A Great Big Post About Babies, Dogs, Owls and Trails

It's been quite a weekend, and it's only Saturday night (though you'd never know it by my plans, which include eating, blogging then...yum...sleeping). Temperatures here in southeast Ohio hit 65 on Friday and 58 Saturday, which constitutes a great big cattle prod to me to get out and do something productive.

Cutting a trail down to the orchid site (which is deep in the stream valley in the middle of this shot)

ignited a fire in me to revive the Loop Trail, which my old pals may remember kept me sane throughout my kids' infancies. I would put Phoebe down for a nap, grab the baby monitor handset, and absolutely gallop around this self-made loop, laboriously cleared with hand clippers, watching birds on the fly and drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of the woods, which are so very different from those of the nursery. 

When she was old enough to carry in a backpack, I'd do that, and we had some fun struggling up and down the slopes together. I fashioned a little rear-view mirror so I could see her sweet face. Usually a line of drool ran down and pooled on the shoulder strap. Oh, for those days, and how it felt when she'd fall asleep and turn into pudding in the pack. 

Later, Liam loved to ride in the backpack, until he got so fat his thighs got pinched! Ha ha! I remember how sad I was when I had to retire the baby pack.

I wanna know what happened to my spherical child. He's all stretched out now.

When I began running with Chet in 2009 or so, I forsook the forest with its upsy down struggle and took to the roads. I had a dog who was absolutely reliable, to the point where he didn't even wear a collar, because Job One for Chet Baker was sticking with Mether. I could tell him what side of the road to run on and he'd click right over. Bless his sweet little pied soul. 

Curtis Loew has other priorities. Oh, he loves to check in on me, finding me wherever I might wind up in the forest, but clicking along at my side is not his jam. I have run with him on a leash, and he's very good, but I just don't like keeping this dog, or any, on a string. 

So running has given way to hiking, and that's just fine with both of us. I can stop and examine whatever I want; clamber, slip, and slide, and Curtis can memorize every hill and holler for a couple miles around us.

I don't know exactly what makes me pop out of bed and say, "I'm going to clear trails today!" but sunshine is one of them. I don't eat or drink--I just suit up and head out into the morning with my old buttonless Carhartt jacket on, and my Foxgloves gauntlets. I love these gloves--they protect my hands and arms from thorns and Lord knows there are plenty of those. I feel absolutely naked without them when I'm gardening! As close to an evening glove as I'm ever gonna get.

Also pictured: the smaller of my two Fiskar's boltcutter style clippers. Using them to clear a mile and a half or so of trail is like doing a thousand flexes and squats. As I sit here writing, everything hurts. I only know how to go all in, so that's what I do, time after time. I go out before 8 and get home at lunchtime, and I'm done with a capital D.

While I toiled away on Friday, I heard Curtis give the deep, throaty roar that means COYOTE. He stood and challenged it (them?) for awhile, then ran back and glued himself to me. I'm so glad he's wary of coyotes and has such a keen nose. He was not going to leave me alone with those characters around.

Some crows flew over, cawing, and Curtis tracked them through the trees. 

One of the things I love about cutting trail is that Curtis can do his thing, coursing the woods all around, sniffing in brushpiles and digging holes, even treeing a fat opossum! while I do my thing. I can usually hear his bells ringing, but even if he's out of earshot, I know he's dropped a pin on my location. That dog can cover an amazing amount of ground, and unerringly find his way back to me, or home. For that, I am so grateful. 

To learn this about him, of course, I had to let him go. 

That has been one of the biggest leaps of faith I've taken, to let this dog go. 

Curtis has a lump on his lower neck, a cyst most likely formed when he was chained out in his former life. His veterinarian keeps an eye on it, but she says it's nothing to worry about--just a souvenir of when he was a dog, not a demigod. Just a dog, not my familiar, my best friend and co-adventurer. Just something to be chained up when he gets in trouble.

