SOMEONE'S WATCHING

There was a time, not so long ago, when you could get out into the woods and experience an unself-conscious type of solitude, when losing your self in the forest “primeval” was the point in being there. To lose one’s self was to take a step back and forget for the time being that you’re a creature of the modern age, prone to the anxieties associated with all it entails. Until recent innovations, there was a feeling of freedom being in the deep woods. Freedom from intrusion, social protocol, freedom from urbanity. Not to worry about being unfashionable. There in the woods, to make a point, one could feel free to do as the animals do and relieve oneself, out in the open, if necessary. Nowadays, however, you want to look over your shoulder, up and down and all around before you even consider it.

Take for instance the invention of the Trail Camera. Popular with hunters and landowners to record the wanderings of elusive critters, they’re becoming as numerous in the woods, hills and fields as are annoying yard lights and motion detector systems scattered all across the countryside. As if there aren’t enough lights in the night sky already what with those that pinpoint cell towers, wind turbines, airliners, ad infinitum. But, I digress. To hike--where it’s permissible--in the woods or about the fields and streams now, you find yourself looking out for a box strapped to a tree, lest you become one of those critters caught and recorded perhaps in a less than complimentary moment. You find yourself in a shopping mall state of mind: “Someone may be watching!”

Then there’s the ever so popular portable tree stands used by hunters. Come the first of October they begin “springing-up” in the woods like toadstools overnight, in use throughout both the archery and regular big game hunting seasons. Out grouse hunting one fine October day, stalking slowly through some prime cover, I was startled by a voice from above. My state of mind being what it was, engrossed in nature and appreciating the spiritual essence of the wilds, I thought for a fleeting moment it was the voice of Mother Nature calling to me. But no, I had walked within a few yards of a bow hunter sitting his perch on high, camouflaged head to toe. He was all but invisible. It was disappointing to realize it was just a common man and unsettling to think about what might have happened had a grouse flushed in his direction. With the overlapping of bow season and ruffed grouse season, the grouse hunter needs to be thinking of what may be sitting vulnerable half way up the oak tree ahead. “It didn’t used to be that way,” an old timer friend once said. "You could be in the woods and not worry about monkeys in trees."

There was a pleasant day when in the woods and feeling quite alone, I suddenly felt like some one was watching. I was at the top of our property, near the path that leads to my friendly neighbor’s woods. In a familiar spot, I knew of no cameras or tree stands, but the feeling was strong, so I scanned the area. I was feeling miffed; another moment of reverie interrupted. ‘Too thick with overhead foliage to be under the scrutiny of a satellite,’ I thought, my paranoia resurfacing. Then there came a scuffling from the branches above and a throaty animal noise. A raccoon was watching, evidently annoyed at the intrusion of his space.

OCTOBER EVENING

I’ve stepped outside to do some moon gazing. The still air smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke. It’s mid October and many of the trees are bare-limbed and stark against the twilight sky. I’d prefer the foliage would hang on for a longer time in their Indian Summer dress, that autumn was not so short-lived. Once stimulated by the colors of fall, I become greedy for more.

Earlier in the day a grouse was drumming in the woods beyond the back door--the dominant one perched on his log letting the young guys from the springtime brood know who’s boss. This evening, from the pines nearby, an owl hoots and is answered by another farther up the hillside. It’s eerily quiet as I stand on the patio and listen to their conversation. They sit their perches, harbingers of the nighttime harvesting of prey. If I were a field mouse, I’d fear for my life. The silent stalkers are about the woods. One moonlit night hiking a snowy woods path through a stand of pines, a large owl passed over my head. I first noticed its fleeting shadow cross the snow and looked up to see outstretched wings, so close yet so silent gliding among the branches. Had I been a smaller mammal, it would have been over before I even saw the shadow. You appreciate the fact that in this neck of the woods, at least, you’re high atop the food chain.

