Home/Land

Six of us strode a sunlit forest ridge along Chapin Brook in Holt/Kinney Woods late last fall. Earlier Co-Steward Mia and I had discovered a carefully hidden mountain bike trail there. While we all discussed how to dismantle it and discourage future bikers, it became clear that we could repurpose much of it as a new loop for walkers. This will reveal a long stretch of the faithful little stream and a very old farm pond dam. The day got even brighter. Enlivened, I now look forward to springtime, to sharing a remote bit of the reserve known formerly only to me as longtime Steward (and of course Tony Holt and Kay Kinney Holt).

As well as the satisfaction of actually conserving and protecting, part of what it means to be a Steward is that the particular woodland becomes mine. Memories of work I have done with other volunteers and the ever-increasing history of my relationship with a distinct piece of Earth, one that I’ve come to cherish, color my perception. Squirrels squabble, trilliums smile, lonesome cedars lament. The brook roars bravely, then shrivels to a meek trickle (stop me before I anthropomotor right off the path). Trails deteriorate, are improved, lengthened.  I know them like I know my house at night. An unusual burl or dramatic ledge will call me off the way, bushwhacking at random. Random is fine; there is nowhere to go. I am already there. I’m just “in the woods”. One of the best things about walking is that it’s difficult to do much else while engaged in the pursuit. Thus it encourages reflection, and remembering.

Once a long while ago I went off from home in Willington and wandered into an imposing pine grove that lacked “No Trespassing” signs. A pine grove is dark, still, and lifeless, and gets spooky as dusk comes on and you’re far from the road. At some point I sensed a presence behind me, and of course when I turned no-one was there. But peeking out of the corner of my eye, I thought I could see a guy with a checkered hunting coat, a thick red beard, and empty black eyes – following me. Not good. Those evergreens got very very silent. I felt him all the way back to the road, and my impression, one I still maintain, was that it just wasn’t my time yet.

I recall that episode as I walk today on the rich molecular remains of those amiable trilliums, and more from previous years. I step not just on dead foliage past, but on the bones of every creature, including humans, who passed this way before. This is the path of Uncas and Joshua, of the ghost Mammoths their ancestors hunted. I tread on the bodies of ants and worms, and past long-decayed skeletons. Someone will walk on my bones before long too. I hope they get as much out of the stroll as I am. 

When one drives east out of Grand Canyon Village, the South Rim slips quickly from sight. It’s easy to miss the dirt pull-off with a gate that says something like “Authorized Access Only”. Past that gate, a ragged road leads gradually upward through Ponderosas for a long mile, deep in mountain lion territory. I liked to go there early so I could get the goose-bumps that come only when you know you’re not the apex predator. And I could watch the sunrise from an awe-inspiring rim overlook all to myself. More goose-bumps. (PS – you can go there too. Ask me.)

Places have personalities, and remembering them is pleasurable, even the spooky ones. The more places I walk, the more will become part of my inner as well as outer environment. There are large tracts of local forest that now feel like part of my yard. Have I walked all the JT properties? No, not yet; I am close, but we keep growing. Some are trail-less, some are easements, some are off-limits, containing endangered species. It’s nice to have a chore that one will never finish. “Home is everything you can walk to.”

In memory of Tony Holt

George Jacobi