The rocks appeared when we were told they would, a half mile into a fern forest. They seemed to emerge from the center of the earth, massive shelves of rock, dim and cavelike, green with moss.
Rhododendron trees twined their roots around and through the rocks, and fissures erupted where you least expected them. It was an accidental discovery, a place found while looking for somewhere else. It was eerie and awe-inspiring, a glimpse of another world. I’m so glad we explored Maryland’s Rock Maze.
A favorite children’s book on our shelves is Paddle-to-the-Sea, a delightful tale of an Indian boy who carves a wooden canoe and paddler and sets them free in the headwaters of the Great Lakes. The little boat has many adventures, even crosses the Atlantic Ocean. The grown-up boy discovers it years later.
One of my favorite experiences on this trip was also a paddle. Not a paddle to the sea, but a paddle to see. It was just a kayak trip across a small lake, but the leisurely pace allowed for an exploration of lily pads and a tall-pine forest where low boughs kissed the water.
I felt like I was seeing the lake for the first time. Dragonflies sipped water from my toes. The blue lake reflected white clouds. I thought about the restorative value of time on the water, of being adrift on a distant pond.
Mountain Maryland, it’s called, and yesterday I had a good taste of it, having turned left instead of right at a crucial juncture. No matter: all the better to explore this slice of heaven, this melding of lake and hill and sky.
This is the fourth year for an expedition to western Maryland, which is as different from D.C. Metro Maryland as one can imagine.
Here there are fields of daisies and roads along ridge tops with views of barns and corn and cows. There are shady glens, broad vistas, and lakes with lily pads. It was love at first sight, and later visits have only confirmed the initial attraction.
A return yesterday to the coolest weather I’ve experienced in weeks. No heat wave, no subtropical humidity. Instead, a pleasant warmth and weight to the air. I can’t say I miss the heat, but I do miss the beach, the breeze, even the sand.
Yes, it sticks to the back of the legs and collects in the shower drain despite best attempts to wipe it off at the door. But sand is a most amazing element.
I think of my beach walks, striding across the fluffy stuff to find the hard-packed sand at water’s edge, constantly adjusting my route based on wave reach and tide.
I think of the bounce in my step sand provides: what a wonderful striding surface it is.
My beach trip may be over, but the memories remain. And a little of the sand does, too.
Today at 4:51 p.m., the northern hemisphere of our planet officially enters its hottest season. It’s the earliest solstice in 228 years, they’re saying, since George Washington was president.
I’ve been thinking of George Washington lately, what with the discovery of 35 bottles of preserved cherries recently found at his home, Mount Vernon. Now I’ll think of him again, enjoying the longest day of the year, perhaps in Philadelphia, then the capital of these United States. A few months later, he will deliver his farewell address.
But back to the solstice, which is early this year because of leap year and our imperfect calendar. I could have waited one more day for it — savored the anticipation — but there’s no way to stop a celestial body when it has made up its mind.
And so I prepare to drain as much daylight and happiness from this day as I can. It’s the longest one; it can spare it.
(A favorite sunrise shot, the beach at Chincoteague, April 2016.)
Yesterday was a day for wild things. I spotted a doe and a box turtle in the woods, and then, while dining al fresco last evening, was visited by a red-shouldered hawk.
The bird landed on the deck railing, just a few feet from the dinner table, and scanned the landscape. I suppose he was wanting his own dinner, perhaps a chipmunk or squirrel. For a few chilling moments I wondered if it might be me.
The hawk perched for what seemed like forever, long enough for me to slowly turn in the chair and keep my eyes on him, long enough for me to become restless. I had finished my dinner; he’d yet to have his.
My phone was inside, so I missed the chance to photograph him. Instead, I tried to memorize his details: the long, substantial chest; the yellow legs, hooded eyes and beak that meant business. He was completely still as he surveyed the terrain, able to spot the faintest trace of movement.
What impressed me most was his patience. He was prepared to wait all night if need be. His was a patience born of need, the patience of the predator.
(A hawk I photographed several years ago. Last night’s visitor was much closer.)
