A cairn en route.
Walking With Waldo
There are two fatal that keep great projects from coming to life:
2) Not starting
— Buddha Gautama
Today is the day Waldo and I are going to complete the part of the Midstate Trail that goes over Mt Watatic. It’s a weekday, so there’s room to park in the lot at the trailhead. I once again opt for the route that has a gentler slope for the uphill slog. This is now the third time Waldo and I have walked here and its rocks and roots are familiar. The going is a bit strenuous, but I don’t have to take any breaks, just adjust my pace so I don’t run out of breath. I take one breath for every 3 steps. I’m reminded of the time I hiked up Mt Kilimanjaro — at 19,000 ft, I had to take 3 breaths for every step. That mountain is huge, and we climbed it on a 5-day hike up, 2-day hike down trip. Still, although not as arduous as Kilimanjaro, the going is slower on these hills than on flat ground.
Waldo is enjoying himself out at the front end of the leash. His nose is close to the ground, sniffing the smells left by all the previous passersby and whatever else is out there. He adjusts his pace to fit mine, slowing down as necessary, when the leash gets taut. He lifts a leg now and then, but most of his time is spent seeing the world through his nose. The trail is broad enough for a jeep to use it, so it’s not the canine equivalent of rocket science for him to know where to go. I only need to adjust his path with a simple, “Over here!” when he decides to go on the opposite side of a tree from where I want to go.
The temperature is in the high 50s and there’s adequate sun shining down through the arboreal canopy to keep me warm without a jacket. In fact, we haven’t gone very far before I’ve worked up a sweat. As arduous as the route is, it’s only three miles long and I’m pretty sure Waldo can wait until we get back to the car before being in serious need of water. So I left the backpack in the car and I hike unencumbered.
After about a mile, we come to the shoulder of the ridge that connects Watatic with the mountains to the north that we’ve already hiked over. I recognize the path that heads that way, off to our left, and continue on to the right, up the backside of Mt Watatic. It’s uphill, but not as steep as the path on the other side of the mountain.
The ground is often treeless, covered by large slabs of granite. Here and there, someone has placed trail-markers, large solid triangles of yellow paint, on the stone. In other places there are huge cairns that even a blind man can find. I’m able to maintain a decent pace, without too many stops to catch my breath. After another hour or so, we’re at the apex. Waldo’s nose may be drawn to the ground beneath him, but my eye is driven to scan the vast panorama of the green rolling hills of New England spread out before and below me. I understand why people like to hike to the tops of mountains.
I look to the north, where we started the Midstate Trail, and over the mountains we’ve already hiked and the ridges between them. It’s interesting that, with very few exceptions, mountain ranges in the US run north/south. The Uintah Mountains in Utah are an exception and there are only a couple of others. This is probably due to plate tectonics and glacier motion during the last ice age. So mountains are lined up (more or less) mostly in a north/south direction and are connected by ridges that are higher than the mountains’ bases. It makes sense, then, if you want to hike north/south up several mountains in a row, you would want to stay on the ridge between them, rather than go all the way to the bottom of each mountain, then up the next. That way, you limit the amount of up/down hiking you have to do. I’ve done this before, hiking on a piece of the Appalachian Trail over the Presidential Mountains, further north in New Hampshire. I was preparing for going up Mt Kilimanjaro, some 16 years ago, and wanted to get used to hiking over steep terrain. On one hike, I followed the north/south running ridge that connects Mountains Monroe, Franklin, Eisenhauer, Pierce and Jackson. There are more mountain tops on that ridge, but I had to call it quits because it was getting dark. Mt. Watatic is the last of the big mountains on this ridge and we now have to go down to its base to continue on the trail.
We turn and head down the steeper side of the mountain. Once off the top, we’re surrounded by eastern hemlock trees and brush. The ground is quite steep, uneven and lumpy, with exposed roots and rocks, and I have to step carefully. Unlike Waldo, who, in his youthful exuberance, is jumping and bounding down the hill with abandon. He must get frustrated by the tug of the old-man anchor that creeps down the hill slowly and haltingly. Still, he only occasionally tugs at the leash when he over-estimates how much freedom he has before reaching the end of his tether.
After another hour or so, we’re back to the car. My legs are a bit tired and a little sore, but my back is hardly bothering me at all. I must be getting in some kind of shape after all this mountain climbing! I suppose that my ease could be due to the fact that today, Waldo and I only hiked 3 miles instead of over 9, taking us 3 hours rather than more than 7 and had to go up only 700 feet of elevation gain as opposed to 1,300.
Nah! I’m getting in shape!
The view from the top of Mt. Watatic.
