I love the light of late winter and early spring. At this season of the year the light is strong but not yet glaring, and it shines with a clarity that makes photography a particular joy. To celebrate a brilliant sunny day this last week, I took a few hours to hike along The River with my camera, just to see what there was to see…

 
Right outside the door I was greeted by a flock of goldfinches, pine siskens, and common redpolls. Here’s a male goldfinch, his feathers fluffed up fully against the morning chill:

 

 

 
He’s brightly lit by the sun. Soon he will become even brighter as he acquires his summer plumage, but for now he’s more interested in brunch than in the flock’s females. Nearby, this chickadee is already enjoying his meal:

 

 
He’s bothered by the lens only briefly, but I leave him alone after one shot, then turn to photograph a male common redpoll:

 

 
He’s warming up and doesn’t want to be disturbed, so I move on and soon reach the trailhead, where these staghorn sumac bobs (seed clusters) greeted me:

 

 
They’re a bright splash of color along a trail where gray and russet were the predominate hues, but it’s not long before something else catches my eye—foam on the river:

 

 
These rafts of foam are about the size of dinner plates. Is the foam from natural organics churned up in the falls? Or is is soap from the village upstream? It’s hard to tell from my perch well above the water.

Not far away, in an eddy which is still partially ice-sheathed, the currents and wind have broken up the thinner overnight ice and pushed the chards onto and under the edge of the main ice sheet:

 

 
The thin but sharp shards are each about the size of a sheet of writing paper. They form an intriguing geometric pattern, as does this very thin overnight ice along the riverbank:

 

 
The brown rectangular shape is a thick peninsula of anchored shore ice which has been drowned by higher water. As I was shooting pictures, the wind blew, making the thin ice groan, creak, and crackle as swells from open water rolled beneath it. When I returned from my hike that thin ice had broken up and flowed away, and this thin ice in the eddy of a feeder stream was ephemeral, too:

 

 
The sweeping curves and irregular edges of this icy shelf melted as morning aged toward noon and the warm sun hit the stream.

The ice along the rapids differed markedly from the smooth river ice:

 

 
This river boulder—about the size of a VW Beetle—is reminiscent of a melting ice cream cone. As the days warm up the ice will loosen from the rock and slough into the river. But there’s still a lot of ice, some of it quite dramatic:

 

 
These yard-long icicles reach for the water which rushes over a 10-foot high ledge. Downstream of the spiky display is this eroding icy hump:

 

 
Through the deep, cold winter, snow and ice built up in layers on this riverside rock. Splash from the rapids helped cement the snow in place. But now as sun rises high enough to strike the boulder and temperatures rise above freezing on many days, the icy snow is melting, but only during the day. At night, the melt is halted. This is what gives the ice such a smooth sheen. You can see the same texture on this scalloped ice shelf:

 

 
Ice shelves formed on the river when it was high, but as water levels dropped, new shelves formed in succession. Now that the river is low, the stacked ice shelves mark the river’s past as they cling tenaciously to the banks. See the new ice forming at the water’s edge at the bottom right of the photo?

Enough of ice for the moment. Let’s head up into the woods, where we find this large downed pine limb alongside the portage trail:

 

 
This sizable limb is a gift to one lucky porcupine, who had many a good meal by eating the bark. Porkies love hemlock bark even more, but they’ll not turn down a free lunch. Here’s a close-up of the gnaw marks on the limb:

 

 
See the parallel gouge marks? Yummy for Porky’s tummy. Not far from the porcupine limb, I notice a nest hole which might be home to a pair of chickadees:

 

 
Chickadees are pairing up now, and it won’t be long before they begin prospecting for homes. They prefer cavities in trees for their nests. In a few month’s time I might hear chickadee youngsters begging for food, and see two or three heads squeezing together to peek out of their home as they wait for Mom and Dad to bring them something to eat.

