Bog Meadow Trail. I mentioned it in the post I put up yesterday. But it deserves more than that. To begin with, it was one of the first major projects of our much-praised local organization now known as Saratoga Plan. P.L.A.N. Preserving Land And Nature. Bog Meadow Trail was established in 1993. Two miles long, much of it along an abandoned railroad right away, it passes through three different wetlands, much of it on a boardwalk. It’s rare when you don’t see at least one or two cars in the parking area— including winter when people snowshoe the trail. This weekend will be the 20th anniversary of its opening. Hard for me to believe, having been there at that opening…which seems as if it was just yesterday. Then again, when you have as many yesterdays as I do, they might just blend together a bit in what little is left of your memory. Twenty years ago. Which means that the memory floating up to the top of my consciousness is from about that long ago. An autumn day, much like the one I’ve been reveling in today. Temperature in the sixties, the sun bright in a nearly cloudless sky, the first maple leaves sifting down through the sky to land on the water and float like small red islands. But it was earlier than that. Before dawn to be precise. That’s a good time to be in the woods, providing you know your way. Or if there’s a clear trail like the one into Bog Meadow. No flashlight needed if you walk slow and look up. The sky is lighter between the trees lifting up on either side of the trail. Another memory surfaces. Firmly in the category of inadvisable teenage behavior. (Kids, do not try this!) Back when the Avenue of Pines through the Saratoga State Park was a straight shot without the curve added after my high school years. Late at night you could start at one end of the Avenue of Pines in your car, then turn off your headlights. And steer straight through the dark by looking up to that long guiding line of light between the pines. That autumn morning before dawn I made my way to a place near the creek where I knew it would be quiet. Not totally so, but away from all the human noises of roads and houses. Woods quiet. Which meant I could hear the rustle of a shrew hunting through the dry leaves. Softer steps, pausing now and then, that I figured had to be the doe and her two fawns I’d seen a few days before. Then overhead a rapid whistling passing and ending in a soft splash further down the stream around the bend. Green-winged teal arrowing through the dark for sure. Every waterfowl’s flight sings a different song. Then the first light started to appear. The dawn chorus of birds began, rising and then gradually blending into the fabric of the new day. The warm sun touching my face. Suddenly, the ground began to shake. Earthquake? Pfwomp! The earth between my booted feet lifted up in a swirl of moist sandy loam. Strange as a creature from some alien sci-fi film a small pink-tendrilled snout thrust up from the ground. A star-nosed mole. Condylura cristata. Field guides identify those eleven pairs of flesh appendages as Elmer’s organs. Incredibly sensitive, guiding it by touch and the detection of sound waves towards its prey. The size of a hamster, the star-nosed mole has also been described as one of the fastest eaters in the animal kingdom. Underground, on the land. Even as a swift swimmer, with some of its burrows actually opening under water. Its appetite extends to pretty much anything that moves and is about its size or smaller. Which luckily did not include me. Not that it didn’t take me into consideration. As it thrust itself out of the earth, those two long clawed paws as wide as paddles, it lifted its head toward me and squeaked. Those fleshy tentacles wiggling like earthworms in my direction. Hopeful. Food, food, food, food? Can you be creeped out and delighted at the same time? I was. Nope, it decided. Alas. Those two paws drove down into the earth, pushing itself back in as easily as a breast-stroking swimmer. I sat for a moment, then leaned forward to scoop up a little soil from the crumbling mound it left behind. Such earth brought up by the below-ground beings is special, a link between worlds. That what the Lakota medicine man Leonard Crow Dog once told me, talking about the earth gathered from gopher holes to build up the dirt altar front of the sweat lodge. I put that gift from the star-nosed mole into a leather pouch that holds a few other things that connect me. Links of land and memory. Deep as the roots of ash trees.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Oct 2013 17:53:19 +0000
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