There really is a trail, if you look closely…
The day you become old is the day you’re not looking for new experiences anymore.
-Billie Joe Armstrong
It’s been 4 days and I’m still a little sore. For the last 3 days, my legs have been really stiff too. On the last trek, near Mount Watatic, it was my low back that bothered me the most, but after I was finally able to sit down for a long period of time, that eased off. Not so my quads. They’re still achy. But they’ve eased off enough that I decided I should take Waldo out on a walk and try to work it out. Sore muscle pain is caused by the production of lactic acid, a byproduct of anaerobic exercise, and increasing the circulation by exercising the sore muscles can help wash that out. We won’t go our usual six miles, but we will go.
The temps are in the high 50s, the ground is dry and the breeze light. The sky cover is broken and the trees are slowly becoming fully leafed out, providing lots of shade. Just before we go out the door, I notice a short footpath on the AllTrails app, called the Grove, that winds around a piece of Fort Meadow Reservoir, around 2 miles long. I’ve been aware of it for some time as people have told me they’ve taken their dogs over there to run off leash (they aren’t supposed to, but they do it anyway). It’s been in the back of my mind to check it out one day and I decide that day is today.
I also see on the AllTrails map, there is a trail that goes from Waldo’s rail trail over to the Grove. It passes through a piece of forest that a company in Texas wanted to develop into mixed-use commercial dwellings. However, it wasn’t zoned for it and locals put up an opposition that caused the town council not to rezone the land. I have, on rare occasion, seen people walk out of those woods, on a somewhat apparent beaten path, to the rail trail. So I have also had an inkling to explore in there as well. There you go. It’s decided. We’re doing an off-tarmac twofer.
We park about a mile and a half from the beginning of the rail trail and head for the trees. It’s no great effort to find a “path” that heads toward the reservoir and we step into primordial nature. Waldo is at first a little confused, because we’re not going down the blacktop, but when he realizes where we’re going, he’s off to the front end of the leash, eagerly urging me on. He’s following the trail as well as I can – it’s not much more than a suggestion that other boots have trod on this ground before.
The reservoir is somewhere in front of us, but we can’t see it because of all the foliage. Walking downhill to a small creek, we lose sight of where the trail goes. The creek is small and I’m able to step across it in a single stride. Up the hill, on the other side, we find a trail again and follow it toward the reservoir. It soon widens out to what appears to be a rough jeep trail. There is no evidence that any kind of motorized vehicle has been down here in a long time, but it looks like a hardy SUV could use it. In less that a mile, we come to Boulton St and, on the other side, is a parking lot with a sign that says, “The Grove.”
From the parking lot, a broad, well-manicured, crushed stone path wanders along the water’s edge. Not far from the start of the trail, there is a spot where one can put small boats into the water. I have seen, from the rail trail, people out on the lake, fishing, but not many and not often, so the fishing can’t be that good. There’s no one out there today.
As Waldo and I wind our way down the trail, we’re passed by a woman we don’t know, who’s walking her dog, named Trevor, off-leash. There are signs posted that make it clear that letting dogs off-leash is illegal, but neither the woman, nor Trevor, seem to care. I keep Waldo on leash, not because I’m a purist, but because he has OCD and if something caught his attention, he’d all too likely be so fixated on it that he’d soon be gone and out of sight, ignoring any commands. His recall is good, as long as he’s of a mind to do it, but if he’s distracted, I can’t be sure he’d be obedient. Besides, the leash is long and it’s almost like he’s off-leash anyway – and we’re both used to it.
After a bit more than a mile, the trail loops around and gets us back to the parking lot. We head back to the rail trail, the way we came, and we’re soon back at the car. Total distance traveled is just under 3 miles. This exploration has defined a nice little bicycle-less, pristine (sort of) path that is close by where we live, easy to get to, and not crowded. It’s something I’m sure we’ll use in the future when we’re up for a short walk in Mother Nature.
I’m feeling good and I think I’m ready to go back to Mount Watatic and finish what we started there.
Tomorrow, maybe.
There’s even a beach!
The official beginning of the Midstate Trail — if you can get there…
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
— Confucius
I needed to take a couple of days off to rest, after that last slog in the New Hampshire mountains. Then the temperature rose to the mid-80s and Waldo and I had to delay some more. But I’m committed to continue, although with some trepidation, until I’m shown that I can’t. Yeah, I know, there’s a strong element of denial there, but I’m just not ready to throw my life into the old-age ring. My body will not control me.
