A beautiful, if strenuous , walk in the woods.
Even great men bow before the sun; it melts hubris into humility.
— Dejan Stojanovic
The weather has been clear and warm enough that I’m pretty sure there’s no snow in the mountains of New Hampshire, where the Midstate Trail begins. It’s been dry for the past few days, so the ground should be fairly solid and not too muddy, except in the low places. There’s only a short window of opportunity where Waldo and I can go hiking because it’s going to get too hot in the not-too-distant future. So I’ve decided we should go today.
The Midstate Trail is about 100 miles long and runs down the middle of Massachusetts, hence the name. There are some mountains to be climbed along the way, starting at the trailhead in New Hampshire, not far from the border with Massachusetts. The trail is often way off in the boonies, so there aren’t many places where it crosses roads where I might park. The next spot, after the trailhead, where I can park is 9 miles from the start. I couldn’t get anyone to go with us so Waldo and I are going to have to do a couple of 4.5-mile walks on separate days – 9 miles each in total. Now that’s not a lot for us, by any means, but the elevation gain will be around 1,400 feet. We’ve been mostly walking out on the flat, so that is likely to be a big deal. It’s a bit intimidating. I expect it to be hard, but that never stopped Waldo and I and it won’t now.
It takes us an hour and a half to drive to our launching point. I park the car and Waldo and I step out onto the dirt road that is the Wapack Trail (at this point, the trail goes by that name as well as the Midstate Trail). Within less than 0.1 miles, the road morphs into an old stage coach road, where no vehicles are allowed. The way is broad and fairly flat, so the going is easy.
The temperature is about 48℉, so I’m wearing a light jacket. The sky is partly cloudy, so there are periods when it’s nice and warm, and periods when I’m glad I brought the coat. Here and there are some muddy patches, but they are easy to navigate around and the rest of the ground is solid and dry. There is no snow or ice around. Because there are no bikes around (they are prohibited) Waldo is feeling confident and takes the lead at the forward end of the leash. After just under a mile, the trail turns left and passes under some high-tension power lines. Then the climb begins.
The slope is not terribly steep, but it’s a lot of work for my old muscles. I have to slow my pace way down to keep from running out of breath and I have to stop frequently to rest my poor legs. I soon work up a pretty good sweat. The coat comes off and I tie it around my waist. Waldo is patient with me and stops when I do, without much fuss. But, then, he has a lot of experience walking with me. Like, his whole life.
Step by step, we slowly climb Barret’s Mountain, the first of 3 mountains on today’s hike. The trail runs along a ridge that connects those mountains and causes the ridge to have an undulating profile. So far, we’ve gone around 2 miles and gained about 500 feet in elevation, most of that in the last mile. I’m tired already and that does not bode well. Waldo is having a great time and isn’t bothered by the effort at all. But, then, he is quite a bit younger than I am.
At the top, I turn around and look out over the panorama of southern New Hampshire. There aren’t any sizeable cities out here, so what I see is a lot of green rolling hills. There are some winter-denuded deciduous trees on the mountain around us and a lot of spruce. These mountains, in the fall, are covered with the most gorgeous red, yellow and orange foliage, but that’s all gone now. Still, the forested ground around us is beautiful. We head down the saddle that leads to the next mountain to climb – New Ipswich Mountain.
The top of New Ipswich Mountain is a little barer than Barret’s Mountain and I can see off to the west a bit better. There, just a few miles away, is Mount Monadnock, a mountain I trained on in preparation for climbing Kilimanjaro, about 16 years ago. It’s about twice as high as these mountains, quite steep in places, and full of huge boulders. So far, the climbing here is steep enough to make me work very hard, but not so steep I can’t do it in a walk, although it is a very slow walk. Waldo takes it all in stride. That would not be true on Monadnock. He would never be able to climb over the boulders.
We make it to the top of Stony Top and continue on down to the saddle to the next mountain, Pratt Mountain. We turn around at the bottom of the saddle, right where my phone says we’ve gone 4.5 miles. We have climbed 904 ft in total elevation gain and I am spent. I turn around and look where we have come. Damn, we have to repeat all that to get back to the car.
By this time, my legs are very sore because I’m using muscles I haven’t used much in years. I plod along the way we just came, stopping frequently and sit down whenever a likely-looking stump or boulder presents itself. I’m sweating profusely. Waldo is patient and comes over and lies down next to me as I gather the strength to keep on truckin’. I am so tired and fatigued that I fall into a near trance-like state and my walking becomes instinctual. I put one foot in front of the other, barely lifting each step above the ground, in a shuffle that’s not much more than a crawl.
Finally, we make it back to the stage coach road and the ground becomes flatter and more even, without the roots and rocks of the mountains. I’m able to recover a bit more and pick up the pace a bit. Still, I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to the limit of what I can do without having to stop in complete exhaustion. I sit down in the car when we get there and I’m overwhelmed by a sense of relief – albeit a painful one. Waldo curls up in the passenger seat and chills. It seems border collie energy can be burnt off, even if for only a little while.
