In Pursuit of Wonder

February 28, 2025

I have been making good progress on editing and rewriting the second draft of my book the last few weeks, though I am behind schedule. I had hoped to complete it by the beginning of the month. This week, I have been working on the most difficult part of the book which has been slow going. Needing a break, I scampered off to the woods. The snow of last week had completely disappeared, and life was beginning to stir again. I traipsed across the backyard, up the gravel road, turned and sauntered down the slight incline to the dormant pasture. Although I had been feeling better, progress on my book helped elevate my thoughts, I still felt lonely — having Leah join me for a hike a couple of weeks ago just made me long for her company again now. I savor alone time and solitude, and sometimes the woods are best enjoyed alone, but I never seem to have enough time to hang out with my family, particularly my nieces and nephews. I wish Leah’s family lived on the next farm over, an easy twenty minute walk from our house. Then I could drop in almost daily. It doesn’t help that even after five and a half years of living here, I still find it difficult to invite my people over, especially since we live in Jesse’s parents’ basement which is small and dark. And I still feel like I need to get permission rather than just share the information that I am having people over. 

Mind wandering, my feet carry me over the pasture, sometimes nearly tripping on the uneven ground. I opened a gate to step into another paddock that had not been grazed last year. Shutting the gate behind me, I waded through waist high, amber grasses, breaking off a stem as I passed by. I twirled the brittle stem in my fingers, then methodically began tearing it into tiny pieces. This is something I do all the time, for years and years, I am unsure why — anxiety or just a need to keep my hands busy? The second gate is more difficult to open and close, the wire strand is tighter and has less give to it, but I manage. I amble up the slope along a cow path, staying close to the fence line, which I crawl under when I get in line with the deer stand. The thorny brambles of black cap canes rattle against my thick pants, threatening to snag me. I scooch down the exposed bedrock, ducking around a dead branch as I do so. Pausing a moment, I survey the woods ahead, trying to remember where to step, which deer trail to follow to avoid the most brambles. There are devilishly sharp gooseberry bushes sprinkled throughout, their thorns can undermine any of the stoutest hearts. Growing up, my siblings and I were willing to risk the thorns and tiny, spiny hairs for a taste of the delectable berries. These days, I generally miss them in peak ripeness and availability. A moss or close relative pulls me with its scandalously green leaflets. A few oak leaves around it host a white yellowish, fuzzy ball, most likely an egg sac. I wish my knowledge was greater, I very much desire to know what everything is and understand it. 

Stepping over logs in various states of decay and dodging branches and as many brambles as possible, I broke through the thickest part, penetrating deeper into the woods. The valley between the bluffs deepens, or perhaps the bluffs rise up further, the further in I tread. Tentative birds chirp overhead, still just the winter residents. — Somewhere in the branches above a bluejay cackles. The evening shadow is spreading across the valley floor and beginning to creep up the east-facing bluff. My feet take me down and up a couple of small gullies, the path of snowmelt when it’s significant. The leafless trees are still beautiful and stately, but late February without snow can become a bit dreary to the eyes. Turning right, I climb up the eastern slope, as if I am seeking the remaining sunshine, and perhaps unconsciously, I am. Leah had insisted she was slowing me down significantly, so I had decided to retrace our route, being sure to travel at my usual pace, and time it to compare. It wouldn’t be exact though because I am not sure of the exact time of our setting out. Hence, I climbed the slope where we did a couple weeks before, skirting around small, scrubby trees. I relish ambling over the exposed bedrock, something about it fills me with comfort and exhilaration. I pause to soak in the moss adorning the top of stones, a green stocking cap, and the only color of note in the woods. This spot, flanked by shaggy cedars feels like a cozy room, a wonderful place to linger. Gray squirrels chased each other around and up the cedar tree, chittering loudly. A bluejay sounded the alarm of my presence. I continued onward. 

At the first gully, I stepped up onto the log, pausing halfway across the ponder the ice sheet flowing down the bluff. Its white gray colors spruced up the dull landscape. And I realize the log I am standing on is crumbly with decay. Its narrow breadth is slightly wider than my foot. Across the gull, I pause to admire the off-white polypore mushroom growing from the side of a tree. Moss adds fuzz to the bark, like a scruffy beard. I smile at the random metal chair perched on top of an escarpment, which thrilled me to climb. The late afternoon sun is spotlighting it. Continuing onward, I take in tiny, fan-like white mushrooms adorning a fallen, mossy log; turkey tail or a close relative. I stepped over the log with care. My feet slipped and slid in the damp, black dirt, descending the rocky slope. The large rampart loomed ahead. I take such delight in scrambling up it, squeezing through trees to summit. At the top, I take a moment to marvel at the way a tree’s roots grip the stone. I peered over the edge, absorbing the dropoff. 

Traversing the remaining gullies, I startle a white-tailed deer which utters a huff before departing. I only glimpse the elegant creature as it is bounding away. A cardinal whistles. Crossing one gully by walking on top of a high fallen tree, lifts my soul, as I am brought nearer to the tree canopy. There are so many fallen logs and branches to navigate around. As I neared the birch tree promontory, I decided to follow a deer trail meandering down alongside it. This allowed me to explore the promontory in a new way, by climbing up the rocks, which I did so with great relish. I placed my hands and feet thoughtfully, hoping to not disturb the delicate moss too much. I marveled at the tenacity of the trees to not only grow on the rocks but to thrive. Down the other side was just as deliberate, being sure of my footing so as not to fall. I paused to enjoy a mushroom colonized paper birch log, the undersides of the mushrooms appeared fuzzy. 

