely profited from Lynn's previous experiences here and swooned over the flaky butter pastry and creamy chocolate filling!

(looking West along Warren Street)

After lunch, we took a walk along Warren St., the central part of the revived shopping area.  Small businesses line both sides of the street for a few blocks.  Lynn suggested that we go into Liliandloo, her favorite gift shop.  We saw many unusually crafted items in the two-floor multi-roomed store.  This is a place to buy a wedding gift, if you like to give "off the registry." Items come in every price range.  I saw linen towels on a roll for $8 as well as a 10 oz. pottery pitcher with a pretty leaf handle for $115.

(Liliandloo on the corner)

Parent to a young and lively golden retriever, Lynn knew her time away from home was limited.  After she left, I spent another 45 minutes wandering Warren Street.  Fifty or sixty years ago, this may have been a typical Main Street USA, before the city's decline.  Today it caters to an upscale clientele reflected in lovingly restored buildings.  I particularly liked the shop, Rural Residence, another home store with unusual items and a large table of Hudson Valley related books.

(Rural Residence is tucked in among restaurants and galleries)

Although it would be possible to spend hours browsing, I had to head back to Albany, but decided first to drive further down Warren Street.  A block or two from the main area of stores, these two imposing homes reminded me that Hudson has a very long history.

Just as I intended to seriously begin my return trip, I saw Verdigris Tea.  Tea shops are hard to resist. I parked the car again and checked it out.  All the accoutrements for the tea lover are here: tea pots, books about tea, many loose teas with samples to sniff, as well as tables for relaxing moments of drinking tea and eating a scone. 

(Verdigris Tea is painted true to its name!)

While I didn't have a puppy at home, I did have a rehearsal in Schenectady in the evening, so my time here also had limits.  I returned to 9J heading north, admiring homes and brilliant spring flowers all the way. 

This house is not only fronted by a hedge of forsythia, but has views to the river looking both north and south.

(Hudson River view looking north from the house above)

9J has an astounding number of historic plaques.  I would never get home if I stopped to read them, but next time I would be sure to read a few. In addition, signs for nature preserves abound.  I have a great weakness for any place with a trail and I knew that most of these preserves would offer Hudson River and Catskill Mountain views.  I was particularly intrigued by a sign pointing to "Harrier Hill."  Another led to the Lewis Swyer Nature Conservancy area, a place I had heard of but never seen.  My future return trip was becoming more and more defined!.

Further north, I was taken with the town of Schodack Landing.  Passing storm clouds made for a dramatic sky behind this little Dutch Reformed Church.

And just beyond the village of Castleton-on-Hudson, I could see the skyline of Albany.  Traffic increased as I hit 787 and I began to focus on my evening rehearsal.  Still, I retained a relaxed frame of mind from my good lunch at Cafe Le Perche visiting with Lynn, my walk along Warren Street in Hudson, and the peaceful drive through Hudson Valley countryside.

Mountain Meditations

I love hiking with friends and family, but sometimes I just have to get out there alone.  When a free 60 degree sunny day presented itself, and Bill was away at a conference, I headed to one of my go-to places, Alander Mountain in the southern Berkshires.  Not only is Alander a great little mountain (5 mile hike round trip with 800 feet elevation gain), but the drive is pretty too. I know all the back roads.

A friend of mine once told me, "As soon as I get in the car to go somewhere nice, or on the train, I start finding solutions to my problems." I didn't have any problems that I was looking for solutions to, but my mind was a jumble of emails, telephone conversations, and in-person interactions.  Going to a quiet place in the woods seemed like the perfect getaway.

I had been on a Sierra Club state-wide Energy Committee conference call the night before, which addressed disturbing gas drilling and nuclear concerns. I had talked recently about current environmental topics with Jackie, a friend and environmental educator.  She had asked wistfully, "What can we do to stay optimistic?"  I stumbled on the question, but today, I knew what might work for me. 

Alander Mt. is in the Mount Washington State Forest, just over an hour from home in Western Massachusetts. The trail begins across a meadow with a pond in the distance on the left and a Cape Cod style house behind stone walls on the right--a fitting New England scene.  In minutes the trail descends to a lively brook.  There had been a bridge here before Hurricane Irene, but I did a little rock-hopping and got across easily. 

From here the trail rises gradually on an old farm road, the woods riddled with tumble-down stone walls.

I thought of the emails and personal interactions I had had over the past few days.  Some had accomplished tasks, or been pleasant conversations, others had seemed less than satisfactory.  An internal dialogue of "what I should have said," went through my mind.

Small streams with tiny waterfalls ran on either side of the hill as the trail climbed.  This early in March not a leaf was on the trees, and a few patches of ice remained on the ground. Sunshine beamed unbroken by foliage.