An hour and a half later and we’re back home, drinking water, eating dinner and relaxing. Even though taxing, it’s been a good hike. Maybe it was a bit much to bite off on the first mountain hike of the season, but we did it. Now we just have to repeat it again, after a few days of rest.
I’ve learned that shear grit can take me a long way.
And then propel me right to my recliner.
Mount Monadnock, in the distance
Birds? What birds?
When you’re focused on your enemy, then you’re ignoring your allies.
— Stacey Abrams
The snow is almost totally gone. The tarmac of the rail trail is everywhere completely clear. The temperature is mild, in the mid to high 50s, the sky is cloudy and the winds are light. I’m quite comfortable in a light jacket and Waldo is enjoying the cool weather as we start out on our daily walk. A sepia hue still lays heavy on the land, with barren branches, fallen leaves and yellowed grasses everywhere. But, here and there, a few green shoots do poke their tiny heads through the dead leaves covering the ground, reaching for the sun. Looking closely, I can see tiny buds on the tips of stalks too. Squirrels are cavorting about and, somewhere off in the brush, a few birds are serenading the world. Spring has sprung.
Waldo and I aren’t far into our walk when I hear a godawful fine-feathered avian kerfuffle in front and above us. It seems to be coming from a nearby tree, although I can’t tell which one. There’s loud, angry chirping, squawking, tweeting and cawing and it’s not in any way, shape or form melodic. There must be a good twenty or more different voices yelling at something, for some reason. There are so many different birds making all this noise that I decide it would be a good opportunity to add to my list of birds heard. I pull out my phone and start the bird-identification app.
In short order, a list of 11 birds pops up on the screen of my phone. I have never heard so many different kinds of birds at one time. Usually, the app identifies 1, 2, or even 4 different species. Sometimes, in the morning, when birdsong is rampant, it has listed 7, but only rarely. Certainly not 11! On the list are the usual denizens of the area: song sparrows, house sparrows, common grackles, tufted titmice, black capped chickadees, northern cardinals, blue jays and American robins. And it sounds like they are almost all squawking from the same tree! There are even 2 species on the list that are rare for these parts – a pine siskin and a cedar waxwing. Then I spot, at the bottom of the list, the first bird identified, a red-winged blackbird. Because of their character, I imagine that the blackbird is on one side of the trail, while all the other birds are on the other, telling the blackbird what they think of him:
“Go away!”
“We don’t want you here!”
“No blackbirds allowed!”
“Your kind is not welcome here!”
“Go back to where you came from!”
“We don’t want whatever it is you have to offer!”
“Scram!”
And all of them are talking at once, one over the other.
I’m amused at the thought as Waldo and I continue on, not at all harassed by anybody, despite the obvious high level of angst in the atmosphere. It’s like we are ignored, idle spectators to a more important confrontation that doesn’t include us. Then it occurs to me. This is the twenty-first century. I can check online to find out what science has to say about the idea.
A short google search shows, indeed, that my flight of fancy is correct! Multiple species of birds are known to congregate and mob red-winged blackbirds to drive them off. Apparently, they are such poor neighbors, because of their territoriality and aggressiveness, that many other birds don’t want them around. I’ll be damned. It’s amazing what you can learn just by paying attention.
I’m compelled to buy some birdseed and leave it out for my avian friends. I’d do it, too, except squirrels would probably get most of it (and they aren’t helping in the defense of the realm) and the blackbirds would surely eat some too. My appreciation for the avian world has increased in an any-enemy-of-my-enemy-is-a-friend-of-mine kind of way. And they are beautiful and sing such lovely songs too.
Waldo and I continue our walk and only hear 1 or 2 other birds, no one unusual. All the rest of the birds in the area must be at the beginning of the trail performing security duty. God bless them. The walk is pleasant and I enjoy watching closely as Mother Nature stirs in her reawakening from a long sleep. I see tiny clumps of skunk cabbage next to low-lying wet areas. Garlic mustard is popping up everywhere and there are nascent clumps of ditch lily. But no red-winged blackbird nests.
When we get back to the place of the furor, everything is quiet. Life has moved on.
You know, sometimes Mother Nature directs her aggression towards us, like the red-winged blackbirds dive bombing and strafing our heads in defense of their territory, and sometimes she rallies her forces in what amounts to our defense, like what happened today. But it’s never really personal.
It’s just life unfolding in its multivariant and ever evolving way.
Bah! Who cares about a bunch of birds? Can’t eat em’, can’t even catch ’em and they don’t want to play.
Snow is almost all gone.
Nature has made up her mind that what cannot defend itself shall not be defended.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
The weather has continued to be warm, highs hovering in the high 50s. The snow is disappearing fast, with only short piles of the stuff left. Those piles used to be 4 feet or more feet high when they were made by passing plows. Waldo and I are walking on our usual route around the apartment buildings, a route that we avoided until now, because of deep snow. Rain storms have passed through our area in the past couple of days, which melted the snow even faster than the warm temperatures.
