Outdoors – Page 4 – Grace Mattern

March 16, 2015

Snow Surprise

This morning I woke to a new winter coat on the grime, the real dirt of living that’s been etched on snowbanks everywhere for the last week now hidden in a fresh, if wet, three inches. I’ll take it, as long as it melts fast.

Driving home from Long Island yesterday afternoon we expected snow showers at the end of the drive but it wasn’t predicted to amount to much. But by the time we got near Concord there was a steady, heavy snow that whipped into our faces when we stopped at a rest area. Still, the snow was melting on the road, which was wet like it was raining, no problem.

Until we climbed the Chichester ridge to the east of Concord, headed to Northwood. Suddenly there was snow on the road at the top of the hill, and a good bit of it. Three inches at least, and dense and sticking to everything. The last 10 miles of the drive turned in to a slow moving train of cars as we all crawled along the slick road, snow still swirling. The car splashed up mud as I turned in to the driveway, but otherwise, uniform white.

It was a bright morning so I got out on the snowmobile trail to ski early, before the sun could warm the snow to too sticky, before the melting began. There were spots of sticky snow, but there was also fresh powder on every branch and needle and twig, a wonderland of white again, a glimpse back at a spectacular winter of snow. And then I was gliding along the tracks, maybe for the last time this year.

February 19, 2015

First Thing Ski

Waking to 4″ of fresh, fluffy powder on the snowmobile trails that cross our yard calls for one thing, first thing. A quick cross country ski, before the snowmobiles are out, while we have the trails to ourselves and get to make the first tracks. Our skis catch the new snow just enough to climb the hills and then is slick and quick on our downhill runs.

David and I do double hills. There are two good slopes on our regular route and as we climb each one we turn around then shoot back down. Climb again and continue our ski, then get to do the downhill again on our way home.

This morning we were out early enough that the sun was just starting to light the trees, a peach sky above the beech leaves that are still hanging on, hung with snow.

I have a lot going on right now (when don’t I?) with commitments and lists and tasks I have to get done on deadline. But there needs to be room in my day for a ski, first thing.

February 15, 2015

Wind and Snow

Clouds of loose snow blow across the fields and past the house. As long as there’s any dry snow in the world to the west of me, it makes its way past my windows. Every path I shovel gets packed with hard, dry drifts that lift like bricks as I shovel again.

We came home late at night two weeks ago after a windy storm and a snake of drifted snow curled out of the walkway to where we parked the car. I stepped over the first, knee-high drift on my way to the porch to get a shovel The next ridge was waist high and I plunged up to my thighs. It was impossible to tell from our yard how much snow had fallen in the storm. It was all drifts and mounds and long lips along ridges of white.

Our ski tracks across the field filled in this morning in the hour we were out. It wasn’t snowing, just blowing. We’d skied though woods to the edge of another field where the wind had sculpted pockets around the trees where we stopped.

Now gusts grab chunks of packed snow from the roof and fling it down into the stream whipping through the yard. The whistle and whisk of the wind turns into a long murmur and then a slap, slap, slap and bang as the shovels on the porch slip around.

The maple in the yard loses another dead branch. The hills in the distance are foggy with their own wind storms and above it all the sun has come out, last night’s storm has swirled itself out to sea and here on the edge of the great circle the wind keeps turning the corner and scrubbing my world.

September 10, 2014

France Sent Magnifique!

English translation = France smells magnificent.

As soon as I walked into Anny’s yard in Lisores three weeks ago, I noticed the fragrance. I couldn’t place the smell. No wonder, I don’t live in France. Anny’s gardens and house smelled enticing and exotic, smoky and salty and earthy, almost marine which made no sense, being more than 100 kilometers from the coast. Was it the stream gurgling through a lavoir on her property (a public place in France set aside for washing clothes — I’ve seen many in villages since being at Anny’s house), the vegetation, the gardens, France itself?

