Category: Nature

The Trail – Again

Last week at camp I ventured out onto the Wheaton Trust trail off Route 1.  It is the same trail where I lost my way back in 2018, sweating through the wilderness to find myself only 500 feet from the highway, but some miles from my initial point of entry.  This time I was accompanied by my kids and had the benefit of the new trail map brochure prepared by the Trust.  The brochure is now available locally and at the trail sign-in post.  The route is well marked and provided one pays attention to the map and the trail markings, getting lost is not an issue, though none of that is any use without the stamina and balance to handle the two or so miles of natural terrain to Sucker Lake.

The trail begins rather seductively some 1000 feet from the turn-off, with a cleared walkway to a car-width sized opening, everything plainly marked, and open to the skies.  A few feet away a wooden bench is chained to a tree – undoubtedly a welcome sight to exhausted, returning hikers and perhaps a bit of a hint to what lies ahead.  Eager to be on my way, I darted into the thick woods, my daughter Kara and her husband behind me.  The trail quickly narrowed to the width of a bleacher row at Yankee Stadium – little over a foot wide.  The ground was uneven with roots bared and tree stumps and sawn branches from a recent cutting.  The light was much dimmer.  There was no reason for sunglasses so I tucked them into my shirt pocket and slowly adjusted to the reduced light in the heavily canopied wood. I noticed how quiet it was.  There were no morning birds or sounds of water lapping against the rocks– just stillness.  We were alert at every turn for the next small directional sign nailed to a tree and the occasional painted limb indicating a trail marker.  It was easy to miss these clues when forest debris or mud puddles obscure the obvious pathway.   The trails are not level and obstacles, such as a fallen tree blocking the path, can be disorienting– like taking a wrong turn an unfamiliar city.  Without clear detour signs one quickly loses direction.  I always keep my head down to avoid a stumble, however with eyes on the ground it is easy to miss the trail markers.  I learned my lesson the last time.  These trails are marked early in the season and nature has a way of not adhering to anyone’s schedule.  Avoiding the mud puddles from the recent rains then returning to the prescribed marked area on the map took a bit of walking back and forth to reorient ourselves.

The hike from the trailhead to the picnic area at Sucker Lake took us an hour and a half—a distance of only two miles.  The over, the under, the balancing, the crossing of small streams, the muddy, low-lying areas and the large granite boulders all made for a bumpy trek.  This time, with the help of my ever-alert children, the well-marked trail, and the new map, we did not get lost and together conquered a great hike.  I sent my kids back to camp through a shortcut in the woods from the lake and I ventured on to pick up the truck from the trailhead.  My cell gps calculated another hour walk so I decided it was enough.  I turned around and took the same familiar shortcut back and hitched a ride with Katie to my truck. It was enough hiking for one day and I most certainly did not want to push my luck. 

Fishing on My Mind

It is nearly the end of April and I am deep into my angler magazines.  I’ve also been calling on my fishing friends to find out about their upcoming plans and to reminisce about fishing exploits past.  I called my buddy of many years, Dr. Jay, to talk about the early spring trips we took together with a gang of friends, now passed, to Pennsylvania – Big Spring Creek, Allegheny, Susquehanna and Penn’s Creek—for Walleye, Small and Large Mouth Bass, Pike, Muskee, Brown Trout and the occasional Rainbows.   I’ve also connected, via zoom, with my friend Paul, in Wales, who has filled me in on the fishing conditions at the River Wye, his local spot.  My latest issue of the British magazine, The Field, has the line on fishing throughout the UK, where it started April 1st.  The Brits have easy access to waterways throughout the countryside with endless fishing locations both private and public.  I truly enjoy the fishing experience in the UK, as much for the catching as for the environment and the company.  The outdoor spaces are exhilarating, walking through the ancient woods to a hidden fishing spot–it is as much fun as setting the fly.   And of course, the fellowship, not only with my buddies but with the guides, who make all the travel worthwhile. Characters they are, who harken back to another era, as some have been fishing the same waters for fifty years.  