Along with the warming trend have come a few migratory birds. One species, in particular, caught my attention – the red-winged blackbird. I have a friend in Wisconsin, Kathie Giorgio, who has told me stories about the bird. During certain times of the year, nesting season, red-winged blackbirds make it practically impossible to go for a walk outdoors. They are very territorial and aggressive, swooping down from on high, attacking anyone who dares to enter their territory. Apparently, they can be really nasty buggers. And it is illegal to injure these birds, even in self-defense.
In 1918, the US Congress passed the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, in order to stop a massive commercial trade in birds and feathers, which was pushing species to extinction. The act implements treaties with Canada, Mexico, Japan and Russia. Violating the law can lead to as much as $250,000 in fines and 2 years in prison. Because red-winged blackbirds usually target their perceived invader’s heads for their strafing runs, the recommendation is, if you’re walking anywhere near their territory, you should wear a hat or carry an umbrella. That’s all you get.
I have never seen, nor heard of, anyone being attacked in Massachusetts by red-winged blackbirds. They like to build their nests in freshwater marshes (cattails, bulrushes), sedge meadows, even roadside ditches, and we have plenty of all of those in Massachusetts. Google says they do nest here, so maybe they just aren’t nesting in large enough numbers to make them a problem. Whatever the reason, I am not disappointed.
Today, as Waldo and I walk near the Fort Meadow Reservoir overlook, I hear a number of birds all speaking the same language. My phone says they are red-winged blackbirds and I look around to see if I can find them, as there are obviously quite a few. Off in the woods, I spy a dozen or so dark birds perched on the branches of a tree. They’re too far away to recognize for sure, but the songs I hear are coming from that direction. Damn, there’s a whole flock of them. A group of blackbirds is called a watch and I can see why. They’re perched up there, motionless, just staring down at us poor ground-pounders. I hope they aren’t here looking to set up shop, that would be all Waldo and I need. I can wear a hat, and always do, but what protection could I provide for Waldo? And that begs the question, if Waldo were to be attacked by one of these blackbirds, and he injured one trying to protect himself, would I be held legally responsible?
As Waldo and I continue on, I google the birds’ migratory habits. Apparently, this time of year, males will flock together, head north and look for possible nesting areas. A couple of weeks later, the females follow and build the nests. Damn. I certainly hope that global warming hasn’t changed the environment so much that those birds will start looking to set up nurseries here. As we trek down the path further, the red-winged-blackbird chatter is replaced by the sweet song of the usual permanent denizens: northern cardinals, tufted titmice, black capped chickadees and the ever-present house and song sparrows.
When Waldo and I get back to the overlook, on our way home, the red-winged blackbirds are gone. Good. Maybe they’ve moved on to Wisconsin (sorry, Kathie). The males are really pretty birds, with their red and yellow epaulets starkly contrasting with their shiny dark black plumage, but who needs the harassment? I don’t have a problem with the birds defending themselves and their offspring, but do they need to be so nasty about it?
Well, whatever happens, we’ll find a way to deal with it. With or without irate avian assault, Waldo and I love this forest.
And we aren’t giving it up easily.
If you look closely, you can see a flock of red-winged blackbirds (called a watch) in the tree.
Snow everywhere. Well, almost…
Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts,
— Oliver Windell Holmes, Sr.
It is warm out today. 76℉! I’m walking in shirtsleeves with no tee shirt and sweating. Waldo is panting and somewhat uncomfortable. When it gets much hotter than today, he wanders off into the shade under a bush off-trail and lies down. He’s not doing that now, but his tongue is lolling limply to one side and dripping. I keep a close eye on him to make sure he’s not overheating, but he’s doing okay.
The snow is rapidly disappearing, even the deep drifts thrown up by snowplows. The plowed part of the rail trail is almost denuded down to the tarmac, with only a few skimpy patches of slush left behind. But once we get to Hudson, the trail is still completely awash in a damp slippery, but still white, thick carpet of snow. It’s cooler here, above the still frozen ground and in the shade of tall oaks, maples and pine. Waldo seems to appreciate that. So do I.
Just as we get to the snowy part, we come across a snow-shovel’s-width track from the tunnel toward downtown Hudson. I can see the person who created it, still shoveling away, about ¼-mile ahead. As I get closer, I see it’s a jogger that is well known to Waldo and I. We’ve been passing him nearly daily for almost as long as we’ve been coming out here. Waldo gives him a tail-wagging greeting and I say, “Hello, nice job.”
“I’m done, for today,” he says, with a heavy sigh.
“This snow is wet, heavy and deep,” I say.
“Tell me about it,” he says and he plants the shovel upright in untouched snow. “I’m just tired of not being able to run here.”
