Shotpouch Day 2—April 26
After admiring the wild flowers up the trail yesterday, it’s a bit surprising to wake up to a frost, and no piddling dust of ice—I have been up an hour and the “white wash” of grasses is holding. The sun has yet to make it over the ridge; this cabin rests in the vale, as N. tells me, which means the sunlight comes late.
We found the heater late in the evening, disbelieving we would need such a thing. The “solar” kitchen-dining radiated tremendous warmth earlier in the afternoon. But by nightfall, it had all been sucked through the floorboards. I sat under a wool throw, reading until my teeth began to chatter. Then we headed for our respective bedrolls and tucked in.
The quiet out here is such a gift. Road noise is distant and intermittent, mostly drowned out by the rush of the creek. I was surprised I didn’t sleep more soundly. I may have to crawl back under the covers to warm my toes. Perhaps we could break some chairs into kindling and light a fire? Shades of Doctor Zhivago… No, I don’t think it will come to that.
N. and I are finding our way through the quirks of hospitality vs. privacy, taking turns wandering the trails or writing quietly and, alternately, sharing insights and exchanging stories. She sat out on the bridge in the early morning while I breakfasted and set to writing. Then I stepped out to wander the trail at the end of the drive, a slow curve upward, hugging the ridge. I wanted to see the trees and flowers in the morning light which was just showing itself in the meadow at the base of the trail. I took photos to add to my collection of green and turned around when the trail began to descend.
Wet shoes and socks bake on the sill in the sun as the frost burns off the grasses in a cloud of drifting vapor. I sit down in the arm chair to read and can’t keep my eyes open so I slip back into bed for an hour without explanation. None needed.
Per the plant guide on the table, I’ve seen larkspur, yellow wood violet, bleeding hearts, false Solomon’s seal, columbine, and one unidentified pink flower—five-petaled on what almost looks like a raspberry plant with pointy serrated leaves. I’ll ask N. when she gets back. And let us not forget the giant leaves of the trillium, blossoms already spent. (Early or late, this is still the Trillium Project.)
I have been berating myself for not getting out, even in my poetry. And here I am, in the woods where I belong. Home and not home. My only clock is on the corner of the computer screen and when I glance in that direction I am often surprised. Times moves differently here, or perhaps I move differently when I am outside of time—no schedule but my own and the rise and fall of the sun.