I look at this dog, this beautiful shooting star, and thinking of him staked out and chained almost brings me to tears. All that was locked up in him, and all the trouble he got into, because he had not yet found his place in the world. His place is with me, and my place is with him.

                                           

 The way he finds me in the woods just kills me. He'll go off on his gigantic circular rounds as I work, the happy jingle of his bells falling to silence as he leaves. I'll shake my head and think, "He'll be back." And sure enough, he finds me, wherever I happen to be. I'm sure he can smell me for a mile. I probably smell like a porkchop to him, since I cook so much. I pulled on yesterday's shirt and thought, "Porkchops! I must smell great to Curtis!"

Part of the goal in clearing this mile of trail was to hack my way to this beech-dominated part of the forest, always a favorite in any season. Barred owls have nested down here for years. I've found their pellets full of crayfish; I am still finding their droppings, and Phoebe has even caught them on a trailcam! 

Please, click on this magical shot to see a barred owl making its living in our little creek.

I can't believe it's ever this green and lovely down there, but it is, and it will be again. And still I love it in winter as well. It's all so beautiful. I can't believe it's ours.

I see marvelous things while clearing. This is a giant buck scrape that's still being used, kept clear and scored every few nights. For those who don't have occasion to see them, these scrapes are the calling cards of rutting whitetail bucks. They clear the duff, paw with hooves and score with antlers, pee in them, and thrash the vegetation all around with their antlers. There are almost always broken twigs right overhead; they push the twigs into the orbital glands below their eyes to leave scent there too. It's the buck's way of advertising his availability. 

I cleared a lot of brush and briars down through the woods so I could break out onto this old logging road. Then I cleared the logging road of multiflora and briars. 

Sometimes clearing is no big deal, and sometimes it's a real pain. 

Cutting a trail through our blackberry patch hurt!

This passage was hard-won, as it was full of Smilax (catbriar).  You can see the green haze that says "You ain't walking through here today" on either side of the new trail.  I can spend hours in a thick place like this, making it walkable. It reminds me of doing the painstaking step by step drawings for animation. It can take you hours to clear a trail that you then walk through in seconds without even thinking about it. 

But that's part of the beauty. That's what makes it so worth doing--that grin I get when I stride smoothly through what used to be a briar patch, on my way to the Lycopodium Rooms. 

Here's the portal to the Rooms. It's kind of a trackless place, so I flagged my trail with little pink ribbons. 

The thing is to have destinations--beautiful places that move my soul--and to be able to get to them easily. To see that Certain Slant of Light and think, "Oh, wouldn't that be gorgeous down in the Chute?" and then take off on a newly cleared trail and get there in good time and without falling down. 

I love to gaze on these huge beech trees near our southwest border. 

   

  

Shila takes it all in.

This passage of forest is especially nice on a winter afternoon, when there is a boy and a dog for scale and sweetness. How good of the boy to wear beech-trunk gray, and of the dog to wear leaf-litter camo!

Curtis looks grand against beeches, moss and leaf litter.

Even when he's got a snagglepuss.

I laughed for about ten minutes when I blew this shot up. Toof.

I absolutely love this clip. We heard a huge tree fall somewhere upslope, and he was all afire to figure out what was happening up there. This is going to sound weird, but the fact that Curtis is able to pant noiselessly (and does) is just one more wonderful thing about him. Chalk it up to my being a birder, and always listening--who needs to listen to loud panting? 

   

 

Celebrating at Mount Auburn Cemetery

It never even occurred to me that celebrating my birthday in a cemetery was anything to remark upon, until someone remarked upon it.

Mount Auburn Cemetery is one of my happy places. It's a place of great beauty, tranquility, comfort and happiness for me. I saw so many of my life birds there--warblers, vireos, my first summer tanager...the list goes on and on. 

When I was a student, I used to read between the Sphinx's great paws. I didn't realize that sitting there could be construed as disrespectful. When the leaves were golden and the air was sweet and I couldn't stand the inside of a library for another second I'd go nestle on her stony bosom and read there. 

