Only a 15% charge on my phone. Foolish to head into the woods to sit for an hour in 10 degree wind chill without a way to communicate.

After plugging in the phone, I sat quietly and read, glad to have a few moments to draw in to the world of impressions and ideas. I thought about my intentions for the sit spot ahead. Having recently read how each locale in nature has its own unique sound patterns and its own unique smell signature I wondered if I could pick up on this information. Apparently these unique sound and smell patterns are used by some birds to find their way back to a location.

Plus, I wanted to sit in a second growth forest and see if it had a story to tell. On my daily walks I had spotted a patch of woods bisected by an old colonial era stone wall which told me that area had once been a pasture or farm field. Every time I walked by I felt a stronger and stronger pull to do a sit spot.

But maybe this was just a fool’s errand. The swishing of the leaves and the music of the bird songs would be absent in mid-January so what would I hear? And the earth was hard frozen and the ferns were dormant so what would I smell? And what possible story could a random patch of second growth forest tell?

Approach

The phone was up to 55%. I layered up in long underwear, heavy corduroys, a thick flannel shirt and a wool sweater. Stepping down the stairs I noticed the quality of the light shining through a window, already angled winter afternoon light by 1:30. It was a reminder that every time of day provides its own unique context, its own blend of light, clouds, wind, temperature, even moon phase, air pressure, and humidity, all factors that could influence my experience during the next hour.

Outside the cold air stung my cheeks and the gusty wind knifed through my coat. I felt out of synch, a house dweller cast out into the elements. Fortunately, I had a 20 minute walk ahead, enough time to warm up and acclimate to the outdoors. Plus my route would be a historical journey through the life cycle of a second growth forest.

I started on a path that led through a former hay field fallen out of cultivation for a decade or more. Amidst the grasses, weeds and golden rods woody invaders had moved in; bright red osier dogwoods, escaped thorny-branched privets, wild honeysuckles, and prolific, dense Russian olives.

This mix of brush and weeds was ideal habitat for small birds so I wasn’t surprised when I spotted a song sparrow perched on a honeysuckle twig. I also saw bird nests cleverly built into the joints of branches; some narrow cones of threaded grasses, others tiny bowls of woven twigs, all topped by a fluff of snow, like a scoop of ice cream in a miniature dish.

I came to an old road through an area much longer out of cultivation and saw fast growing pioneer trees invading the shrubs; poplars, gray birches and here and there a white pine sapling or a slender pin oak. A flock of dark eyed juncos, perhaps feeding on the catkins of the birches, flew ahead of me flashing their white tail feathers, calling soft tsip, tsip, tsip calls.

Turning on to another road I stepped into second growth forest. Surrounded by tall, thick maples, ash, cherry and hemlocks, trees a hundred years old or more, I noticed an immediate and palpable shift in the atmosphere. I had entered a quiet, tall space, a space of deep community. The word “gravitas” came to mind. I slowed my stride, stepped lightly, even reverently as if entering a cathedral.

2:15 pm: The Forest Sings

It was always daunting to find the “just right” location for a new sit spot. I turned off the road and headed into the woods. Climbing over the stone wall I worked my way up a gentle hill, feeling attracted to the more panoramic view a hilltop might provide.

I eventually chose a spot next to the stone wall and near a large sugar maple. I set up my camp stool, sat down, pulled out my notebook, and drew my first ten minute sensory awareness circle. I began to listen, to see if I could detect the sound signature of this place. I was not disappointed.

The gusty Northwest whooshed through the branches above. Behind me I heard a high pitched moaning, the wind rubbing branch against branch, a sound like a stringed instrument, like someone tuning up a cello. Cold frozen branches cracked and snapped.

I listened to a gust approach, heard it sighing through the branches behind me, growing louder as it enveloped me, whooshing the branches above and then fading away

I heard another, stronger gust approaching, creating a louder sighing and whooshing and lasting a full fifteen seconds. I heard a third wind-wave approach, an even stronger and louder wave that clicked and clacked the branches above me and raised the branch on branch moaning to the higher pitch of a violin.

How could I have even imagined that I wouldn’t hear a symphony of sounds in this chunk of forest? And surely these sounds were unique to this spot, the sounds of a tall tree forest; sighing, whooshing, cracking, clicking, tapping, and moaning, sounds given a certain timbre, resonance and texture by this hill, by this stone wall, by the spacing of the trees.

I sniffed the air deeply trying to detect the smell signature of the place. It was good dry fresh air, different from the stale inside air I had been breathing most of the day. I sniffed again and picked up a faint, fresh woodsy smell. I figured there was more to this smell, more that might be linked to this area, but I probably lacked the olfactory acuity to fully detect it.

2:25 pm: Sky Space

By the late 1800s most of Northeastern Pennsylvania had been clear cut; the pines and hardwoods for timber and charcoal, the hemlocks stripped of their tannic bark to make leather. This patch of land where I now sat had most likely been cleared even earlier when the first settlers arrived after the Revolutionary War. The thick rock wall next to me told the story of field stones laboriously cleared to prepare a field for cultivation.

But at some point the farmers moved on and gradually the forest returned. No one planned it or planted it, but all around I saw a great diversity of trees; ash, sugar maple, and beech, and on the other side of the stone wall a stand of tall, dark green hemlocks.

What mechanisms were at work here? Had the tree seeds from the ur-forest lingered in the ground and come to life once cultivation ended? Did the wind blow seeds from distant trees? Did the birds drop this variety of seeds?