It does, however, carry the annoying power of veto…
It should be a good day for a mountain hike. The temps are in the mid-50s, the sky is partly cloudy and the ground is dryish. After a 1-hour drive, we arrive at the parking lot of the Mount Watatic trail head. It is completely full, no space to park. There must be 15 to 20 cars there. We cross the highway and park on the side of a dirt road running westward. There are around 10 other cars parked there as well. This trail must be a popular place to go on the weekend (it’s Sunday). I grab the pack that has Waldo’s water (around 10 pounds worth), my end of the leash and we’re off.
There is an option to the start of the trail. One can go straight up Mount Watatic and then down onto the ridge that runs to where we left off last time, but it’s kind of steep. Alternatively, there is a trail that runs around the base of the mountain, then up to the ridge. If we go up the mountain outward bound, then, when we’re tired, we could take the kinder, gentler route back to the car. But we’d probably be burnt out at the beginning of the trek and be worn out for the rest of the hike. Or we could go the easier way, then return going downhill on the steep part of the mountain. I opt for the latter.
The grade isn’t that steep and we make good time, going the 1-mile from the trailhead to the ridge. Once there, the ground is pretty flat. I’m feeling really good and thinking that this just might be an easy walk. We walk through forests of eastern hemlock, the predominant evergreen up here. There are also some spruce, but not many. The deciduous trees at the lower altitudes have already started to sprout their leaves, but not so up here (elevation around 1,200 to 1,800 feet), so it’s hard to get a feeling about just how many there are, without counting trunks. It seems like most of the trees, by far, are hemlocks.
We pass a few people going the opposite direction and some pass us going the way we’re going. No other dogs, though. Most of the people parked down below must be climbing the mountain and not hiking the ridge. Waldo is having a great time, sniffing all the new smells and enjoying the absence of bicycles (they aren’t allowed here). There are, of course, a lot of sticks around, but he doesn’t pick up any. He’s way too intent on following where the trail leads, which he, for the most part, follows unerringly. He pulls at the far end of the leash, going up and down the gentle rises we have to navigate, eager to get on with it. That’s pretty convenient – when we’re going uphill. Not so much on the downhill.
We work our way along the ridge close by Binney Hill Pond. It is large enough to be a lake, but it is shallow, allowing sunlight to penetrate to growing green things on its bottom. I’m thankful we’re not doing this later on in the season. I’d bet there are swarms of mosquitoes out here then. Just past the pond, the ground rises sharply. We’re at Pratt Mountain.
The going is steep, with lots of tree roots and rocks trying to trip me up. My pace drops dramatically, with frequent pauses to catch my breath and briefly rest my aging muscles. Waldo has gotten really good at sensing when to wait for me. I stop, then he stops and turns to look at me. If I take too long, he’ll roll in the dead leaves, or come back to where I am and lie down. As soon as I stand up, he’s off and at the end of the leash again, eager to get on with it.
At the peak, I’m tired, but not totally exhausted. We continue on along the now fairly flat ridge to the turn-around place, a rock where I sat and rested the last time we were here. I’m not absolutely sure it’s the right rock, so we go a little bit past it, then turn around. We’ve come 5 miles so far. I’m not stumbling-tired yet, so I mentally prepare myself for the trek over Mount Watatic on our return. It seems doable.
Then we come to the part where we have to go down the steep side of Pratt Mountain. That proves to be godawful. I’m just not used to using the muscles that are required for that. Going up isn’t as bad, because you can rest a bit from one step to another, even when you don’t stop. Going down, though, your muscles are taut the entire time, providing you with the tension that’s needed to keep you from falling forward. And my muscles are already tired from going up the thing. By the time we get to the bottom, my legs and low back are killing me.
Back on the more-or-less flat ridge, the going is easy, but now my muscles are cramping and very sore. I’m constantly on the lookout for a boulder or a fallen log I can sit on and rest. I can only go a hundred yards, or so, at a time – and we still have a good 4 miles to go to the car. Waldo continues to be good about my frequent pauses. He’s gotten used to walking with an old man. I grit my teeth and carry on. All thoughts of finishing by going over Mount Watatic are out the window. We’ll save that for another day.
After an eternity, we get back to the gentle slope just above the parking lot. Going up was easy, but coming down is excruciating. Finally, 9.7 miles, 7 hours and 40 minutes and 1,280 feet of elevation gain after we started, we’re back at the car. Sitting on the car seat never felt so damned good. Waldo is curled up on the passenger seat, his border-collie energy appeased — for the moment.
This experience might cause a more rational person to reconsider a commitment to continuing on with the Midstate Trail. But for me, it has showed me that, as painful as it might be, by God, I’ve proven I can do it.
I just gotta rest up for a few days…
Binney Pond
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.