A Walk in the Woods

I recently read about a state forest a little more than 30 minutes from here that, not only had I never visited? But I had never heard of it, either. After 35 years of living and hiking back in the area where I was born, I was pretty sure I knew most of the trails within an hour or so, but clearly, such is not the case. So when Heidi suggested taking Lucy somewhere for a walk in the woods, naturally, Conway Robinson State Forest came to mind.

According to the website, the property became a state forest in 1938, deeded by the Conway Robinson Memorial Park Association in memory of the late Conway Robinson. There was considerable reluctance in accepting the property, due to the belief that no one would ever use it. 

At the time of the gift, Lee Highway (Route 29) was a single-track dirt road that was difficult to traverse, particularly in wet weather. Now, the area is one of the highest populated areas in Virginia.

When we arrived on an overcast Saturday afternoon of Labor Day Weekend, the parking lot had a scatter of cars but not a person in sight. The cloud cover kept the temperature down, but it was muggy when we set off on the Blue Trail that runs the perimeter of the park. Within a few steps, we were immersed in a forest. In the still air, we heard the clear and sweet call of Eastern pewee, and as I stepped into a pine-scented glade of Loblollys, Mary Oliver's poem, "When I Am Among the Trees," came to mind.

When I am among the trees
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

"This was a great idea," I said to Heidi. "Thank you." 

Mind the Gap

I've been in a bit of a funk about my transition to retirement. 

Despite a long list of things I've long wanted to accomplish, I feel rudderless without the outside demands of a job. And I miss all the things I loved about teaching, especially the community I was a part of for so many years.

But it's really only been a little more than a week of proper retirement, and in that time, the refrigerator and ice maker have been repaired, the leaky kitchen faucet replaced, my electric ukulele restrung, my grandfather's watch refurbished, my nephew's teaching career supported, my garden weeded, and a load of donations dropped at the thrift shop.

I guess I have been productive. So why doesn't it feel like it?

Freudian Slip

 

Bringing the Heat

This afternoon, the temperature was 96, so I modified Lucy's new mid-day walk regimen. To avoid the excessive heat, we just meandered around the complex a bit, up and down grassy hills and knolls, so she could have a potty break. 

But as we strolled, we were not impressed by this potentially record-setting heat. The sun's angle tinted the light golden, which seemed less threatening than those white-hot days of July. And it was considerably cooler in the shade, perhaps because we were coming off the unseasonably lower temperatures of last week. 

At any rate, the takeaway for me is that a late August heatwave just isn't that hot. But perhaps the more significant lesson is that as our planet warms, we will probably all become climate connoisseurs and our extreme weather expertise may well be a survival skill.

Hello?

"Is that what retirement is like?" asked a neighbor as I enthusiastically described my recent visit to the Udvar-Hazy museum. "Because, if so? I might need to get a little more serious about my planning!"

I laughed. "No, that was more of a summer vacation kind of a thing," I told him. "So far, retirement has been like, Where is everybody? I ran some errands today, and I was stunned by how empty stores were."

"I know what you mean," he agreed. "I worked from home today, and when I walked down to 7-11, it was like walking through a ghost town."

"I'm sure I'll figure it out," I said. "And? I'll let you know where I find everyone!"

In Their Footsteps Part 3

A tall man in a flannel shirt with long white hair and a closely cropped beard to match waved to us as we started toward the parking lot. We had been the last car in the last group of the day, and now we were the last visitors left on the site. Around us, volunteers and employees were collapsing canopies, folding chairs, and packing up bins.

The man who beckoned us was Bob, the quarry supervisor who had first spotted these fossils back in 1989. The location had been pumped out, and as the floor dried that April morning, a path of footprints appeared. The tracks held the water just long enough for Bob to alert the crew and inform his boss, the quarry owner.

These days Bob is a stone-writer, engraving monuments and other decorative pieces. "I'll never retire," he told us. "I love working and I love stone." He showed us the pages in notebook from the day he spotted the tracks. "I keep a record of everything," he confessed. "My truck has more than 250,000 miles on it, because I know everything I ever do with it." Then he reached in a basket and pulled out a small rock like the thousands in the pile behind him. "I engraved a tiny footprint on this," he showed us. "I give 'em to the kids who come. This is the last one, though. Guess I'll have to make a bunch more for next year."

Bob had been surrounded by other people the whole time we had been there, and we hadn't been able to get near him. Now, he seemed reluctant to let us go, the last guests of the year who would see his newspaper clippings and listen to his tale of the discovery. The rest of the crew was getting a little impatient, though, so we thanked him and headed back to the pickup.

In Their Footsteps: Part 2

And that's how we found ourselves in the backseat of a pickup truck at the end of a caravan of vehicles down to the bottom of the quarry. The water in the quarry bottom was a gorgeous clear green. "The lab tests said it was cleaner than the city water," a guide told us, "and you can see to the bottom at thirty feet. But those waterfalls," he grinned and gestured to streams cascading down the quarry face, "are only turned on once a year for this event."

We had less than thirty minutes on the site, but the experience did not disappoint. Enthusiastic quarrymen, volunteers, and geologists were on hand to curate the experience and answer any questions we might have. Many tracks were circled in blue chalk, and the staff would cheerfully spray them with water for a better view. There were also informational signs on sandwich boards. 

Through it all, we were gently reminded that we were guests on private property and a mining company owned the fossils. There was no expectation of preservation, either. "Oh, these will be visible another fifteen years or so," a guy in a yellow vest and quarry t-shirt told us. "After that? They'll probably either be blasted for rock or underwater."