Walk in the Woods

My grandmother Evelyn (on the left, with my dad and Aunt Libby, on the camp porch in Island Pond) was a "woman of the woods." Growing up in northern Vermont (Montgomery) and spending spring, summer, fall in Island Pond, she took special pride in tending to her woods. As a child I remember walking with her in the woods of Island Pond, taking time to check out beautiful forest flowers and little animals. Of course, we also collected downed branches to help keep her woods clean. The paths that wound around the wooded hillside in IP were a sight to behold.

She died last winter. In sorting through her treasures we continue to be amazed by her commitment to Vermont in general and the woods in particular. What follows is a article we found among her belongings... something she felt compelled to clip out and save. I think it speaks to who she was and why the woods is something to cherish. Take time out from your busy day to enjoy the woods for what it is and what (we hope) it will always be...


New England Notebook
By Haydn S. Pearson

To the unfortunate who is literal-minded and whose approach to Nature is prosaic and practical, a woodland is only a natural resource to be calculated in board feet. Such persons miss much, although many of them are doing their full share to win a great battle in this nation. Since early days of the colonial era, there have been voices crying that we must conserve our forests and soil as a heritage for generations to come. Little by little, year by year we are learning to treat our woodlands as a continuing crop; year by year we are replanting ravaged areas and bringing trees back to steep slopes and thin-soiled fields and hillsides.

This is the time of year when a quiet woodland can offer solace and uplift to the human heart. The leaf canopy is deep green and summer shadows cover the forest floor. Leaves are still fresh and glowing: time and heat have not drained their beauty. He who delights in a woodland has favorite spots to which he goes. Blue and gold day, soft, cloudy hours, or during a gentle rain, one can refresh the heart and refill the reservoir of the soul among steadfast and friendly trees.

Sit quietly for a time in the woodland. Soon the life of the woods goes again on its appointer rounds. Vireos and rose-breasted grosbeaks sing their June music; small rustlings among dense shrubs tell of woodland lives moving in their habitat. Reach down beside you and feel in the surface carpet of dried, faded, brittle leaves; beneath the upper covering there is black, rich, and mellow humus, the primal stuff of our Earth, a bank which pays perpetual dividends on food for plants and animals. Inhale the aroma of the woodland-a pungent, satisfying fragrance that tells of making humus. One woodland hour can be an experience in which the frustrations and tension of the marketplace fade away and a man regains a glimpse of the meaning of life.