Tableland 2

Today, however, when I reached the part of the trail where I had been stopped, I could follow DSC01163on until I came to a very different, more pastoral landscape. Here I crossed among rolling hills and strode down into groves, where sheltered, silver-trunked beech trees still held their autumn-golden leaves. Past tinkling streams I went, discovering several fine, large deep ponds I had never seen before. All of these were still without any ice at all. With amusement I realized that I could guess the depth of a pond by how much ice covered its surface. Because the beaver at our own heron pond below have devoured every possible food tree they have moved on. This means that with no beaver to mend the dam, the water there has drained to puddle depth. When I passed this one earlier, I noticed that it was entirely covered by an icey skin.

Each curve, each hill was leading me on and on. When at last I came in sight of Blake’s barn I turned back, but then I was tempted onto an offshoot trail through an alder swamp, across a rustling, grassy marsh, and up a fine, swooping hill. At last I was roaming as freely as I’ve longed to, with no creature sound except one scolding red squirrel, king of a castle of rocks. By now I had become so excited by my small adventure that I half ran up this hill. But what if I had guessed wrong? What if this second trail did not lead to the main trail which bisects the Tableland? In the back of my mind was the question that I was not sure how long I would be able to ignore the bone on bone grinding of my old back. If I had to retrace my steps, would it not be better to do so sooner rather than later? Wouldn’t it be wiser to simply turn back now? But onward I rushed. I simply couldn’t help myself. And at the hill’s crest, sure enough, there was the old wagonway which wound past familiar splendid large oaks prospering in a rare large pocket of soil. Assured of an easy return now, I swung along, pleased to see again a further heron pond, still harbouring a dozen stick nests in spite of recent fierce winds, and look, there it was.

When I left, I carried with me a promise. Next summer, I will come to watch the heron colony. But, also, it seemed to me that this distant, mainly forsaken ridge would be a likely place to closely observe the ravens, turkey vultures and hawks who sail above our valley, and so I plan to venture back up there to find them as well. With that, in the darkening light of a short afternoon, I loped off the cartway onto the trail back down from the high hills, past our planted pines, some now taller than I. And on to the lights of home, welcoming me back into the world.

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About Peri McQuay

Peri Phillips McQuay is the author of Singing Meadow: The Adventure of Creating a Country Home, The View From Foley Mountain, a book of nature meditations on her experiences living for 30 years at the Foley Mountain Conservation Area and A Wing in the Door: Life With a Red-tailed Hawk is the story of her adventures with Merak, a human-imprinted hawk, who lived free but saw McQuay and her family as her special people. Also Peri has written numerous essays, articles, book reviews and a weekly column, published in the Kingston Whig-Standard Magazine. Her credits include Country Journal, Harrowsmith, Bird Watcher’s Digest, The Snowy Egret, Seasons, The Fiddlehead, Herizons and Brick.

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