Ice covered Prompton Lake; thin clear ice sprinkled with snowflakes along the shoreline, a vast milky-white sheet of thick ice over the middle decorated with scattered snow-swirls. From a tall pine near the shore a white-breasted nuthatch, perched on the trunk, greeted me with its reedy, yank, yank, yank call.

I walked across the boat ramp parking lot to the West Shore Trail, glanced ahead and saw a shallow furrow of frozen mud winding through the woods. Crunching along the trail I stepped over recent storm-downed branches and across shallow rocky gouges carved by heavy fall rains. My feet and legs followed the familiar curves and turns and ups and downs of the trail. A black and white lattice-backed downy woodpecker scooted up a slender ash tree, paused, tap, tap, taped on the trunk, called pik, pik, pik, and then skittered higher.

I arrived at the seep where the water flowed discretely down and around moss covered rocks. Pausing, I listened to the softly murmuring water, gazed at the verdant moss; saw tiny ice crystals sprinkled atop the green fluffy moss.

Stepping over the seep my feet guided me off the trail, through the woods, past the old buried tire, around the big wedge shaped rock and out toward the tip of the peninsula, directly to my home sit spot under the big black cherry tree.

A buck, far back in the woods, unseen by me, snorted loudly, three times, venting a warning challenge. From beyond the little peninsula came a loud crack. I flinched. Another loud crunch followed. What was it? A deer stuck in the ice, a hunter crashing after his quarry? Or as my imagination ran wild, an escaped convict or maybe even Bigfoot coming after me! It was I reassured myself, just the newly formed ice shifting and cracking.

I set up my stool, sat down, and settled in. The temperature was 20, but with the fresh breeze the wind chill registered at a cold 15 degrees. I opened my notebook, drew a circle for the first 10 minute observation interval, tuned my senses to take in my surroundings, and reflected back on the morning.

Once the decision had been made – based on the suggestion of a friend – to return on an anniversary date of my year-long Prompton Project, a five year anniversary, the rest fell in place. The old behavioral pathways sprang into action; the ingrained procedural muscle memory guided me through each step.

Waking up spontaneously at 5:45, I sat in the dark for a brief meditation, then stretched through a dozen sun salutations. Automatically my mind selected the needed layers of clothing for an hour long sit in the cold; long underwear, jeans, turtleneck, flannel shirt and heavy wool sweater.

A few spoonfuls of yogurt, a cup of steaming Scottish breakfast tea in a travel mug and I was in the car on my way to Prompton Lake. I dug around in the glove compartment and found the CD of my old theme music; Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, and slid it into the player. The piano notes of the opening procession chimed through the car, warmly familiar music, linked to many fondly held past experiences. As the music ebbed and flowed I felt frissons of happiness flowing up and down my spine.

The only glitch came when I opened my mind for a word that might capture the mood or spirit of the day. The prefix re- popped into my mind. I tried to finish the word, re-turn, re-visit, re-do, but nothing fit.

Now, at my sit spot, I listened to the sounds. At the base of the peninsula water flowed down hill, a steady, soothing, soft, splashing sound. Wings whistled overhead; mallards in flight. I glanced skyward. There they were, a dozen or more, shadowy fast moving shapes in the dim morning light winging down the lake. It seemed that I was in the right place, at the right time to view a vignette of morning activity, to catch a glimpse of the daily cycle of duck life, to enjoy a moment of nature sound and nature beauty.

A single snowflake drifted down in front of me, a large complex crystalline flake, swinging back and forth, floating slowly to the ground. Seldom have I watched a single flake falling.

I looked ahead into the woods and saw the debris flung across the ground; branches big and little, fallen saplings, collapsed trees with broken branches splayed across the snow dusted leaf litter. This was a scene I recalled from my year of visits, a reminder of the amount of death and decay that is part of and even needed for the life of the forest.

More loud crunches carried from the ice behind me. Even the thick branches in the woods cracked and sighed in the cold. I flinched at each loud noise. I didn’t remember ever hearing so many loud noises. Perhaps water and wood were complaining about the recent hard freeze, bemoaning their encasement in ice for the long months ahead.

