New Year's Mountains

View from the summit of Giant LedgeNear the summit of Wittenberg Mountain, the wind howling through my wool hat, I heard the chickadees. I looked over into the Spruce trees and there were the bright little birds, tilting their black caps at me, as if to get a better look at this person on snowshoes, trudging her way through the snow. My appreciation for the Chickadee soared. Here they were, just over 3,500 in such cold, singing away. My toes were cold, my ears burned, my fingers were numb. I didn’t feel like singing.

It was January 1, and we were five, ringing in the New Year by heading for the summit of Wittenberg. Wittenberg is 3,780 feet and is neighbors to Cornell and Slide in the Burroughs Range of the Catskills. The guidebook describes the climb up Wittenberg as “extremely difficult.” I had been up the mountain before, but on a spring day. And, I was feeling fresh that day. On this New Year’s hike I started out with sore legs; the day before, I had hiked up Giant Ledge and Panther with my friend Max.

Max duck-taping his snowshoesMax and I had left late on the 31st, after spending some time duck-taping his snowshoes, and stopping for sandwiches. The sun was high, a crystal blue-sky day. The trail had been broken, though we still wore snowshoes. In several sections, the trail had been blown over and we tromped down the fresh powder as we passed black cherry trees and then moved through hemlock forests.

This was Max’s first Catskill hike and I wanted to take him up something with great views (not the case with every Catskill peak). We were not disappointed. The scan east toward the Hudson, to Overlook, Roundtop and Plateau was magnificent. After easily summiting Giant Ledge, we headed on to Panther, and returned to the car by three in the afternoon happy. On our walk I had seen exactly two birds: two Hairy Woodpeckers and a few Chickadees out in the sunshine. It was the perfect close to a not so perfect year.

I try not to place too much pressure on the New Year, but like many I have hopes that something might change. I don’t hope for anything too farfetched like world peace or finding love or not ever hearing the words fiscal cliff again. I keep it small: that I’ll write with more focus or become a better birder. When you spend a day hiking up a mountain, you are not writing. And a mountain in winter, you are not birding. I ignored this, hoping for the sheer high of a day outside, of sweating then freezing, of standing above the world and looking down.

Sun rising, from WittenbergOur group gathered at the trail at 8, Woodland Valley still dark.  I only knew one of my companions, Connie, who has hiked every peak in the Catskills dozens of times. She’s a sort of godmother of the mountains, leading people to summits they need to complete all 35 peaks above 3,500 feet. Three others on this hike “needed” both Wittenberg and Cornell. I didn’t need anything but a hike. Before we left I said, “if anyone out front flushes a Ruffed Grouse, let me know.” One companion, who I did not know, said, “I hate grouse.” I looked at her in surprise. How was that possible? “I would like them dead,” she said. I hoped she was joking but her expression said otherwise. “To eat, of course,” she added.

Puzzled, I turned and headed down the trail, which was mercifully broken.  Two hundred yards from the trailhead, the Ruffed Grouse flushed from the cover of a downed tree. The flurry of flapping wings delighted me. My first bird of the year.

I try not to place too much pressure on the first bird of the year. But I have come to see them as an omen. A good bird makes me feel lucky, and the hope is that luck will follow me into the New Year. (How we delude ourselves!) I had heard a Carolina Wren singing as I waited for others in the parking lot off of route 28 at 7 in the morning. But the first bird I saw was this Ruffed Grouse. And here’s one cool thing about a Ruffed Grouse: in winter they grow projections off the side of their toes. This creates mini-snowshoes for the bird. We would both be snowshoeing on this long day.

From the summit of WittenbergThe wind howled as we neared the summit. Such different weather from the previous clear sunny day! Near the summit, there are a series of steep climbs, moments where you need both hands and feet to get over rocks. These rocks were iced and snowed over making the ascent trickier than usual. We spotted each other and pulled each other over ledges until we were at the summit. There, we marveled at the view down onto the vast Ashokan Reservoir, which is part of New York City’s water supply. But we couldn’t stand and admire long in the cold and wind. We huddled behind a few trees and gulped water and sandwiches. Two in our party continued on toward Cornell while the rest of us headed downhill. Down to our cars, to our lives, to the end of a special day, which is really just like any day.