The delicious smells of France have followed me to Provence. Never having been here, but having seen many photographs of the hilltop villages in the Luberon area of Provence, I expected a French version of Tuscany. It’s more like an Arizona version — high, dry hills and mountains and canyons and the smell of sun-baked cedars and scrub oaks and lavender. Lovely.

Domaine de Coyeux Winery in the Dentelles de Montmirail

We spent Monday doing a Cotes du Rhone wine tour, circling the Dentelles de Montmirail, a small but magnificently scenic range of mountains south of Vaison la Romaine. Many of the vineyards we visited were tucked up against the slopes of the Dentelles, terraced lines of grape vines as high on the slope as possible until sheer rock faces made any further agricultural encroachment impossible. We have a plan (drinking and packing with bubble wrap and clothes) to get all the wine that ended up in the trunk of our rental car to Tuscany (we have a flight from Marseilles to Rome on Saturday), and if there’s any left, back to the U.S.

Yesterday we left Vaison la Romaine and drove south to Bonnieux, by way of Mont Ventoux, a 6,200 foot mountain that dominates the landscape of Provence, much higher than any of the surrounding mountains. The summit is all white limestone, giving it a unique color on the typically green horizon. We saw as many bikers climbing and descending the road over the mountain as cars. In fact, the summit parking area was closed because a Netherlands film company was shooting a film about biking on Mont Ventoux. The star (or the man at the center of the cameras’ foci) looked in his 60’s, which was consistent with the bikers we saw chugging up and zipping down the road. This is not a trip only for the super-fit — there were many older men with substantial bellies popping out of their biking shirts.

The biggest surprise was the Gorges de la Nesque, a spectacular canyon south of Mont Ventoux, where the River Nesque has cut through the calcareous rock of the Vaucluse plateau. Today we found another canyon driving over to nearby Buoux to check on a restaurant and a hiking destination for later in the week. This afternoon we walked through the ridge-top Foret de Cedres (towering cedars planted by a forester in 1860 for lumber), the town forest of Bonnieux, with striking views to the south. We could see the Mediterrean coast in the distance, and perhaps Italy, waving to Alison and John who we’ll be joining next week in Tuscany.

And I kept sniffing the air, relishing the odors of a hot, dry and astounding world.

August 17, 2014

Cairn Rock

“I have something I need to talk to you about,” my neighbor said, stepping out of his truck’s cab. He’d stopped at the end of my driveway when he saw me heading out for a run this morning. He looked upset and I was immediately worried.

“You know we’re doing a lot of logging out the road,” he said and I said of course, we see a dozen or more large trucks a day going by our house, making the sharp left turn to climb the small hill of Canterbury Road up through the fields and then into the woods. The same road I’ve written about before, the road I walk to a large set of rocks where I’ve been building cairns for Eric since he died. The closed trailer trucks come back out the road packed with mulch; the open bed trailers with tall steel side supports roar by stacked with huge logs of oak.

David and I walk out there often and have been watching the progress of the loggers cleaning up blown down trees from the tornado in 2008, shredding them into mulch, and cutting tall oaks for lumber. It’s the most action our street has seen since I’ve lived here. It’s made the road surface in the woods much smoother for walking and we’ve been assuming the blockage in the road, that keeps us from getting to the cairn rock, will be cleared once all the lumbering in done.

“I told the logger I hired one thing he had to be sure to to be careful of,” my neighbor said, still looking worried through all my talking about how much work he’s getting done on his land and how much better the road in the woods is now for running. “I didn’t want anything to happen to the rock where you make stone piles.”

“Oh,” I said, finally understanding why he looked upset.

“But there was a new young man working out there last week and he pulled trees over the rock and now everything is knocked down. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I build those cairns for Eric, but I don’t mind rebuilding them. I often have to pick up fallen rocks. It’s fine.”

“I know the rocks are for Eric. That’s why I really didn’t want them disturbed. I feel so badly. I’m going to clean out all the brush and bark that got left there and once the old road is open again you’ll be able to get to the rock and it will be all fixed. I’m so sorry.” He was holding his hand to his heart.