We saw what looked like hawk pellets there, and Phoebe climbed up for a second to retrieve them.

Corey and I dissected them, agreeing that the robust claws and teeth said gray squirrel to us. 

We thought they were hawk pellets because they were too small and disorganized to be good owl pellets. Yep, hawks cast pellets too. Saw a harrier cough one up once, and ran to retrieve it when she left.

The Sphinx stares stonily at this gorgeous little chapel. Look at those flower beds! They look like hyacinths in May, or lupines in June--but this is late July. What are they?

An annual called Angelonia, or summer snapdragon. Angelonia salicarifolia (Scrophulariaceae). Native from Mexico to the West Indies. I love it, love it love it. I have planted one here and one there in my flower borders, but never massed them like this. Brilliant! Makes me wonder if they grew them from seed in the greenhouses. I want to try this too. Heat and drought tolerant. And...deer don't like it!

There are no deer in Mt. Auburn Cemetery, something which amazes me. It is very well fenced, but still...there are foxes, coywolves and wild turkeys...hmm.

A sourwood tree in full bloom. Those pendant clusters of creamy bells make a fabulous honey. "Hit's got a whang to it," said a gentleman from Bristol, Virginia. I think of him every time I taste sourwood honey. This is a very large sourwood. It's native to Appalachia, a small understory tree.

Daylilies, reaching toward the light, remind me of angels blowing their trumpets. Mt. Auburn's trees are so huge and mature it must be quite a challenge to grow anything that needs full sun.

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Corey appreciates an ancient weeping beech. People have gone in the green rooms beneath its canopy and carved the heck out of it. Why do they do that? It's vandalism, pure and simple. I love finding beeches around Cambridge that haven't been carved, by virtue of being in the front yards of elegant homes. They're out there. You just have to look for them. It's a small miracle when you find one in a public place that doesn't have somebody's dopey initals on it.

Mt. Auburn Cemetery is paradise for tree freaks. Wonder what that weird-barked thing is? Well, trot on over and read the label! It's an arboretum, that's what it is, a bird sanctuary, a sculpture garden, a park. And a cemetery.

We love it here. The perfect expotition: Hodge in the lead, Corey and Phoebs entwined, me bringing up the rear, digging around, smelling flowers, reading labels, pontificating about this plant or this dropping or that tree or this flower. Bla bla bla bla. They don't seem to mind.

Hodge points out the Roxbury puddingstone that proud and prominent citizens of this Boston suburb used for their headstones. Pretty it ain't, all conglomerated as it is, but it's authentic. I like authentic.

Corey for scale. I wonder how they got that monster there?

On this expotition, we break with tradition (being hungry as usual) and have our Watertown Diner breakfast before our hike. Mmmm. Hash.

My favorite diner of them all. Hash. You must try the hash. Now, hash can run the gamut from pasty red Alpo (with subtle overtones of puke) to absolutely divine. WD's hash is stringy, slightly dry, exquisitely beefy (think rump roast flavor); it has small chunks of carrot and new potato, and the next time I'm going there I'm ordering just hash. So, so delish. Phoebe is now a believer. Her own mother turned her on to hash.

I love being around these two. The glow coming off them puts neon to shame.

Every now and then I force the shadowy, notoriously camera-shy but impossibly cute Hodge to submit to a quick snapshot. Follow @khmacomber on Instagram. 699 followers can't be wrong!

Keepers of the Giants

Now that it's thoroughly, awfully, evenly gray here in Ohio, I need to go back to a golden fall day in Cambridge, and some photos I squirreled away for just such a weepy day.

In a place that's been settled for as long as Cambridge has (try 1631) there are some pretty darned impressive trees. Trees that have been there much longer than the houses have, and the houses have been there a long time.  Here's a glorious American elm, still hanging on to vibrant life. Right next door to the beech I'm about to feature, in fact.

