The Vermont Weathervane -- Walking the Long Trail

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CELEBRATE THE SEASON:
The Time of Falling Leaves
by Mary Lou Healy

Autumn: The Exultant March to Death
by Zephine Humphrey

Emilo's Creations are Gourd-eous
by Kirt Zimmer

A Harvest of Fall Recipes

POETRY:
A Vermont Walk in October
by Daniel L. Cady

When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Witcomb Riley

GARDENING:
Legends of the Chrysanthemum
by Leonard Perry

EVERYTHING WOOD HEAT:
Drop Me a Liner
by Daryle Thomas

INTO THE OUTDOORS:
Long Trail Therapy
An Excursion into the Woods Rekindles the Spirit.

VERMONT WEATHERVANE BOOK NEWS:
Passing Strange
True Tales of New England Hauntings and Horrors

Richard Brown's New England
A new book by acclaimed photographer Richard Brown.

GET OUT AND ABOUT:
Views Through Time:
A Driving Tour of Rutland County, Vt.

Vermont Country Calendar

EXPLORE OUR OTHER SEASONS:
FALL
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER

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Long Trail Therapy
by Jenna Guarino

From the Massachusetts border to the Canadian border, the Long Trail runs 265 miles along the spine of the Green Mountains. My husband Ed and I decided to take on a 30-mile section of it to watch the fall color transformation up close and relieve our minds of their daily doses of stress.

We picked a route close to our Bethel, Vt. home, Brandon Gap to Lincoln Gap, and planned to set a leisurely, relaxing pace. It turned out to be far from leisurely but served to revitalize our hectic lives.

The trip started with a drenching rain and a forecast for several days more of it. Our spirits were a bit dampened, but we pressed on anyway, saying aren't we lucky it's not cold. It was little solace.

I was bathed in water; it was falling from the sky, seeping up from the ground, oozing from my pores as I labored under my pack. I began to think about water's function on the planet.

Water is the essence of life, but it can serve death as well. The log bridges I crossed with my heavy boots were slick with the agents of decay. Wood that was composed of air and soil and energy from the sun was being decomposed back into those same elements again, ready to feed new life.

Both the building process and the tearing down process were facilitated by water. And both were essential in the renewal and continuance of life.

I was thus searching for water's redeeming qualities as it trickled down my neck and soaked into my boots. When my discomfort replaced my admiration, I turned my attention to the details of the forest around me, reminding myself that I was here to reconnect.

And immediately, I began to notice signs of life. A big pile of moose scat littered the trail an I stopped to imagine the enormous animal who had left this calling card. When I resumed, I saw several moose tracks placed squarely in the mud at my feet. Obviously, these human trails through the woods were used by other species as well. Or maybe humans discovered this animal trail and decided to adopt it for their own travel.

At the shelter that night, out of the rain and into dry clothes, I read to Ed about the Long Trail's natural history.

Suddenly a bit of natural history sauntered into our camp. Ed shushed me in mid-sentence and pointed out two large animals, moving through the woods and into our clearing.

When they were in full view, both stopped to regard us. It was a cow moose and her gangly calf. The mother studied us steadily for quite some time while her offspring stood nervously nearby. When her curiosity was adequately satisfied, she ambled off, followed closely by the younger one. I marvelled at the calm confidence of this animal, grateful that she had given us the chance to study her as well.

There was no disputing it now; indeed, there were moose about these woods. After a night of heavy rain, we awoke to glimmers of sunlight here and there in the sky. This was our long day of hiking, so we prayed to the clouds to let the sun have the day. Overall, the sun was the stronger force and the day was pure pleasure after our inauspicious start. But long-range visibility was still hampered by the air's humidity so I focused on my immediate surroundings as I hiked along.

As I scanned the forest, I caught my breath at the sight of the varied colors around me. The hobblebush, in particular, stood out, a subforest of broad, palmate leaves that fairly shimmered with pastel colors. Yellow, salmon, maroon, set against the dark, wet trunks of the trees. I drank in the colors and they invigorated my whole body.

The next several nights it rained-hard-and the next several days we hiked in a supersaturated landscape. I challenged myself to discover as many remains of spring wildflowers as I could and contemplated their cycle of life.

There were goldthread leaves and wood sorrel leaves as bright and green as any in spring. Canada dogwood, however, had lost its luster and clintonia was looking downright bedraggled. But this is the season during which nature hunkers down in preparation for winter and I imagined busy activity in the roots and rhizomes of these and other forest plants.

I turned my attention to the survival strategies of the larger, woody plants as I spotted three yellow birch trees sitting astride a big boulder.

I have seen this arrangement many times, where birch seeds take root in pockets of soil on rocks and as they grow, reach their roots down the sides of the rock in search of more soil. Over the years, leaves and other debris get caught against the tree roots and decay into more soil. I wondered if yellow birch trees were primarily responsible for soil eventually swallowing up these massive boulders.

We descended out of the mountains at the end of the week, sorry to leave this timeless landscape but anxious to return to the work we had left behind.

As the weather gets colder, we'll spend more time indoors and watch nature turn to the new season from behind glass windows.

I'm thankful for these periodic immersions into nature because they ignite a spark of life that carries me through all my human endeavors.
Jenna Guarino writes from the Vermont Institute of Natural Science in Woodstock, Vt.