It’s a compulsion, this walking alone. It’s one of my purest pleasures. Today I revisit Iron Mine Valley. Hiking in what remains of Connecticut’s wilderness, my alertness is at a high pitch, right-brained introspection at an equal one. This little JT area is the ‘front porch’ of the Natchaug State Forest, among the thickest, darkest parts of eastern Connecticut’s woodlands. If you want to get lost in the Quiet Corner, this is a good place to start.
January has remained snowless. Another rainstorm blew by overnight. From the air temperature and the appearance of the wet woods, I almost expect to hear peepers. The sloping trail is now a brook full of redolent sodden leaves, and it leaks into my boots even as I stay on its uphill side. Rivulets race across it everywhere. Embracing maples moan in a gusty west wind, and broken clouds hurry by.
I have eschewed security and that is satisfying. Uncomfortable is ok. In fact, it’s part of the lure. Frisson of fears: bears (not yet hibernating in this warm winter), rabid bobcats, ticks, weather, injuries and accidents, health emergencies, are all things of potential concern—if I choose. Losing my way. The infamous nonexistent(?) cougar. But you’ll never see much unless you’re alone. “There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore…I love not Man the less, but Nature more”: Lord Byron.
My Ranger brother ran a study once at Acadia National Park. They showed people photos of the carriage roads with differing numbers of walkers and bikers, asking how many visible humans was ideal. The winner was not zero, not even two or three, but five or six fellow users. Where do YOU fall in this range?
Sometimes I hike with friends. Sometimes I’m in a place with many visitors, a National Park, a guided Last Green Valley stroll. My tracks have disappeared from a lot of empty beaches too. I trudge up my road to Stearn’s farm and visit the turkeys and Holsteins. Usually though, it’s worth a ride to some Joshua’s Trust area. I’m happiest when the parking spot is empty. Like this one. Jean-Paul Sartre: “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company”. I just like to walk in the woods more than most people.
My feet are squishy. At the bottom of the ridge, the Mt. Hope River rushes by me purposefully, drowning out every other sound. On its way to the ocean, there to evaporate, form a cloud, rain again on these Ashford hills. This wet thicket was not here a hundred years ago and will not be the same when the next century comes along. Will it remain damp and shaded? What will become of the hemlocks and ash?
With the discernment of years, I see that during my childhood I lived half in the forest and half in my mind. Sounds more profound than it was. I was simply introverted, and the western Connecticut woods were all around, filled with other lives and engrossing mysteries. Sure, there was sandlot ball and scouts, daring dives off a silver bridge, and curious glances at girls, but comfort came with seclusion. Peace was in soft hemlock groves, imagination in spooky old railroad beds, tracks torn up long ago. And always the waters: swamps and streams, lakes and rivers, and vernal ‘frogponds’.
Am I happy solo all the time? Of course not; I love my friends and family. Neither was Rousseau. The Reveries of a Solitary Walker is Rousseau revealing that detaching himself from society does not result in deleting society from his mind. In fact, he desires, like I do now, to commune through words with others. Today Iron Mine Valley’s residents, dangerous or not, are smarter than I and have chosen to stay home and dry. I’ve gotten sidetracked by their signs, though (I’ll spare you the photos I took of the scat). In stillness all about me, unseen and unheard beings live out their time. It’s the kind of a day that encourages reminiscence.
When my aged grandfather sold his place, it was with the agreement that he could live out his days in the cottage way in the back, a ratty little house with a wood stove in the kitchen. He’d grow potatoes, play cheerful Gay Nineties tunes on his upright piano, and split wood. Loneness is not necessarily lonesomeness. He called his house “Solitude”. The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.
George Jacobi
George…..a wonderful read and a most pleasurable walk.
Nice piece, George. I appreciate the sentiment. My wife tells me that nature is my higher power. I know that I feel more at home on the trail or in the gym than in my actual house. Thanks for posting.
Nothing quite rivals a short solitary walk in the woods for quieting the mind and becalming the spirit. All well described George.
what a nice way to start my sunday morning, reading this by George. I think I’ll hit a trail soon.
This really resonated with me, George! I enjoy walks with family and friends but enjoy them most alone. Always, such engaging word choices and combos from you.
Wonderful writing, George. I look forward to each new blog. You bring to life what one can become in Nature. Thanks.
George, I so love your writing. I too enjoyed the walk through the woods and thank you for taking us along. A much needed respite after a too-busy few weeks.