Hodge thinks there should be some kind of historic treasure designation for many of Cambridge's arboreal giants. I agree. She took me to the spot on Brattle Street where a homeowner had cut down the perfectly healthy twin of a massive beech still standing in the yard. I couldn't comprehend what would move someone to do that to such a gigantic tree. But then again I am not living under such a gigantic tree. Lack of sunlight in summer? Branches crashing onto the roof? I suppose there was a reason, but I couldn't bring myself to photograph the enormous disc of healthy white wood, flush to the ground, which is all that remains of what was once a glorious beech.

As medicine, we visited a beech that is appreciated, that comes as part and parcel with the house and is equal stature.

Its branches gracefully arch over the lawn, sensibly covered with broad-leaved groundcover since grasses don't much like growing under beeches. In some places the branches scrape the ground and rise up again.

Hodge would be the best Keeper of the Trees I can imagine. I think Cambridge should create an office for her. She could go around designating the Ones Who Must Not Be Cut.

the same mighty monarch, at a distance.

I don't think I was imagining the faces in its nearly pristine bark.  A bit scary, upon closer inspection. We found only one small set of initials carved into it--something worth remarking upon in an urban area, where beeches are virtually all horribly scarred by those seeking a piece of posterity in this act of vandalism.

Whaddya think you're doin' with those apples? 

At this, Hodge and I launched into the scene from The Wizard of Oz where Ray Bolger says, "Come on, Dorothy. We wouldn't want to eat THOSE apples anyway. They're full of little green WORMS"

and the apple trees start winding up, lifting kneelike roots and throwing apples at Ray and Judy as they run down the Yellow Brick Road.

Speaking of Oz, the home that accompanies this magnificent tree fits it perfectly.

Thank you to the homeowners who maintain these islands of beauty and serenity, these sanctuaries for giant trees. You are the Keepers of the Giants.

Big Weekend Coming

I'm all ate up today because we have the hugest week and weekend coming up. Tonight, a monster rehearsal for a long-awaited re-engagement of The Swinging Orangutangs at the Whipple Tavern on Friday, February 13. Oh my goodness. Our small band of hangers-on is primed to storm the Whipple (as everyone calls it), have a ball, dance, and not smoke. Two rehearsals today: the gig rehearsal, and also one for Phoebe's and my maiden recital on Sunday--she for piano, me for voice. Eek.

Phoebe and our teacher Jessica Baldwin will play the duet, "Old Abe Lincoln," while I'll sing a pop song, because that's what I do. No German opera just yet.

When I'm practicing my song (I'll sing "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Mike Reid/Allen Shamblin, made popular by Bonnie Raitt and Bruce Hornsby) I have to push away this image of Simon Cowell saying, "That was in-DUL-gent, it was cabaRET, it was an AB-so-lute dis-AHS-tah." He's always there, up in my head, although I have been able to get through the song twice recently without hearing that voice. I think I am watching too many American Idol auditions.It's funny how I can sing in front of a lot of people in a bar without breaking a sweat, but call it a recital, put me alone by a piano with a bunch of well-dressed people sitting politely with their hands folded in their laps, and it's a whole 'nother beast. A recital is like golf---all mental, instead of a gig, which is like basketball, where either you're able to pound the ball down the court and into the basket or you aren't, but either way you don't have much time to think about it. You just get down and deal with it.

So Friday we'll be going nuts with the Orangs, and Sunday I'll be in recital mode. I don't know if that's a good thing or not; I just hope I don't shred my voice at The Whipple. That's mainly why I'm taking voice lessons--I want to save what I've got; I want to be singing when I'm 88. Whatever Simon says.