“It’s really okay,” I said. “It’s so sweet of you to be that concerned, but please don’t worry about it. You’re completely forgiven. I’m fine about rebuilding the cairns.”

“When I realized you were making those rock piles for Eric, I started doing it for my Dad. He used to take me out there when I was a kid, and now it’s a place I go to remember him.” His father died four years ago.

“It’s a good spot,” I said, nodding.

“I have photographs of it so you can see what it was like before it all got knocked down. And I’m going to make it even better. I’ve gotten a granite cross I’m going to put out there.” Now I knew where the cross made of lashed together branches that appeared on the rock this spring came from.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” I said. “You’re so kind to stop and tell me all this, but really, it’s completely fine. It will be a pleasure to rebuild the cairns.”

Eric would be delighted by the sequence of events that have led to a granite cross marking his remembrance rock. I’ll make a Star of David with lashed together branches and put that next to the cross.

July 7, 2014

On Top Of What I Looked At

For 22 years I looked at the Ossipee Mountains on the far horizon across the southwestern coves of Squam Lake. From the Westwinds Cottages, where our family spent a week every summer, I could see the Ossipees behind the closer height of Red Hill, a hazy ridge of mountains I’d never climbed. I knew the Ossipees were a ring of mountains from an ancient volcano, but there were few known trails and no maps, and I was always busy climbing the higher White Mountains to the north.

Yesterday I got to stand on top of the ridge I looked at all those summers and take in a distant view of that southwestern corner of Squam Lake, along with a gloriously expansive view of Lake Winnipesaukee. The trail to the summit of Mt. Roberts passed over numerous ledges with views of the lakes to the south.

From the top of Mt. Roberts we followed the High Ridge Trail, which strings many of the peaks together. It’s an old carriage road, running along the 2,000 foot ridge, and is wide and grassy and some of the best hiking footing I’ve ever experienced.

The trails in the Ossipees have been mapped by the Trail Bandit, a man who started by mapping St. John in the Virgin Islands for hikers, then took on the Ossipees next. I don’t know what the connection is, but I’m thankful for the work he’s done to make the trails more accessible. The Lakes Region Conservation Trust has gone even further in making their conservation area in the Ossipees accessible by creating trail maps and kiosks in the Castle in the Clouds area of the Ossipee Mountains, clearly marking 30 miles of trails with blazes and signs.

With a strong wind cooling off the hot sun and flickering light through the leaves of the trees along the trail, it was an ideal day for hiking. I fell into a smooth rhythm of walking, the flow of a good hike following me long after I got to the end of the trail. At the summit of Mt. Roberts we chatted with a couple having lunch there. We talked about hiking lists we’ve completed (the man has done all the 4,000 footers in New England and the woman was working on 52 With A View) and how for the most part none of us are into lists at this point in our lives — too many other things competing for our recreational attention.

But after yesterday, the peaks in the Ossipees is a list I plan to pay more attention to.

June 2, 2014

Views Far and Near

Yesterday was finally the day I got to linger and enjoy looking far into the distance from the top of Mt. Moosilauke. The summit is broad and open, and sitting to the west of most of the White Mountains, has spectacular views of the Franconia Ridge and all the mountains beyond. Every other time I’ve hiked to the top of Mt. Moosilauke there has been some sort of unfavorable weather to deal with — mist or scattered rain or snow, and most often hard wind that makes it too cold to stay at the top for long.

Yesterday was warm, sunny and bright, with little wind and no bugs. This was the Moosilauke hike I’ve been waiting for. I hiked with a group of friends and we spent a long time at the summit, enjoying the view, the fair weather and the satisfying stretch of our muscles after our first serious hike of the season.

But even when the views were near rather than far yesterday it was beautiful. The rivers and brooks we crossed and hiked along were running clear over speckled rocks, glinting in the sun, and there were beautiful flowers along the trail — trout lily, tiny white violets and trillium. There was also a broad bush with lacy white blossoms we couldn’t identify. When I look at the ridges of the White Mountains from any summit I can name the peaks. When I look at flowers in the woods I want to be able to name them too, so I looked up the flowering bush — hobblebush viburnum.

