Author: Samuel Cartwright

I picked up the Class of ’97 leg of the Trail Around Middlebury by the organic garden and headed north. A fresh dusting of snow from the night before had left a thin layer of flakes over a pavement of ice compacted by Middlebury’s population of hardy trail runners. It was late afternoon, but judging by the tracks in the snow, only two people and a canine had ventured out this way so far. One of these people had the foresight to bring crampons, a decision I soon envied as I felt my boots begin to slide.

I soon hit the first taste of forest this leg of the TAM has to offer: a stand of trees which my four weeks of tree identification practice quickly informed me is composed of eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis). I’ve walked through this grove many times in my three years here, but this time I had a new, much appreciated perspective on the ecology of this patch of forest. Unfortunately, given our last class period, this perspective was a rather morbid and hopeless one. A series of presentations and lectures that day had stuck in my mind as not-so-gentle reminders of the serious threats that forests face from diseases, insects, and climate change. Looking at this stand of hemlocks I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer it will stand before Hemlock woolly adelgid (Adelges tsugae) snuffs it out.

I continued on the trail and crossed Weybridge Street where I quickly wished for the stability only crampons can bring to boots trekking on an icy hill. Walking along the creek, I continued to reflect on how this place might change. How quickly will warming global temperatures alter the forest composition of this small corner of Vermont? Will some of these tree species disappear entirely as more southerly trees migrate north? I wondered what it might look like to return there and find a completely different forest landscape.

From afar, I spotted something tied to a tree just off the trail ahead of me. Approaching it, I found a timely, written reminder of the threat that ash trees face from emerald ash borer. This particular threat is one that Tim Parsons, Middlebury’s landscape horticulturalist, informed us will kill our campus’s entire population of ash trees in the next five years. It seemed a fitting marker for a break, so I sat down on one of serval felled logs in the area and observed the forest around me. Through the canopy of white pine (Pinus strobus) needles, I could see wispy clouds rush by. Looking behind me, I could see trees bathed in the golden rays of the late afternoon sun.

And next to me, I could see a dead tree pockmarked with holes left by pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus). It was here that I found some solace: at least those lovers of deadwood will find some enjoyment as pestilence reshapes America’s forests.

When our class dispersed into the Green Mountain National Forest for a few minutes of solitary observation, I found myself drawn to the waters of Sucker Brook not far upstream from the Falls of Lana. In part it was the sound of gently flowing water that drew me to its bank, but it was also the incredible sculptural forms of ice that partially covered its surface. The clean-white blanket of icy snowfall had several large holes that I could see, producing open skylights for the babbling brook below. The running water had melted the edges of this frigid cover to produce beautifully sculpted forms which even featured the added interest of dangling icicles. The contrast of bright, smooth ice and dark, energetic water below was something I could have enjoyed for much longer than our allotted 10 minutes.

I sat down and looked at the life growing around me. There was a towering Eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis) to my right which I was soon to stand and lean against once I realized just how cold snow-covered ground can feel. To my left was a rock cap fern (Polypodium virginianum) jutting out from the side of a small boulder, a species which, like myself, is attracted to the geologic outcrops that occupy the forests of the eastern United States.

Looking upstream, I saw a massive boulder that was a few meters across. It reminded me of one of the first field trips I ever took for a college course, during which we waded out into the Middlebury River to collect data and calculate streamflow. Venturing upstream, we came across massive boulders that could not have been moved by the current discharge of the channel, providing a perfect opportunity for our professor to remind us of the dichotomy of geologic time: either mind-boggling slow or mind-blowing fast. Over a stretch of thousands of years, there is bound to be a flood that is capable of causing such geologic change. Similar to David George Haskell’s “Earthquake” chapter from The Forest Unseen, it is a reminder of the connection between time, geology, and the forest ecosystem. Though Sucker Brook was peaceful as it gently flowed under the ice that day, time hides its true potential.

Visiting the Vermont Family Forest Bristol Watershed property for the second time, I returned to the Norton Brook Reservoir to explore more of the surrounding forest. I first made another quick visit to the lesser known of our country’s Hoover dams where I looked out onto the ice covering the reservoir. While it was impressive to see large rocks held up by the ice, there was something unsettling about just how thin that ice looked when perched above and looking over at its many cracks and various darker patches.

I took the trail east into the forest where I heard the first of many echoing gunshots that would come to act as a harsh score to my otherwise peaceful exploration of the woods. I made my way to a small clearing on the banks of the reservoir, again admiring the beauty of the ice while also doubting its fortitude. Returning to the trail, I made my way uphill. Seeking a chance to rest and reflect I scoped out a place to stop. Above me was a well-lit patch of deciduous trees next to a large rock, but just below me was a dense stand of white pine (Pinus strobus) littered with many long, fallen trunks like so many stacks of rotting pick-up-sticks. For some reason, I was more attracted to the darkness.

It took several large steps over high stacks of trees, but I found a place for myself at the base of a modestly-sized white pine just pushing a DBH of about 2.5 feet. The first thing I noticed was just how green the moss was that covered so many of the fallen trees in this grove; the intensity of the color and completeness of coverage was almost surreal and rivaled the bright green of the ferns that dotted the tan pine needle-covered forest floor.

Though the wind’s blowing was gentle, the twigs and branches around me danced with activity. A small tree still holding onto its leaves shook violently while pine needles caught in spider silk under logs repeatedly made the same swinging back-and-forth motion. The long, slender buds of a small American Beech (Fagus grandifolia) gently swayed as small gusts of wind picked up. I looked up to see the evergreen canopy that shaded this dark patch.

And then the gunshots started again. I got up and made my way out of the forest, but not without stopping to admire the small details of the intense green trunks that surrounded me.

I awoke several minutes before my alarm. Opening my eyes, I could see the faintest evidence of morning light making its way around the blinds covering my lone window. Listening, I could hear the distant squawking of crows, ebbing and flowing as different flocks repositioned themselves in the trees. I got right up at 6:30 and felt the satisfying tingle of overcoming the urge to snooze. I may be a morning person, but that doesn’t mean I move at anything other than a snail’s pace before 8 a.m., so I slowly dressed for my outing. With my head still hazy, I stepped outside to find that the world outside was also covered in fog.

I made my way north, walking along South Main Street towards the trailhead. I could now see the flocks of squawking crows as they swooped past and landed on a towering elm, its dendritic branches standing as a stark silhouette against the dark, blue-gray sky. But it wasn’t difficult to be reminded of the fact that I wasn’t in the forest quite yet. A low rumble accompanied bright headlights as a septic truck approached and drowned out the hollow sound of my footsteps on the concrete sidewalk. The harsh, artificial light of the many lamps lighting my way was thankfully softened by the ethereal haze of thick fog.

I finally made it to the top of the hill. I looked over to the east where the usual view of rolling hills in a manicured golf course was shrouded by a dense wall of fog. Stepping onto the Class of ’97 trail, my hollow footsteps were replaced by the crunch of leaves, the grinding of gravel, and the squish of January mud. I walked along, looking at the stand of trees that surrounded me. I stepped off to sit on a mossy rock just as 7:21 brought the official start to the day. It was a sunrise I couldn’t see, but looking at the canopy, the silhouettes of branches covered a brighter gray sky than before.

I continued along the trail until I emerged from the forest and found myself in the Ridgeline parking lot. My footsteps became hollow again and I could see swooping crows. The lamps were now turned off, the sky was bright, and the hazy fog had thinned not only on the land, but in my head, too.