The Curving Road

WATCHING “snow devils” spiraling around old apple trees and whirling wildly south I am inclined to admit there may be some truth in visitors’ skepticism when I mention our road.

On this January day with a blizzard “bansheeing” past, crying in weird tones, there is slight indication of even a path leading thru the gate. When blasts ease off a moment and the white veil lifts, only a faintly discernable opening in the alders hints a road might be there.

The kettle murmurs cheerily—the wood rack is filled—Pal lies by the chunk stove thumping her tail in a dream welcome—little we care how fiercely the storm roars when chores are done and there is no call for my “fightin’ dog” or me to go into the turmoil. ‘Tis more comfortable to sit inside the frosted pane and write about it. There was a time when “comfort” was considered lightly, taken carelessly or let alone as one takes modern kisses, but that was long, long ago.

Main highways, straight, broad and glaring into flat distance hold no lure. The little roads that wander uncertainly, losing themselves among hills, are the ones we follow.

The connecting link between Dover and Housatonic vallies is about seven miles long. It was originally an Indian trail and arrowheads are sometimes found along its course. Before improvements started last autumn this “main rud” wasn’t anything to boast of with its mudholes, projecting rocks, narrow ruts offering frequent causes for “remarks” by travelers. Sometimes a carrying atmosphere brought these comments very clearly across the intervening quarter mile of meadow.

They recalled Captain Bill Andrews’ verbal indulgence when hunting the last dory in a fog on Georges.

A decade ago this artery was often closed for weeks by snowdrifts. Today a rotary burrows from South Amenia, a caterpillar from Kent, with plow-edged sled astern, rounds twin maples on our lawn and the men come in to warm up—inside and out.

The wheeled beetles resume their scurrying—some turn at the forks, glide past the row of ancient willows, follow the curving road to the steps of our ivory home. In the low ceilinged living-room we talk of many things—birds, pictures, literature, philosophy—and perhaps sip a toast to ourselves
and friends in condensed apple sunshine.

Old Mister Coon ambling down from the hills brookward, intent on frog legs supper, may have been the first engineer who laid out this highway. He was either unaware or didn’t care a squeal about the straight line, shortest distance axiom. Easy contours were what the original surveyor sought and Mister Coon is just the sort of happy-go-lucky fellow who would follow thru a proposition like that. Perhaps a fox padded along next and Lobo widened the trail when he sought to discover what Red was hunting.

When the hill farm era came, the path was cleared, broadened and lengthened. Depressions were filled, declivities rocked up and “down” timber cut out. It has never been a speedway but charcoal burners “wagoned” their product four miles west to Dover and the Steel Works or south to Kent Furnace. Ruff going but they made it. They were a hardy lot.

The hillmen vanished. Tie lumbermen kept portions of the road open for a while. This industry waned and faded into oblivion with the chestnut trees. Today only fifteen hundred feet of the eastern end of this five mile highway survives!

Even in January a bearing crust sometimes forms, making wood and field navigable once more without skiis or snowshoes.

If an inch or two of snow falls on this surface a page is printed more fascinating than any man written sheet

Here a grouse ran across, the footprints widely spaced. Within brush shelter the steps fall into line, scarcely two inches apart, indicating clearly the birds’ feeling of security. Tracing the winding trail we come to a pair of prints, side by side, a little deeper than the others from impact of its spring into flight.

A furtive gray fox had followed my day old track for a thousand feet, the narrow outlines of its paws stamped regularly into my broad impressions. Curiosity or easier going?—probably a little of both.

The gray fox foot marks and broader “sign” of his aristocratic brother, the Red, are far less numerous this year than usual. A company of wildcats has settled in Wolf Swamp. When these buccaneers come in Reynard folds up his brush and leaves.

Most hieroglyphics on the snowy page are legible and easily interpreted, tho occasionally the writing is complex. That makes it more interesting; our egotism is challenged by elusiveness. Mystery still has charm—man is under its spell whether enjoying the ceremonies of the devil bush of Africa or those of civilized ritual.

