At the Peace of Earth Lodge, in Schuyler County, Illinois, my wife and I stood at a forested ravine’s edge, the below-freezing northwest winds at our backs. As our trail continued down a slippery, snow-covered slope to the deep ravine bottom, we briefly paused to consider how sensible it would be to attempt such a trail, and what we would do if one of us should fall and become injured. The winter scene offered much for our minds to process, and I unsuccessfully tried to take everything in at a glance. Then as we slowly moved forward, my attention was, by necessity, focused on the icy, leaf-covered trail and my handy walking stick, which provided stability and needed confidence.
Though preoccupied with the trail, it was not difficult to notice that because of the many bird feeders at the nearby lodge, forest birds were quite drawn to this stretch of ravine. Black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice, and white-breasted nuthatches were seemingly in constant motion traveling back and forth from the feeders to trees in the surrounding forest. Both downy and hairy woodpeckers were common, with an occasional red-bellied woodpecker. The feeders also attracted gray squirrels from their preferred deep-forest habitats. As we descended, I listened carefully for pileated woodpeckers, quite sure they were somewhere in the forest ahead.
After safely reaching the ravine bottom, feeling deep within the earth itself, we became enveloped within a quiet calmness, and my mind began to drift. The outside world and its many problems seemed far away in distance as well as time. I imagined the tablelands beyond the boundaries of our ravine covered in tallgrass prairies and savanna rather than harvested farm fields. It was not hard to see, in my mind’s eye, this part of Illinois as a mosaic of such natural communities, with forests occupying areas of rougher topography, such as the ravine where we stood, with prairies on the flat uplands. Steep rock outcrops along the ravine bottom provided remnants of a much more ancient landscape.
Photograph by Pat and Tim Sullivan
Soon the trail led to a stream crossing, and our walking sticks once again were very useful in helping us to skip from rock to rock and across areas where a slower current had allowed ice to form. Here at the ravine bottom, overwintering territories of several red-headed woodpeckers could be accurately located on either side of the ravine. With oak mast quite abundant this year, the ravine forest was able to support more red-heads, which feed on the mast, than in years with poor mast production. I knew that each red-head stored acorns in a cache within a tree hole, and protected its cache and a small surrounding area from other birds, especially marauding blue jays. There was quite a drama of survival in this ravine forest, and I wondered what other stories there were that I was missing completely. Each animal footprint in the snow had its own story: where each was heading and for what purpose; how its small life might end abruptly, red in tooth and claw; one moment alive and alert, the next resigned to its fate. As always at such times, I feel somewhat overwhelmed with so much to comprehend and so many questions left unanswered; and I try to think of a way to encompass in some way all that surrounds me, so that I might, in effect, carry it with me, and make it my own.
And then we saw the hammock at the stream edge across from a massive rock outcropping. How it contrasted with the natural surroundings, and yet how appropriate it seemed, especially at that moment. "Let’s lie on it," I said. And so, we carefully but awkwardly placed ourselves on the hammock, and then remained silent. I looked upward into the forest canopy swaying in the wintry prairie winds, and saw wisps of clouds moving high overhead. But in the hammock, the bright sun warmed my face in the cold, still air; and I heard every sound from up and down the ravine, as if the gurgle of flowing water, the rustle of each leaf, and the call of each bird were amplified in volume and clarity. Then I shut my eyes and forgot about myself for a time; when I finally opened them, I became confronted by the reality of my surroundings, feeling no longer as the outsider looking in. Such moments, delicate as gossamer, are rare and fleeting, and it is usually not long before the inevitable intrusion. So I made a special effort to be attentive for as long as possible, before again becoming the outsider and separating myself from my surroundings, which I knew was a requirement before we could leave on our hike back to the lodge. And we left when we were ready, but not one moment before.
Peace of Earth website: www.PeaceofEarth.net