The Wander-Walk
I began my walk near the high sand cliffs facing the Atlantic Ocean. This shoreline was a battleground between land and ocean. The low growing plants and grasses did their best to stabilize and hold the ground while the relentless wind and waves and tides nibbled and gobbled inches and feet of shoreline every year.
Standing at the Marconi Beach outlook in the Cape Cod National Seashore, I could visualize the location where in 1903 the first transatlantic telegraph message was sent, an exchange of pleasantries between King Edward VII of the United Kingdom and President Teddy Roosevelt of the United States. That telegraph station was long gone now, replaced by repeated waves of new technology, one of them being the cell phone in my pocket on which I could effortlessly send a text to my son in Berlin or my daughter in Bremen. Even the spot where the station stood was gone now, eaten away by ocean erosion.
Change and more change. The only constant was the ocean waves, long lines of frothy white breakers rolling in and plashing onto the sandy shore below me.
I turned and headed inland knowing that this walk was going to be an experiment. I had, over the last months, learned that many of my readers, even though they wanted to deepen their experiences with and their connection to nature, simply couldn’t, for a variety of reasons, pull off the hour long sit spot I presented in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest.
I realized that I needed to offer a nature experience that was more approachable, more user friendly. Through experimentation I had come up with what I called a wander-walk, a slow stroll through woods or field while engaging in full sensory awareness. On these wander-walks I made frequent pauses to examine, study, gaze at, learn about, even befriend various aspects of nature—the birds, animals, wildflowers, and trees.
Heading through the coastal heathland I shifted into wander-walk mode and looked long and carefully at the dark green, low-growing, earth-hugging patches of golden beach heather, broom cowberry, and occasional pink-blossomed sea roses. These were all plants adapted to thrive in the dry, shallow, sandy, windblown ocean side soil. Amidst these low plants I also saw a few scattered, stunted, wind-bent pitch pines, looking almost like wild bonsai specimens.
I tuned into the soundscape. The soft steady shrump, shrump, shrump of the waves onto the shoreline formed a background drone. I listened for songs or calls of birds that might live in this scrubby terrain and heard the whiny mew of a hidden catbird, the insistent, high-pitched repetitive tseet, tseet, tseet calls of a chipping sparrow, and a novel song, one that grabbed my attention, the rich melodious too too tee tee chidididididi of a vesper sparrow. I tracked the song to its source and spotted the sparrow perched in a low, scraggly bear oak.
I crossed the mostly empty parking lot and stepped onto the Atlantic White Cedar Swamp Trail, a 1.2 mile long path that descended from seaside heath down to a swampy glacial depression where a stand of white cedar trees grew. I thought that this trail with its changes in habitat and vegetation would provide a good setting to pilot the wander-walk concept.
My sandals scrunched on the sandy surface of the trail. A bird darted by, landed in a nearby pitch pine, and sang a loud, clear drink your te-e-e-e-e. I brought up my binoculars; got the bird in focus; and was rewarded with a close up view of a male towhee, a handsome, robin sized bird with a black head and back, a bright orange flank, and a snow white breast. I watched him open his bill and sing drink your te-e-e-e-e-e. I even saw his bill quiver as he trilled the final te-e-e-e-e-e.
This was a moment of beauty. Towhees are usually shy and secretive birds yet this one had landed just few feet away and put on a plumage display and gave a musical presentation. I always felt fortunate when I witnessed these moments of nature beauty, moments that seemed to fill my heart and then transform the way I saw the world. I wondered if the easy-going energy of the wander-walk was already inviting a different response from nature.
Proceeding down the trail I noticed that the pine trees, now sheltered partially from the ocean breezes, grew taller. I paused and inhaled the fresh smell of green pine boughs above and brown dry pine needles below. This was an open pine woods with spots of bright sunshine and patches of ferns, checkerberry and wild sarsaparilla covering the ground. I felt the warmth and richness of all the vegetative growth rising up from the sandy soil. A gust of wind sighed through the pine branches above me. Yes, that sighing was exactly the sound the wind made when it blew through pine trees.
Faint chirps and squeaks carried from the pine woods, perhaps chickadees. I stopped and made pish, pish, pish sounds, an imitation of avian scolding calls that usually brought birds in to take a peek. Soon two little birds flew closer, flitting from branch to branch. One landed right above me and called out chickadee-dee-dee-dee, another close encounter with nature.
I took a few more steps down the trail, paused, and placed my palm on the brown, large-scaled bark of a thick pitch pine. I felt the warmth of the wood, sensed the plentiful sap and resin within, and pictured its spreading, water-gathering roots.
As the trail tracked further down into the glacial depression I observed a transition from pitch pines to tall white oaks. At this lower elevation there was more shelter from the ocean wind and over the decades falling leaves, twigs and pine needles had composted into soil that could hold water and nutrients, creating an environment where the oaks could thrive.
