To celebrate New Year’s Day my friend Susan invited her friend Sarah and me to take a nice long walk on Pumpkin Loop in the Carolina North Forest. It was my first time on this trail in the dense pine forest. I remembered to wear my thermal leggings and enjoyed the brisk winter air, while the bright sunlight created sharp, dark winter shadows. We heard many birds and caught glimpses of a few of them.
I have read that squirrels eat pine cones. They use their teeth to peel away the scales on the cone in order to extract the seeds inside. I’ve never seen one doing it, but on this walk I spotted some evidence of the process left behind on a stone.
Leaving the loop trail, we then stopped to visit a labyrinth nestled into the woods.
Carolina North Forest has 750 acres of woodlands and countless trails. It would probably take a lifetime to explore all of them, but that means I will never run out of possibilities here!
My maiden name is Chomiak, anglicized from the Ukrainian, Хомяк. When I was a little girl I asked my father how to pronounce it and what it meant. The son of Ukrainian immigrants, he spoke Ukrainian fluently. But however hard I tried to copy him I couldn’t master the starting “kh” sound of the name. “What kind of Ukrainian are you?” he would tease me. He then told me the name translated to hamster, and I thought he must have been kidding.
Apparently Mount Khomyak is a popular Ukrainian hiking destination. It is 5,059 feet tall. The Visit Ukraine website says that it gets its name from its peak, which resembles the back of an alpine hamster. (Well, there you go, Papa wasn’t kidding!) The top is completely covered with stones, and lower elevations have green meadows and coniferous woodlands. I thoroughly enjoyed looking at all this beautiful mountain’s pictures on the Visit Ukraine website.
My heart is still broken over the invasion of and endless war in Ukraine. But it was fascinating to learn something more about the land of some of my ancestors.
Stop and listen to the ragged-edged beech leaves, pale specters of the winter forest. They are chattering ghosts, clattering amid the bare branches of the other hardwoods. Wan light pours through their evanescence and burnishes them to gleaming. Deep in the gray, sleeping forest, whole beech trees flare up into whispering creatures made of trembling gold. ~ Margaret Renkl (The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year)
A week ago I made a quick trip to the botanical garden to take a final picture for my four seasons photo hunt, and added it the post, which had become an eight season collection. It was a chilly, gray day but I was tempted to linger and see what other kinds of pictures could be taken in the very dim light of midwinter. One beech tree was full of marcescent leaves. A single leaf was dangling from another one.
Finally, I got pictures of one of the white-throated sparrows foraging under the bird feeders, where there is a little less brush for them to hide under. There is stark beauty to be found in the winter garden, when seedheads are left naturally for the birds to eat.
It still amazes me how pansies are winter flowers down south here! Imagine – pansies outside in December! Even though the temperature was in the low 50s that day, it felt cold and raw to me, in spite of my extra sweater, winter jacket, hat and gloves. I could have used my thermal underware but I didn’t think it would feel that cold out there.
One of the many things I do miss about being a young person is what was my tolerance for the cold. I used to love winter, being a January baby, and have many more fond childhood memories of playing outside in that season than in the others. (No bugs!) My sister and I spent countless hours ice skating in the frozen swamp in the woods behind our house. It was fun gliding across the (sometimes lumpy) icy hollows between the hummocks. A challenging obstacle course. And not a pansy in sight until April!
I cannot tell you how the light comes. What I know is that it is more ancient than imagining. That it travels across an astounding expanse to reach us. That it loves searching out what is hidden what is lost what is forgotten or in peril or in pain. That it has a fondness for the body for finding its way toward flesh for tracing the edges of form for shining forth through the eye, the hand, the heart. I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does. That it will. That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee. And so may we this day turn ourselves toward it. May we lift our faces to let it find us. May we bend our bodies to follow the arc it makes. May we open and open more and open still to the blessed light that comes. ~ Jan Richardson (How the Light Comes)
We found a lovely little walk around Anderson Pond in Carrboro’s largest town park. The fall colors were very pretty but I was disappointed to not see any waterbirds.
