There are stands of ancient hemlocks in New Germany State Park, an oasis of green trails and lofty heights. A cathedral of a forest.
The sign says “End County Maintenance,” another way of saying “No Outlet.” But from the beginning I was intrigued by a break in the fence, a parting of the trees.
Last year I discovered it, and this year I’ve enjoyed it: a cut-through path, one that connects our street to the main drag of this neighborhood.
The cut-through has created a loop walk where I thought there was none. And I’ve been strolling it this week whenever I can.
(Not the loop walk but part of a detour, which is a vacation loop of its own.)
Today, on an early walk, I spied a fox crossing the road. Given its location and direction, it could well be the critter I see dashing across my backyard early most days.
What surprised me is that the fox was heading into the deep woods, not the patch of trees (mostly downed) that fan out from the back corner of our property.
This gave me a new appreciation for his range and rambles, for the ground he covers and, by extension, the life he leads.
As I grew closer to the grove where he was hiding, I spied his cute little face and perky ears. He was looking at me as closely as I was looking at him.
(Top, the woods where I saw the fox, and above, a couple of his fellow wild creatures, grazing in a neighbor’s yard as if they owned the place.)
The cicadas are buzzing and the air has thickened. Summer is at its sultry best. I don’t mind the heat, but I do appreciate a bit of shade when it presents itself.
I’m lucky to live in a neighborhood with strategically placed tree tunnels. I walked through them this morning and noticed how their cooler air refreshed my step.
These shady spots are way stations for the summer walker, stretches of pavement to aim for and enjoy. I don’t completely pause while in them — but I do slow down.
I learned yesterday that federal infrastructure grant money isn’t just going to roads and bridges. Some of it, admittedly a small bit of it, is going to trails.
The D.C. area will get $25 million to improve pedestrian and bike connections throughout the area, part of what is hoped will be 900 miles worth of local trails throughout the District and five counties of the DMV.
While some of the money will be spent sprucing up paths that are already there, other parts will be used to provide connections between trails. That’s the part that interests me. People love to walk or bike, to move through space on their own steam. But they also like, in fact they need, to get somewhere, to commute to work, for instance.
I know from my own explorations this winter how exciting it is to find passages between trails, to know that your wanderings can take you somewhere. And I’m glad that the humble little trail systems of our country are getting at least a small part of their due.
I don’t read the newspaper obituaries everyday, but on Sunday one particular one caught my eye: it was about Esteban Volkov, who died at the age of 97 in Mexico. He was the grandson of Leon Trotsky.
A mini history lesson, this article describes how Trotsky fled Russia after a power struggle with Stalin following Lenin’s death. Volkov’s father, a political supporter, was imprisoned and killed, and Volkov’s mother, Trotsky’s daughter, committed suicide. Volkov eventually ended up in Mexico City, living with his exiled grandfather.
Volkov returned from school one day to find his grandfather dying in the arms of his wife and a security guard. After escaping assassins other times, Trotsky was killed with an icepick by a man who pretended to be his admirer. Young Volkov wasn’t safe, either, once hiding under his bed as a gunman fired shot after shot into his mattress.
Volkov promised his grandfather he’d never go into politics, becoming an engineer instead. But after the fall of the Soviet Union, Volkov, by then retired, opened a museum about Trotsky in Mexico City. It now hosts 50,000 visitors a year.
The obituary has a noteworthy conclusion, as Volkov’s daughter describes her father’s many positive traits: “He liked nature, mountains, the ocean and loved music, with Shostakovich and Stravinsky his favorites. He never stopped walking and even died while walking, outside his nursing home.” He died while walking, three years shy of his 100th birthday. That’s something to aspire to.
(Volkov, lower right, with his grandparents. Photo courtesy Wikirouge.)
I write this morning from my quiet cocoon in the suburbs, pining for the cacophony I left behind. I stayed near NYU Hospital and the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and except for the dead of night there was seldom a time when sirens weren’t sounding and horns weren’t honking.
A nuisance? It would be if I lived there. But as a visitor I accept it as part of the bargain. You come to the largest city in the country not for silence but for stimulation, and of that there was plenty.
As I lace up my trusty tennis shoes for a walk through the neighborhood, I think about what they took me through yesterday: up and down the East River Greenway and across the city to Penn Station, dodging traffic, construction and the yawning maw of open basement stairways.
The whole city should be wrapped in yellow caution tape. But that, strange to say, is part of its charm.
(I snapped this photo on yesterday’s walk.)
With all this energy and all these people, the question is why there are not more collisions. I’m not talking about people and automobiles, but about people and people. By what strange grace do pedestrians keep from running into each other?
I went to Grand Central Station to try and learn the answer. I observed commuters rushing to their trains, entering from 42nd Street or from the Met Life building, heading in scores of directions at once, never colliding.
There’s an almost balletic precision to the movements, many narrow misses, but somehow people get where they’re going without rehearsing any of the bobs and weaves required to do it.
It’s worthy of Balanchine: the commuters’ choreography.
It’s been a two years since I took in the Big Apple, so I’m heading up there today, to walk, visit with a dear friend, and soak up the big city vibe.
Though I’ve traveled far and wide since then, it still seems like the place of places to me, where all roads lead. In my case, train tracks. But then, a lot of tracks lead there, too.
I’ll do what I always do in any city, but especially this one — I’ll put as many miles on my old tennis shoes as I possibly can. I’ll become, at least for a few days, a walker in the city.
Last night, after the kiddos were rounded up and their weary parents pulled away from the house, heading home, I noted the miracle that’s so easy to ignore this time of year, the great gift of evening daylight.
Family activities postponed my morning walk, but there was still (barely) enough light to take a late stroll. It had been awhile since I took this walk on the downwind side of the day, and I couldn’t help but notice how different it was.
Yellow lamplight glowed through windows. Late birds rustled in the trees. Sprinklers made that tst, tst, tst sound. I was the only walker on the road. Houses and lawns that look ordinary at 8:30 a.m. look positively fetching 12 hours later.
With walking, as with so much else, timing is key.