Hiking Alone

There was one other car at the trailhead for Brace Mountain, in the Taconic Mountains that divide New York and Connecticut, then Massachusetts.  From my car, the views down into the valley were wide, open fields filled with dry, half stocks of corn. It was a warmish late fall day, but I still had on a hat and gloves; I was ready for the cold. There was no trail register, but a sign told me that the trail ahead, at least for the next .2 miles, was steep. Hard. The sign made me smile.

I had wandered my way eastward to this trailhead, stopping at one of my favorite farms to admire flocks of Snow Geese coming in for whatever leftover corn they can find on their route south. Since I didn't know when or if I was going to hike this trail, I had not let anyone know my plan. I know this is not smart--you should always let someone know your hiking plan. But I'm feeling cut loose in many ways, so I was out there, wanting to walk into that sense of alone.

It's a strange feeling, this sense of being unaccounted for. It’s not that there is no one to care; it’s that no one is allowed to care. This could lead to a sense of loneliness or alternatively, to a slight euphoria, the elation of freedom. It's the later feeling that took hold as I started up the steep trail.

I don't mind that the trail is steep, but I do mind that it's covered in leaves; it was hard to tell what might give and what would take my weight. I slipped a lot, reaching for tree limbs to stabilize me. As I climbed, I felt my heart thumping in my chest. I liked how solid it felt, pushing against my ribs.

Three men and two dogs appeared on the trail above me. They were sliding down the trail, hanging onto trees and rocks, sitting down to maneuver over the larger boulders. I pet the collie dog’s long, fine nose and asked her if she wanted to join me. The men laughed as we continued in our opposite directions. As I turn and briefly watch them slide down to the parking area, I thought: Now I am out here alone.

I remember the first time I had the sense that I was in the wilds and no one knew where I was. It was the summer of 1979 and my friend Neil (nicknamed Munch) and I had driven, in his VW bug, from our homes in Pennsylvania to Colorado. Our goal was to rock climb through the summer. After a month of climbing in Eldorado Canyon, we decided to head to higher elevations in Rocky Mountain National Park. Eldorado kept my nerves on fire and I was hoping for some easier routes.

While we climbed in the canyon, we had some friends who--when they were not stoned--knew where we were. It was small but real comfort. But once we were in the park, we were on our own, in this day long before cell phones. Once a week I wrote to my parents to tell them where I was and what I was doing. I lied a lot in those letters. They thought I was sharing an apartment with friends; I was sleeping in a parking lot. I told them I was eating well; we had rice with powdered soup mix most nights. I wondered how long it would take before my parents reacted to the fact they hadn't gotten a letter. And then what would they do? Start searching the state of Colorado? What I realized is that we could disappear and it would be weeks before anyone would sound the alarm, come looking for us. It was a strange thought to have at age eighteen but it was a strong and unnerving one. Perhaps it arose because Munch and I were so lost that summer—in our lives and on the rocks--and had a lot of what we jokingly called epics. But it was also because I had a deep sense no one was paying attention. My father was immersed in writing a novel, my mother absorbed in her translation work. Then, I did want someone to care.

Half way up the .2 mile climb I stopped, removed hat, gloves, one layer. Still, I was sweating. It felt great. At the top of the steep climb a water fall stood, half frozen, reminding me that it was almost winter, that it got cold out here at night. Soon I was above the falls, following the white blazes through rhododendron and low bushes. I could see down into the valley, cloaked in a half-haze. The sun never burned strong enough, filtered through the clouds, to clear out the day.

A wind picked up. It gusted over the top of the mountain chilling the sweat on my back. I stopped, drank some water, pulled on a hat. My binoculars dangled at my stomach, but I hardly had use for them. I pished at a squeak from the bushes and a  Black Capped Chickadee obligingly appeared to keep me company. They win for most inquisitive, cheerful bird. Down in the valley I could see a long marshy area, which led to a pond, dotted with hundreds of something—ducks, geese—that were too far off to identify.

At the summit of South Brace rests an enormous rock cairn. On clear views there would be views into Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York. Instead, the wind kicked up, gusts that smelled like a storm, like bad weather. I kept on down the trail heading for the summit of Brace and after a hundred yards stopped. I pulled out the map and calculated how far I had to walk to the summit. It seemed ridiculous not to get there, but I didn’t want to get caught out in a storm, adding rain or snow to my slippery descent. I turned around and headed back down the trail.

