APRIL 30, 2021 – Yesterday morning I hit the road for the Red Cabin. Beth arrives tomorrow, when local temps are forecast to hit 79F. I fled early to stake out planting areas for the several dozen, two- and three-year birch, balsam, and hemlock seedings I have on order—more trees to join the hundreds of pine I planted five years ago.
As I proceeded north, the outside temperature—60F out of the driveway—dropped one degree for about every 10 miles of latitude, hitting a low of 50F. “What’s with that?” I said aloud to a gloomy Beethoven, who was accompanying me. I needn’t have worried. By the time I reached my destination, the sun was smiling—along with lugubrious Ludwig. Soon upon hiking into the tree garden, I was shedding my jacket.
With bright blue stakes in hand, I surveyed the acreage for places to plant more trees. As I went about this business, it occurred to me that I was making monumental decisions: where each tree will spend the rest of its life!
The birds sang and chattered all afternoon. Such amazing creatures they are! Some flitted from tree to tree, showing off their plumage with each take-off and landing; others soared above, searching for dinner, which, in the absence of foliage, can run but not hide; and all the while, piliated woodpeckers knock-knock-knocked at the doors of standing deadwood. How many light years distant, I wondered, is the nearest planet with winged creatures that can sing and soar . . . and fly at warp speed through a forest?
I hiked to the highest point on our land, then went off-trail, heading east, down a long slope and up another into regions nearly impenetrable in summer. Along my course I stumbled into an area ruled by the unruly: thorny raspberry stalks as tall as a person. I laughed. They reminded me of a gang of nasty, backwoods characters living off the grid—boozin’ it up while playin’ poker in dens of ill-repute. Undisturbed by the outside world, they do as they please, beholden to no controlling or cultivating influence. I was outnumbered, and when they showed their prickly fangs, I figured I’d be better off avoiding their acquaintance. Serendipitously, I discovered a nearby deer trail, well-traveled. Civilization! . . . comparatively speaking.
I followed the way of the deer until I heard the way of humanity—an ATV—less distant than I would’ve expected. A second later I saw the red vehicle dart among the trees across a ravine. “What’s he doing on our land?” I said to self. But I answered swiftly. “He’s actually on the other side of our northerly line—and besides, from the perspective of the deer, the birds, and even those rascally raspberries, whose land is it really?”
I turned south, staking out more places for those birch, balsam, and hemlock . . . to live the rest of their long, beautiful lives.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