Something had cleared away snow from the top of a two foot ant mound. The worker had quit when frozen particles of wood and earth were exposed. A careful examination revealed woodpecker claw marks, larger than Downy feet. It looked as tho the Hairy, dissatisfied with suet rations, had tried to include ants in its menu. These members of the bark searching clan have been intimate friends for nearly half a century but I was not aware this dainty belonged on their bill of fare. Circumstantial evidence seemed conclusive, but a doubt lingered, a wisp of uncertainty.

Time has taught ‘tis wise to go slowly and visual proof should precede statement of fact.

A few days later, about sunrise on the sixteenth of January, the real performer poked his head out of the swallow entrance at the barn peak—a Flicker!

An ancient harvest apple tree arches the gate. Just beyond the snowplowed track dips in an elongated S past Otter Run for a hundred feet to a tiny bridge. There’s a pool awesterly, bordered by alders bending gracefully outward, their mauve brown trunks mirrored in the open water. Pussy willows further on and later wild cabbages will push bold tips upward, the sturdiest with bases in back eddies.

The little pond drops into a tiny gorge, then lips over smooth rocks, murmuring always, even beneath ice. One March afternoon I buckled on ski harness and started for the mail box at Macedonia nearly two miles south. Tho the seven foot strips of ash sank three inches the road was enuf down hill to make travelling fairly easy.

A clear, colorless light held in the west when I dropped the runners into the outward grooves and headed homeward. My eyes were free; skiis followed the deep tracks unwatched.

Astern, the last lamplit pane winked out. Motion became effortless—I was flying along that road winding sinuously beneath leaning elms with all the beauty and majesty of a flawless night above. On either hand the dusky purple, intimate hills, their rolling crests illumined at intervals by vagrant stars.

The high pitched bark of a fox snapped close by. A Screech Owl quavered from the Schermerhorn orchard. The weird notes of a Barred intermingled and from hemlock deeps boomed the “Lord ‘o All”—the Great Horned. Listening to his sternly reiterated “Who-who-who are you?” I hoped all Grouse within sound of that ominous challenge were safely hidden in impenetrable beds. Some necromancy of coming Spring must have touched the Owl tribe. Very rarely are three species heard talking together.

“Who-who-who are you?”

“Well, old timer, your insistence is flattering. I’m the birdman of Kent, who lives under Buffalo Mountain and paints portraits of you and all the rest of your family which I’d be glad—”

A Wildcat snarled. All conversation, except Bubo’s ceased abruptly. He was King of this domain. Nothing could stop his remarks if he wanted to talk, thereby proving kinship to certain “unfeathered birds.”

I halted in surprise, at the bend—every window of the house was agleam.

“What now, surely not company?”

The little squares of light glowed cheerfully against dark evergreens. Anyone daring these miles of snow deserved a hearty welcome. Putting the best ski forward, I glided over our road.

The door opened at the bang of upended runners.

“Why the Mardi Gras, got a king inside?”

“The king has just arrived. Will your majesty deign to enter these humble portals?”

“Well, I dunno—mayhap there’s a roast ox and a bucket of sack within?”

Leaving the main highway our lane divides a small pond where April Redwings inquire constantly for “Car-r-ee,” and trout fishermen profanely depreciate the value of mosquitoes and black flies. These fish are an inconsiderate, cannie lot, Scotch descent probably. They bite best on hot, muggy days after a rain when winged pests abound.

I watched one of these I.W. devotees from my screened porch, one evening. Bareheaded he stood in water nearly to the top of his hip boots. The ratio of bites between hook and dome was about 1 to 40. In the matter of punishment endured for sport’s sake the trout enthusiast heads the list.

