The River below the floating clouds

I haven written many times about the ridge line and a couple of entries ago shared some photos of the clouds over the valley. Yesterday morning the kayak and I visited the river below. At 7AM the sun is up but the mist is still on the water It is really to beautiful and complex to capture on my basic camera but much still comes through the lenses.

The Housatonic is a meandering river, taking quite a while to cover not much distance as the bird flies. The twists and turns have it sometimes going east and west and in reverse directions and many oxbows and side pools to explore and wander. When taking it slow and checking these out the only constant landmark is the ridge. Loosing sight of it and you can easily be turned around and be heading from where you just came. With a state forest on one side and wetlands on much of the other this stretch of the river seems more remote than it really is. The presence of years of PCB pollution buildup in the sediment means that the fish are large because they are always thrown back and the water is not for swimming or drinking. But by just looking around one would never know what is hidden amongst this beauty.



The river is quite but by no means silent. The sound of birds that I wish I could distinguish; the families of ducks sensing my approach; making the call and moving quickly away; the cluck of a beautiful white swan; the click and splash of turtles entering the water; the birds and other unseen creatures thrashing in the brush; the croak of bull frogs; the geese and the splashing trout. It is all a rhythm of its own, a symphony of parts weaving with the sounds of the water and wind. There aren’t many humans but on this morning a couple of canoe racers come through, the rhythmic “hut” of the one directing the paddling, swift and slicing through the water behind beside and ahead. A while longer a pair of canoes come through and creates a wake as they pass. The sound of “hut” slowly disappears in the distance.



The paddling is smooth on the main channel of the river, the current is there but on this section it is strengthened mainly by the direction of the wind. While it isn’t very deep, sections of the middle and edge have so many years of sediment and weed build up that even a kayak has difficulty floating across without getting stuck



Returning back to the launch I spot the swan that I heard, floating smoothly in their own noble way in one of the side ponds, visible just through a slit in the bush. Just the sound would reveal it is there.


The sun is higher the mist is gone and the human life beginning to arrive at the railway museum near the launch. The sound of the train floats across the quiet of the pond, not disturbing just mixing. Morning has begun.

The Greening of Spring

Taking my $10 point and click camera out this seemingly dreary morning snapping pictures of spring just to see what comes though the lenses. There is so much brown, so much matted down from the snow and ice but tucked all about are so many sprouts of green life. Through the gnarled thickets are small flowers in bloom. The heavy cool dampness chills the bones but is protective and nourishing this new life.



There is a part of the woods behind our property that was harvested for hardwoods a few years back and what was left was a mess of hacked trees and bushes, tire ruts and a visual wasteland. But the sun that was opened up has helped nature reclaim this space with sprouts of green, saplings that had been shaded and can now grow and this is now an area for more birds and animals.

The rain is soft though the air is cool. The mist hangs over the mountains like a cool nourishing blanket, drifting with the breezes.




Out of the brown of winter comes new growth, new life, new opportunity. The sun will come out another day and the flower will bloom and the trees will be full, but this only because of the cool rain and mists and clouds of days like today.

So much of what goes on with the seasons goes on with us as people, in our lives and with our challenges. Through periods of brown can come new growth. Nourished by what supports us we again bloom another day in another way. Maybe not the same as before but as someone else once said, a rose is a rose and here a bloom is a bloom,

talking with the wind

The other day I was talking with the wind. It was a bright day and the wind was fine and I asked it how things were. It told me of its trip through the miles of woods and how easy it was this time of year because there weren’t any leaves but how it missed the summer sounds that it made through the trees; how the buds we appearing and the song birds nesting and the families of bears coming out of their caves. It told me of the mountain tops and how it could see for mile upon mile, of carrying the hawks and eagle a flight and dancing with the windmills; of the river that was winding and overflowing its banks flooding the land where grasses will grow and of the whistliing noise it made between the towers of the city. It told me of its journey to the fluffy clouds above and the ocean shores afar and the spray of the surf and bark of the seals. The wind was quite contended with what it had seen and where it had been, things were well…..life, to the wind, was good

The sounds of the woods

This past weekend was great for walking in the woods. Alone and not another person in sight, the sun was bright, the air was cold and the wind sharp. Everywhere there were remnants from the intense rain of the past few days and signs the that winter was beginning to release its grip. The snow was patchy, the ice gleaming and slick.

Walking through what many would think to be a quiet place, especially given the distance from the nearest road and absence of people, there is actually a lot to hear.

The crunch of snow under foot, each step sounding a little different depending on the consistency of the snow; the cracking sound of the ice melting from the rain again hardening in the cold wind; the wind rushing across the meadows and tall grasses and whipping through the trees, sounding so much like the wind and waves at the ocean; the creaking, clicking and groaning of the trees and their branches and the occasional thump of a rotting branch hitting the ground; the trickling and gurgling run off and melting layers of snow; the seasonally dormant brooks coming alive to carry water to the river; the occasional flutter of a bird startled from its bushy roost; the call of the birds to one another.

Then the wind calms and for a moment there is a sudden stillness, an emptiness, a change in air pressure ….. and the smaller quieter sounds come through. The drips of the tiny stream running through brambles, berries dropping from bushes having held out for the long winter and survived the feasting birds, the squirrels dashing about.

And then there are the signs of sounds that once were: the woodpecker holes, proof of their distant sound; the tunnels through bushes and matted brush marking the trails of deer, turkeys or bear.

Whoever says the woods are quiet, isn't listening.