“I don’t think it’s going to last much longer – not in these temperatures,” I say.
“I know. I’m just tired of waiting.”
“Well,” I say, “thank you for your efforts. It is making the walking easier today.” We continue on, going back to the narrow, beaten and snowy path.
By the time I get to the 3.0 marker spot, I decide that it’s now or never. The next time we come here, the marker may be exposed. That would mean that the damned snow has defeated me and kept the marker hidden throughout the winter. I can’t have that, so I start kicking at the snow and ice at the expected place. It’s tough, but I’m able to get close to the tarmac after some hard work. Then, there, right where I thought it would be, is the curve of the number “3”, under about ½-inch of clear ice. I expose the entire “3.0,” still under the ice I’m unable to remove, and make a gratified sigh. Hah! I’ve done it!
Over the past few months, I have now exposed each and every mile marker on the rail trail that nature has buried. I feel validated. I have now proven to myself that I know this trail, after all this time, exquisitely. I know it’s silly, but I feel like I can legitimately call this path through the woods my own. Not in a proprietary way, but in the biblical sense – I have proven that I am so very intimately familiar with it.
Heading back with a sense of accomplishment that has eluded me until now, I pay attention to the other landmarks I’ve gotten to know so well. The English ivy tree, still as green as ever, the boulders on the embankment that mark where, approximately, it is 1 5/8 of a mile to the end of the trail, the Covid Garden and the Marlborough Rock Garden, are just a few. Yep, this is my rail trail.
I wonder if Waldo feels the way I do. He certainly has the concept of ownership. It’s an undeniable fact that he knows he owns the balcony and the front passenger seat of his car, because he defends them so vigorously. But out here, he accepts and encourages others to share this piece of Mother Nature, greeting each and every passerby with wags of his tail and doggy kisses. The ownership I’m talking about is of a different hue altogether. Most importantly, and without a doubt, Waldo knows the place intimately as much as I do.
Soon, now that the snow is disappearing, we’ll be exploring other New England trails. But we will always return here on a regular basis.
Because it is home.
Damn! There it is!
Snow in Marlborough.
Even in the familiar there can be surprise and wonder.
— Tierney Gearon
The sky is blue, the temperature is just above freezing and the ground is still blanketed in a thick layer of white snow. There are places where the snow is deeper than Waldo is tall. No more snow has fallen, so I plan to go our usual distance in the Hudson no-plow zone. The white shawl that covered the branches of the trees after the last storm is now all gone and the sunlight shines brightly through the trees, nearly unhindered, to the ground unhindered. Birds are out chirruping, but I hear no new species, just my old fine-feathered friends that winter out here.
Waldo has recovered from the anaplasmosis and is now peeing like he used to, so the antibiotics worked. Despite the fact that he had a blood born infection, his behavior never changed, other than the urination – you couldn’t tell he was ill. But dogs are like that. By the time it’s obvious that they’re sick, they’re really sick. I’m just happy that his kidneys were not permanently damaged. After Waldo does a quick leg lift and a squat, with some repositing of what he deposited, we’re on our way.
When we get to the new park, at the Fort Meadow Reservoir overlook, we have passed several people and their dogs and a few joggers. I remember in my younger jogging days, I would go running in 11℉ weather, wearing jersey pants, a hooded jersey jacket over a tee shirt, knitted gloves and little else. I not only was quite comfortable, I was sweating. Some of the joggers we pass are wearing long sleeve tee shirts and shorts! Their legs are bright red from the cold. I cringe at the sight, but they seem not to be troubled by the cold at all. Ah, the resilience of youth… We see no bicycles out today, although I do see their spoor — tire tracks in the snow, here and there. Waldo is much pleased and is not spending that much time glancing to our rear, like he does in biking season.
As we exit the tunnel at the Hudson border and start the plod down the narrow, beaten path in the unplowed snow, we are passed by a jogger. He’s not moving real fast and he doesn’t seem to be slipping and sliding as much as I am. God bless his intrepid perseverance. At least he’s wearing pants and gloves. He does a quick jog off the beaten path to avoid Waldo, who is walking in the middle of it. Waldo ignores him and continues on, doing his Waldo thing. The jogger continues on also, and is soon out of sight.
When we get to where the 3.0 marker should be, I stop and kick at the snow a bit. I can remove the top layers, but the deeper layers are dense and hard to impress. I give up, with the commitment to try again another day. If I had a shovel, or even a trowel, I know I could find it, but I don’t. I’m tempted to borrow one from someone, but I don’t know anyone who has one (I did ask around). So we finish our outbound trek and head back to plowed ground.
