I Enter the Wild - Baxter Day 3



 

Nesowadnehunk Tote Road



The beginning place for my own work on desert-mountain spirituality has to be a point of profound vulnerability. Risk is the way I have become "accustomed to walking" in recent years. ~~Belden Lane

I awaken spontaneously at 5:15. No need for an alarm clock when the body is working off the rhythm of the land. I slip out of bed, tiptoe across the floor (tiptoeing because the floor is sooo cold), start a fire in the woodstove, then crawl back in and listen to the resident mama loon and her youngster wail, that eerie, soulful sound. About 6:30 I finally get up, make a cup of coffee, then sit on the porch of the cabin and watch the dance of mama loon and youngster. She dives under, he chatters lightly, she resurfaces with food in her beak, he greets her hungrily, they circle close, touching each other, then she dives again. Sweet! There were no loons here at Kidney Pond during my visit last year. Loons feed on fish. Thus in order to eat, they must head to the coast before the lakes and ponds in this area freeze over. No youngster had been born here at Kidney Pond last year, and the adults had already headed to the coast for the winter before I arrived, so I missed their music, and their dance.

This year one youngster was born to the resident loon couple. The adult male has already flown to points southeast, but mom and youngster are still here. They should be heading for the coast in a few days - if the youngster ever decides to fly. Ranger Diane says he's a little slow at learning this skill. Actually, she said he’s acting a bit lazy, given that he’s been able to fish for himself for several weeks but is still insisting that mom provide fish for him, part of the dance between the two that I’m watching. It’s been wonderful going to sleep and awakening to the sounds of the loons calling to each other. Loons basically make four different types of sounds. The haunting, wailing call is the one loons generally use to communicate with each other, usually in the early morning or evening hours. This one can be heard for several miles and is the one I hear most commonly.  (Loon Wail)  A short hooting sound is also used to communicate among mates, chicks, and social groups on the same body of water. I’ve heard mom and youngster making both of these calls when close to each other. (Loon Hoot) I’ve not heard the other two, which are "tremolos" and "yodels," one made solely by a male as an alarm, the other by any loon as an alarm sound.

I spend the day today exploring the Park by car and taking photographs of the foliage. It is overcast all day, threatening to rain again. Overcast and rainy conditions are frequently the best for capturing colors of foliage, so it is a good day to put the camera to use. On my way out of Kidney Pond, I pass through several gorgeous "flaming" stands of trees, all yellow and orange, from the beech, birch, yellow maple and sugar maple trees. I take the Tote Road west then up and over to Matagamon Gate. For much of the initial part of the drive a canopy of branches covers the road, obscuring the surrounding countryside. But what a gorgeous canopy it is, a tunnel of color!! These are primarily the hardwoods, the beech, birch, and maples, and all are on fire! Hah! I think it takes me about an hour to drive five miles, as I keep finding new combinations of color, "texture," and "line" to capture.
 



I like to take the time out to listen to the trees, much in the same way that I listen to a sea shell, holding my ear against the rough bark of the trunk, hearing the inner singing of the sap. It’s a lovely sound, the beating of the heart of the tree. ~~Madeline L'Engle

 



Nesowadnehunk Stream





Soon the road parallels the Nesowadnehunk Stream. I chuckle at the name. I had been so proud of myself, when I learned to say that word, then Diane corrected me, told me that it is actually pronounced Nuhsahduhunk, or if you’re really a Mainer, just Sahduhunk! So, Sahduhunk it is! By the way, here’s another odd "naming" that perplexes me. Just like with standing bodies of water, I see a hierarchy with rushing bodies of water. For me, rivers are larger than creeks, which are larger than streams, which are larger than brooks, and so on. This body of water, the Saduhunk, is a river in my book! Perhaps it pales in comparison to the Penobscot or some of the other grand rivers of Maine, but for me here now, it’s a river!


