Alexandersmap

    Category: Nature

    • The Forest Knows

      Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
      Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
      And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
      Must ask permission to know it and be known.
      The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
      I have made this place around you.
      If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
      No two trees are the same to Raven.
      No two branches are the same to Wren.
      If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
      You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
      Where you are. You must let it find you.
      — David Wagoner, Lost

      Walk out into the woods in silence, listening to the trees around you, and you’ll know the truth. Climb up high into the mountains, well above the trees, and hear the whisper in the wind. You’ll hear it up there too. Sail out beyond the sight of land, out where the swells make you feel small and inadequate. Hear the swish of water under the hull, the waves curl and splash away in salty celebration as you see your place in this world. The answers are out there, waiting for you to listen.

      We surround ourselves with the buzz of distraction, the white noise of modern life, to avoid hearing the silent call that urges us to follow. It’s a tempting mistress, this Siren, and drives so many to the rocks of conformity. Fall in line! Do your job! Stay on point! Bide your time!

      Time is irrelevant in the universe. Trees and mountains and the sea don’t mark time, they dance with infinity. Don’t you think, should we be so bold, that we should too?

    • Visiting the Cascades of Attica

      You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
      Know when to fold ’em
      Know when to walk away
      And know when to run      …

      Every gambler knows
      That the secret to survivin’
      Is knowin’ what to throw away
      And knowin’ what to keep
      ‘Cause every hand’s a winner
      And every hand’s a loser
      And the best that you can hope for
      Is to die in your sleep
      —Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

      When you find a few minutes in your day, googling “waterfalls near me” can net some great micro adventures. Today’s search brought me to a pristine 60 foot waterfall just five minutes down the road from a famous prison that looks like a castle in the cornfields. The waterfall felt like you were in another universe. And it was just where I needed to be between my second and third meetings on a busy day in Upstate New York.

      There are a few web sites that describe the cascades. I found this one helpful for understanding what I was walking into. Private property, three cascades within a few hundred meters of the road, well defined path… got it. Of course, it didn’t mention the slippery layer cake hazard of fresh snow on wet leaves on gooey mud that a visitor in December might confront, but things change and we must adjust to whatever we’re presented with. I attempted to reach the 60 foot plunge from both shores, recognizing both offered potential views but also potential for an untimely end to my time on this earth. There was no one to hear me scream as I slipped down the path, over the cliff and down the ice cold river. So why tempt fate? The secret to survivin’ is knowin’ what to throw away. And knowin’ what to keep.

      But I couldn’t walk away without getting a “close enough” picture. I slipped on the micro spikes, grabbed hold of the rope someone generously left for just such foolhardy acts and made my way down to the top of the falls. Not the dangerous part, mind you, but the part some folks in my life would question my sanity for getting anywhere near. Daring, but not reckless… Hey that’s me!. Maybe someday I’ll be back and conditions will be perfect for a walk downstream and then up the river bed for that classic waterfall shot. This wasn’t that day. But it was still an adventure. If only a small one.

      Cascades from as close as I could safely get
      The other shore was even more daunting

    • Fat Squirrel Haiku and Much Work to Do

      I watched a squirrel, fat for winter, dig in the garden for who knows what. The squirrel wasn’t welcome, but invited itself to this place I’ve called my own. Its ancestors might say the same of me, for one day generations ago there was a stand of trees, the next day someone laid a foundation and a house rose where the maples and oaks once stood and squirrels foraged in the wood. Who encroached on who?

      December cold and the bird feeders are filled once again. We’re told to hold off on filling them until the bears hibernate, lest they’re drawn to the neighborhood seeking food. The bears are always here, friend, but why invite trouble? I let the feeders run out and kept them empty until the 5th of December. But trouble arrived anyway–not as bears, mind you, but squirrels. They quickly got the memo that the buffet was open once again.

      The air is cold, reminding me of things left undone in the yard while I was busy doing other things. The list is longer than I’d like it to be, but I dream of escaping to faraway places anyway. Best to turn my attention back towards the nest. The squirrels are boldly circling back, ever closer, thinking, “If he’s not going to use it, we’ll grab it back for ourselves.”

