A Fall Preview

The recent trip north to Pennsylvania gave us a fall preview. The creeks were colder, the air more crisp, and the walnut trees were freshly bare next to sweet red maples. Morning frosts lifted slowly into late morning steam. The hunter’s moon lit the nightfields full of deer. It was vacation time and all things conspired to give us a good one. Each day the brilliant evidence of the changing seasons replaced my imagination, for I was out of doors more than in: sensing more than thinking. My brain lay fallow, nourished by the faint whistle of a white-throated sparrow and a long view across the golden, rusty hills.

Minnows from another Stream

We chose to do a paddle hike on Saturday while the leaves were still on the trees and the air was cool. Paddle a canoe, hike a trail. It was difficult to get out of bed, out of the fleece blankets. But it was harder not to get out and enjoy the day, so by mid morning we got our acts together, put the big red canoe on the car and headed down the hill to the river. The Eno recently overfilled its banks with the help of tropical storm Hannah. It had been several years since the last big flooding; since the last time the lowlands got soaked.

On this morning, things looked mostly back to normal. We put in under the bridge at the base of Occoneeche Mountain. The water was tan with some remaining silty particulate. A breeze descended occasionally; felt like fall when we were in the shade. If you looked close, you could see the dusty line on the low foliage marking the flood height. Grasses were still bent downstream. Smooth, muddy banks edged the water, where driftwood hung from limbs or balanced mid-air on branches.

We cruised up the intimate river, not knowing if our way was passable. We scooted under fallen trees, through thickets of dusty branches, and around newly sculpted sand bars. The small turtles were out, perched on fresh snags, testing out new habitat. Plop, plop as we passed. The minnows were out too. We had wondered if the flood would wash them all away. Were these local minnows or minnows from another stream? A giant shadow of a fish, long and lean neared the boat, seemingly unaware before wrenching away from us into the depths. It looked out of place. We had never seen one like that before. Not here. Maybe things were not back to normal.

Near the northern terminus of this section sat a dam and a steady waterfall. During the flood, it had become a dangerous and amazing milk chocolate colored churning machine, with hydraulic undertows swallowing whole trees before spitting them into the air with ease. This was our turnaround. We rested in the shallows. From where we sat under the shade of Dimmocks Mill Bridge we would have been 10 feet under water just 2 weeks ago.

We headed back downstream with sights set on the low banks near Occoneeche State Park. There, we could catch the foot path at its lowest spot, before heading up to the high lookout. We tied big red to an overhanging trunk, and delicately skirted up the mudbank. We know the trails here well. But every season is a discovery. Now in the early, pre-fall coolness, we worked our way up the North side, along a wet, dense cliffside where laurel and galax hung with dripping, musky aroma. Into and out of the clearings the trail wound. We stopped below the quarry, listened to youths playing and discovering amidst the boulders. At the top of this quarry, the overlook allowed us to catch our breath. We looked down on green Hillsborough. When I’m above the trees, I understand why the birds sing. They always know something we don’t. But I’ll bet the minnows had the better story this time...of a flood who had visited the Eno Valley.

Side by Side

Four of two and two of four. These were the numbers and configurations of feet on the trail in our group Sunday morning. Heather and I walked with friends who walked with dogs. Collectively we plodded, panted, stumbled, talked, sniffed and marked our way along Sal’s Branch Trail through the density of leaf-darkened Piedmont parkland.

Umstead Park buffers Raleigh NC from the daily thunder of airport traffic. It is not wilderness. But it has its wild sides. We explored the north side, the side which descends to a paddle-worthy lake by way of a smooth-pebbled creek. The creek held clear water, not muddy, despite the locally muddy runoff. This creekbed contained small rocks in grainy profusion: a snaking, sunken sandbar with, tan, oversized granules. Further down, the rocks turned to quartz, more white than sandy. The upper trail surface was woody: not mulchy, but sinewy, with crisscrossing, water-searching, elevated speed bump roots. Step on this one, step over that one. We took turns leading and following.

Dampness, from leftover rains, settled into the leaf pits and rotting logs. Fungus families sprouted in their favorite regions, recognizably distinct and purposeful. Mysterious subterranean networks arose forbiddingly into quaint villages. From orange and red to white and brown, flat saucer tops; some spindly, some round.
Unaware at times, we squished those few who surfaced mid-trail. Unfortunate fungi.

But what stood out today, to me, were those former trees who no longer stood. X marked many a spot along the trailside where straight wooden trunks lay in quiet repose, amidst fern and vine. Many had flat and smooth ends cut by saw. Were they blown by fierce storms, and then cleaned by kind hands? Or were they cut by fierce hands, and left to be cleaned by kind storms? In everything there are elements of nature and nurture. In Umstead too, side by side.