The moon sits bright on a tree top and the scene encourages premature thoughts of the Yule season: the Christmas tree has been decorated and suddenly you feel the urge to sing a carol or two. Well, not quite. Halloween is yet to come. My thoughts progress to images of hideous witches in black capes and ghoulish beings that lurk in dark places; things that used to scare me as a kid with an all-too-vivid imagination. Maturity (old age) diminishes those silly fears, I think, only to have them replaced by real life ogres such as the tax man, zealots and the Grim Reaper. Yet I enjoy the heightened sense of the ominous this time of the year. It’s a childlike stimulation when the rewards gleaned are no longer in a trick-or-treat bag, but in the re-knowing of another season.

I step off the patio and round the corner of the barn. WHOOSH! A deer snorts from beneath the apple tree grown wild near the foundation, and the adrenaline rush I get is like a jolt of electricity. I see dark phantoms leaping in all directions and hear their hooves thudding upon the ground, their white tails defined by the moonlight. They retreat to the field across the way, blowing like a pod of surfacing whales. I wonder to myself, How much longer can this well-used heart go from beating normally one moment to full acceleration the next? I’m tempted to check my feet to be sure I haven’t jumped out of my shoes. I go over to the tree and pick up a fallen apple. It’s crisp and tart. An animal shrieks and there is the noise of leaves rustling in the woods.

THE RIVULET IN THE GLEN

In the glen below our barn a brook runs downhill to feed into the headwaters of Neil’s Creek. Farther downstream, before Neil’s Creek empties into the Cohocton River, it supports a healthy population of Brown trout. Salamanders and crayfish inhabit our shallow brook but not trout. Being an avid fly fisherman, I wish it did. It courses a narrow run through a gully and over sedimentary rock, falling in steps on its way to the creek and the river. It forms small pools at the base of its many miniature water falls where one could imagine a trout holding if it were bigger water. Falling water inspires contemplation. The sound of water over stone reminds me of other streams and creeks--trout water--and times there with a fly rod.

There are numerous rivulets throughout the hills and more than a few creeks and rivers in the region with waterfalls and running water more impressive than this one: Stoney Brook Falls, Reynold‘s Gully Falls, Wiscoy Falls at Mills Mills where it joins the Genesee River near Portageville. The Upper, Middle and Lower Falls of the Genesee itself in Letchworth Park. There, the thunder of the falls and the power of the river inspires awe. You tend to contemplate the ferocity of nature. Whereas in this gully, where the folds of the hills meet to form a narrow cleft with rocks and purling water, you sense a different power, one that inspires introspection of a more intimate nature.

There are grouse and deer, fox and raccoons inhabiting this section of biosphere; other forms of wildlife too numerous to mention. Once during a particularly challenging time, I sat above the brook and watched a winter wren flit about the exposed roots of an oak tree at the waters edge. It would disappear among the roots into the darkness of the undercut stream bank and reappear again. My troubles soon became small in comparison to the greater importance of this reclusive little bird plying for sustenance, hunting the tangled roots beneath the immensity of the trees and the all encompassing forest.

I like to hike along the brook in the spring and fall when there aren’t the distractions of mosquitoes and deer flies, turning stones now and then, examining fossils, looking for encased caddis fly pupae. I’ll often pause by a pool and listen to the water. Recently at one of those pools, as I kneeled close to examine some detritus beneath the surface, there appeared the face of my father. Even though I’ve been told I resemble him, and I can see it somewhat as I shave in front of the mirror, it came as a bit of a shock to see him there in the undulations of the water. We had explored this brook together many times beginning when I was as young as my eldest grandson. And it occurred to me then that I’ve done it with my kids and my grandkids too. With them, I’ve re-discovered some of those things I’d lost along the way. Dad stared me in the face, the reflection of me-as-him animated by the current, making it appear as if  I--or he--was nodding in agreement or approval.

Last June I camped and fished with friends in British Columbia amid spectacular scenery. There were raging rivers, not to mention numerous creeks and drainages. All beautiful in their own right. I was happy to be there but not as content as I am when re-exploring my little brook. I suppose it’s reassurance of a kind found in a place where water flows through familiar territory. Where in its reflections you can see where you’ve been, where you are and where you’re going.