In search of the Wild Heart of the Forest

Now is the time of year when things get dark and wet and quiet in the forest. When the tall dead stalks of the Joe Pye sway in the wind hoping to loose some seed in the blustery wind. When the mud is thick along the trails and the fallen leaves, once green, then yellow, turn to brown and black. This is when I search for the Wild Heart of the Forest.

I get to wondering every morning on the walk to work, through the gathering dawn when birds are slowly waking and winging their way south. Where is the Wild which weaves within and between my home and my destinations? Is it above, below, off towards the river or up the steep limestone cliffs?

Owls, perched on silence, watch a spooked Rabbit dash scared and alert through the rattling stalks of Goldenrod and grass as the distant Coyotes howl in the moonless gloam. It’s been overcast for a few days now and the fattening dark quiets our presence in woods as we humans stay closer to home, draped in wool and central heating. Crickets have stuttered, stilled, and stopped their warm chirp as the rustling leaves began to turn and fall. The chipping winter Birds take over as they struggle to hold territory against the clamouring Squirrels. Creeksong trickles through the passing wingwhistle of male Mallards on the move. There is a soundtrack to this Fall.

I see hordes of Geese and Crows, Jays and occasional Hawk fly overhead - some in the midst of long migrations, some just looking for food. There are the signs that the Deer are joining in the rut, rubbing and scrapes litter the woods, but still I feel like there is something else I am looking for, something deeper still, just out of reach of everyday.

I want to wander down through the common trails and past, over the low flowing dawn-cold creek, through the cathedral of Pines, and beyond into that wide unknown to find the rooty dirt pile outside the old Fox den, a hollowed womb dug deep in the earth. There in spring, new life emerged, weaned and played, ate, grew skilled, killed, and left. I imagine the narrow dirtcave filled with the echoes of yipping and nipping teeth, red tongued yawns and lots of listening to the aberrations in the sough. Bone, scat and hair tramped into the muddy mound at the mouth of the den. I am beginning to see the Heart…

There is the scent of fungal blooms breaching the cover of dark golden yellowed Pine needles. Cool winds coming now from the North bring wafts of decay, of Skunk, creosote soaked railroad beams and rank Hobblebush growing back in the valley. If you bend low to the new scrape in the mud you can smell the Deer piss left by that swollnecked Buck, tempestuous and eager, antlered and horned. This autumnal scented rutcraft spilled across the land. The scent of wet needles and cones, the woodsmoke and soil help me remember a wild dream of myself woven within this place. The nose knows this time of year.

I go out to sit, and listen. To the wind, the river and my own breathing, harmonizing with the chilling world. I go out to wander, and look. To the tracks, the trees, and the stars peering down from a distance unfathomable. I go out to be with the world, a wilder place than my home, a place I long to know more.