Softly grow the wilds

Oxeye daisy

There’s a trail I walk routinely for exercise – a five-mile loop through forested hills. But the trail features more than forests. It’s a mix of settings and scenery: meadows, river banks, old two-tracks that once served farmers and fishermen, a new foot bridge that now allows a hiker to ramble south of the river, not just north.

But its mystery and marvel are the trail’s twists and turns, ups and downs. You travel it not in a jarring way, like you do riding a roller coaster. You’re more a bird navigating the morning winds. Banking left, then right, then swooping down before – again – the climb.

No matter the season, there are visual surprises along the way – always just around the corner, it seems. In the fall, it’s the brilliance of the once-green leaves now bright red, orange, and yellow. In the winter, the white, fluffed canopy of snow-laden trees, arcing over the path. In summer, the crisp blue of the river surrounded by now-tall, thick grass and vine.

And in the spring? It’s the season of the wilds … nature’s annual gift of Monet-like colors scattered at your feet. 

I’d not paid much attention to wildflowers until this spring. Given I’m a couple of years shy of my seventh decade, that’s shameful. For one who seems to love nature so much, I know little about it. I know the call of a chickadee and a piliated woodpecker. Maybe a robin. But that’s about it. (Ducks and geese don’t count.) I can tell you what oak and birch bark look like, but not maple, or ash, or hickory, or cherry. I know catfish but only because of the whiskers.

Meadow Buttercup

About wildflowers, I knew nothing until this spring. I guess my newfound interest started on a hike Cindy and I took along the Jordan River Pathway, an hour’s drive north of us. The snows were long gone, but there was little green except in the pine branches. And yet, Cindy would spot the occasional wildflower, just emerging, and insist we stop and observe.

I bridled at first. I tend to walk the trail fast, eager to see what’s around the next turn. But her point sunk in. What are you missing? I asked myself. How much have you missed?

A few weeks later, I was hiking a different path with buddies Bill, Bill, and Keith. We four make a point on our regular walks of looking for nature’s tell-tale signs – the beaten-down beaver trail that descends from woods to water, the fox track cast in mud, the feather from a hawk … or was it a buzzard?

On such a question, we might discuss and debate at length like four crusty Supreme Court justices. It’s not unusual for us, for example, to surround a pile of scat and comment favorably about its size, then argue about its source. But, we always agree on a verdict after a few minutes and move on.

On this hike, though, one of the Bills – Bill Stott – came equipped with a new phone app. Called “Picture This,” it can, in seconds, analyze a photograph of any plant and tell you its name, species, botanical name, and genus. Plus, other things: its behavior in the forest, for example – an invasive? – or helpful facts like whether it’ll kill you if served up in a salad.

Canadian anemone

The app is frighteningly accurate, which – provided in other forms, on other topics – might eventually render we Justices moot. But on this day, we used the app with abandon. We spotted the fringed polygala, a small, purple plant reminiscent of a violet. We were fascinated by the spring starflower, with its seven, distinct, bright-white points. (So much of nature seems symmetric, but not this flower.)  About every quarter mile or so, we’d stop to classify a colorful bloom along the path.

Needless to say, I downloaded the app as soon as I got home. And I’m hooked. Now it’s Cindy who bridles a bit on our walks as I stop and stoop to get the best angle for a photo, then wait for the analysis.

“It’s a meadow buttercup!” I shout proudly, my triumph echoing down the trail. 

“Yes, dear,” she responds, glancing ahead and behind to make sure we’re alone.

Still, I know she appreciates this newfound interest. My job now is to retain this knowledge. I’ve always been impressed by true, tough frontiersmen who know every bird call, every animal track, every tree leaf, every smell that wafts in a forest breeze. They aren’t afraid to shout “meadow buttercup!” into the woods. Just imagine how alive their walks must be. 

Starflower

Yesterday, I took my usual five-mile hike. Typically, it takes me an hour and 25 minutes to do the loop. This time, it was 1:35. Those 10 minutes were spent capturing the oxeye daisy, the Philadelphia fleabane, the Canadian anemone, and – yes – the starflower and meadow buttercup. And a few more.  

