15 Minutes Among Nature
11/3/24, 8:30 a.m., 38ºC, Sunny
The walk to Salmon Hole is normally filled with music blasting in my ears while I chat with my friends as we go to the site. However, this morning my walk was solitary. Arriving to my spot, I could already tell things had changed. The forest was less warm, as the bright yellow and orange leaves had fallen off of most of the trees. Slightly more bundled up than I have been previously, I sat down on the cold stone at the center of my phenology site. I turned off my headphones, I put away any distractions, and I just sat. After a stressful couple of weeks full of midterms, tests, and essays, I did not realize how badly I needed this moment of calm.
The wind gently blew past me as I looked around at was once a luscious site. A majority of the trees and shrubs were now barren. However, that didn’t stop the big Northern Red Oaks from hanging on dearly to their evenly browned leaves. Slightly closer to the ground, the buckthorn shrubs maintained a few leaves of their own, but even as I sat there for those 15 minutes I noticed the wind winning the battle and plucking off the few the little buckthorn had left. Closer to the water, the Red Osier Dogwood, with its bright red leaves, and a windswept patch of Gray Alder have stayed decorated and lush. I looked at all the Basswood leaves littered along the rock, and I followed their trail to the large, looming tree which had never been more naked. Even at my first visit, the tree was struggling to hold onto its leaves, and now was left unclothed for the upcoming winter.
As I sat there and began to mourn the loss of the lush Bittersweet Orientals and Riverbank Grape shrubs, I noticed they still held their fruit. A nice treat for the few crows I saw fluttering about. If anything, the orientals had opened up their yellow-orange shells to reveal the bright red berry that had been hidden just weeks prior. It felt like one last gift of summer coming to fruition. The months of rain and sun accumulating, so that deep into fall we can have one last pop of color before they drop their seeds and rest for the winter.
I ended my borderline meditation to sketch the area, and found a deeper appreciation for this little spot along the trail. The river seemed to flow stronger than it had before, and at a time where the weather is only proving that this new place is very different from my old home, the sound of rushing water is a nice reminder that in the end were all connected. I can imagine myself dissolving away to join the stream, resting in Lake Champlain until one day I’m evaporated up high above the Green Mountains, and when it rains I’ll come back to the stream and start all over again.