On one side of this bit of road are eight big willows whose yellow tops reflect the first color hint of Spring. Just beyond, a magnificent cottonwood eight feet in diameter, shadows a deserted homestead. This splendid tree is a striking example of balanced environment. A poplar on the hillside more than a foot thru is rare. When roots of this species find water growth is tremendously stimulated.

One massive limb starts low from the trunk and leans menacingly over the road. Travelers must not tarry here when a gale is roaring thru the valley chute. A short rise carries past an old wind wrecked barn where the swallow people live. These “dolphins of the air” sweep around with teetering song telling how glad they are to be home again. Half a dozen are playing “follow my leader” shooting thru a four inch opening on momentum with closed wings, returning around the barn and repeating the performance with triumphant “tweets.”

Few birds arouse more envy. Whether singing (certainly they sing) in a happy group on the ridge board o’ mornings, or weaving intricate air curves, the query “Why can’t I do that?” always arises.

They lack discrimination, tho, in preferring this ramshackle ancient affair to my weatherproof barn, which they have refused to occupy for fifteen years. Several pairs inspect this apartment annually but there is something that does not suit them. The sign “To let. No objection to dogs or children,” is still on the door.

We like our road in Spring when south winds are blowing, scattering rain skeins along the mountain sides and bringing back the birds.

We like our tollkeepers—the saucy Catbirds—nun garbed, buccaneer minded, who insistently demand “Pay-pay-pay,” then abruptly change to a medley of stolen songs. They may be “Copycats” but their pilferings are so beautifully rendered and merged with original notes that we willingly forgive the thievery.

A Solitary Vireo looked me over quizzically from an alder twig. “Me-mee-can’t you see me?”

After a brief questioning and inspection in a detached manner I was passed as harmless, and hunting resumed. Its victims are not always small insects. They sometimes catch large butterflies. I watched one beat a Luna moth to death, tear off the wings and devour the body. It was hard going but the little gourmand made the grade finally, then lay flat on the limb, panting from fatigue for fully five minutes.

Early one morning I saw a small flock of Goldfinches drinking daintily from alder leaf cups. They discussed intimately important affairs alien to me and frequently ended remarks with a long “see-e-e-e-e-e?”

The swift winged Spring goes and when you walk over our road in Summer and come to the tiny bridge, a cool air greets you, no matter how oppressive the day. The little pool amphitheatre just beyond enmeshes any stray whiffs of refreshing air.

The birds know this spot too. They haunt it on hot days during the period when their arrangements for Autumn and Winter outfits are being made.

Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe are an exception. They retire to some mysterious rendezvous back in the hills where new suits are provided. Their tailor is a careful craftsman, requiring nearly a month for the task. For weeks we see not a feather o’ them, then some September morning they are twittering confidentially on the aerial arrayed in yellow vests a little paler than the changing tulip tree leaves.

Perched on their mossy nest under the studio eaves they talk with much wing waving, and I wonder if they are discussing past pleasures or telling how they intend remodeling next Spring.

Young Woodcock bask lazily in the wheel ruts, wings and tail widespread to the sun. Thinking the youngsters might be using the spot for bill testing, I looked the ground over carefully but could find no indications of drilling. These juveniles were fully feathered and expressed the family “tweet” when flushed but their bills were only half length. DO parents feed fledged offspring?—is one of the questions on Nature’s lengthy list. A thousand years of life would scarcely be enuf to satisfy a naturalist’s curiosity.

Great Blue Herons occasionally wing by sedately, with airplane spread of steel gray pinions. They alight in the valley, never in this bush enclosed pool. Night Herons sometimes drop in and Green Herons frequently angle awkwardly over the willows with harsh squawks.

One August afternoon three sprites were bathing there, splashing merrily in the jade-brown waters. Joe came roaring across the bridge at the wheel of his truck.

“Look out! I’m goin’ ter drive rite inter ‘em.”

“You harm my Wood Nymphs, Joe, and I’ll pull you from under that dilapidated old lid of yours.”

