as it were – and having exercised my brain enough for today I thought I would exercise my legs by making my way down the scant-mile-long trail to the river.
Magic hour. Just before nightfall. It is a wonderful path, carefully marked with delicate ribbons by Chuck, who takes care of the property.
I’m hoping to scare up one of the wild turkeys that have been seen around here or at least a deer but no animals, just the mad sound of bird song all around.
Dame’s rocket in abundance. Also called mother-of-the-evening.
A mysterious grove of mossy logs.
A spruce cone.
An old fallen pine with just about the right dimensions for a ship mast, like the ones I’m writing about in my current chapter.
Kismet! This trail has a bouquet of young white oak leaves.
On the way down the last steep slope I can hear the waves rushing. After trying to explain inosculated trees to some painters here and sounding like a knowitall jerk I come across a pair right by the side of the trail here, a young white ash and a hophornbeam, seemingly making out.
They’ve been marked by ribbons as though ready for their close up. And a knotted rope placed there to help in the descent.
Finally, the beach. First, an Eastern cottonwood stretches itself out on the shore.
Is this beautiful enough for you? The Hudson is a beast.
How about this?
I find an ancient brick, probably from one of the historic Hudson River brickyards back in the day.
Handsome driftwood.
The smoothest beachrock in the world.
Heading back in the near dark, mysteries. An old foundation. Who came here before?
A forest containing a sad story. Pine bark beetle.
Things live here though. A hidey hole.
Multiflora rose, still holding tightly to its blooms. I don’t care if you’re invasive as long as you don’t invade me.
The first honeysuckle of the season, bringing back memories of childhood.
An old gate to the estate that hangs open as if to welcome me.
Closer, closer. The old carriage house.
Fluffy viburnum.
Lilies of the valley. I can’t think of the last time I’ve seen them.
More mysteries. Cannonball stones on the lawn. What?
Finally, the linden with its delicate lime green bracts.
And I’m back to the Caretaker’s Cottage.
Home sweet home, for now.
Jean Zimmerman 