Looking up I saw that each of these now mature trees had its own sky space, its own canopy territory, its own access to the sunlight needed for summer growth. When a gust arose each tree swayed within its own sky realm. I looked over at the hemlocks. I thought they might move and sigh like pines, but with their small needles they moved very little in the wind and the branches swayed through a small ark. They were quiet trees. Suddenly, the term a “tabernacle of hemlocks” made sense to me.

2:37 pm Big Bob

I studied the sugar maple next to me. It was bigger than the most of the other trees with a trunk so thick that my arms would only reach half way around it. Looking down I saw that the trunk emerged from within the stone wall. This tree must have sprouted in the wall and been left to grow getting a head start during the years of cultivation.

Halfway up the trunk I saw an amputated stub where a big branch had broken off, a branch that now lay on the ground in front of me, brown, half rotted and covered with moss and lichen. High above the big maple spread a fine lacy array of branches into the gray sky. Yet there was an open wedge on one side of the crown where three big branches had broken off, perhaps in a strong wind, perhaps when coated with ice.

This tree was a survivor, a tree that had opportunistically found an advantageous place to sprout, a tree that in spite of injury and loss of limbs, in spite of summers of drought and winters of deep cold had simply continued to grow and grow.

I felt a sense of kinship with this tree and spontaneously gave it a name, Big Bob. I couldn’t help but to admire Big Bob, to appreciate his resilience, persistence and patience. I felt as if we shared some life energy, as if we were both imbued with the same growth force.

2:45 pm Forest Life

I had been sitting for a half hour, hands ungloved to better write and manipulate binoculars if needed, ears uncovered to better hear. The cold was slowly spreading into my fingers and I could feel my ears stinging. I began to lament the fact that there was no life in this patch of forest; no birds to hear, no animals to see.

Then I caught myself. These were ungrateful thoughts. The forest was the life here and a very rich life indeed. At the very moment that a sense of gratitude returned to my heart, I heard a sound of life, a soft chuck, chuck, chuck.

I listened carefully. The sound seemed  come from a cluster of beech trees across the stone wall. I scanned the trees for movement. There it was, a gray squirrel perched on a branch looking at me. As soon as I turned to look back it froze, studied me, and then with a loud chuck, chuck, chuck scampered out of sight into the hemlocks.

The squirrel continued to scold me from its hiding place. I listened to it, squreek, squreek, chuck-chuck-chuck. I heard more sounds of forest life, the distant cawing of crows, the nasal yank, yank, yank of a white-breasted nuthatch, and the lilting per-chick-o-ree of a goldfinch in flight.

I remembered that it took thirty or forty minutes for the life of the forest to resume, for me to settle in, to blend in. Stillness was needed to hear and see nature.

2:55 pm The Phoney Forester

Conditions were changing. The wind abated and the clicking, sighing and moaning had faded. Dull sunlight pierced thin clouds casting faint tree shadows on the snow. The squirrel settled into a quieter, slower chant, no longer scolding but still informing the woods denizens of my intrusion.

My phone, resting deep in my pocket to keep it warm, rang. I ignored it, then heard the ding signifying a voice mail. A minute later a ching indicated the arrival of a text message. I told myself it could all wait until my hour was up.

I gazed around the forest, inhaled the woodsy fragrance, and listened to the wind. My mind drifted off.

Suddenly, the phone was in my hand and I had checked the text message, checked my email, and now was listening to the voicemail on the speaker. All of this was done unconsciously, done through force of habit.

The voice mail, a non-emergency lunch invitation broke the stillness like a brick crashing through a living room window. The squirrel fell silent. The birds vanished. The magic of my forest immersion was shattered like a mirror dropped on cold concrete.

I jammed the phone back into my pocket as if it were made of red hot radioactive metal. This simply would not do I admonished myself. Seething with self-anger and disappointment I realized that in the future I would need to have a conscious plan to keep the phone entirely out of play during a sit spot.

3:05 pm Reconnection

Ten minutes left. Was it enough time to reconnect?

I shifted to even breathing and tried to let go of my emotions.

I brought my attention back to sensory awareness; first to the sound of my breathing slowing down and then to the soft sighing of a gentle gust through the branches above.

I looked around at the trees spaced across this former farm field. I saw the brown, lichen-streaked, furrowed bark of the ashes, the gray-brown bark of the sugar maples, and the smooth, light gray bark of the beeches.

As my reconnection deepened I begin to perceive patterns. I saw that this plot of second growth woods was starting to show characteristics of an old growth forest. There were a few fallen trees with clumps of upturned roots, a few dead snags peppered with woodpecker holes. Pencil thin black cherry saplings sprouted around me. When I scraped the heel of my boot into the ground I felt yielding layers of composted leaves.

Even though I couldn’t see movement from the perspective of human-time, in forest-time there was much change, transition, growth and development in this woods. The next generation of trees and new varieties of trees were spreading eagerly into the sunlight spaces created by the fallen trees. New soil was forming beneath my feet. In another 50 years this woods might once again look like old growth forest.

As the last minute of my hour wound down, as I felt relief at having reconnected with nature, I heard a bird call that instantly strengthened my feelings. It was the loud, hoarse, far-carrying cr-r-ruck, cr-r-uck of a raven, one of my favorite bird calls, a call that spoke to me of the great wild, a call that brought up the mental image of a smart, social, adaptable bird fully at home in the winter woods. I glanced up and spotted a single, jet-black raven flying high across a blue-gray sky.

This sit spot was conducted on January 21, 2020 in Dyberry Township, Pennsylvania.

To read about more sit spots check out my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning published by Shanti Arts and available at Amazon.