Soft stip, stip, stip calls behind me, a flock of dark-eyed juncos. I turned and scanned the trees but couldn’t spot them. An airplane flew high overhead, a roaring noise at first and then the familiar, high whooshing sound.

Slowly the daylight increased. I glanced to the southeast to check on the sunrise and discovered a subtle morning show. Faintly pinkish clouds like uncoiled spools of cotton candy layered through a slowly brightening blue sky.

I gazed at the trees above, a complex weave of branches across a blueing sky, a stunning and familiar view, one I had much enjoyed during my 2013-14 Prompton year. As I looked at the tree tops I felt my perception shift. Differences in the various trees emerged; strikingly unique forms – the strong limbed spikey spread of the black cherry, the ascending twiggy oval of an ash, the lacy branch bouquets of the gray birches.

Why had I never noticed this during my Prompton year? Each tree had its own structure and shape, its own function and purpose, its own manifestation of beauty, and I thought with a feeling of appreciation and gratitude, its own pattern of energy, perhaps its own personality.

More bird calls along the shoreline. I turned, listened, and scanned. Maybe it was another flock of juncos but I couldn’t spot the birds to verify my guess. Frustrating!

Ahead, deep in the woods a white-breasted nuthatch chuckled its loud nasal, one-toned whi, whi, whi, whi, whi, whi song. There was no doubt about that bird I smiled to myself.

Two crows with different pitches and cadences cawed back and forth far across the lake. Plenty of bird songs to hear, but part of me wanted to see birds, needed to see something living in the brown and gray and white winter woods.

The sun finally lifted above the high hills across the lake behind me. A hint of welcome sun-warmth touched my neck and back. My sharp black shadow suddenly appeared on the forest floor. The multihued tans and browns of the leaf litter came to life in the solar spotlight.

I glanced up and saw the bright, silvery, sun-reflected, torpedo-shaped fuselage of a jetliner flying westward high in the sky. I loved these moments when suddenly, possibly intuitively, I looked in exactly the right spot to catch a transient and evocative view. Perhaps this knowing when and where to look emerged with forest-mindfulness.

Soft flock calls ahead of me. This time I spotted the birds, a winter flock of five chickadees, a welcome view of life in the woods. They called ever so softly back and forth as they flitted from branch to branch and tree to tree. I could sense they were relaxed, that I was essentially invisible and non-intrusive to them.

I studied one through the binoculars; smart black cap and throat, whitish breast plumage, gray back, bright white wing edges. The chickadee skittered up the trunk, picked with its tiny black bill into bark furrows, fluttered out to a branch tip, gleaned along the slender twigs, perched precariously, confidently, comfortably on a slender branch tip.

Binoculars down, I watched the chickadees move across the peninsula, up and down, high and low, from trunk to branches, movement that seemed simultaneously random yet coherent. At one moment they looked like a merry band of opportunistic woodsmen, or a crew of adventuresome pirates foraging happily and busily through the trees. And at the next moment they looked elegant, choreographed, like a tiny feathered ballet troop, communicating and coordinating as they danced through the trees. I watched them gambol across the peninsula and felt glad to have seen this live performance.

The wind grew stronger and steadier and chilled my exposed face. My fingers, ungloved for better writing, had grown numb, and now felt like blocky appendages clumsily gripping the pencil. Images of steaming coffee, jam smeared toast and an omelette fresh from the frying pan sprang to mind. My hour was up.

Later, at home, savoring the last sips of coffee, I looked back at what I had written about my December 6, 2013 sit spot. It had been a very different winter day, an interlude between calm weather and an approaching winter storm. At the end of the chapter I finally found the answer to my re- question: “Then, feeling restored, refreshed and rejuvenated by my hour in nature, I strode briskly back to the car.” (1)

This sit spot took place on December 6, 2018 at my home sit spot along the shoreline of Prompton Lake.

Thank you, Mike Reid, for giving me the idea to do this five year anniversary sit spot.

(1) Harvey, John. The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning. Brunswick, ME: Shanti Arts Publishing, 2018. (page 176)