A few days ago, I had the luxury of a long walk without the toddler or the dogs. The forest has been stripped down to the bleakness of winter, which officially starts next week. Deceptively delicate featherings of moss claimed the unwanted surfaces – rocks and wood. Reproduction is always in progress somewhere. The fawns which are forming inside does represent high maternal investment, while the clusters of seeds held aloft awaiting their turn for dispersal are much cheaper.



Insects crawled and stumbled about in the sun-warmed leaf litter. The forest was still waiting for a festive carpet of snow to shield the forest floor and its occupants from the shifting weather and temperatures (today the air is dotted with snow, making a thin covering that’s rough with leaves and spiky grass).

Casual birding is a feast or famine enterprise depending on where the mixed feeding flocks are foraging or where the crows are congregating. My walk was without avian accompaniment, until I remembered that there are almost always a few patrons at the bird feeder next door. A fact not always lost on the nonhuman forest residents who are interested in song birds. Woodpecker and nuthatches hung back in the woods, while bolder chickadees shuttle back and forth through the yard. Then some titmice appear. To me, titmice suggest mini jays in attitude and headdress.

In late fall and early spring I can almost convince myself that green is a shade of brown. Moss, ferns, and perennial plants abound, but the listless leaves of the latter two manage to suggest barely more life than the brittle goldenrods, now cast in bronze and topped with wool. Our evening walks sometimes spook turkeys from their roosts high in the trees. Heavy wing beats and crashing branches draw my eyes up for a glimpse of large bodies in silhouette. Day walks pause when the dogs notice the spectral gray squirrels floating up trunks in complete silence. When I walk without the dogs, I hear the squirrels cry and quarrel among themselves. Sporadic crow conventions convene in the back woods and add bleak vocals to the gray and brown scenery.

We’re in the midst of hunting season. The heavy fire days are holidays and weekends, but we’re always a little tense because of the ever present possibility of isolated shots. Not as tense as the deer. One morning we found bright blood splattered on brown leaves by the driveway, evidence of a wound which we assumed to be hunting related. The deer move more quietly than squirrels, and what we do see of them tends to be gray patches moving through thick curtains of intervening trunks.

This week I had a short time available to walk through a wildlife preserve with my camera. I rounded a corner to find two mother deer with their nearly-grown fawns grazing by the side of the path. With slow movements I took out my camera and stalked forward. After a few glances in my direction, most of the group resumed eating while one youngster fixed me with a picturesque gaze. I clicked – only to discover that my battery was dead. Frustrated at losing this opportunity which I knew would be near impossible on our land, I rushed back to the visitor center where I plugged the rechargeable batteries into a power outlet. For five minutes I hoped the deer hadn’t moved very far, given that my free-time was draining away. Then I grabbed all my gear and headed back out.

I shouldn’t have worried. The placid deer were now grazing right next to the building.