As I walk along, I have learned to recognize some of the songs of the northern cardinal (a frequent chirper out here), but I often confuse them with a tufted titmouse, or even an American robin. Birds’ vocabularies are varied enough that I find it hard to always associate a particular tweet with a specific tweeter. So I pull out my trusty app when I need to. I hear all three of the birds I just mentioned and house and song sparrows. I even hear a barred owl (which, because I’m new at this, I can confuse with a mourning dove – except when a mourning dove takes off, it makes the distinctive sound of hinges that need to be greased). I wish I could actually see the birds but they, usually, are far off in the tree branches somewhere and my aging eyesight isn’t what it used to be. So I have to be content to look at the pictures in my app.
Before long, Waldo and I are back at the car. Today’s trek is much like so many other walks we’ve been on this winter. But neither Waldo nor I find it boring. Pleasingly familiar, yes. No day is exactly like any other day.
There is always a riff, a variation on a theme, that keeps us engaged and interested.
Meanwhile, in Hudson.
In places, the snow is as deep as Waldo is tall.
Forever is composed of nows.
-Emily Dickinson
The city of Marlborough has now plowed up to the tunnel under Route 85, the border with Hudson. Not only that, but it’s been widened to reveal all the markers up to 2.0. The temperature is in the low to mid 30s, so not much of the rest of the snow is gone, although it has settled a bit. Still, there are places where the sides carved out by the plow are deeper than Waldo is tall. The walking is easy, although there are places where there is still a thin sheet of hardpacked snow. Waldo is doing his business on the plowed part because elsewhere is so deep, he can’t hunch over enough to poop without getting an uncomfortable freeze in a tender place.
In the no-plow zone of Hudson, there is a narrow meandering path beaten down by snowshoers, cross-country skiers and a few walkers more intrepid than we are. It’s only wide enough for a single person to trek and the footing is uneven. That makes the going a bit like walking in sand at the beach. Waldo sticks to the beaten path, but otherwise seems unaffected by its squishy, slippery nature. I decide it’s not too much work to go the ¾-mile to our usual turn around point and commit to going the whole way.
We get to the spot where I know the 2.5-mile marker is and I start kicking at the snow. It’s not easy, but the snow isn’t so deep, I can’t dig a hole down to it. When I’m done, the marker is in the bottom of a circular hole centered perfectly around the number 2.5. While I’m doing that, Waldo makes snow-doggies just a couple of feet away. I’m a little surprised he doesn’t come over and try to help me, or even take a cue and start digging his own hole, but he seems more than content to roll over on his back and squirm around. The only time I’ve seen him dig is when he’s in a fenced-in area and he comes to a corner. Why that particular spot is so enticing to dig, I can’t fathom. But, then, he probably thinks the same thing about where I choose to dig and he’s got a point.
We continue on to where the 3.0 marker should be. The snow is pretty deep there and firmly attached to the ground, so I don’t make much progress trying to find it. Ah well, I just may have to wait for the spring thaw.
Now, it may seem be a little ridiculous to spend so much effort and attention trying to find something buried in the snow, but it’s kind of liberating. To be able to do something silly, on a whim, and give myself permission to indulge, is a freedom I seldom exercised while I was working. I was just too busy. Whims occur in the moment and to give into them is to embrace the moment. Waldo understands, I’m sure.
My memories of childhood are filled with such playful moments. What else does a child have to fill his time with? To skip flat rocks off a still pond, to pick up stray rocks, looking for the prettiest, to trap a frog in the hand to be able to examine it closely, this was how I idled my time away when I was young. The gift of being able to just let one moment blend into the next without trying to box it in and direct the flow, that’s real freedom. It feels good to be in a place where I can do that once again. It gives a different slant to the idea of a second childhood.
We turn around at our usual spot and head for the car. About halfway to the Hudson/Marlborough line, we pass a guy carrying his bicycle. He’s the same one who we’ve seen riding in the snow in the past. But he isn’t riding it now. The snow is too deep and the going is just too slippery. He says he lives in Hudson and carries his bike to Marlborough, where the path is plowed. He’s on his way home when we pass him. I would guess that what motivates him is not some irrepressible burning desire to get out and ride his bike, despite the snow. From what little I know about him, through casual conversation in passing, I think he indulges himself with the joy of rolling through nature, including the snow, and going with the flow. It’s not that different from the allure that draws me and Waldo.
By the time we get back to the tunnel and plowed ground, I’m sweaty, tired and some not-very-often-used muscles in my legs are a little achy. The flat, stable ground, with no slipping or sliding, fills me with relief. We pick up the pace and are soon back at the car. I turn to Waldo as I get in and say, “Well, Waldo, another day, another 6 miles.”
He curls up on the passenger seat and puts his head on his paws.
In Hudson, it’s walkable.
In some places, the snow isn’t that deep.
A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
-Maya Angelou
–
The nor’easter blizzard blew through and left 16.6 inches of new snow in Marlborough. Woonsocket, RI, got over 55 inches. Because it was a blizzard, there are drifts that are much deeper and places with only around 6 inches of new snow. Schools were closed for two days and it took the plows that long to clean off just the major streets. The rail trail remained unplowed for three days, but was surprisingly easy to walk on where people packed the snow down in passing. At least for the first mile or so. After that, it was passable, but too much work for me to attempt.