So, that’s my goal. I’ll start with wildflowers, then tree bark, then bird songs, then other things in nature more obscure. I will trap them in my brain and bind them tight. 

Then maybe, one day, my grandson and I will walk this trail, where softly grow the wilds. And he will learn to know me for what I know.

Grandpa Doug … frontiersman, witness to nature’s beauty; perhaps, with luck and patience, scatmaster.

Philadelphia fleabane

Bare bones

This is a first. At least for us, at this house perched above Chandler Lake. We’ve not seen anything like it in our six years here.

It started weeks ago. I could see them at work outside my office window. First a brown one. Then two, each solid black. Squirrels slowly, methodically, peeling the bark off a young, thin, maple tree. 

They started their work about midway up. After they skinned off the first piece, I didn’t think much of it. A walk through any woods up here reveals small scars on trees – shiny bone outlined by dark bark. Most trees do just fine after such an assault, because the injury is contained. Perhaps the squirrels get bored with a single spot. Like a restaurant too often visited, variety is good, so the squirrels move on. 

This, though, was different. Each morning, the squirrels would come back to this unlucky maple. The initial three squirrels grew to five, sometimes six at a time … a treetop coffee klatch. Each morning, they would peel more, working from the middling spot up, then from the middling spot down. 

Today, the tree stands bare except on its thinnest branches – a skeleton from root level to its spindly top. 

It’s sad to see, frankly. In fact, you can’t help but see it. As I write this, light snow descends, and the woods around us are showcased by evergreen branches weighed heavy with last night’s fall. But while the trunks of the other trees – oaks, other maples, cedars and pines – stand straight, tall, silhouetted like shadowy soldiers against the white, our small victim of the squirrels’ obsession is terribly easy to spot. The tree’s thin core is a slight yellow, yet the color so contrasts with its grayscale surroundings, it shouts its vulnerability.

It will die. A tree without bark is like me or you without our arteries and veins. Leaves send food, via photosynthesis, to the roots; the roots send water and minerals to the leaves. The layer of tissue just beneath the bark provides the down-and-up pathway. Our small tree has been stripped of that layer. So, its destiny is sealed. I wonder if I should cut it down, to ease the suffering.

Sad. In the fall, it was a brilliant red.

Why did our squirrels, who we know well because of their antics around our bird feeder, do such a thorough job on the unlucky maple? Squirrels strip bark to pad their nests, say wildlife experts. But they also enjoy the sugars and nutrients layered between bark and trunk. 

I can grant them the need for building material. Perhaps they see a more-severe winter ahead. (It’s been pretty wimpy so far.) As for food, though, we were bombarded by large acorns this fall, and I watched the little beasties as they buried their hoards. I can’t imagine they’re lacking nutrition. In fact, they seem a bit chubby.  

Regardless, why strip an entire tree when a smorgasbord of trees would do?

Hard to know. But it seems a metaphor for our time. Perhaps dueling metaphors. 

The convenient reach is to see it as a sign of societal distress – a stark warning like a red flare, shot into the sky. “Something is clearly wrong among you men!” the fur friends are saying. “Beware!” After witnessing beasties of another sort raiding the Capitol building last week, maybe this is the right conclusion … our squirrels are bushy-tailed Paul Reveres. This is our Liberty Tree.

The kinder, gentler reach is that Nature always has its excesses … the unusual events, the unexpected twists and turns, the seeming aberrations. As perfect and predictable as Nature often is, it’s when you take her for granted that you’re surprised. So, our bare tree is just the product of our squirrels deciding to be, well, unusually squirrely. Nature’s like that.

Ever the optimist, I’m leaning toward the second view. 

That said, now, during my usual, winter walks through the woods, I’m on the hunt for more trees like our doomed maple. Just to be sure they’re not out there multiplying – flanking our forests in ever-increasing numbers, shouting their own silent warnings. Like an army of skeletons in a cemetery parade. 

So far, so good.