I’ve been thinking about view and perspective a good bit the last week, because I’m taking a break from working on the memoir. Having spent three months working through several drafts, I can’t see it as a whole piece right now. I can edit individual sections and see where a word or phrase or sentence needs to change. But I’ve gotten too close to be able to see how the pieces work together and whether those pieces make sense as a book. Time to step away for a bit and see if I can come back to it with a wider view.

Getting to the top of Mt. Moosilauke on a sunny day, enjoying the trailside flowers and tumbling water along the way, was a good lesson in perspective.

February 19, 2014

Still Snowing

I love snow, and woke to a world full of it this morning, snow piled to the railings on the back deck, a huge white hood covering the grill. Sitting by the wood stove with my cup of coffee, the kindling I’d set on the coals flicked into flame, a burst of light through the glass door. The blush of color ringing the dawn horizon deepened and caught fire also.

All the snow in the past few weeks, the storms and the skiing, and my obsessive checking of weather forecasts, reminds me of so many winters, so many treks through deep snow, so many outdoor adventures reveling in the way a great storm transforms the fields and forests into a cross-country skiing paradise.

In the year after Eric died, I couldn’t bring myself to ski or enjoy winter. Snow storms made me sad. Skiing had been such a part of our lives together, it didn’t feel right to ski without Eric. I spent that first winter watching storms, rather than celebrating them.

Recognizing how far I’ve moved from that place of paralyzed grief, I remembered this poem from The Truth About Death, which I wrote just about exactly 8 years ago. Eric would be happy knowing I’m back to celebrating explosions of snow like the storm that rode through New Hampshire yesterday. He would have loved this winter. Let it snow.

Valentine’s Day

The first real storm washes out the little color
in the landscape, the barn and shed and silo
weathered to the gray of a cut snow bank.
Sparrows peck in the perennial bed, tall stems
and seed heads clustered through snow. Small storms
of snow blow up off the roof of the hay shed,
sweep past. We would ski at midnight to catch
the pure snow before the storm slipped over to sleet.
So much happens every day, I need a wagon to hold
the hole. Last night I lay on the kitchen floor,
where our cat slept for her last year, her old body
bony, weightless. I noticed the narrow maple
floor boards running under the hutch, thinking
the world is flat even as I know it is round.

January 30, 2014

Small Stone #30

Flat Meadow Brook has frozen over. The water that was running open a week ago is now buried under layers of ice, muffled to a deep rumble. I walked to the brook just to have a look, but what caught me was the fungus growing from a log fallen along the bank. In the monochrome winter woods, I was captured by the shades of sage against snow. Glorious color.

January 26, 2014

Small Stones #24, 25, 26

Where do three days go? There were so many moments, in the three days of the Mindful Writing Challenge that I missed, when I did pay proper attention to something, and even did some writing of those small stones in my mind, but I never got any of them written outside my head. So have I failed the challenge? Does it count that I spent almost all of Friday working on poems, with so many files open I had to keep pulling them all up on my screen to figure out what poem to jump to next, and reading poems, and celebrating the online publication of two of my poems in the new issue of Petrichor Review? (Yes, please, do go check them out.)

Then yesterday David and I met our new New Year’s intention of hiking above tree line, or at least to a 180 degree view, at least once a month, by climbing Parker Mountain. Standing on the cliffs overlooking Bow Lake, with a wide view to the cloudy horizon of ocean to the east, was a moment that got lots of my proper attention. But then we got home and had phone calls to answer and food to prep for a dinner and wood to stack in the barn and then it was time to go out and then time to sleep.

This morning we skied to Flat Meadow Brook, which was running open and loud when I was there on Tuesday. After five days of mostly single digit temperatures, the brook is closing in, with only small pockets of water showing through some ruffle-edged holes in the layers of white, crusty ice.

Now it’s a quiet Sunday afternoon with sunshine streaming into my study and that low hum of stillness in the house again. Time to step back up to the Challenge.