Further down the trail there’s a slick of old ice where split black locust seed pods reveal the legumes inside:

 

 
The trail is thick with these seed pods, which apparently don’t appeal to all wildlife. The black locust is an important tree, as it reclaims land which has been badly disturbed—from clear cutting, say—and helps stabilize soil, which prevents erosion. The locust is a hardwood, but it’s susceptible to insect damage and rot, so it’s also a good tree for woodpeckers and tree-nesting birds. Another important tree in the north country is the American beech:

 

 
Beech buds are much loved by grouse and other birds, as well as deer, and beechnuts are a favorite of squirrels, chipmunks, mice, as well as deer. Many of the beech leaves remain on the trees through the winter, and rustle like parchment when the breeze blows. Their coppery color is emphasized here by the sinking sun’s golden rays.

Time to head back, and in the calm above the rapids, I see a small flock of hooded mergansers, the first I’ve seen this season:

 

 
They’re among my favorite ducks, and they’re among the first to return in spring. The Flow is still largely frozen, so the ducks will rest and recuperate from their long sojourn north, but as soon as ice-out permits, they’ll be building nests along the gentle shores of islands upstream. The photo above shows a female with a male in the lead (to the left), with males following. Here’s a close-up of the female and her pretorian guard:

 

 
The female is russet and subdued in her coloration, but there’s no missing the males when they raise their brilliant white crests. They’re telling me it’s time to back off, and so I did. But it was a beautiful hike, a fitting one to say good-bye to winter and WELCOME to spring!

 
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What’s that in the tree beside a very busy highway? Is it a plastic bag which blew up there and got stuck in the branches? Is it a squirrel’s nest? Nope. It’s a porcupine. Kudos to Kate for finding out with the help of her grandmother. When I saw the dark shape in the tall tree in that roadside scrubland, my instinct said porky, but then I thought it couldn’t be, not there. Perhaps it was a gray squirrel nest instead, and I mentioned it to Kate, who put me straight. I’ve seen plenty of porcupines over the years, but never in such an exposed spot. They love the reach down by The River where pines and hemlocks grow—hemlocks are one of their favorite trees. Here’s a large pine branch which fell during a heavy snowstorm with strong winds:

 

 
The bark was stripped by a hungry porky who wasn’t about to let such a treat go unappreciated. Normally they have to climb to the tops of trees where they nestle amongst the branches and have a meal of bark. That’s what the fellow at the head of this article is doing, eating dinner. They’ll sleep and eat in the same place, and when they eat their fill, then climb down and go on about their business elsewhere. Here’s a close-up of a porky’s gnaw marks:

 

 
Look carefully and you’ll see the parallel toothmarks on the pine branch.

You don’t need to go far away to be close to wildness. Wildness is everywhere. Yes, even on the grittiest urban brownfield site and in the middle of vast parking lots. And as Porky shows, it’s beside the busiest roads. The wild gives ground reluctantly, and it’s quick to reclaim anything it loses. The Roman poet Horace summed this up about as neatly as anyone has: Naturam expellas furca, he wrote, tamen usque recurret. “Chase nature out with a garden fork if you will, but don’t be surprised when she comes charging back.” (That’s not an exact translation, I’m afraid, but I think it captures the sense of the Latin.) Of course, we’ve moved on a bit from Horace’s country garden. Even the Roman engineers—and they weren’t slouches; some of their roads and aqueducts do good service even today—would probably be amazed at the scope of our planetary tinkering. Still, Horace had been a soldier before he took up poetry. He understood turf wars, and he knew that nature is a patient adversary. Cracks appear on newly paved parking lots within weeks, and weeds spring up through those selfsame cracks soon afterward. These first green shoots may not look like much, but they’re the advance guard of nature’s army. And nature can afford a long campaign. Just check out this reclaimed auto dealership:

 

 
The woodland above is young and vibrant, despite the wrecks and old buildings which slouch on the old parking lot. In a few weeks, this woodland will resound with the songs of returning birds as they establish nesting sites and begin families.

