Winter, at least early winter, is so deceptive when we drive past a forest. It looks ... well... so bleak. Empty. Lifeless.

But if you get out of the car and step onto a forested path, you're in for a shock. The place is bubbling, cawing, creaking, snapping, EXPLODING with action and life!

I visited one of my favorite local forest haunts today, where a labyrinth of hiking / biking trails encircle the hilly terrain around a freshwater lake. Action everywhere!

For the first time in a long while, there were few people around, probably because it was so cold and getting late into the day. Perfect!

That meant I could rock with the chattering squirrels, flocks of boisterous crows, dashing water, creaking trees and a lapping lake. I hoped to hear a favored owl that usually sounds off in the crisp early evening air, but I guess she, like me, was happy listening to everyone and everything else going on.

Life was much on the move. I'd barely entered the path on top of the hill when a woodpecker jack-hammered an old sycamore in search of dinner. Crows yelled at each other across the open water down in the valley. Then all was quiet for a moment before some squirrel folk hurried noisily through dried leaves, then climbed furiously up tall trees toward awaiting nests. The air was so still right then that I could hear their tiny, agile toes click on the bark as they arose.

I descended a switchback to a beautiful stream and stood a long time on a sturdy bridge staring hypnotically into the clear water gurgling and bubbling over mossy stones and stubborn tree roots, splashing here and there over inclusions in the bedrock. The song of the stream.



From here, the path leveled out and I could stretch my legs at a good clip and in an effort to build up some body heat. A sprite breeze off the lake jostled squeaky, arthritic tree limbs overhead and plunged down around my coat collar, hurrying me along.

I could hear the long distance honking and bellowing of the Canada geese clan a good half mile or more at the far end of the lake, and I swear at one point a couple of them brought back memories from long ago when I had once heard two of my old aunts bickering with each other over the best ingredients for a rhubarb pie.

But not all of early winter forest life is noisy.

Even while most of the large tree people slumbered, the pulse was strong and steady beneath them. These are the active plant tribes who have learned to key their survival upon the season when summer's leaf canopy has fallen to blanket their roots, and when the chill of long nights is broken by a warming sun penetrating past the leafless limbs above and urging their fruit to ripen for the wheel of life to continue in the spring.

They do this quietly and efficiently. And their work is art for our eyes. Colorful berries share their charm, each inviting the eye of different birds or other critters to feast on them and to spread their seeds. I couldn't decide which of two varieties I most preferred to observe, the blues or the reds.



I couldn't contemplate them long, though, for the sunball was moving quickly and I wanted to press on for more time with other forest friends before darkness came.

I took a familiar short path to the water's edge. For this lake, "edge" has been a mercurial concept this year, as water levels dropped significantly during a dry summer, but are now rebounding toward normal levels with recent rains.



The lake has a heartbeat of its own, and today it was calm and quite comforting, a wonderful place to meditate on the union of Earth and Sky. I thought of the beautiful, loving people in my life, many of whom I've never even met, but who in one way or another have touched my life with kindness and friendship during the recent period when I was ill. Their loving embrace warmed my heart on some quite dark nights, and now, sitting at the water's edge, I prayed in gratitude for all of them, for the existence of love, for All That Is.

But once again, a slight but frosty breeze put me in motion, and I escaped its whip by plunging back into the welcoming woods.

Life was quietly doing its thing further around a bend when I came across a lovely vine clinging to a shaggy tree. It exhibits such intelligence by positioning itself where the angles of the summer sun can't burn it, but where the winter sun can nourish it. 

But a bit farther down the trail, I was reminded of the axiom that the hand of man can be both beneficial and destructive to Mother Earth. To begin with, people excavated this land and built a dam to form this lake. Overall, a wonderful thing.

But in certain and unlikely places you can see trees and piles of limbs, all cut down in the name of "forest management," practices which I consider ludicrous. To think that we need to manage a forest! Housing developments are also encroaching on the area. And then, there's this:

Out in the middle of nowhere, you come across a post marked "Mile 1.0." A mile? From where? Oh, I'm sure there's a spot somewhere around this large lake where you can begin a hike and discover that you've come a mile at this point. But there are a hundred other starting places where this man-made post treated with harsh chemicals to prevent its rot means nothing as to the distance you've traveled. What's the point? Similar meaningless posts dot the trails and detract from the natural setting. I know it's a small thing. But I consider it an extension of an ego projecting an image of control. It's an unnecessary irritant to both the eye and to the Earth.

So, this is no Eden.

But elsewhere, it's close!

Though I wanted to linger, lengthening shadows along the valley hastened the urgency to return to the hilltop where I had begun my journey.

I couldn't resist, though, visiting an old friend before I left.



I call it the Reaching Tree. It's rather startling when you first see it, and on my first visit some years back, it struck in me an archetypal image of a sea monster, like a giant squid, rising out of the water and about to consume a ship. But approaching this gentle being, the image becomes that of a wise one who has anchored life in this spot for well in excess of a hundred years, perhaps more. And its imposing limbs begin to take on the form of loving arms reaching out.

I set my five-foot long walking stick up against the massive trunk, and it looked so tiny. The trunk has to be at least eight to ten feet around.

It is a talking tree with many tales and stories to tell, and I circled it three times while spreading some tobacco around it in honor of its existence.

Legend tells us that Celtic and Native American peoples alike respected trees, but always sought out the oldest in the woods with hopes of learning its prized wisdom. And on this day in the early winter atop a Kentucky hilltop in fading, florid sunlight, I leaned into the warm embrace of an old, old friend and we spoke of what has been and of what we hope will be.

So, perhaps a chance like this will present itself to you. If you're driving past a bleary-looking woods on a nice day in the winter, maybe you can pull over and walk a while along a surprisingly busy pathway. Life is happening! Many discoveries and friends await. And some reach out to embrace you.

Aho & Namaste,
Bob