      Fat squirrel digs for food
      Is the garden his or mine?
      Today, the rodent

    • Whispers in the Woods

      Have you ever wandered lonely through the woods?
      And everything there feels just as it should
      You’re part of the life there
      You’re part of something good
      If you’ve ever wandered lonely through the woods
      – Brandi Carlile, Phillip and John Hanseroth, Have You Ever

      It’s hunting season in New England, and bright orange is the color of choice for those who dare wander into the woods. Admittedly I haven’t been wandering in the local woods all that much lately, for reasons both valid and delusional, but mostly because I got out of the habit of placing myself there. You know when you’ve been gone too long, you feel it in your bones. I’d been gone too long and finally did something about it.

      Walking through the bare trees of New England in late Autumn, smelling the fallen leaves in the cool, damp air, delivers a unique sense of place not achieved in a world of concrete and steel. Inevitably you think of those who wandered these woods before you, whether yesterday or a thousand years ago, the woods hold their hopes and dreams and secrets just as firmly as they’ll hold your own.

      There are whispers in the forest, easily heard in solitude. They’re reflections of our greatest hopes and fears. Yes, some fear the woods, hearing ghosts, fairies or dark spirits. I think we mostly hear our own inner voice, caught in the wind and reflected back to us as naked truth, as cold and bare as the tree trunks and branches.

      In his enduring gift Walden, Thoreau described the “indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature”. Nature surely gives back far more than it receives from humanity. Shouldn’t we offer something good in return for the gift of nature?

      Readers of this blog know that I chafe at loud talkers, people who play music while hiking, motorized vehicles, and other such encroachments in the woods. It feels blasphemous, disrespectful, and the antithesis of all I go there for. But the trees themselves don’t care, they’ve seen it all before and will again. The intrusion is mine to bear, the trees will still be here, hopefully, long after the rest of us clear out.

      This too shall pass, the wind whispers through the bared forest. The leaves returning to earth underfoot voice their agreement. Here, you’re part of something good. One day we’ll all be ghosts, mere whispers in the wind. But not today. Today we were alive, and the woods felt just as they should.

    • Scarcity and Abundance

      We live in a world of scarcity and abundance. I see it in nature, where wildlife adjusts to a world of dwindling food, scrapping together something to eat in the dormant forest. A newly-filled birdfeeder sets off an alarm in the woods, and no sooner do I walk away from it that it’s filled with the boldest of foragers — black-capped chickadees and such. Soon the turkey, squirrels and blue jays will appear. In a world of scarcity this gift of food quickly garners attention.

      A pair of deer walked slowly through the mud and runoff from the recent rains. They know they’re relatively safe in these woods, for hunters can’t reach them so close to houses. I inch closer to try to get a decent picture and eventually spook them. They splash away a hundred yards or so and reassess the danger I present to them. Armed with an iPhone, the most dangerous thing I can do to them is spook them into the deeper forests in town, where the hunters are. I walk slowly back towards the house and leave them be.

      The only thing that’s abundant now are the millions of brown leaves blanketing the ground, mocking me for my excuses. I chose to pay someone to remove the leaves this year, a nod to the extensive time away but a bit frivolous for an otherwise active adult. I could have done it, the leaves taunt, and I silently agree. Yardwork is a favorite workout, and I’ve deprived myself of it this year. I find myself hoping the landscaper comes soon so I don’t have to hear the leafy voices anymore.

      In New Hampshire, we look towards Thanksgiving as a time to celebrate the abundance of the harvest and the time to share it with others. All this extra downtime waiting for someone else to pick up the leaves offers too much time to think. It’s not the same anymore, Thanksgiving, and yet we have so much to be thankful for. I can’t help but think of what’s missing this year, but remind myself to focus on what you do have. Life is a balancing act between scarcity and abundance. We must plan for the former and not overindulge in the latter. And in those moments when things seem a little out of balance it helps to pause and catch your breath.

      The world dances all around us in a blur of motion and stillness. Wildlife scrapping life together one day at a time and the leaves returning to the earth after their season in the sun. Who are we to refuse this gift of the present dwelling on what’s missing? Focus on what’s here, friend. And be thankful.

    • Getting Outside

      “Go out, go out I beg of you, And taste the beauty of the wild. Behold the miracle of the earth with all the wonder of a child.” – Edna Jaques

      Getting outside to nature cures all things. Stress, fogginess, illness—all are tempered or eliminated by getting deep into nature. When I’m not feeling well, the first thing I try to do is get out into the cold, crisp New Hampshire air and breathe deeply. Inevitably this is the beginning of recovery.

