A hike yesterday through the refuge backcountry, so far in fact, that the Maryland state line was less than five miles away.
I’ve always thought it would be fun to trek from one state to another, a feat fairly easily accomplished here, since the Assateague National Seashore includes parts of Virginia and Maryland.
But yesterday’s walk stopped short of that, circled around and back to what I love most — the beach.
There are more birds than people on Assateague Island. Maybe always but especially on a blustery March afternoon. There were snowy egrets in the shallows and a great blue heron that flew up and away as I tried to snap a photo. Piping plovers ran in and out of the waves, in that adorable way they do. Beside them were scores of sanderlings, many hopping on one leg, and gulls, of course, which are always with us.
Most dramatic was the flock of snow geese that spiraled down from the heavens, a murmuration of waterfowl that landed on the spit of sand between Tom’s Cove and the Atlantic Ocean. A gift of bird life all the way from Arctic lands.
Like everywhere else these days, the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge has its share of invasive species. To manage unwanted plants, the refuge plans a series of prescribed burns. One of them was happening yesterday.
Smoke wafted over the estuary and closed the wildlife loop. It hovered above previously singed areas. In other words, it did its thing.
But it didn’t interfere with the wildlife. Ponies grazed, squirrels scampered and something large and quick plopped into the water as we passed.
By early evening, the western sky had cleared, making way …. for this.
The commonwealth of Virginia stretches from the Blue Ridge Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. Today, we drive toward the latter. But to reach coastal Virginia we’ll drive through much of coastal Maryland.
Chincoteague perches at the top of Virginia’s outer banks. We’ll spend most of the almost-four-hour drive in the Free State, won’t reenter the commonwealth until we’re almost there.
In that sense, we’ll have done on the first day of this short getaway what all travels hope to do, which is to bring the traveler home again.
A few weeks ago, in a rush of gratitude, I emailed a stranger whose maps I had recently accessed online. It’s thanks to his map that I’ve been exploring the paths in a woods not far from here, the one where I finally found the Northwest Passage.
I wasn’t expecting to hear anything back from the man, but I did want him to know how much I’ve been appreciating his maps and commentary, what a difference they’ve made for me.
Late yesterday, I heard from him. He’s 88 years old and doesn’t check his email as often as he used to, he said. But he credits all the walking he’s done with being alive now.
Quite an endorsement for walking in the suburbs. Or for walking anywhere.
I began to spot them in the forest a few days ago, although from the looks of it they’d been there for a while. The wreaths seem homemade, maybe fashioned from local boughs.
This one is special though, decorated as it is with an eagle feather.
Welcome back, the wreath says. Welcome back to the eagles, more common in these parts than they used to be.
Welcome back to the foxes, who prowl and hunt and make their home.
Welcome back to the walkers, including this one.
It’s been a while since I studied a topographical map. I’ve had to refamiliarize myself with those little squiggly lines. The closer they are together, I remember, the greater the elevation.
Sometimes there’s a little number there to help. In the case of my terrain it’s a little number in more ways than one, something in the 300 range, as in 367 feet above sea level.
But even 367 can be felt in the legs on the way up — and on the way down. It’s a good reminder that the land has a texture and a contour. That it has a mind of its own.
Once again, I’m on a mission, this time to find a passage through the Crabtree Park woods to a street called Foxclove. From there it’s a short walk to a Reston trail.
Having struck out on finding it from my end, yesterday I drove to Foxclove and tried it from the other direction. I reached at least one point I recognized from earlier hikes, enough so that I think I can find my way back there another time.
Once I have this figured out I’ll be able to walk from my house to the trail system I usually must drive to reach. It’s not exactly the Northwest Passage, but it’s something.
I just finished reading a novel I had previously “read” by listening. I approached this as an experiment. Would I catch more of the nuance when my eyes scanned ink on paper? Would I possess the story more fully?
The answer, so far, is inconclusive. While the spoken version brought forth the rhythm of the language, and the voice of the narrator captured its emotive power, the act of reading did what it always does for me: it created a private conversation between me and the author. It’s a conversation that seems more completely “mine” when there’s no middleman.
The words of the novel, Cloud Cuckoo Land, say it better than I can: “Turn a page, walk the lines of the sentences: the singer steps out, and conjures a world of color and noise in the space inside your head.”
When my children were young, I would often end the long days by trying to clear a path to the couch to read or relax for a few minutes before sleep. Often, though, the couch would be occupied.
It might be a stuffed bear, rabbit and dog having tea. Or a bevy of Barbies strutting their stuff. Whatever it was, I hated to dismantle it. I’d been so busy all day doing my job that I hadn’t had time to appreciate the work my girls were doing, play being the work of childhood. But the little scenes were so dear that I knew I would never forget them.
Now we’ve come full circle. It’s my girls who are coming upon these sweet reminders of their children’s play. Except when the toddlers are over here, which they were yesterday. When I went down to the basement after the flurry of departures, I found a little something the kiddos left behind.
I’m not sure what’s going on in this tableau, other than knowing it includes a block, a plastic rabbit, Playmobil girl, tiny doll wardrobe on its side covered with a piece of lavender fabric, and red plastic monkey from a game we once had called Barrel of Monkeys. Needless to say, I couldn’t dismantle this right away —and I took a picture before I did.