I have my own fishing nest in Maine, and the daily reports still show ice in places on the lake.  There are no reports on the beaver ponds since their locations are secret, known only to me and Greg.  I will have to see if Greg has had a chance to check on them.  I am traveling north in a couple of weeks for a hearing and am planning a side trip to Bangor and from there to camp for an overnight on East Grand Lake.  Wheaton Lodge just opened and Sandy is encouraging me to come.  “The small mouth bass are plentiful,” she tells me.  Maybe a salmon on top of the water for my visit? I am hungry for my guide Andy’s grilled lake-side barbeque chicken and cowboy coffee.  The Woodie Wheaton Land Trust recently closed on a large tract of land on the East Grand Lake and St.Croix headwaters.  I am anxious to see it –and of course to go out on the lake with Andy.  I look forward to the early morning sun on my face and the quiet of the grand canoe gliding through the water.  The eagles soaring overhead.  No other fishermen in sight.  Andy knows I like to keep more or less to myself and rest the mouth and mind.   He is respectful of my need for the tranquility.  It is where I recharge my batteries for summer in the Hamptons and everything to come, and for as long as life has for me.

The Magic of Hurricanes

Hurricanes can be terrifying as Ian recently demonstrated on the west coast of Florida. Last week, a category 1 called Hurricane Nicole threatened the east coast. It was a major disruption coming soon after a minor one — the clock change from daylight savings time. Adjusting to sunup and the hour setback was always distressing when I wintered up north. Yet the threat of a category 1 did not raise my blood pressure. I believe when you live waterside you assume the risk. That is a choice one makes—perhaps it is a lifestyle or even a sense of adventure. I choose to wait out hurricanes. This time I was lucky.

The streets looked like a modern-day ghost town. Restaurants and shops closed early once the alerts started to spike between cell phones and the tv weather reports. An evacuation order was in effect in Palm Beach so roads emptied of cars and trucks as the trade parade started crossing west over the bridges that serve Palm Beach. As the transient working population left together with many of the island residents, many headed for hotels inland in West Palm Beach, everything quieted down except for the wind, which steadily picked up momentum. The periodic rain droplet fell yet many sidewalks and streets remained dry despite the scattered precipitation and wind gusts. The stormy, tropical air was refreshing. The temperature was a steady 75 degrees. It was a Caribbean Island feel. The waves along Ocean Road topped the hard revetment structures. Waves as high as 20 feet crashed onto the waterfront roads, where locals out walking recorded the wave action on their cell phones. It was a dangerous walk since a rogue wave could easily overwhelm anyone in its path.

The social life of this new Caribbean-like island continued on, with a few storm-influenced modifications. As restaurants were closed, friends took to each other’s homes and apartments for cocktails and quickly thrown together dinners planned in anticipation of the storm touching down later on. Locals are always prepared for a hurricane party. Extra umbrellas and flip flops are always on hand. Even the recent memory of Hurricane Ian didn’t scare off everyone from enjoying the evening. With storm shutters fastened down, candles and flashlights were standard hardware should the power go out. In preparation of full electric failure, ice was stacked in buckets and cold food was the fare on offer. The phrase “house buttoned up” was heard frequently. Cars were parked in covered areas to avoid falling trees. Patio furniture was brought indoors. “Why not” was the common response to an invite from the neighbor downstairs whom one never met in five years of residency in the same apartment building. We all watched the weather reports on tv, with its repetitive charts and projections. After nothing but midterms news the change was a relief. The counterclockwise spin of the hurricane drove the action northeast. On the tv screen, the white swirling mass moved two inches to the left and up. Those two little inches meant our Category 1 hurricane was just downgraded. The next morning, I awoke and thought I was still dreaming. Just like that a category 1 hurricane became a tropical rainstorm. That relief felt something like magic.