And it’s my own damn fault. I have told myself a million times (OK, maybe just dozens of times) never, ever, go on a hike without a picture-capturing device of some type because one never knows what might present itself. Well, today, because I didn’t listen to that voice, I missed a glorious opportunity.
It’s Thanksgiving Day afternoon and, with family far away and friends celebrating with their own families, I am alone. I decide to go for a hike before it gets dark (way too early this time of year.) It’s a gloomy, overcast, drizzly day but, as soon as I enter the woods, I feel better. I have decided to leave my camera gear behind because, after all, what could I possibly see that’s photo-worthy under these conditions?
I slog through the soggy forest, wet down by a persistent, consistent, but significant pitter-patter of raindrops on fallen leaves, soaked to the bone and splashing through puddles that fill my boots and make them all squishy inside. And it’s chilly, but I do love the forest so, so I don’t mind at all. The trail I’m following was once a road probably used for logging. I can see it stretch off far in the distance ahead of me.
Suddenly I notice a glowing uptrail as if the woods were on fire. The sun has split the clouds and the wet forest is shining, bathed in a golden radiance. I reach the edge of the forest, pop out of the woods and see… a magnificent double rainbow; possibly the most vivid I have ever seen, arching over the meadow, in a full half circle, pots of gold at both ends. Set against dark clouds, it stands out as I have never seen before, just like a rainbow in a children’s book, all glorious, surreal, ideal – but, in this case, the real deal, arching hugely across the sky.
At first, I curse myself for not bringing my gear but then I lapse into a form of paralysis, I can’t move for having to avert my gaze to take a step. It hangs up there for what I would only guess was at least ten minutes while I just stood there, amazed, jaw on the ground, only half believing what I was seeing.
Lesson learned… maybe. At least the image is forever etched into my brain, never to be forgotten, even if I can’t (unfortunately) share it with you.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Primevil Perceptions
It’s 65 degrees outside today and I’m reveling in it. For Western New York on November 8, this is a full 15 degrees above ‘normal.’ And, for some reason the air smells incredibly sweet too. I’m feeling euphoric - I’m thinking that there must be more oxygen in the air today than usual. Of course, there isn’t, because if the percentage of oxygen in the air were anything more than the normal 21 percent, I and everything else on earth would spontaneously burst into flame and if it were any lower, it would not support life as we know it. I think about how improbable and miraculous life on earth is; everything has to be just right. How is this possible? And why? Ah, big questions – it’s much too nice out to be pondering big questions today.
I’m wondering along the high bluffs above Sprague Brook, in and out of lush old growth forest. In my last two posts I discussed my personal survival, my cat-like existence, now I’m thinking about the survival of the remaining old growth forest here in the east. There isn’t much left; by one account, less than one-half of one percent of the original forest remains. This means that for every 200 acres of original forest less than one acre remains. Quick work considering the architects of its demise have only been here for about 200 years or so.
Allowing anything to fully mature and die a natural death is something that mankind (man unkind?) is not very good at (except, of course, when it comes to himself.) In these days of ever spiraling population and more people demanding a higher standard of living, these trees are more often than not looked at as ‘resources’, valued not for their inherent selves but for what they can provide by cutting their life short – lumber and paper. With this kind of pressure to cut them down, it’s a miracle that any of these primeval places still exist - making the ones that do that much more special.
To me, entering an old growth forest is to be setting foot in a sacred place. Wandering among the ancient trees is a privilege, and I always feel lucky that I have two sturdy legs to carry me into these awesome places. It’s balm for the stressed out soul. I admit that lately I have become obsessed with searching out these places; even finding a small pocket with just a handful of old trees in an otherwise young forest thrills me. And every time I stumble upon a patch of old growth I try to figure out how it escaped the ax while everything around it was being cut down.
Sometimes it’s obvious, like being hidden deep down in the bottom of a ravine or gorge or on a steep slope. Other times there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to its survival and I just scratch my head and wonder. The truth is that the loggers didn’t miss much unless it was inaccessible, part of protected public land, on a private estate or purposely set aside as a refuge.
Old-growth forests are quiet, hushed places – nature’s cathedrals. The sounds of an ever-noisier world are filtered out here or at least greatly reduced to the point that I believe I can actually hear myself think. I go to the old growth to tackle seemingly unsolvable problems or lift myself out of a depression and somehow, the answers or spirit-lift I need always seems to be waiting for me upon my return from such a place.
Next: Primeval Perceptions: The Search
I’m wondering along the high bluffs above Sprague Brook, in and out of lush old growth forest. In my last two posts I discussed my personal survival, my cat-like existence, now I’m thinking about the survival of the remaining old growth forest here in the east. There isn’t much left; by one account, less than one-half of one percent of the original forest remains. This means that for every 200 acres of original forest less than one acre remains. Quick work considering the architects of its demise have only been here for about 200 years or so.
Allowing anything to fully mature and die a natural death is something that mankind (man unkind?) is not very good at (except, of course, when it comes to himself.) In these days of ever spiraling population and more people demanding a higher standard of living, these trees are more often than not looked at as ‘resources’, valued not for their inherent selves but for what they can provide by cutting their life short – lumber and paper. With this kind of pressure to cut them down, it’s a miracle that any of these primeval places still exist - making the ones that do that much more special.
To me, entering an old growth forest is to be setting foot in a sacred place. Wandering among the ancient trees is a privilege, and I always feel lucky that I have two sturdy legs to carry me into these awesome places. It’s balm for the stressed out soul. I admit that lately I have become obsessed with searching out these places; even finding a small pocket with just a handful of old trees in an otherwise young forest thrills me. And every time I stumble upon a patch of old growth I try to figure out how it escaped the ax while everything around it was being cut down.
Sometimes it’s obvious, like being hidden deep down in the bottom of a ravine or gorge or on a steep slope. Other times there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to its survival and I just scratch my head and wonder. The truth is that the loggers didn’t miss much unless it was inaccessible, part of protected public land, on a private estate or purposely set aside as a refuge.Old-growth forests are quiet, hushed places – nature’s cathedrals. The sounds of an ever-noisier world are filtered out here or at least greatly reduced to the point that I believe I can actually hear myself think. I go to the old growth to tackle seemingly unsolvable problems or lift myself out of a depression and somehow, the answers or spirit-lift I need always seems to be waiting for me upon my return from such a place.
Next: Primeval Perceptions: The Search
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