Maidstone

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with the waters of green.^†

Yesterday was just such a day, mild temperature, soft breeze, blue sky and sunshine.  Perfect day for a woodland wander!  

Maidstone Woods, part of our amazing Carolinian Forest, is a Conservation Authority property known for its Oak and Hickory woodland (quite rare), and for its abundance of magnificent old-growth trees.

Maidstone is also unique because of its historic Indian Signal tree.  

Indian Signal Trees were woodland wayfinders created by Indigenous and First Nations’ peoples by bending young saplings and tying them into a specific formation that would guide travellers to villages, camps, water sources, etc.  Many were hollow, enabling those passing to leave items safely inside for others to find.  ‘Though its dead skeleton remains, tragically the signal tree at Maidstone was severely damaged (some say destroyed) by idiots who set off firecrackers inside it.  Even so, it is truly a wonder, and still a most valuable and beautiful artifact reminding us of Indigenous/First Nations’ ingenuity and resourcefulness.

Woodlands, more than any other ecosystem I am able to explore, offer me a nearly endless array of biome curiosities to observe. ‘Though trees are the dominant life form within any terrestrial ecosystem, each day, and each time of day, presents a fresh perspective — sometimes a blossom, others a bird.  Sometimes a toad, others a fox.  Each scene transformed by sunlight or by its absence, casting vastly different hues on the seemingly ever-changing scene.  The forest and woodlands of Essex County offer me a unique, inspiring, and wondrous tableau.  But therein lies my dilemma:  To walk with, or without my camera…

The difficult choice is between a one dimensional versus four dimensional experience.  With my camera, using only one of my senses (sight), I trace my way along the trail moving from one shot to another, constantly framing, focussing, choosing the best backgrounds and then refocussing.  On my camera I am regularly adjusting shutter speed and exposure, trying to use the lowest possible ISO setting.  All of which is limiting, but yes, I am, at heart a photographer.  

Without carrying my camera, and using four of my senses, I have the pleasure of true shinrin-yoku.  Without the camera’s distractions, my walk becomes ever so much more sensory — I am listening, smelling, touching and watching.  My outing becomes more immersive, my awareness is heightened I am more connected to both nature and myself, and I feel very calm. Unquestionably, any and all time in nature is restorative and leaves me with a profound sense of pleasure.  I’ve found that with my camera, those benefits are ever so slightly less-so.  Yesterday was, obviously, a “with camera” day.

Make no mistake, these walks have nothing whatsoever to do with exercise.  With or without my camera, these are slow, meandering, ambles.  My goals are observation and awareness, not fitness.

Someone much smarter than me once wrote, I don’t need therapy, I just need to go hiking* and I agree. As soon as I reach the trailhead, I feel relaxed and I am very glad to be alone — if only for a short while — in the embrace of my beloved woodland.  There is something very special about walking the woods in fall.  True that the leaves are mostly gone (so too the birds), but then I can see so much more of the biome —  including the contours and composition of the forest floor.  Rather than being shadowy and a little mysterious, with the now unfettered sunlight reaching the ground, inscrutable is replaced by perceptible and I immediately realize how many details I miss during the late spring and summer months when the canopy is full and protective.

There is no finer Conservation Authority in Ontario (and I’ve known four) than our ERCA.  They’re brilliant, hard-working, effective protectors of our land and waterways, and the Ford Government should leave them alone!

When setting out on a walk through the forest, I never know what to expect, or what I will find but, no matter how many times I explore a particular trail, there is always something fresh and inspiring.  Something that makes me ever so glad I was there.

’Til next time, y’all…

^†William Cullen Bryant from his poem “Green River.” — page 28, “Poems” from his anthology Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant.  Full text below.
*Unknown.

Green River.

When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
Had given their stain to the waves they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue.
Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,

And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone.
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees’ hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air;
And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.

Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But windest away from haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still,
Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee,
Still—save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur of fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way.

That fairy music I never hear,
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o’er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.
Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
And mingle among the jostling crowd,
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud—
I often come to this quiet place,
To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream,
For in thy lonely and lovely stream
An image of that calm life appears
That won my heart in my greener years.