I got an education in the resilience of the wild when I worked in the stones-and-bones trade, as an archaeological geologist documenting the remains of old homes, abandoned mills and crumbling factories, as well as the alignments of disused roads. America’s recent past, I learned, is often hidden just below the surface. This wasn’t a complete surprise. “I am the grass,” wrote Carl Sandburg in one of his most-quoted poems, “I cover all.” Given time, whole cities — whole civilizations — can been swallowed up by forest. Just ask any archaeologist who’s ever worked in Mesoamerica.

My conclusion? Man-made “wastelands” aren’t forever, and nature’s campaign to retake the ground she’s lost begins even as the concrete cures and the asphalt cools. The same thing is also true when nature herself redraws the map. Some of Europe’s most fertile soils are found on the slopes of Vesuvius, the volcano that destroyed the Roman city of Pompeii. And closer to home, the landscape devastated by the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980 is already showing signs of vigorous recovery. Not even clouds of superheated steam, torrents of acid fog, and moving walls of abrasive ash can sterilize living earth past all hope of recovery. What remains will be a graveyard, to be sure, but no matter how absolute the devastation, life comes charging back. Just ask this fellow:

 

 
He’s a snowy egret, and his home is within sight of a naval base on one side, and a superhighway and office complex on the other. The wetland which feeds him is littered with the trash of Chula Vista, California, but he thrives. We should be ashamed to allow our landscapes to become so filthy. There’s no excuse but laziness. But Snowy endures, and like Porky, he brings wildness close to us. All we have to do is open our eyes—and some of us do. Just ask Kate and Shana, who noticed the porcupine across from their office and cared enough to wonder if he was healthy and well. Read more…

 

 

 
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A Note to the Reader Their bad day on the Battenkill hit Ed, Brenna and the rest of the gang pretty hard, but it’s not the end of the trail. This week Jack takes the lead and gives our heroes a priceless gift.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Ten

 
As late as it was—they hadn’t gotten to bed until after two—and as tired as she was, Brenna couldn’t sleep. “Shakedown trip!” she thought, silently forming the words. “Shake-up, more like!” And she had been shaken up. No doubt about that. Willy-nilly, she relived the day’s terrible scenes. A little girl horribly maimed. Fenris dead. Linda swinging wildly between ungovernable rage and inconsolable grief. The grim trip back to town, with Brick driving the Wagoneer, tight-lipped and angry, while Linda curled up in a fetal position in the back seat, sobbing. Brenna, riding up front (“Just in case,” Ed had cautioned, thinking of Reverend MacGregor), unable to do more than reach back to stroke her head.

And Ed, driving home alone in the Ford, his old poncho wrapped around Fenris’ rapidly stiffening body, sprawled lifeless across the pickup’s bed. And then the ghastly nighttime burial scene in Linda’s backyard.

“God, what an awful day!” said Brenna, whispering her words into the silent, enveloping dark. Ed stirred and groaned, but he didn’t wake. If anything, he’d been a little too quiet since the…what, exactly? “Accident?” Brenna asked herself. “More like some sort of Blue Light Special Greek tragedy.” Well, however you described the day, Ed had been a little too self-contained, especially when he wrapped Fenris in the worn poncho and placed her in the pickup.

The water pipes sighed and pinged, echoing Ed’s occasional groans. Brenna wondered if the toilet seal had failed again. She was still wondering when sleep finally claimed her.

Downstairs, in his apartment behind the book shop, Jack Van Dorn was also awake. But he wasn’t troubled by disturbing memories. He was getting ready to take a bath. In the middle of the night, no less. Or whenever he damned well wanted one, he thought. What luxury!

The tub was full. Jack turned off the taps, hung his tattered robe on a hook behind the bathroom door, and tested the steaming water with a big, knobby toe. Satisfied, he lowered himself gingerly into the clawfoot tub, easing in little by little to allow his skin to get used to the heat. He leaned back. All the long years in cramped fo’c’s’les and single-room occupancy hotels slipped away. Gone were the days of washing in a bucket or showering by the clock, waiting for a couple of gallons of tepid water to slip out of some miserly landlord’s clutches.