Down in the rocky ravine, my heart soared to come in contact with some many stones. It may be here because of poor land use practices but I couldn’t help enjoying my make believe stream. Water trickled and pooled over and around the rocks from the week’s marginal snowmelt. I have always been drawn to ephemeral, spring streams, loving the flowing water. Even in well-managed, nature-minded landscapes there can be heavy spring runoff. On my childhood farm, in pastures with grass long enough to keep water from running, even in March and April, our temporary creek would overflow with water. My brothers and I delighted in playing in it. Our imaginations ran wild as the frenzied water. The water here was happier to sit in successive, step-down pools. I ambled onto the wide, fallen log, noting the raccoon scat as I walked across it. The pools reflected the graceful tree branches stretched above. This was a balm for my aching soul! A shambled down the damp rocks, paused to twirl my fingers in the icy water, feeling the freedom of childhood — awed by the simplicity of snowmelt. Toward the bottom of the cascading rocks was a very miniscule waterfall, its healing power was vast however. The only thing not to like about this spot is its position next to the highway, but at least it is several tens of feet below the road, and the rocks and trees conceal it. 

Following the meandering ravine, I scramble over the log jam and pass along Leah’s stage. The rock walled bluff ascends upward, vertically. Water suspended as frozen drips from the moss wallpapered rocks. A pool of water was glossed over with a thin layer of ice, in the shadow of the bluff, and mosaiced by maple and oak leaves. Around the bend, I nearly stepped on a dead raccoon mostly concealed under a pile of leaves, I jumped back in alarm. (I don’t handle  unexpectedly stumbling upon carcasses very well. Even dead grasshoppers can startle me. Which is odd given that I often scrutinized the infrequent dead bodies of cows, watching maggots squirm about it. I wonder if it is a result of PTSD, when I was a very young child I seemed to be less afraid of things (other than the dark) — I have a mouse phobia now but I remember not being bothered by them when I was a young child.) Resetting my course to avoid the raccoon, and calming my heart rate, I approached the culvert with trepidation. I admit walking through these culverts alone terrifies me a bit, no idea why; but I press on anyway, switching on the headlamp. 

On the other side, I almost sat down to reach the rocks below me, in order to exit the culvert. Stepping on stones, negotiating around logs and small trees and branches, I ambled up the ravine toward the old road bed. I did not go into that old stone tunnel, however, knowing it would be dangerous to do so alone and without anyone knowing precisely where I am. Although, if it collapsed on top of me, it wouldn’t matter if someone was there or not other than to know where my body could be found. I doubt it will collapse any time soon, but even so, I wouldn’t go in whilst alone in the woods. Honestly, it wasn’t the possibility of collapse that kept me from crawling in alone, some other unnamed irrational fear held me back. I picked my way back down the stone-laden ravine, soaking in the awe-inspiring height of the towering bluffs. There’s too much beauty and splendor to describe here. Once again, I had to go inside a metal culvert to cross the road — I momentarily pondered climbing out of the ravine and walking across the road but decided against it since it would have been difficult to find a spot to climb down the steep bank back into the woods on the other side. 

Snow still dusted the ravine. I had to stretch as far as possible to reach a boulder to climb out of that culvert. It was high off the ground on the south side. (On another evening walk, when I hadn’t gone into the first culvert but climbed up and over the hill, I heard the flapping of wings. Looking up, I observed an owl fly overhead and land in a nearby tree. We watched each other for a moment. Its species would be a mystery, it was too big to be a screech owl and too small for and not the right head for a great horned owl, but it was backlit such that I couldn’t make out its features very well. Awe overcame me. Encountering an owl is always magic. Our shared moment didn’t last long before it flew away.) Down on the ground, I realized the snow covering was more than a dusting, it crunched beneath my steps. An extremely icy spot nearly dropped me but I managed to maintain my balance and chose my next steps more carefully. 

Where the two big ravines meet, this one going along the bottom, and parallel to the road, and the other meandering down between the bluffs, I ambled out of the first and into the second. The looming rock formations at the top of each bluff, will never cease to amaze me. They feel like guard towers of Gondor, the formerly great kingdom from the Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. It does my heart, body, and mind good to climb up the boulder field between the bluffs. I reminded myself to not be alarmed by the two dead raccoons Leah and I had encountered. Why are there so many dead raccoons this winter anyway? Maybe it just seems like a lot. Pools of ice filled with oak leaves nestle between the rocks. Several terraces up, I stopped to admire the tiniest of waterfalls, before continuing to climb up damp rocks. I heard coyotes hooting, yipping, and laughing, having a grand party. Aware of the deepening dusk, I scrambled up the steep bluff side to the man-made trail, still following the route Leah and I took. Ducking under a suspended fallen tree, I approached the metal tube gate at the top of the trail. I climbed over the slippery metal bars. Strolling through the darkening pasture, admiring the sunset, I headed for home. By myself, I was at least a half hour faster, and still took a large number of photos.

Don’t forget to purchase a copy of each of my books on Amazon – Dandelions https://a.co/d/96sAFHU, Raking Leaves https://a.co/d/fnbusTI, Making Applesauce https://a.co/d/bVbQ7Hw, and Pruning Apple Trees https://a.co/d/3qUIcoV