For three years I lived along the banks of the Merrimack River, a primary energy source for 19th century New England industry.
ALONG THE MERRIMACK
Tag: Nature
DROUGHT RECOVERY
As I said at the time …
The ground was so dry the rainfall ran right off. The grass had all browned and turned to thatch.
But then, after a week of storms, the green returned. Mushrooms sprouted everywhere, even in broad sunlight.
~*~
Gee, these days I don’t even remember where that was. But I do know it’s true.
FALSE ALARM
Five volunteer departments responded, “The whole hill is on fire!” – only to discover a brilliant sunset in the woods. Five, all of the members dropping their daily activities to dash off on an emergency mission.
Now the caller was running for sheriff.
~*~
All these years later, I can’t remember who won.
BASIC TRAVEL
There are many approaches when it comes to travel. Some folks like the big cruise ships. The Jet Set, well, flies off to chic-chic hot spots – and skips everything in between. For more down-to-earth vagabonds, there are camper-trailers and the like, and a whole range of campgrounds geared to their needs. Add to that bus tours and trains or the ol’ family car or even a bicycle or motorcycle.
And the destinations can be just as varied – from big cities, foreign countries, mountains or seaside, resort or casino, dude ranch or nature preserve, family or friends.
That’s even before we throw in factors like snow (either to escape or use for skiing) and sunshine.
My preference leans toward the back pack in one way or another. When I was “on the road” covering 14 states in sales, I used to call my valet bag a businessman’s back pack, for good reason. On my own, I’m likely to be using my sleeping bag, too, so you get the picture.
Maybe now that I’m retired I’ll even get back to some backpacking in the nearby White Mountains. We’ll see. I learned the lessons well as a Boy Scout.
~*~
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REDWOOD AND RED CEDAR
As I said at the time, all too long ago now:
Preserved and mature, how tall the great trees along the Northwest rim: the redwood, red cedar, Douglas fir.
Too often a memory, the tall-masted vessels as well, billowing in the current.
~*~
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TRAVELING LIGHT
One of the biggest lessons I carry from backpacking as a kid is the importance of traveling light. Take no more than you need. Be resourceful.
In those days, I should add, everything weighed more than today’s high-tech, lightweight gear and dehydrated food packets.
On our week along the Appalachian Trail, I was a 12-year-old hauling a 60-pound pack in what seemed endless uphill marathons.
It’s a lesson you don’t easily forget, even when you’re going by airplane.
~*~
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POINT OF TRANSCENDENCE
Curiously, growing up in Ohio, I was nonetheless somehow fascinated by mountains. They arose in my early drawings. On family trips, it didn’t take much for a wooded hill to become a mountain in my mind. An astrologer might argue it has something to do with all the air signs in my chart. Whatever the reasons, a ridge line or summit calls to me.
There were a few tantalizing early encounters in childhood trips to the Great Smokies and eastern Kentucky. My true initiation, however, came at age eleven with a week of backpacking on the Appalachian Trail in Tennessee and North Carolina. It was miserable and magical, and left lessons for a lifetime.
Still, it wasn’t until after my college graduation that I came to fully appreciate mountains – living, by turns, in the Southern Tier of Upstate New York, the Poconos of Pennsylvania, the Cascades and Olympics of the Pacific Northwest, as well as Maryland (with its Catoctins and access to the Shenandoah Valley) and finally New Hampshire.
Many of my poems arise in some of those experiences over the years.
We could collect them as “By Gully,” playing off Louis Ulrich’s vow to climb Ulrich Couloir to the summit of Mount Stuart (9,415-foot elevation) one final time – “my gully,” as he referred to the trajectory more than four decades after he and two partners established the now basic mountaineering route in July 1933. A climber explores a slope, recognizes the avalanche chutes along the higher crests, approaches summits themselves via passes, gaps, or notches, usually following a streambed. The connection of gullies and mountains is established. By Gully.
Yet that is only half of the equation. Mysticism, as I’ve known it, keeps a foot to the ground, and often a hand or the butt, too. The spiritual journey leads to the mountaintop and back – if you don’t run ahead of your Guide.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
LOAF OF SLICED BREAD
A boulder resembles a round loaf on a breadboard. Maybe it’s just there for giants in the night. The leaves on the ground give an idea of its size.
A SIGNATURE FLOURISH
They’ve become a kind of signature for our place every summer, even though it’s been a number of years since we’ve planted any. The neighbors tell us how much they enjoy the sunflowers. They’ve become self-seeded, no doubt enhanced by our bird feeders.
As for all of the goldfinches, now that’s another matter! Just look at that bright yellow on bright yellow …
SIGNS OF STATUS
I learned to backpack as a Boy Scout. Our troop was big on primitive camping using homemade trail tents.
When you successfully passed the requirements for the Second Class rank (twice – ours was a strict troop), you got to construct your own pack frame. When we went camping, you had everything tied tight to it – inside your sleeping bag, which was rolled into the trail tent.
When you were awarded the First Class rank, you were privileged to weave and stain a rectangular basket that was then bolted to the frame. Your sleeping bag would be rolled up in the tent and tied to the top of the basket, while the rest of your goods went into the basket itself – a much more convenient arrangement.
You couldn’t buy a backpack like that anywhere except, maybe, a very expensive outfitter’s.
What I learned along the way was equally priceless.
The pack on the cover of my poetry volume is a more traditional design, but it still stirs the memories.
~*~
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Jnana's Red Barn 