Jack let out a contented sigh. Seeing a mouse poke his nose out from under the radiator, Jack wished him good morning. “Don’t mind me, boy,” he said, addressing the quivering creature in a voice little louder than a whisper. “I’m gettin’ on a bit. Got to make the most of my opportunities, ya un’erstan’?” The mouse had nothing to say, apparently, but Jack thought he might be nodding in agreement.

The old man slid down and let his head sink into the warm, welcoming water. His thick, white hair floated free around him. Then, when the need to breathe became overwhelming, he shoved back through the surface, gasping for air. He grinned and turned the Hot tap on with his foot. Scalding water poured into the tub. Steam swirled in the room and fogged the mirror. Every muscle in Jack’s body relaxed.

“Comin’ up in the world, I am,” Jack added for the mouse’s benefit, even though he’d vanished from view. Then he thought of Molly Saunders. Mighty pleasant thoughts, indeed. “Did ya see that?” he asked the mouse a few minutes later. “Life in this old man, yet,” he crowed. But the mouse still had nothing to say.

When the water cooled to merely warm, Jack pulled the plug and stepped carefully out of the tub. He rubbing himself vigorously with a thick towel. He’d made up his mind.

He slipped flannel pajamas over his glowing body and combed his hair. Shuffling into his kitchen, he turned on the gas under a small pan of milk, then shook some sunflower seeds from a glass jar onto a paper plate. He carried the plate back into the bathroom and put it down next to the radiator before returning to the kitchen. No reason not to share his good fortune, was there? Certainly not. Charity begins at home.

When tiny bubbles formed around the rim of the pan, Jack poured the milk into a heavy mug, rinsed the pot, and turned off the light. He walked into his bedroom, setting the mug on the bedside table beside a dog-eared copy of Jonathan Raban’s Old Glory. Then he opened the middle drawer of the oak dresser and removed a dark mahogany box from under a neatly folded pair of long johns. Jack laid the box on top of the dresser, moving with the same reverent care that the old priests in the Seaman’s Mission used to take when they handled the gold dish with the hosts.

The rich wood glowed in the muted light. Taking a miniature key from a thong around his neck, Jack unlocked the box and opened the lid. Then he reached down, grasped the sextant by its frame, and lifted it gently from its cradle.

He took the handle in his right hand and felt the familiar weight. Squeezing the quick-release between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, Jack unlocked the clamp and moved the index bar along the arc, forefinger just touching the limb, feeling the firm, frictionless glide of metal on polished metal. Next, he released the quick-release and turned the micrometer head. Lastly, he brought the eyepiece of the telescope up to his face.

All felt exactly as it should. The sextant was Jack’s most prized possession and his only treasure. He’d kept it with him…how long had it been, now? Fifty years! Fifty years he’d guarded it. At one time or another, he’d sold or pawned everything he’d ever owned. Everything but one thing. This sextant.

Hard to know why, exactly. He’d been an engineer. “Black gang,” they called the engineers then. Working down in the bowels of the ship, in the engine room, always filthy, always covered with oil and grease, temperature over 120 degrees, waiting to have the skin stripped off their backs by a jet of high-pressure steam. “Black gang.” Engineers didn’t need a sextant. They didn’t stand deck watch. But he had. On the schooners, on the Labrador. Sometimes even on convoy duty in the North Atlantic. Too many died too quickly for captains not to welcome a likely lad who wanted to learn. Too many died, period.

So he’d gotten a sextant. And learned to use it. And he’d been right glad he had. But now he’d never need it again. He knew that. It was time to hand it on.

He felt a pain from somewhere near his heart. Not much of a pain, to be sure. Not serious pain. Just a slight, tentative flexing of the fist that sometimes visited him in the night, clenching hard in his chest. Real pain, though, and not some twinge of sentiment. A little reminder of mortality, of the inevitable end of old age. Nothing lasts forever. Jack had known that for a long, long time…. Read more…

 

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Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.