These Frail Theatres of Life

There, in the dense shadow of a giant poplar, was a life grander than the myths of memory, upon a small stage containing a vast cast of players more passioned than the seasoned ensembles; assembled not by the hands of man but by the hands of time. Selfish in every act; alive with the seflblood determination of a dying relic, growing deliberately upon the lives of others, a hushed progeny of fecund, infarcical reality.

Sure, “the play’s the thing,” but the things played, pale in comparison to the real things. Remember the things, and, if you can’t remember, revisit the things.

I’ll tramp the ruins of a forest for the first run of a replicated rhapsody.
I’ll stand and applaud, in unmatched sincerity, not to the humans, this time, but to the intrepid and timeless, humus-dwelling fruitings hidden from today’s common senses, though beckoned by the calming senses. To breathe the air of dramatic inspiration and to view the heir of brooding perspiration, I go to the shadows; to these frail theatres of life.

Garden and Yard Update

Feeling a bit restless early Saturday morning, I decided to finally address the weeds in the recent, rain soaked softness of the vegetable garden. In 2 hours time I managed to pluck two thirds of the entire weedy mess. Then the sun rose above the trees and the heat and humidity drove me back inside (it is Labor Day weekend after all…don’t want to work too hard). So, what else remains in the garden? Three bean plans have a total of about 9 drying bean pods. Ten carrots sit amongst a yet-to-be-weeded plot of weeds. Fifteen diminutive cornstalks, of a second planting, hardly rise above the snaking watermelon vines. Resting on the vines are two cannonball size melons. Five okra stalks stand about 5 feet tall, now spired with multiple pods. Tomatoes continue to droop and drop; a few burst after the tropical deluge, midweek. Arugula remains the lone green leaf in the garden, since I neglected to start new lettuce. I pulled the squashes and cucumbers (the squashes because they looked tired, and the cucumbers because we’ve had our fill). Leeks are still green. The sunflower, huge, now follows the force of gravity. I’ll cut it soon.

A walk around the yard revealed the late summer wild blooms.

My Fingers Crossed

Last weekend we drove 30 mile west to Cedarock Park near the revolutionary battlegrounds of Alamance County. The park sits atop a fielded ridge, then slopes down and around through a mixed hardwood and piney bottomland. Small streams, creeks, and rivers descend and mix here in a watershed headed to the distant Cape Fear River. On this day and in this season, the land was dry. The creekbeds lay stony. The bigger streams did not stream, but sat mucky and dank. Raccoon tracks circled the edges where the dark water pooled into mosquito havens.

Cedarock Park has a surprising array of recreational offerings including disc golf, bridle trails, picnic space, canoeing (given adequate water levels), jungle-gyms for the kids, and a historic farmstead complete with goats, sheep, cows, and a mule.
Sometimes parks with such a variety of attractions tend to get overused, with roughly worn trails, and littered landscapes. But the park looked good during our visit.

We focused on the hiking trails and managed to not get too lost despite the relatively poorly marked routes and lacking a map (yep, we deserved it). A muggy, but shady, hour amongst the trees led us through several woodland habitats over moderately changing elevation. From the photos, you'll see a few sites of note. Some impressive boulders dot the trails and hillsides. If you like Bald Cypress(I forgot to photo), there are several healthy specimens standing watch over Rock Creek, apparently planted early last century. A monster American Beech, with exposed root mass, graces the side of an old, hidden footpath near the Old Mill Dam (most people probably miss it...not the Dam).

***Warning: The following contains nerdy (but earnest) tree observations***

A sight that disturbed me initially was the white fungus I saw on the small branches of a few young Beech trees. On the ground below these trees was a gray moldy residue that looked like death. I've seen the blights that have destroyed many of the northern Beeches, and I was suddenly aware they might be moving south. Ugh.
However, I've since done a little research with encouraging results. What I saw was likely the Beech Blight Aphid which apparently does only minor damage to small limbs.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

We had a warm, good time in Alamance. We bought a bottled Nehi Peach at the nearby gas station. Next time we'll visit during one of the Farmstead Exhibitions...maybe feed the goats and bray at the mule.

Pea Creek and Dunnagan

Our Sunday Walk was along the Eno. We took the Pea Creek and Dunnagan trails in late morning under a dense green canopy. We had planned for sun and heat, but were pleased to have coolish gray humidity. I thought it might rain at any moment. It didn't. We had not taken this route before. We will do it again. More than any of my walks along the Eno, this one most reminded me of my Spring canoe trips along the same course. This trail is so close to the water, you hear it, smell it, breath it. It asks you to join it for a distance. Of my times on this water, I've written much. The words are bound in memory logs and on the bedside shelves. I did not canoe the long Eno this year. This walk begged my return. We'll see what next Spring brings.