Nesowadnehunk Stream
at Ledge Falls

In several spots the Nesowadnehunk has overflowed its banks and flooded the road. After reconnoitering by foot, I figure out that the water is shallow enough that I can still pass. I discover Ledge Falls, a spot where the bedrock underneath is raised up and the Nesowadnehunk flows directly across it. I walk out onto the rock in spots, to get close to the water. The water is running very fast here, rushing around a corner and bouncing off the rocks, creating a golden froth that mirrors the color of the foliage. At this spot one can see the surrounding mountains, most clearly Doubletop, which is brightly colored up to the tundra line. Gwen described this type of view, of colorful mountain foliage from afar, as looking like broccoli. And indeed it does look like colorful broccoli florets that have, well, aged . . . I enter a section of fairly open road, lined with balsam trees - must leave the windows of the car open to appreciate the sweet smell. Soon the Nesowadnehunk is replaced by the North Branch of Trout Brook paralleling the road. But here we go again, I dunno, looks rather large to be a brook to me . . . .

Doubletop "Broccoli"

South Branch Pond

    

South Branch Pond Campground

I briefly drive through the Scientific Forest Management area of the Park. Don’t want to wander much here, as hunting is allowed, and I don’t know if it is "season." As I reach the northeast corner of the Park, I briefly wander down to Grand Lake. There’s very little color here, and the lake is not very pretty, so I don’t spend a lot of time, instead turn around and begin the drive back. On the way back to my section of the park, I explore South Branch Pond, which is quite lovely.  It is pretty cold by now, around 45, and I have to bundle up.

By the time I arrive back at  Kidney Pond, the clouds have departed, the sky is blue, and it is in the low forties. It is too cool to sit outside for long, so I light a fire and open the back door to the cabin, preparing dinner to the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the loons calling, and soon the coyotes howling across the Pond!

Mt. Katahdin & Kidney Pond

It’s now around 9:00 p.m. Warmest it got today was 49 degrees. Yesterday I was bemoaning the fact that it was too warm, in the 70's. Then the rain rained and the winds howled, roaring across the pond, battering my little cabin throughout the afternoon and way into the night. The wind finally blew the rain away, leaving frigid temps in its wake.

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. ~~John Muir

But I am not cold at this moment. I have a great fire rumbling in the woodstove.  Ever notice how a fire makes its own noise? Not just the pops and crackles of the resins in the wood, but the fire itself has a voice. This fire is rumbling steadily, in a moderate and even cadence. But you should have heard the one this morning! I already mentioned that I quickly threw some logs in the stove, put a piece of firestarter under the stack and lit it, then crawled back in bed to wait for the room to get warm. Well, before long the fire was literally roaring - and the stovepipe was growling and popping, and this little peephole in the stovepipe was bright red. When I checked it out, I realized that I had built such a grand fire that it was crawling several feet up the stovepipe. Not wanting to burn the campground down, I stirred things around a bit, repositioned some logs, and the fire toned down a bit. I think I have figured out this fire fixing business!

I have settled in my little bed, replaying my several days here in Maine. I think of "input," of stimulation. With Baxter being a wilderness park which is a solid hour from the nearest town, and with the park having no electricity, visual input is different, which accentuates input from the other senses. There is no glow on the horizon from city lights, no pole lights here in the campground, no lights from cabin windows, and there's been no moon. Dark is really dark! When I turn off the propane lamp and shut the door to the woodstove, I can see nothing! Not a thing. It is dark by about 5:30 to 6:00 p.m. way up here, so after several hours of wonderfully forced lack of activity, I am finding myself shutting things down and preparing for sleep. I lie still, attuned to things that I probably wouldn't if I could see - the smell of woodsmoke; the sound of rain falling on the roof; the much different sound of water dripping from the trees instead of the sky; the smell of my leather boots drying by the fire; the sound of the wind beginning it's travels across the other side of the pond; the sound of the wind stirring the trees above me; the feel of the wind buffeting the cabin; the sound of the squirrel (or some other critter!) climbing the window screen; the noises of the fire settling down. Nice.

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, serenely, divinely aware.     ~~Henry Miller

Speaking of being attuned to sounds . . . there was just the most awful extended screeching noise coming from outside the cabin - really close - kinda human, mostly not, loud, piercing, hard to describe . . . Gotta ask Diane to please tell me there are Screech Owls up in these woods . . . if not, maybe Sasquatch - ?? Glad my cabin doors have a latch. Hmm, my cabin doors only have a latch . . . .

Another good day in wild Maine!

Donna