I walked slowly.  I had no reason to hurry. The air had the humidity of a warm Spring day; there was no sense in raising a sweat. I took time to soak in the aromas of pine and hemlock, and the sounds of babbling streams.  As the trail rose, mountain laurel edged the path, its leaves dark green all winter.  In a couple of months, laurel blossoms would brighten the woods with pink and white.

Just below the summit, I stopped by the cabin built here for hikers to use.  Damp and unappealing, it never looked preferable to me to camping in a tent. 

 Still, I went inside and looked around.  Someone had been here very recently, even leaving a few graham crackers that mice had not yet found. 

(a few leftovers for the next campers)

 Maybe a wood fire would make the cabin cozier than I gave it credit for.

The trail took a turn for the last 1/4 mile to the summit, through blueberry bushes that offer a boon harvest in July.  Reaching the open ridge, I admired views to the south and west towards Connecticut and more of the Berkshires.

(view towards Connecticut)

Opposite, behind a row of bushes, another view opens to the town of Copake below and to the Catskills beyond the Hudson Valley.  I like both sides, but I chose to have my lunch on the Catskill side.  A thick haze made the mountains barely visible, but I knew they were there and that they were still snow-covered.

Looking down on the village of Copake with my binoculars, I could see a cluster of houses and a church along the main street.  A truck went by on the road far below.  How many generations had seen this view almost the same as I was seeing it today?  My environmental mind thought of the old Iroquois premise that we should look seven generations ahead whenever we make decisions.  This land where I was sitting had been saved by forethinking preservationists.

(Catskills barely visible in the distance)

I lingered at the summit with the warmth of the sun on my head, the wind at my back, and the earth beneath my feet. Standing on exposed rock, I closed my eyes and soaked in these natural energies.

A hiker came from the other direction, the first person I had seen all day.  He walked quickly with ear buds on.  As he passed me, we remarked on the beautiful day.  I stayed a few minutes longer and then headed back down the path.

It was still early in the day and I had put all of my earlier mental conversations behind me.  Now, I looked for animal tracks, listened for birds or running water, and searched the woods for moss-covered stone walls, as the sun created deep shadows across the trail. 

Often I hum or whistle on the trail.  I do this at home, too.  I am rarely completely quiet, but today I thought of a Co-op friend whose husband was spending three weeks on a silent retreat.  A few of us had said, "He can't talk for three weeks!"  Our friend responded, "he gets to not talk for three weeks," making us understand that his weeks of silence were a privilege rather than a chore.  Right now, on this trail, I felt privileged to make only the sounds of my footsteps on stones and leaves.

Eventually, I was again low enough on the mountain that I could hear the trickle of little streams.  I sat down by one of them and listened to its gentle voice.  My elderly next-door neighbor had once bought a small bowl of rocks for inside the house that made this sound when it was plugged in and a continuous gurgle of water tumbled over the stones.  An electrified stream wouldn't work for me; I would have to be content with carrying this in my memory.

I remembered myths where gods, goddesses, fairies, saints, or ancestors, came out of the earth through hillside springs like this. No wonder the musical sounds of water almost seemed to speak from beyond. I sat in the dappled sunlight and listened. 

One time my friend, Maggie, said to me, "But you can't always be in antiquity. You have to apply those universal thoughts to today." I supposed she was right, but I liked hanging out with the early Native Americans and ancient Celts here in the woods.

I passed a strong lively stream.  The little ones had gathered up and made a more significant brook and a more urgent sound.  Once more I sat down in the leaves and listened.  This time, I thought of John Muir and John Burroughs, naturalists of nearly a century ago who changed the country's views on conservation and preservation.  They sat in places like this and wrote poetry or essays. And I couldn't forget Thoreau.  He walked all over these mountains absorbing nature and applying it to his life.

And coming up to almost the present day, my mind wandered to my favorite Adirondack author, Anne LaBastille.  She soaked in the water, mountains, and forests just a few decades ago and declared that we all needed to look for the spirit of Thoreau amidst the spectres of the modern age.
 

Finally, I decided to walk on out of the woods.  A Buddhist prayer popped into my mind and I winged it out in generic fashion to all the people who had been passing through my mind: May they be happy; may they be peaceful; may they be free from suffering.  I certainly was relaxed, peaceful, and full of early Spring.


 The car was hot.  I took off my boots and socks and put on my Birkenstocks.  Tossing my long sleeved shirt on the back seat, I opened the car windows, got in, and drove away.  I turned on a CD and Mendelssohn's festive 5th Symphony accompanied me on my drive back through the countryside.