That held Joe. When I met him a month later, after the fair bathers departed cityward, he remarked:

“Well, Rex, I hear yer Wood Micks have left yer.”

September comes. Pearl shell dawn tints merge into day without rainbow colors. When a pale argent sun gleams mistily the lane dwindles—is lost fifty feet ahead among topless trees.

Mist mystery deepens when moonlight is abroad. Then if you tread softly along you may hear a deer’s impatient stamp and, if the night fog is not too dense, glimpse a flash of its white flag.

One night the east wind gathered stray flocks of cumuli from somewhere on the broad Atlantic, wafted them inland and jettisoned the cargo. They were strange cloud children in the east wind’s lap. She lost interest after transporting them here and put them to bed in these Taconic Hills. In the morning they hung—tufts of motionless sky cotton—on hillsides waiting for their real mother, Mrs. Nor’wester, to come and skurry them across the aerial playground in her impetuous way.

In mid-morning the old dame came, full voiced, whisked the interlopers off sou’eastward and spread a mantle of intense cerulean above.

Immobile rocks—old chestnut fence rails—awry weathered barn boards—tree trunks—all reflected blue. Even Pal’s black bolero jacket took on a steel tint as she trotted ahead.

And the pond! Sky water in an emerald setting.

In a by path I had widened last fall, hundreds of Blind Gentians climaxed the color in their ulter-marine pods. Where did they come from? Who or what had sown them in such profusion where none had bloomed before?

Their rarer sisters, the Fringed Gentians, reflected a fainter hue from concealed ditch nooks.

Two Redtail Hawks circled in vain efforts to escape lightning onslaughts of a Cooper Hawk. What a pugnacious devil this fellow is! He must fight anything in sight, even a member of his own family!

Tragedy—iron-faced and grim—sometimes stares
up at us. A spattering of iridescent Green Heron feathers—a soft dove gray patch that was once a Waxwing’s breast, or a Flicker’s golden primaries, carelessly scattered in the dust! The work of that demon overhead or his equally ferocious brother—the Sharpshinned Hawk. Contemplating these remnants of once vibrant life stifles all merciful thots. Fair warning to you—gratuitous murderers both! The 25 is behind the door and my eyes still keen.

When Autumn advances, ruddy cheeked, and trails filmy veils along, what of our road then?

Many tints my palette never holds are spread with plangent brush. Regal combinations of aster purple and goldenrod yellow backed by scarlet sumac dominate the wayside, mingling with exquisite color variations into the tawny pageant of hillside trees. Chewinks flit across the path with winking white tail spots, telling their name as they go.

Robins are congregating in the old poplar, discussing their southern journey with much wing motion and incessant “quit-quit-quits.” Flickers loop intermittently past and an invisible Bluebird complains softly—“O Dear, re-ar.”

Coming thru the gate a rustling drift of sienna hickory leaves meets us. Grandfather Hickory further up hill is leafless but still pendants shining globules in the aslant sun. Some years the old fellow sets no nuts and his scanty raiment yields to the first Fall wind puff. His Nemesis, the woodpile, edges closer but when joining seems inevitable, a rainy Spring hands Fate an uppercut and revives the beat of his stout heart.

Hickories fascinate me because they symbolize human traits I admire most. Standing there—rugged, staunch, undaunted—this upright tree typifies the spirit of Gloucester men I sailed with long, long ago. If reincarnation holds, Bill Andrews would seek that tree—he was all man.

Wheel tracks end at broad stone porch steps but a lesser road winds to the woodlot. Follow this on some Indian Summer days and you will hear Pan piping the same tunes he whistled fifty years ago. This is not a promise—you may not go back half a century and luck may forsake you. Remembrance and luck are mine—I hear him when the wind blows in that spot where two oak limbs touch!

We like our road at all times; twisting irresponsibly as a child’s footsteps to our door. We like it for its marginal mysteries and because it helps keep for us the gift of seclusion. To be happy—be hidden!

Finis

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