      Driving around California tor 11 days, I was most at home in the wildest places. The rugged coastlines, the redwood forests and the dunes of Marin all served to restore whatever was lost in city traffic. Even in Los Angeles, there are mountains around you that make you believe nature isn’t far away… if only that smog wasn’t pressing down on you so relentlessly. New England is the same in many ways (though thankfully without the smog). The ocean rules the coastline, the mountains and the forests rule the interior. Cities are full of modern wonder but also a fair share of ugliness. Step away when you can, for it’s only in nature that we find balance.

      If there’s irony in writing this post, it’s that I came inside from a walk to do it. But that’s the tradeoff we all make, isn’t it? Work, family time and the constant draw of screens keep us indoors more than we ought to be. There’s a place for the indoor life, but it shouldn’t dominate your life. Shouldn’t tasting the wild dominate our time? It seems to me that getting outside is the only way to find your center. And the more time you’re away from the outdoors, the more unbalanced we become.

      Get outside.

    • Towards Empty Spaces

      “Hiking is not for everyone. Notice the wilderness is mostly empty.” – Sonja Yoerg

      It seems counterintuitive that an otherwise social being would be so quick to seek out solitude and empty spaces. But that’s generally where you’ll find me when the opportunity arises. Let the record show that I love interacting with people. I just don’t want to have them encroaching on me all the time. And so it is that you’ll find me in places others might think of as desolate and wild.

      My favorite destinations have the fewest people in them. You can have your hippest restaurants and trendy neighborhoods, I’ll stick with wide open places, thank you. I’m happy to visit the world’s big cities, I just don’t want to live in them.

      I think nothing of it when I lose cellular coverage. In fact, I celebrate it! To be off the grid is increasingly difficult, and it may one day be impossible. But for now, I dance with my zero bars when I get ‘em.

      If all of this seems like a diatribe against population growth or humanity in general, well, that’s not the point at all. No, this is a celebration of elbow room and quiet hikes in hard to reach places. May we always have them, for I surely can’t be the only one seeking them out.

    • Pacific Coast Highway

      “We do not associate the idea of antiquity with the ocean, nor wonder how it looked a thousand years ago, as we do of the land, for it was equally wild and unfathomable always.” – Henry David Thoreau

      I’m an East Coast guy. California is another world when you live with ice and snow and sunrises as your standards. You imagine what a place might be like when you’ve never been to it but hear of it often. It becomes the stuff of legend. Driving the Pacific Coast Highway and visiting Monterey and Big Sur became such a legend for me. And the experience lived up to its billing.

      When you look out at the Pacific Ocean for a few hours, and the rugged, mountainous terrain this highway snakes through, you feel the truth in Thoreau’s words. But for the highway itself and a few scattered houses and ranches this view hasn’t changed much in millennia. And unless it all tumbles into the sea it ought to look the same for another millennium. We’re just rolling footnotes passing through the eternal. The Pacific Coast Highway sets you straight about such things.

      Starting our drive from the dunes of Marin, we drove Ocean View Boulevard to Sunset Drive, making our way to pay the $10.75 entry fee for access to 17 Mile Drive. It was worth the price of admission, particularly with the big waves rolling in as remnants of a stormy ocean. Officially, 17 Mile Drive has 17 landmarks to view (all mapped for you when you pay to enter). Unofficially, the glimpses of the homes of the ultra-wealthy and a drive by Pebble Beach Golf Links are a big part of the draw.

      A quick visit (checking of the box) in Carmel and we were off to Big Sur. This is where cellular coverage all but disappeared and you put your trust in fate. There are hundreds of turn-offs you can pull over into and several larger scenic vista parking areas. The toughest places to find elbow room were Bixby Bridge and McWay Falls. Each offer that postcard or Instagram worthy image. The trick is to find an image that’s unique without putting yourself in peril. Sometimes the perfect picture is the one everyone else took too.

      The rest was simply breathtaking views and an appropriate focus on keeping the car on the road. Every turn brought another stunning view, and at some point you stop taking pictures of waves crashing onto massive boulders and cliffs and simply enjoy the drive. The Pacific Coast Highway is an embarrassment of riches in its beauty and a national treasure. Make sure you have a full tank and the time to enjoy this experience.