It was shadier here, dappled sunlight, a patch work of light and shadow. I placed my hand on the trunk of a white oak, felt the dry tight scaled bark, sensed the depth of the root system, felt the strength and density of the wood.
The breeze picked up and swayed the dark green canopy of oak leaves above me creating a rustling, swishing sounds, like thousands of delicate strands of paper softly crinkling and swaying, a soothing sound that rose and fell with each gust. I guessed it was true that each tree had its own unique wind-song.
I arrived at a gray wooden boardwalk that led into the swamp. Pools of water, surprisingly clear, covered the ground on both sides of the boardwalk. Moisture loving plants grew here; vibrant, verdant mosses, lacey leafed ferns. I saw the tall white cedars, straight trunked, dead lower branches, dark green lacy foliage reaching high above into the sunlight.
I took in the atmosphere of the white cedar swamp. It was dark and shady with only small scattered dots of sunlight reaching the ground. I sensed a quality of stillness. The trees, leaves, water and moss seemed to absorb the sounds creating a cathedral like quiet, a quiet that evoked a reverential feeling.
Stopping near a tall thick white cedar I reached out and placed my palm on its vertically striated gray-brown bark. I sensed the dry hard quality of the wood. I marveled at how trees growing in a swamp could create wood with such a dry quality to it, wood I later read that was prized by colonists who used it for boards, joists, frames, rafters, doors and particularly floors because it could be scoured to a clean, bright white.
Continuing along the boardwalk I felt the swamp slowly shift in mood. The thick stillness, the daytime darkness, the shifting shimmers of sunlight, the pools of placid water, and the lush dark green clumps of moss pulled me into a somber state.
Stopping and peering down into a pool of water I saw the reflection of a tangled matrix of branches and trunks and spots of sky and cloud. The scene in the Lord of the Rings came to mind where Frodo stared into the Dead Marsh, was drawn down, and fell helplessly in. I found myself gazing into a dark maze of alluring reflections. I felt an instant of vertigo, a fleeting willingness to succumb, to let myself drop into the lush life-taking, life-giving waters of the swamp.
I jerked myself back, turned, and walked briskly to the end of the boardwalk where I felt a tinge of relief when I stepped on solid ground and ascended into the brighter oak woods. When a robin, the first bird I had seen since entering the deep swamp, flew across the trail, landed in a tree and sang a few bars of cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily cheer-up it seemed as if I had returned to the land of light and life.
Further along the trail I spotted a tall blueberry bush. I peered into the foliage and discovered a cluster of ripe blueberries. Reaching in, I plucked five ripe berries, placed them in my mouth, and chewed slowly. The taste, a vital blend of sweet and tart and fruit, was vastly superior to any store-bought blueberries. The only comparison image my mind could generate was that of a vintage Burgundy with subtle tastes of fruit, mineral and earth.
As I walked back up the trail into the open pine trees I realized that my stroll was drawing to an end. I could hear the distant shrump, shrump, shurmp of the ocean waves again. I slowed my pace. A sea rose near the path was still in bloom with two light pink tattered flowers. I bent down, sniffed, and inhaled a sweet floral fragrance as sweet and full as any perfume.
The trail ended. Stepping back into the parking lot I reflected on my wander-walk experience. I felt that same lightly euphoric, deeply satisfied, softened personal borders, nature-connected high that I so often felt after an hour long sit spot. I had been touched by the beauty I had seen. I felt awed by the diversity, vitality, and resilience of the life forms I had encountered. I sensed a shift in my consciousness to a more open, soft-focused state. And even though I had walked over a mile I felt relaxed, refreshed and rejuvenated.
The wander-walk worked for me. And now, two weeks later, as I write these words, I can easily call up images, sounds and sensations of the white cedar trail. I can hear the steady sound of the surf, the song of the towhee and the sigh of the wind through the pine trees. I can feel the warm dry earth, re-touch the trunks of the trees, smell the pine-scented air, and feel that nature connection shift in consciousness.
But now I wonder if this slow, sensory-awareness stroll through nature will work as well for others. Will others first need to be guided on a wander-walk? Or, will this description be just enough to get them started, just enough to help them develop their own version of a wander-walk?
2 thoughts on “The Wander-Walk”
Oh, I just love this! The walking seems to have opened all your senses. The sitting is strong seeing and hearing but the walk brought in more participation of all your senses. Of course, movement brought new sounds and visuals and scents and took in touch and taste as well. You became and felt the life of a tree, called birds to you possibly because there is the awareness in your writing of becoming part of the tree, the sounds, the nature around you, more and more sensitive and open to all of it. Just fabulous!!!
Thanks Marilyn. I have done a few more of these wander-walks, one with a group, and I think they are a nice adjunct/alternative to the sit-spot. In the interest of full disclosure I first walked this trail at a normal walking pace to get a feel for the route and the habitats and some first impressions of the mood of the place and then did the slow, leisurely, full sensory awareness wander-walk. Maybe this preview is important. I’ll have to check it out.
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