In Rocky Mountain National Park, Munch and I headed for an area known as Lumpy Ridge. We didn’t have a guidebook, but rather a piece of paper with a few notes on it. “The Book,” “Pear Buttress,” “Sundance.” These were the names of the hunks of granite that soared several hundred feet into the thin air. “Do you think this is the Book?” we would ask each other. But on one day we did a climb named “J-crack,” an unmistakable crack, shaped like a J in the middle of a vast granite wall.  No one knew where we were, but for one long day, we knew where we were. And that was a relief.

I was just nearing the descent of the steep section when my ankle buckled under me. I stumbled. The pain shot through my ankle. I sat on a boulder and rested. I drank some water, ate the peanuts I had brought with me. I wiggled my ankle to see if the pain remained.

When I was twelve, I sprained an ankle on the summit of Mount Nittany, which shadows my hometown of State College. College students partying at the summit came to my rescue. They fashioned a stretcher out of tree limbs and denim jackets—this was the early 70s when everyone wore a denim jacket. Four young men hoisted the improvised stretcher and carried me the mile and a half to the car. I felt foolish and they felt heroic.

I knew that no one was going to come along and carry me down this mountain. And I knew I didn’t need that. This was a simple twist, the pain perhaps more imagined than real. But as I sat there I went through what I would do if I had to spend the night in the mountains, how I would set up a bivouac, how I would ration my water. It was when I started to imagine how cold it would get—I could hear the water of the iced-over waterfall—that I stood up and weighted my foot.

My first steps made me wince, but as I continued on, my ankle warmed and the pain dulled. I moved slowly, slithering over rocks, grabbing tree roots to help me down. And this story ends like hundreds before it, with me arriving too soon back at my car, and driving home warm and safe, the pull of exercised muscles overriding the emotions of the day, leaving me happy. 

Foraged Thanksgiving

The beautiful places foraging takes me--Provincetown The kid, framed by two middle-aged men holding rifles, cradled the pheasant in his arms. The body of the limp bird flapped against the boy's body and he smiled, proud of the pheasant. The sun was low on the horizon, the ocean only a distant blue smear. Vast dunes spread before us.

"Thanksgiving dinner?" I asked.

They smiled.

I could feel the elation of the hunt, the story of how they got this bird early on Thanksgiving day. I wanted to ask who was going to pluck the bird, clean it and cook it. There were a lot of soft brown feathers to deal with. For a moment I was jealous. Pheasant tastes delicious. But I knew I wouldn't be capable of killing the bird. And this day was devoted to eating only food we had gathered ourselves.

Jody gathering cranberries--it's a mystery why I can't post this photo vertically. Turn your head...Jody and I started our day gathering cranberries, one of a few ingredients for our all-foraged Thanksgiving dinner. We have done this for a few years and knew what we were able to take from the land:  mussels, clams, cranberries and watercress from the Province Lands. The day-long gathering always made us tired and hungry and our foraging took us to some of the prettier parts of the end of Cape Cod.

Jody knows these lands well, having lived in Provincetown for almost thirty years. She can lead me to the cranberry bogs, but also to where I might see some Horned Larks and Snow Buntings in the open grassy areas. At one beach there were seals floating nearby, heads bobbing in the cold ocean. We hoped to see whales but did not. Throughout the vast dunes, Jody pointed out fox prints, raccoon, coyote.

This year, the cranberries were sparse. In the past, we had plunked down in a bog and filled our plastic shopping bags. But the first bog we tried was bare. The second patch, nestled around small pitch pines, had a few berries. We worked for them, squatting to see the few bright red berries, taking one or two, then moving on. After an hour we had perhaps two cups. Enough for our meal.

Common EiderNext: mussels. The breakwater stretches out from the tip of Provincetown. It's a great place to walk on a sunny day, and that is what we had. We pulled on our waders, and headed out, along with others enjoying the fresh ocean air in November. A few hundred yards offshore we clambered down the rocks in search of mussels. On the underbelly of the big rocks we found oysters galore, mussels hugging close, and some strange new invasive slime that has arrived in these waters. It was an orange glutinous substance, other worldly. I promised myself I would not think of this while eating the mussels. This is the downside of knowing where your food comes from. Later, I scrubbed those mussels extra clean.

