Lost in the Woods

Although I am at home in the woods, it is good that my present environs offer many clues to where I am. The sad fact is that I have a poor sense of direction.

Getting lost in a department store and not being able to find the way I came in is embarrassing enough.  However, it's in the woods where my lack of orienting skills are most noticeable.

Once, I went looking for morel mushrooms in a nearby state park.  I had a rather useless dog on a leash as we followed a deer trail.  Making careful note of a group of tall trees for a landmark, I conducted a thorough search of the ground for morels.  Coming back to the trees, I was astonished to find they were not the same group of trees at all. Impostor trees, who would have thought it?  That's a trick that trees do when you are otherwise engaged.

Of course, it would have to be an overcast day, so the sun was no help. When I realized that I didn't know which direction to go, my head started spinning. I had to fight the urge to start running, and probably would have, if I could have run in several directions at once. It was a Missouri woods completely devoid of bears, cougars or even squirrels. The reason for my panicky feelings was the sun, though hiding behind thick clouds, was edging toward the far horizon. Setting, in fact. There were many wild rose canes, thorny greenbriar and underbrush that I definitely did not want to meet in the dark.

Sitting down on a log to collect what remained of my thoughts, I heard some kids yelling off in the distance. The park was surrounded by farmland, which put the location of the noise in the park's picnic area. Trusting that they weren't lost, too, I realized I was 180 degrees out. Turning around, I followed the cries and reached my car before it got really dark.

When my son was little, a similar episode occurred when we lived in Washington State.  Chris and I had followed the path in the woods not far from our house. We were snacking on huckleberries when I realized I'd misplaced the trail.  It was a logged-over bit of woods littered with downed branches that offered no sure footing, unless you were a Sasquatch.  Darkness was closing in when I thought of Chris' little friend who lived nearby.

Stepping up on a big tree stump, I cupped my hands and yelled, "Robbie!" until a faint uncertain voice answered.  "It's Chris's mom," I hollered back.  "We're up in the woods and can't find the path.  Come up!" Shortly, he appeared, I got my bearings, found the elusive path and we were saved.

No boy likes to be accompanied by such a dim mother.  Although Chris was only seven, he was reluctant to ever go into the woods with me again.

So, this land is perfect for the bearings-challenged person.   It is only possible to walk upriver because the bank by the bridge is too steep.  Also, the bridge is a pretty big feature. Even a child couldn't get lost in the narrow strip of woods between the river and the fields.  The river stays obligingly in sight. Now, it's freezing over here at Clam Beach.

Occasionally, I do lose track of firewood that I've cut, but I eventually stumble upon it.

Even though I am dismal at getting my bearings,  my superior snow tracking skills revealed that two young children and a teen passed this way with their mother and grandmother. Apparently, they were looking at the beaver-cut young trees and the place where the beaver slid down the steep bank to the water before the river froze.

The same family, led by the shrieking grandmother, sledded down the steep hill.  "Scream," I told them.  "It's more fun when you yell."

On the day I retired from the library, four years ago, I bought this nifty sled.  The ride today was really fast because of the sleet that fell before the snow. As soon as I put my boots on the sled, I was was off and away. I screamed.

Kindling Skirmishes

Making a kindling run every few days is necessary for my morning fire-starting.  What should be a peaceful, quiet job for me and the  hand pruner winds up being another battle with the Briar family.

The blackcaps, while thorny, do have  redeeming tasty berries.  It's the wild roses that delight in luring me into battle.

Hickory kindling is a favorite of mine.  The rose thickets grow quite fiercely under the hickory trees.  They catch the fallen branches, keeping them off the damp ground.  They seem to taunt me with those choice limbs, daring me to come and get them.

While the rose thorns can't penetrate my canvas chore coat, they can only be handled by the long-handled pruner.  My extra-thick leather palms on my fence gloves are no match for those vicious canes. Consequently, I give the meanies as much respect as I would an unfriendly feral cat.

The bushes grow in clumps every few feet. They grow to a height of four feet, then arch over to protect their ankles from people armed with pruners. They have all the characteristics that the conservationists extol. I hear that they were once promoted as a way to hold banks around ponds.  While it's true that cattle  give them a wide berth, the line between beneficial cover and invasive species is easily crossed.

You would think that  huge, strapping bushes would at least develop big hips like the rugosa roses do. Unlike me, they have tiny hips. These little fruits do have lots of vitamin C, so I suck on a mouthful while cutting a swath to the kindling.  The taste is sweet and tart but the seeds must be spat out, probably planting more of the savage growth. Birds love those bird bite-sized bright red berries.

The conservation agent told me that RoundUp is effective on the wild roses.  He had no idea of the scope of the rose invasion I  face.  The growth under the hickories is scant compared with elsewhere.  There are places where nothing else grows. It's a scene right out of Sleeping Beauty.

The sharp thorny canes always manage to fall on me when I cut them at the base with the pruners.  The sad thing is roses actually benefit from heavy pruning.

While I am admittedly able to prevail over a very small percentage of these malicious bullies, I am aware of the precedent:  Cane always does away with Able.

It's About Time

The computer-generated digital voice on my weather radio says, "The current time is--"  Is that as opposed to the time an hour and twenty-seven minutes ago? Apparently, computers don't know when they have made themselves redundant.

Since retiring four years ago, my involvement with clocks has weakened considerably.

When I'm outside, the position of the sun gives me an idea of whether I can get projects done by sundown, which is now around five.  Yesterday, I cut  loads of big maple logs to to haul some distance through the woods to where I left Rosie.  My little wagon could carry five pieces at a time.  The ground is level but the wood, although it died from natural causes, was still wet and very heavy. Great stuff.  Pulling the wagon over the woodsy litter, I quickly reached my target heart rate.  By sundown, I had completed the hauling of five wagon loads, which became three Rosie carts to unload for splitting.  Adding gas and chain bar oil to my cute little chain saw, I finished by sundown.

Yes, I could wear a watch, but what's the fun in that?

It always seems to be later than I think.  In summer, when the days go on forever, I guess the time before looking at the clock when I come back inside.  Frequently, I ask, "How did that happen?"

However, time is relative, as they say.  One rainy summer afternoon, I was knitting in the living room.  I surely must have glanced at the clock occasionally. Finally, I felt hungry and went to rustle up a snack.  Looking at the kitchen clock, I was amazed to see it was three hours later than the clock in the living room, which had stopped.

                                                    Universal Time

Universal Time is used for astronomy, having replaced Greenwich Mean Time, which I believe was somewhat cruel.  What with our Daylight Savings Time, UT varies here.  Sometimes, we save daylight and during the dark months we squander it. No one likes getting off DST; we'd rather have it year 'round.

Being unable to wrap my largely right-brained thinking about Universal Time, I made this low-tech solution.UT is a twenty-four hour clock, but it never is 2400, because then it turns to zero hour.  So, using this fabulous system, I no longer have to count back however many hours, then convert that from 24-hour time.  At 6 p.m. here, it is tomorrow UT.  The wee hours of the night are all the same as this clock, but at 7 Central Standard Time in the morning, I read the outer numbers, 1300 and so on.


This is very helpful in knowing when Jupiter's Great Red Spot will be crossing the face of that big gas giant.

Since retirement, the real challenge is to know what day it is.  Last Wednesday, I was surprised to see the weekly weather radio test being conducted, since I thought it was Tuesday. Here is the solution to that problem. However, sometimes I forget to flip the card, in which case I have to look at the date on my cell phone and then check the calendar.
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Such is life without TV reception, peaceful and timeless.