Four days have now passed and the trail is plowed — up to Fitchburg Street, that is. That’s right around 1 and 5/8 of a mile. At least we have that far we can go without completely bleeding off my old-man energy in a flurry of achy muscles and dripping sweat. The temperatures have warmed up as well, with highs well into the 30s. And the birds are out, even though it is still winter, making their sweet music.
To date, I have, with the help of the app on my phone, identified 14 different species – house and song sparrows, blue jays, black capped chickadees, tufted titmice, northern cardinals, American robins, American crows and more. No Emmy birds yet, though. They don’t appear around here until late spring. It’s amazing to me that there are so many different species out in our little patch of woods, and, even then, it’s only a small sampling of nonmigratory birds. All in all, there are between 10,800 to 11,200 species of birds in the world. That’s almost twice as many species as the number of mammalian species (6,500 to 6,759). That is on the path to change, however. Over 160 avian species have gone extinct since 1964 and it’s projected that over 500 species will become extinct by the end of the century. 3 billion birds have vanished, from North America alone, since 1970, mostly from man-caused climate change and eradication of habitats. Birds are one of the 21st century’s canaries-in-the-coal-mine and what’s happening does not bode well for humanity.
As Waldo and I walk down the path, occasionally serenaded by our feathered friends, I can’t help but shudder at the consequences of the damage humans are doing to the environment. Birds are the last remnant of the dinosaurs. They made it through Earth’s last great extinction event (the fifth), the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction, in large part caused by the massive Chicxulub asteroid impact, some 66 million years ago. Some 75% of species did not make it through, but some dinosaurs did, namely the ancestors of all birds. And now, we’re on the edge of the next great extinction, the Holocene extinction, caused by human activity. I can only hope that some birds will make it through that too. They are such wonderful animals.
The ancestors of present-day mammals who survived the last great extinction, were thought to be small burrowing animals, like Purgatorius (what a great name!). They ate worms, insects and other surviving small animals. So I guess there were two main ways of surviving the catastrophe – burrow under the ground, or fly above it. It’s hard to guess what strategy will allow the survival of the current Holocene extinction, though I’m pretty sure some life will make it through. One thing is for sure. The planet Earth, and the life that survives on it, will not be the same as it is now. One can hope that there will evolve some greater intelligence than ours who knows better than to shit in their own living room. Or maybe intelligence isn’t what is required. After all, even Waldo knows better than to do that and he can’t even add.
For now, and, most likely, for the rest of my and Waldo’s lives, we can still enjoy life, pretty much as we’ve always known it, and at least some birds. Walking in the woods, especially in the spring, summer and fall, would not be nearly as beautiful and awe-inspiring if there were no birds. Now, as far as I can tell, Waldo pretty much ignores the birds (believe it or not, he also ignores the squirrels that run across our path). I guess he’s decided that neither birds nor squirrels can be herded and therefore don’t require any attention. Even so, I’d bet he, too, enjoys the ambience birds create, at least subliminally.
Migratory birds will soon be making their way through here, so I’m likely to find many more species as the season progresses.
I know I’ll delight in listening to their varied and cheery songs.
While in other places… Somewhere off to the left is a large rock and next to it the 1.0-mile marker.
More snow, but still walkable.
Winter is begun here, now, I suppose. It blew part of the hair off the dog yesterday and got the rest this morning.
-Mark Twain
Another 2 or 3 inches of snow fell over the past 24 hours. That’s just enough to bury the distance markers on the rail trail, but not enough to make the walking much harder. The temp is in the high 20s, with wind chill, and the sky is overcast. The storm laid down a layer of white on the tops of tree branches, squirrel dreys (nests) and the tarmac. The effect is to make the world look like a white piece of paper on which Mother Nature judiciously drew a few well-placed squiggly lines of sepia ink to give the impression of a wintry landscape. She did a beautiful job.
By kicking at the snow in strategic places, I can find the 0.5, 1.5, 2.0 and 2.5, but not the 3.0, nor the 1.0 distance markers. The 3.0 marker remains elusive and, I suspect, under the hardpack where it’s difficult to dislodge the snow with my boot. The only hint I have to the location of the 1.0 marker is a large rock at the edge of the new park. Unfortunately, the rock is buried under so much snow, I can’t see where it’s hiding. There’s not even a telltale bulge in the white to give away its presence. Tomorrow, there’s a nor’easter scheduled to dump about 20 more inches of snow in a blizzard, so finding all the markers just might have to wait for the spring thaw.
Last year was a light-snow year and I didn’t have to do much trailblazing at all to get Waldo and I through the drifts. This year is a bit more average, maybe a little above, but not the worst New England has seen. That honor goes to “The Great Snow” of 1717. Over the course of 9 days, 5 storms inundated the area with up to 5 feet of the cold icy stuff, with drifts up to 16 feet deep. People in New Hampshire could only leave their homes by crawling out of their second-floor windows and there were places where people tunneled through the snow to get between buildings. Some, in Boston, walked around on stilts (I’m not sure how that worked – how could they lift the stilt out of the snow to take a step?).
