Post by Grubb.
It’s Tuesday afternoon and we’re headed to Moosehead Lake. It’s a three-and-half hour drive. Cruising up Highway 9, fall was revealing its spectrum. Red tree, orange tree, gold tree, green, full-flushed and towering, conifer branches thrusting out, connecting to the surrounding forest. I was almost ready to believe Richard Powers in that the trees were communicating with each other. “Yo, Maple! Before we check out for the winter, how’s about shedding your hot red leaves on my soft pine needle bed?”
We stopped along the way at Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge. Pillared wooden eagles’ nests shot up from the riverbank, but the raptor with the incredible wingspan didn’t swoop in for a pose.
Deeper into the Refuge, we got out for a hike on the Ravin Trail. The path was covered in leaves, crunchy oak, limp red maple, fluttery light birch, and, between the leafy shuffle, a pine needle spread hushing my heavy trudge, the tall thin conifers providing a canopy which was appreciated since the temperature was in the high-seventies. At the turnaround point of our hike, we emerged on an observation platform with a view of the wetlands.
Back into the woods, maple leaves spread along a wooden walkway like rose petals scattered for a wedding procession.
Further in, the full autumn panoply livened up the dark waters of the forest bog.
Quiet except for the occasional bug-buzz, dark save for the sunlight barely filtered through the leafy shade, it felt like I was in some primeval forest merging into the dappled gloom. Like I was Emerson’s eyeball. Maybe in this dimension we were all Emerson’s eyeball. Well, maybe not all of us. Leaving the Refuge, I had to grab a quick pick of a guy parked by the eagle observation platform detailing the tires of his pickup with a spray can of black paint.