Pulling mussels was easy. We wandered, took a few, then wandered more at low tide. In the distance stood a huddle Black-Backed Gulls and a few fleeting Sandpipers. On the Bay side of the jetty, Common Eider floated near to the rocks, diving for fish. They have beautiful yellow bills and in the clear water we could see them paddling strong to gather their food.

People out for a walk before or after their turkey dinners asked us what we were doing. We boasted about our day of food gathering and a young woman from Manhattan looked incredulous. "Mussels grow here? and you just take and eat them?"

I am no prophet of right eating. I eat organic when I can, eat meat when I want to, but live by no rules. And yet I know we are divorced from what we eat. For one day, I want to know where my food comes from. And I want to know that I could provide that meal. But it's all a game--I wouldn't last long like this and the truth is, cranberries and mussels are not a great pairing.

A Gray Seal coming to greet usMid-afternoon we were both tired from walking, the sun, the light wind on our faces. The talking too--we had a lot to catch up on. I've known Jody since high school. We both went to Penn State where our fathers taught. We shared one particularly boring literature class. We'd meet in the bathroom during the class break and commiserate. I think once we shared a beer in one of the gray stalls, laughing as we numbed ourselves to Stendhal.

Since those college days we have seen each other at least once a year. I make an annual pilgrimage to the Cape, where my parents spent their honeymoon and where their ashes are scattered in the dunes. I have known all of Jody's jobs, friends, loves—and her pets. On this trip there are two new orange cats George and Fred, and Griffin, the wonder dog who as a puppy joined us on a forage day. We both ponder aloud our single lives. There is no regret; we are both enjoying our freedom, and the fact we are meandering freely together through this beautiful day.

WatercressThe green of watercress is astonishing in November. It floats the surface of the Herring River, which makes for easy picking. We fill our bags, load back into the car and head home to begin the cooking. "Pumpkin pie isn't foraged, but I think I have to have some," I admitted. But then much of our meal isn’t foraged: the wine we cook the mussels in, or the garlic, and we turn the watercress into soup made with milk and onions. Our foraged meal is a bit fake but it's a good fake. It has allowed us a day outside, a day of sun and beautiful walks, of time to share stories from our lives. Thanks indeed.

Southern River Kinship

Camp on Goat Island, Broad River, SCOctober 14, 2012. Dawn, Goat Island, a sandy perch of land in the Broad River, South Carolina.

I unzipped my tent and slipped out into the cool of the South Carolina October morning. The sun, if it was trying to shine through, had a challenge in the gray cloud cover. I walked toward the still river hoping to see some sandpipers working the sandy shoreline. Perhaps in the night, while the Barred and Great Horned Owls hooted, some small bird had flown in. But the sandy shoreline wasn’t there anymore. Had I mis-remembered the soft bank of this island?

I walked past a half dozen stilled tents to the kitchen area, where I hoped to find some coffee. Bob, who runs river trips and had orchestrated the details of this float, had the pot set up. All I had to do was turn the knob and light the propane burner. This was cushy camping.

I looked over at the four sit on top kayaks, two regular kayaks, the wooden hand made canoe, and the supply raft. Something was missing.

“Where’s the second raft?” I heard Bob’s voice to my left.

Indeed, it had floated off in the night.

John Lane in his elementWe included John Lane, the mastermind behind this float. He is South Carolina’s poet, nature writer, river lover. He has launched a three year initiative, titled “Thinking Like a River,” at Wofford College, where he teaches in the Environmental Studies program. This was their first “Thinking Like a River” conference and he had invited  David Furbish, from Vanderbilt, a hydrologist who can explain the mysteries of water to people like me; Allison Hedge Coke, a native poet, activist, storyteller currently teaching in Oklahoma; and Mike Freeman, my fellow northerner and Hudson river paddler who wrote Drifting. We spent two days on panels, visiting classes, giving readings and musing on “Thinking Like a River” with the wonderfully polite Wofford students. (I loved how polite everyone was—the man in the elevator at the hotel, the young woman at the Krispy Kreme who was sure I needed more than one of the hot doughnuts. She was right.)

We were now off to experience John’s rivers, first the Pacolet and then the Broad. With us were three Wofford students; Haley, who assists the Environmental studies program; and Kaye Savage and Terry Ferguson, who both teach in the Environmental Studies program. Yes, there were twelve of us on this trip.