The Great Snow may have been the worst (in recorded history), but it wasn’t entirely unique. In 1888, 50 inches fell and there have been heavy snow falls in my lifetime. There was “The Blizzard of 1978,” when up to 19 inches fell on top of 21 inches already on the ground. In 1993, we had the “Storm of the Century,” that closed all the major airports on the Atlantic seaboard. During my time in Massachusetts, we had “The April Fool’s Day Storm” that dumped 3 feet of snow, where I lived in Sterling, on April 1st, 1997. There was the 2003 “President’s Day Storm” that left up to 30 inches of new snow and holds the all-time record for snowfall in Boston, of 27.5 inches, in a 24-hour period. I remember well having to stay in the hospital where I worked, in 2013, because of “Winter Storm Nemo” that was so severe that the governor of Massachusetts issued a state-wide travel ban. In 2015, “Winter Storm Juno” produced hurricane winds and buried nearby Worcester in 34.5 inches and Hudson in 36 inches of snow.
I can’t mention these storms without thinking about the “Year Without a Summer,” in 1816. From 1808 to 1814, five volcanic eruptions put some amount of ash and dust into the atmosphere. Then, in 1815, Mount Tamburo, in Indonesia, had a mega-eruption that put so much additional stuff in the air that the sun was significantly blocked out all around the northern hemisphere, causing crop failures and famine, and cooling the Earth, making it colder than normal all summer. It even snowed up to 9 inches in Maine on June 1st! There were supposed to have been some gorgeous sunsets, though. (As an aside, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron and Mary Shelley were in Switzerland at the time. It rained so much, they had to stay inside for days. Byron challenged the 3 of them to a contest to see who could write the scariest story. Mary Shelley won with “Frankenstein.”)
So, I guess, New Englanders have weathered through worse winter storms than what is predicted for the next few days. For Waldo and me, the ugliest part will be that we won’t walk on the rail trail until it’s plowed. Until then we’re restricted to the parking lot and roads around where we live. At least Waldo will be assuaged by being able to go onto his balcony (I shovel it).
But we shall return!
And more snow yet to come.
God bless Marlborough and her snow plow.
If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.
-Anatole France
Waldo has been on antibiotics now for six days. If what is bothering him is due to anaplasmosis, it is because the organism can cause kidney inflammation. Something that’s called glomeluronephritis. Even once the anaplasma has been irradicated by the antibiotics, it takes longer for the body to heal the inflammation. Now it could just be wishful thinking, but I do think Waldo is doing better. It’s not dramatic, but it seems he is peeing a bit less, a little less often and isn’t as frantic when he has to go. I’ve talked it over with his vet and it may take as long as a month of antibiotics to get back to normal. I’m just happy that what ailed him was easily corrected and transient. It could have been worse.
My energy has returned as well. Not getting much exercise for almost a month has made it hard to get back into daily long walks, but I’m getting there. Even the weather has cooperated, with temps in the high 20s and low 30s, no more deep snow and even some bright sunny days. At last, we are back on the trail. Things are looking up.
Now that we’re back, I notice the birds are rousing from their torpor in the warmer weather. I heard none for a few weeks when it was so cold and, now, I hear several different species. I can’t see them, usually, but I can identify their unique songs using an app I have on my phone. So far, I’ve identified American crows, house sparrows, northern cardinals, tufted titmice, black-capped chickadees and house finches. I even heard some Canadian geese. In the past, on occasion, I’ve seen the crows, cardinals and sparrows, but I’ve never seen the titmice, chickadees or finches. They hide in the bushes too well. But they do contribute nicely to the musical ambience. No Emmy birds yet. They don’t show up until late spring to early summer. Anyway, it is nice to be serenaded by birdsong once again, while out walking in the woods.
The path in Hudson is still quite walkable – no ice has formed yet. As I come near to the place where the 3.0 marker has been painted on the tarmac, I kick at the hardpack snow, trying to find it. Waldo watches me, wondering, no doubt, what I’m up to, then rolls around in the snow, waiting for me to finish doing whatever thing it is that I’m doing. I can get down to the blacktop surface in narrow trenches, as wide as my boot, but I’ve yet to find anything painted there. Each time I come out here, I dig away a bit more and I’m sure I’ll find it soon. But not today.