So, in addition to the gig and the recital, we have friends coming down from Columbus to catch the gig and visit us. They are the city mice to our country mice. Although they spend most of the summer in the country in Vermont, and absolutely love to hike and be outdoors, they are accustomed to, shall we say, somewhat finer provisions than we are able to get 'round these parts. Luckily, they bring them to us, always offering to make a Trader Joe's stop for us before embarking. If you are a fan of Trader Joe's, you MUST watch this video.


If I have succeeded in embedding a video, the recital should go just fine. Thanks to my fine friend Matthew for alerting me to this homemade masterpiece.

Anyway, I thought I'd share a few pictures of Yo, Kate, Anna and Kellie from their last visit.Yo and I went to high school together in Richmond, Virginia, and for a couple of years we even waited at the same bus stop. We had the same amazing English and World Lit teacher, my guiding light who I love and still talk to after 30 years. I was a year or two ahead of him, and we didn't really know each other, and it kills me now to think that we were a couple of blocks away and didn't hang out. We're making up for lost time now. Yo heard me talking about a dying beech tree on NPR one afternoon, emailed, and now we're yakking all the time. The best part is that our kids get along like a house afire. The worst part is that our kids now pester us constantly to go to Columbus and Whipple.
We took the Yo's, as we call the family, down to Beechy Crash, a place where, 17 years ago, a huge beech smashed down in a ravine. That beech is nothing but a mossy log now, but the name stuck. There are always good icicles in the weepy seepy cliffs of Beechy Crash.
Luckily no one was impaled. I had to tell Liam to get out from under the icicles; he was catching drips with his tongue...Kids don't think that the icicle's ever going to come crashing down, but I've seen them crash, and no kid of mine is going to be under something like that when it lets go. Shila and I learned that the hard way in Beechy Crash a few years ago.

We came up to the old car that used to run a wildcat oil well deep in the woods. It's slowly deliquescing, and I commented on its beauty. The kids wanted to know what was beautiful about a rotting car. Well, I said, take a look at this:
and this:
and then there's this bit:Abstract paintings, all, reminiscent of lichens and shells, landscapes and skies...

and let's not forget this:
and I believe they looked at the car a bit differently then, with more sympathy and reverence for all it had once been.
We visited the beech tree, OK 1902, which brought us together in 2007, and which is now thoroughly and sadly dead. If bringing us together was its highest purpose on earth, I hope it is content.
We were hiking along when suddenly Bill hurried forward and disappeared up the trail. It wasn't long before the smell of smoke came on the air, uncomfortably, alarmingly close. I never want to smell that unless I know exactly where it's coming from. It took me a minute to figure out what was going on. I was pleased but not surprised to find my caveman hunkered down near the carcass of OK 1902.
In no time at all he had a fire big enough to warm Liam's feet, which were very wet after a slide down a steep bank into the stream.
It was time to put out the fire (Bill, Liam and Yo took care of that in the most manly of ways while the females went on ahead) and turn for home. This gave Yo, a frighteningly well-versed oenophile, a chance to razz us about our "wine cellar," which is a climate and humidity-controlled cardboard box nestled against a roll of extra insulation and some mops in our messy basement.
He went through our collection, which is heavy on Ohio wines because those are the ones that are left. This one is from Trader Joe's, and it was a special buyout, and it wasn't very good. It has a train on the label, so we took to calling it Night Train.


Yo likes burgundies and vouvets and all kinds of types of wines I haven't even heard of, and he brings bottles for us to experience and completely ruins us for the grocery-store rotgut we usually drink. It is no favor he does us, though it's really nice at the time.

If he weren't so cute, and didn't arrive bearing burgundies, I'd probably clobber him with a bottle of Terra Cotta Sweet Red Table Wine.

Plus, Chet Baker likes him.
And anyone who will let Chet Baker fall asleep in the crook of his arm and stay still until he wakes up is a friend of mine.
We were all kind of cold from the walk so we started a fire and put our feet to it, but in a nice way.
These photos are by Bill Thompson III. The first, ugly flash photo is to show the lineup. But this is what it really looked and felt like.
Friends are the best.