Blog-azic

Susan wanted a walk, so we drove down a big hill to the bottom land of Woodcroft and walked back on the Third Fork Creek Trail. While we were still on the Woodcroft Trail, I noticed the mature oaks and beech trees lining the road. It made me think that this was a rich forest before it was developed. Perhaps there are small pockets remaining where it is still wondrous (though, it has been called one of Durham's dirties waterways ). Some early morning, while Susan and Adella are still sleeping - or perhaps they'll come along - at about 6 am, when the unrisen sun starts to grey the horizon sky, and as the birds are joyfully singing about lush spring, I’ll come here with Benji and sneak about, sweating under a heavy wool shirt (to keep away the mosquitoes), looking for adventure. As it stands, we had a small adventure yesterday on the trail. There were massive ants swarming the parking lot we used. We grabbed Adella and Benji and set off. We decided to walk without a wrap, and

It could have been a week cooped up inside, a lack of sleep, new parenthood, etc., but Bolin Forest has never looked so full of wonder, so mysterious, so lush, and has never felt so familiar. The clear cut is just as chilling and stark as ever, but we spotted a barred owl on its edge. In fact, we walked in such a deep silence. It felt restorative and refreshing, like the cold, sparkling creek. In a clearing under the deep beech shade we stopped. Sun rays struck downward and dust caught in micro currents reflected the light. A pair of titmice made soft and curious contact calls between tree branches, not unlike the ornate sweep of the cardinal’s song. Afterwards, we went to Weaver, which is remaking itself new, and talked honestly with one another and tried to make ourselves new, too.

Mystic mountain sailing through time. Hillsborough is a fog creeping up your feet. Mountain laurel testifies in your quarry pulpit: “Stone feels harder in brutal sun.” Sourwood choir sings the refrain: “Thin detritus feels drier in humid air.” The woods were somewhat moist. I mean, Occoneechee Mountain is always dry, but in mid spring, it felt not so parched. The southern heat is only beginning. Jessica and I ran along the loop trail with Benji along side off lease, over tumbling ground, rock strewn. Over and back making small talk. Down by the Eno, in the northern shadow of Occoneeche, we got to the meat of the matter: grown up things, middle age things. It’s the summer of our lives, and, say, is it getting hot in here? I know she wanted to stay longer and explore more. Admittedly, so did I, but I was thinking of getting back for story time.