As we walk along, we pass a friend out walking a black and white border collie puppy. She and her husband are from Sweden and have been living and working here for decades. They used to have another border collie named “Svea,” which means “Swede.” She was about 15 years old and died a few months ago. The new puppy’s name is “Loki,” and, I would guess, is about 4 months old. He is quite excited to meet Waldo and jumps on him, runs around with a playful bark and is generally beside himself with rollicking glee. Waldo plays a more subdued, aloof, adult role, but obviously enjoys it a lot. I am so happy to see that Svea’s parents got another border collie. They’re a lot of work, but it is so rewarding to share your life with the little furry balls of inexhaustible fervent energy. And it means Waldo and I will be seeing them out here in the woods frequently again.
We pass several other people and dogs that we know. There are dogs who are eager for a treat, little dogs who are yappy and the occasional big dog who is unfriendly. Over the years, we’ve passed just about every breed and temperament you could imagine. There is a community of frequent walkers out here and, over the years, we’ve gotten to know one another a bit. Interactions are usually cursory and in passing, but still, we are a group with a common interest – walking out here. I know very few of the peoples’ names, but I do know a little of their stories. I’m on a first name basis with most of the dogs and, of course, nearly everybody knows Waldo. There are people that we pass that I don’t remember seeing before, but they know Waldo.
So, we’re back, Waldo and I, after a brief hiatus, and not much has changed.
It feels like home.
Meanwhile, in Hudson…
ta-dah!
I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.
-Mae West
Today’s forecast calls for high temperatures that will be tickling 40℉. With windchill, that should translate to something around 31℉, definitely something Waldo and I don’t want to miss on the rail trail. The sky is pale blue and sunny. We had an inch of snow fall last night, but the tarmac, at least the Marlborough part, should be clear enough for an easy stroll. I feel recovered enough from my recent illness to be able to do at least that much, so we head out. Waldo is still peeing a lot, but that’s no problem out here.
Once we get to the trail, I see that the plowed swath is completely clear of snow and ice. I’m not surprised. If the sun is out and its rays can make it to the blacktop, enough heat will be absorbed to melt an inch of snow in no time. The snow off to the side is still quite deep, though, at least 12”. Waldo tries to wander into the deep stuff so he can take a poop. He comes right back to the tarmac, though, because, even when standing, his butt is in the snow. There just isn’t enough room to squat and go. That does make it easier for me to pick up, but I doubt he takes that into consideration. Once done, and I have collected what he has deposited for reposit, he goes to the front end of the leash and we’re off.
Waldo is really happy to be back out here, going for a real walk. He’s prancing around, sniffing at the yellow snow and taking mouth-sized bites of the white stuff. Whenever I stop, he rolls over on his back and makes snow-doggies. We pass several other dogs and their people. Waldo always enjoys a good butt-wiggling, tail-wagging greeting, accompanied by a good sniff in places I would choose to avoid. He also demands his head-pat toll from the people we meet along the way.
The trail in Marlborough is now plowed all the way through the tunnel at the Hudson border. After that, though, it’s deep snow with a narrow trench, just wide enough for one person to walk, of hardpack made by the passage of many feet preceding us. It looks very doable, so I continue on. Waldo is already out front, having not even considered the idea that we might not forge ahead. The going is a bit uneven and a little slippery, but not a slog.
Someone, sometime in the past, painted mile-markers on the trail, every half-mile, from the beginning in Marlborough to 3.0 miles in Hudson. I don’t know why, nor do I know why they stopped at 3.0, but they’re there, on the northbound side of the trail, measuring about 6”, or so, in height. In Marlborough, the plow has exposed them, but they are still buried under more than a foot of snow in Hudson. The 2.5-mile marker, I can find with extreme accuracy, so I dig a hole in the snow and expose it to the daylight. I’ve always wondered what others might think of seeing a deep hole in the snow, perfectly centered around the numbers, “2.5”, in the midst of undisturbed whiteness. While I’m doing that, Waldo is making snow-doggies, not far away. I can’t find the 3.0-mile marker, though I do kick the snow around a bit.
After we turn around, somewhere around 3.125 miles from the start, and head back, we pass our friend the bicycle enthusiast and his bike. We’re still in Hudson, in the no-plow zone, so he’s not riding it, he’s carrying it. He may be intrepid, but he’s not crazy. Waldo gives him a a tail-wag and he and I exchange comments about the Hudson no-plow zone. I didn’t ask, but I wonder if he lives in Hudson and walks his bike until he gets to Marlborough and then rides it there. I didn’t think to ask him because I’ve come to feel that such behavior is the most natural thing in the world. Why would anyone question it? I’ve certainly seen more bizarre stuff out here, like a 2.2-mile-long path cleared by a snow shovel.
By the time we get back to the car, I’m tired and sore. It’s been just over a month since the last time Waldo and I have done the whole 6 miles. At my age, I find that I lose my physical conditioning fast and it takes a while to regain it. The long-term forecast predicts no significant snow and temps in the 30s and 40s for the next two weeks, so I’ll have a chance to get back into shape before the spring thaw.
Right now, Waldo seems quite pleased with our walk and ready for dinner.
I’m looking forward to my recliner.
Out there somewhere, under all that snow, is a 3.0 marker.