Pringle Duck LipsWhen I write about my outings, whether on foot or on water, I usually have to introduce but one or two characters. Having so many on this journey was both disorienting and marvelously fun; on the river we were like a watery parade. The trip had texture. Kaye, a geochemist, showed how to make duck lips with Pringles and Terry was full of history of the region. For some, being on the water was like breathing, for others it was a grand adventure.

On Saturday morning we had gathered in Spartanburg to assemble the most amazing amount of gear. There were enough dry bags to equip an army. But also—we had a stove, a camp table, an enormous cooler, a poop tent, and tents, pads and sleeping bags enough for everyone. We drove south and east through beautiful pine forests to launch on the Pacolet River. I had read about the Pacolet in John’s book, My Paddle to the Sea. In it, he sets his canoe into the Pacolet in his back yard and heads toward the sea. Reading about this journey (I wrote about his and Mike's books earlier) I had been jealous—that he had a river in his back yard and that he could wind through rivers with such lovely names as the Broad and Santee, the Congaree. Though I love my Hudson River, it and its name do not hold the mysteries of a winding river shaded by sweet gum on a red-sand riverbank. Being on the Pacolet my envy returned. It’s an intimate river, narrow and snag-filled, with sycamore trees hugging tight to the water. It was all green and easy paddling, the current in the shallow water scooting us along. Carolina Wrens echoed their song from the river-side bushes, and Mockingbirds, the sound of the south, kept us company with their musical play. I would mosey along, having  a conversation with Mike about crows or books that he loves, then loll in the water looking at a Phoebe until Kay and Allison stroked by in the wooden canoe, or the raft with the Wofford students coasted up, their talk and laughter adding to the tonic of the river. 

Bob with our mass of gear in the raft I paddled for a short timeI convinced Bob to let me try rowing the loaded raft, and had a few laughs as I dodged trees, and scraped on sand bars. Perched high in the raft I could see to the next bend, the colorful kayaks dotting the water. This was an expedition.

If there is one way to get to think like a river it is to spend time on a river. There, I experienced time differently, the years this river has flowed, and the no-time that it took us to arrive at the Broad River. There, the world opened up, the river less lively then the Pacolet, but more assured. The Wofford students spread onto the rounded sides of the gray raft, legs draped over the sides, and napped as their boat made its way downstream (until, of course, one of them fell out of the boat!). Soon we had pulled up on Goat island. In my reach of the Hudson we also have a Goat Island, with its rocky shoreline and tall trees. This island had a tuft of small trees, but consisted mainly of a wide sandy beach, perfect for our many tents. I pulled my kayak partially out of the water, thinking that this Broad River was not tidal like my Hudson. Nothing would sweep it off in the night.

Napping Wofford studentsOur evening was calm, fire filled, and conversation filled. John told river stories and Haley asked for camping advice. Buy good long underwear, I said, as the temperatures dropped. If your feet are cold, wear a hat, I offered, pulling my hat over my ears. Even in this casual setting, everyone in scruffy river clothes and starting to ripen with the effort of the day, the students remained polite, “yes, sir, and Professor Lane, and Dr. Savage—these kids are a wonder. In that, I heard a respect I found pleasing. Early, we drifted off to our dew-covered tents, to wide sleeping pads covering the soft sand.

The next morning, the quiet Goat Island transformed as everyone was up and packing tents, stuffing sleeping bags, drinking coffee, marveling that the raft had been swept off in the night (my kayak was just held to shore). A dam upstream must have been released. John, Mike and I left early in our kayaks, and before we left, Allison sang a native song to the spider. The spider would help us find the raft (which we hoped was not hung up at the dam in Lockhart). She sang, then made an offering of coffee to the spiders. And her offering worked: a quarter mile downstream, the fat gray raft had lodged on the bank. John tied it off then we pushed downstream.

Our watery parade on the Pacolet--southern fall colors!Too soon we were loading boats onto John’s truck, and I was shifting clothes from dry bags to my suitcase. I had a list of books to read, ideas about rivers, thoughts on bringing rivers to people and people to rivers in my head. It was our work, our writing and teaching, our ideas and affection for rivers, for floating on rivers that had brought us together. Once on the river our bonds formed so surely over a fire, over river musings, over a meal prepared on a camp stove. In thinking like a river, I found kinship on a river.