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The path up to the rocks

January 28, 2019   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

To get to the Rocks on a hill at the back of the property where I live, is a longish walk and a steepish hill. There is no shelter, no trees along the way, so the time on the walk leaves me quite open to the weather. The dog, Chandler, and I – and sometimes, the cat, Luna –  visit the Rocks as often as possible but not less than three times a week.

It is interesting every time. The path pushes through a meadow, sparse with trees but thick with milkweed: good for butterflies, especially Monarchs, of which there are plenty here later in the summer, but bad for horses and there are none here, so, that’s alright. 

Every season takes its turn at decorating the several acres that spread away from the path and down from the hill on which the Rocks make their stand.

Now, all is naked and waiting for cloaks of snow to shelter their bare stalks and branches from the storms to come. Yet, winter has only begun its games with us. February stretches before us and March (even April) has been known to be a lion for its full four weeks, like last year, if memory serves. There were layers, first of freezing rain, putting down a solid foundation of ice; then topped with a fall of ice pellets, leaving the world covered ice rice – remember? It was really hard to shovel and crummy for making snowmen. Never mind, it was covered in its turn with actual snow, resulting in a kind-of snow, ice cake. 

As the careful rise the path takes becomes a steeper slope, there are more trees and at the top, a little out breath and feeling the strength of a pounding heart, there is a shift in the air. Lower down the path, where rocks were not particularly to be seen, here they are like a village of Rocks. On the other side of the path lounges a gathering of ancient apple trees, gnarled main branches and twisted trunks. The long end branches reach out like so many arthritic fingers, wanting to touch the sun. In the summer, they still drop apples, hard and rough tasting, good for sauce.

Some of the Rocks have been stacked, some years ago, by landscapers who were trolling for others, a little way off, to decorate other gardens. They piled a few into a rough Inukshuk and still others, just one on the other so there is a population of them, influencing the air and drawing me to visit.

These days, the snow on the ground gives a study of tracks of the other lives that use the convenience of the path for their own purposes. The bunnies and the turkeys are easy to identify, as are the deer, but not the fine wobbly trails leaving barely a mark in the snow.  These are not heavy creatures, anyway, and they’re in a hurry, it seems.

Single canine footprints larger than Chandler’s denote a passing coyote, probably. We have all seen them around here. In the nights, they howl and sing.  Chandler loves to run outside to bark back at them. It is not sure she understands how dangerous they could be for her. Do they speak the same language, I wonder.

When spring comes, there are bees, bugs, birds and butterflies all around this place. It is a bit of a sanctuary here; the field is wild enough, although, one field over, the farmer sprays his crop.

As spring melts into early summer, the meadow’s barometer of growth marks the progress of the seasons. The smaller plants and flowers, fragrant and staying close to the earth’s tentative warmth, dot the land with colour and reassure us that Nature is still in charge here at least. 

We breathe in every second of the summer’s heat, whatever sunshine we are allotted. Digging in the garden to produce crops in the fall, canning the tomatoes as pasta sauce, making a nightly sortie out to see the starry display across the night’s canopy.

All the time, the Rock village calls and we three trundle up as often as we can, to be counselled and calmed with their steadiness. Thence, we watch the world go by, from a different perspective.

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