    • From Sonoma Wine Cellars to Bouncing 185 Feet Above a Raging Bay

      Autumn in Sonoma is a lovely mix of fall color and a mellower vibe as the hard work and hustle of making the wine gives way to letting time work its magic on it. After a long drought California braced for heavy rains as we wrapped up our time in the region, and talk with locals ranged from gratitude for the coming rains to trepidation at the prospect of mudslides and debris flows where the fire scars were. Northern Californians are stoic about this place they live in, a place that is so generous most of the time yet brutally cruel at other times. Vacationing in a place you’ve wanted to explore as a massive wall of water converges on it mandated stoicism for us too. We must work with whatever fate brings us.

      Fall foliage in the vineyards

      If the Scots utilize previously-used American oak for their liquid gold Scotch, Californians use French oak for their liquid gold, wine. The smell of these barrels of wine biding their time is uniquely wonderful. Scheduling a tour in a vineyard that brings you access to the cellars is a must to better understand the process, and to bring all the senses into your Sonoma experience. Add generous pours of wine to sample and stories of the history of the family who started the vineyard and you’ve securely locked your senses in the amber of the moment. You’ll remember these moments most of all.

      24 hours later, it was time to move on to our next destination, and, it turns out, make another memory. In stormy weather you make calculations about the timing of the worst of it. Do you cut your trip short or hunker down and ride it out where you are a bit longer? Timing makes all the difference, doesn’t it? Leaving Sonoma on our normal schedule but before the worst of the wind and rain we left the region behind.

      As we reached the Richmond Bridge to cross the bay we anticipated extreme wind gusts on the exposed drive across, but didn’t expect a camper trailer to blow over on its side ahead of us, closing a lane and stopping all traffic for 15 minutes as the tow trucks and emergency vehicles positioned themselves for a wrestling match in a wind tunnel 185 feet above the angry waves below. Stopped there for awhile to contemplate the violent wind, we were lifted up and shifted side-to-side with the bridge. It was thrilling or terrifying, depending on your perspective on bridge construction.

      Just a couple of memories on opposite ends of the heart rate spectrum during an all-too-brief visit to Sonoma. Sure, perfectly glorious weather would have left its mark on us too, but there’s something to the unexpected drama of a massive storm that forever imprints itself on your memory. Travel offers up these amber moments. Remember that time we…. moments. And changes us in the process. Isn’t that why we go in the first place?

      Seghesio wine cellars

    • Finding Relative Quiet at Muir Woods

      Taking a long, slow walk amongst the Redwoods in Muir Woods, I deliberately slowed down, lingered, and sometimes stood still to feel the forest. Looking straight up I watched water drops formed in the tree tops from the light mist fall a few hundred feet. There are trees here that have stood here for more than a thousand years, my visit was just one blip in their lifespan. And here I found what I’d been looking for, what I’d hoped I’d find on this twisting drive through the hills. Here were the ancient forests of my imagination.

      Seeking quiet, reverent space amongst the giants is tricky business if you only stay on the main path. No matter how much signage they put up, tourists chat like they’re at the mall, oblivious to the glorious silence. You must go there expecting this careless chatter, but you don’t have to participate in it. The best option for silence is to take the paths less taken, and Muir Woods offers these opportunities. Take any trail that scares the masses – be it mud or the promise of exertion or even a dead end sign and you quickly find yourself in relative quiet.

      There are other old growth redwood forests, not enough of them we might agree, but they’re out there as state and national parks throughout the region. These offer more opportunities for isolation. Muir Woods is both the most famous and the most crowded. The trees won’t ever disappoint you, but your fellow man might.

      If we lost all the money we have and saved these trees, it would be worthwhile, wouldn’t it?” – William Kent

      William Kent purchased this land and fended off those who planned to log the redwoods to rebuild San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake and then flood the valley as a reservoir. He might have named it after himself but chose to honor John Muir. Modest? No doubt, but there’s an element of brand recognition at work here too. Since 1908, the Muir Woods National Monument has stood as protected land, surely thrilling Kent and those who worked so hard to save the trees, and capturing the imagination of reverent pilgrims ever since.

      If you visit, make a parking reservation well in advance. Go as early as possible to avoid the worst of the crowds. Wear appropriate footwear for hiking the side trails. And save the casual conversation for later. For you’ll have plenty to talk about.