Trees don’t simply maintain the conditions necessary for human and most animal life on Earth; trees created those conditions through the community of forests. Trees paved the way for the human family. The debt we owe them is too big to ever repay. ~ Diana Beresford-Kroeger (To Speak for the Trees: My Life’s Journey from Ancient Celtic Wisdom to a Healing Vision of the Forest)
This is not our world with trees in it. It’s a world of trees, where humans have just arrived. ~ Richard Powers (The Overstory: A Novel)
Carrboro has been recognized as a Tree City USA for 39 years by the Arbor Day Foundation. It’s one of 3,577 tree cities found across the nation. Every time we leave the house I love seeing all the trees in our densely wooded neighborhoods. And I love looking out our windows and seeing almost nothing but leaves!
There’s hardly a spot of color on the hardwood trees in our yard, but the light is glorious, as it always is in October, and the signs of fall are unmistakable. ….. Always, when nature works as nature must, there are joys for every grief, a recompense for every sorrow. ….. Night falls earlier with each passing day now, but the recompense of shorter days is the glorious light of October. I wish you could see what happens to the magnificent colors of berry and bird and flower in the slanting light of October. ~ Margaret Renkl (The New York Times, October 14, 2024, “Growing Darkness, October Light: A Backyard Census”)
These pictures were taken on Friday morning, the day we stood in line at the Chapel Hill Public Library to vote. Afterwards we took a walk on the trails in the woods surrounding the library. North Carolina has early voting, something new to us. Before we left Connecticut we had voted in favor of bringing early voting to our old state. I wonder if it passed. Our habit was to get up early on election day and get to the polling place before it opened. We were always near first in line.
Something new for the citizens of NC is having to show a photo ID when they check in to vote. We always had to do that back in CT. It’s so interesting getting to know the different ways the governments of different states run things, something I never thought about before, having lived in only one state my whole life.
As I stood in line I reflected on how encouraging it was to learn that our 39th President, Jimmy Carter, made the effort to vote while in hospice care at the age of 100. He was the first president I ever voted for. My thoughts also returned to the sacrifice so many of our ancestors made for us in the Revolutionary War, so that we could have the right to vote today. As the granddaughter of Ukrainian immigrants on one side and the descendant of several Mayflower passengers on the other, my complex place in American history has always fascinated me. While appreciating the myriads of reasons Europeans have crossed the Atlantic over the centuries to make better lives for themselves here, I also feel deep regret for the harm they have caused to the original people who lived, and still live here.
When we moved down here I started looking for southern nature writers who might help me get acquainted with my new environment. I’ve become a big fan of Margaret Renkl, who lives in Tennessee at the same southern latitude as we do. Her lyrical writings resonate with the seasonal observations I’m experiencing here. I’ve read three of her books, checked out from the same beautiful library where we voted, and enjoy her occasional editorials in the New York Times.
I tried to capture some of the slanting light of October to match Renkl’s words. This is our second autumn down south and the way it is unfolding feels much more familiar now, it’s starting to feel more like home.
It has been a difficult couple of weeks dealing with the side effects of vaccinations and an unwelcome osteoporosis diagnosis but we finally got out to enjoy some pleasant weather and a walk in the woods. We returned to Cedar Falls park to take a different trail and see if we could find a waterfall mentioned on a website. I think we heard the waterfall but could not see it from the path. The foliage was pretty dense and the terrain very steep so we didn’t dare go off-trail.
To pay close attention to the natural world is to exist in medias res. Life is an unfolding that responds to the cues of seasonal change, but for our purposes it is also suspended in an everlasting present. We can see some of the creatures we share our world with, or at least some evidence of their nearness, but we cannot know the full arc of their story. Every encounter in the outdoors is an episode with a cliffhanger ending. ~ Margaret Renkl (The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year)
We definitely share our world with the squirrels and crows we saw and heard, and there was plenty of evidence of other creatures nearby, including deer scat deposited on the trail and countless cobwebs clinging to twigs and branches. I had to smile when I noticed once again, it’s that time of year when Tim is still in shorts and I needed my sweatshirt. Not quite time to pull out my gloves, though.