In Pursuit of Wonder

July 8, 2023

I headed out across the backyard, down a slight incline to the driveway and gravel road, along the road and up a hill, turned left down into the ditch to the pasture. I turned left again, down a slope and right turn into the pasture lane. My brief morning walks to the woods each week sustain me, food for my soul. I sauntered along the pasture lane, noticing how dry and spent the pastures are. We are in desperate need of rain. Thankfully, the heifers are grazing on the other side of the hill and are blissfully unaware of my presence. I don’t understand why they run when they see me; I have never given them new pasture nor brought them food of any kind. And they aren’t afraid. Oh well, as long as they don’t crash through a fence because of me. The cow path I have been following is rough, the heifers made divots with their hoofs when the ground was muddy and with the lack of rain all summer long the divots have remained, now hard as stone. I stumble a few times on those hoof print ridges. I maneuver uphill a little and off the path, hoping for easier terrain, but it’s not to be. My right foot is slightly higher than the left, as I traversed the slope, so I continued to stumble a bit as I walked. 

I drew near to the peninsula of trees, the prelude to the woods, saddened by the dead ash trees. I stepped up close to one. Though the main trunk appeared to be dead, there were shoots of new life coming off of it. I wish I knew more about trees, so I understood what was going on with this tree, dead and yet perhaps not. A walnut tree had a couple of yellow leaves already, the poor plants are so distressed – this is the second drought year in a row here. I pray the trees will hold on. I ran my fingers along the ridges of the tree trunks, gently and lovingly caressing them. I looked up into the branches and the leaves, marveling at the beauty of the sun glow upon them. When trying to enjoy, connect and observe nature, you have to look up and down and out ahead. Listen. Feel. Pray. Be outside yourself. Be wonderstruck. Stand, sit, or lie down in awe. 

I reveled in the oak tree and the boxelder as I stepped past. Taking portraits of these glorious beings. I tramped onward to the woodland edge, and paused under the walnuts. The gooseberries were ripening. There were only a handful of fruit. I wondered if it was because of the drought. I reached over the barbed fence to pluck a couple of dark purple berries and popped them into my mouth. It had been more than twenty years since I had eaten a gooseberry. On my childhood farm, they grew all over the pastures and woods. My brothers and I would graze upon the berries as we played, pretending to be knights, or settlers or whatever. Perhaps next summer enough fruit will set that I can harvest some to eat and sell. 

I followed along the fence line. The gooseberries and other bramble bushes grew so thickly, coated in thorns, I didn’t want to trudge through them. I halted, a sandy colored moth or butterfly perched on an orbed flower, like a spiny ball that isn’t sharp, of a white avens plant with wings outstretched. I observed it for a moment before continuing onward; its wings were tattered, having the appearance of old, worn and torn parchment. Its coloration looked textured, like ripples on the sandy beach. Beautiful. Onward, I climbed a bit of a slope and turned with the fence, following the lay of the land, passing a few oak trees. Several minutes later, a bush caught my attention, so I stopped to have a closer look. Its red berries had attracted me. I had no idea what it was. Hoping it was edible, I sent a photo to my sister who can identify almost any plant. Tatarian honeysuckle, which is not edible. (A native to southern Russia and central Asia, it was introduced to the United States in 1752. Since then it has become widespread and is considered an invasive plant, harmful to biodiversity.) 

Further along the fence line, I stopped again, this time to admire the beauty of the quaking aspen trees. Their white bark is a lovely contrast to the dark brown, gray, and green of the rest of the woods. To me, they look similar to paper birch. Finally, I reached the spot I had entered the woods nearly a week ago (read https://bethanybenike.com/2024/04/03/through-the-oat-field-to-the-woods/). I crawled through the wires of the fence, and ducked under the spiked branches of buckthorn. Garlic mustard, remaining short and close to the ground, coated the forest floor. I was amazed it was still growing, generally it is a spring plant. Next spring, I need to harvest as much as I can to start getting it under control. I had to be careful where I stepped, fallen branches and sticks unseen littered the ground. I strolled under a basswood tree, enjoying the look of sunlight passing through the leaves, viewing them from the underside. I ambled down and up a ravine. At one point crawling almost on my hands and knees upon a fallen tree. The rock outcroppings drew me onward. I walked along the base of them, feeling their texture, ducking under fallen trees, leaning down off the rocks. 

Maples become prolific. A paper birch caught my eye, posing for a photo, as did a basswood tree. A shelf mushroom grew on the side of a tree, reminding me of melted and browned marshmallows. I scrambled up the slope and ducked under the fence by the now dry pond. Across the pasture, I bell-crawled under a fence, and cut across the fields to the house.

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