It was the last Sunday morning of January, and I was feeling desperate. Firstly, my bird list was three species short of tying the record I had set last year (29 species).
The problem was, last year was an extraordinary year that included sightings of a bald eagle in the cottonwood tree to the west of my house and an adult male rose-breasted grosbeak (thank you El Nino). There were still species that could round out the list, but they were all long shots.
Beyond the competitive desire to break a self-imposed record, there was a distinct note of cabin fever that had settled into my brain. The weather this winter has been just cold enough to be unpleasant, without providing enough snow to really consider going snowshoeing. In particular, the abundance of ice and sleet has made a foray into the woods a rather unattractive notion, but I had a fever and the only prescription was a walk in a forest.
I constantly remind myself that I am very lucky. I own six acres that offer a variety of habitats and several different expressions of what we might call forest or woods.
To the west of my house, there is a somewhat linear stand of white pines that runs north to south along the western edge of my property. In it you can actually feel like you’re in the woods, even though fields and meadows are only 15 to 20 yards away.
If I go further south, I enter a forest of maples, hickories and oaks. Some of the trees are very large and there are a few particularly nice specimens along the sides of an ephemeral stream that runs in a rocky ravine. In one spot, I built a stone stairway down to the stream where there is a small pool that frogs take refuge in during the heart of the summer.
When I set off for my walk, however, I had another spot in mind. All the way down to the southern edge of my property, well out of view of the house, there is a wonderful spot beneath a gnarled old hemlock tree. As if by magic, the tree grew up next to a large, flat rock that is just about perfect for sitting on, and between the rock and the tree I built a small stone fire circle. This was easy to do, because not 10 yards from the flat rock is that wonderful stream. In August, when the water is low — or gone — I can walk the stream channel and pick out the best rocks for fire circle construction.
My concerns about the conditions in the forest were immediately confirmed. The sleet and ice that we’ve had this year had formed a thick crust that covered the ground. As I walked along, I made only the slightest indentation into the ice, accompanied by the satisfying crunch associated with a winter walk. I couldn’t go too quickly, because slipping and falling was a real possibility.
I paused at the stone steps, but did not take the chance of going down that steep, slippery bank. There weren’t any frogs to look for anyway. I continued on into the deepest part of my woods and there, in short order, I found myself standing next to the old hemlock tree. The woods seemed far less primeval than they do in the summertime because all of the deciduous trees had lost their leaves, but the stream was gurgling merrily as a generous flow of water found its way between rocks and around downed trees. I could feel my fever lifting.
I had been collecting small, dry twigs on my way to the old hemlock and had a nice supply by the time I arrived. When I was a teenager, I was convinced that I wanted to be a mountain man and make a living out in the wilderness, relying on woods lore, cunning and pure nerve. Fire was an essential key to survival, and I spent lots of time practicing the skills of finding tinder and starting fires. As I stood there, reminiscing about the past, I smiled at the enthusiasm of my younger self. Then, I took out a lighter and some paper that had been soaked in paraffin. The older me wasn’t in the mood to fool around.
I assembled my fire in Lincoln Log fassion, carefully placing one stick at a time. When I finally touched flame to fuel, a merry little blaze erupted in seconds. The smell of wood smoke, the sound of small twigs crackling in the flames, and the background music of the stream completely cured me of my fever. The icing on the cake took the form of a curious downy woodpecker that came over to investigate. It didn’t come too close, nor did it stay too long, but its call notes transformed the woods from dead and dormant to alive and vibrant.
After about an hour, my wood supply was consumed and my rear end was getting cold. When the last tendrils of smoke had stopped rising from the fire, I got up and started the journey home. I was never able to catch sight — or sound — of any new birds for my list, but I was content that 2016 was an odd year and the record will stand for a long while. I did, however, have a wonderful time. Sometimes the quest is more fun than anything.
Bill Danielson has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, and the Massachusetts State Parks. He has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 19 years and he also teaches high school biology and physics. Visit www.speakingofnature.com for more information, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.