Every year I am eager to climb down the hill to the holler where my wild flower garden blooms. Usually I go too early, when just a few green shoots poke timidly out of their blanket of dead leaves. This year I put off my trip, worried that last summer’s dry weather and the extreme cold of late December had taken a toll on my old friends. As I have written before, this wild flower garden is extra special because it has been a project for me and my mom over about five decades. As sometimes happens, fear took over my better sense and I was convinced that it would be a barren hillside. I have had a rough few months and that’s the only excuse I can think of for my uncharacteristic pessimism.
Last weekend I took the plunge. On the way, I almost literally took a plunge because Carli jumped against me on the way down and almost caused a dive off the hillside. But my trusty stick came through and I kept my balance, admonishing the eager puppy against such shenanigans. This was her first trip on a wildflower walk. Scout and Sophie, old hands at this adventure, ranged ahead, checking back with me occasionally to make sure I was still following. This hollow is their territory – the source of many adventures and a hunting ground. A few weeks ago, it was the scene of a brief war. I do not know the result, and I did not know all the combatants. Bear, Scout, Carli and Sophie were on one side, but I have no idea who their opponent was, nor do I know the end result. I suspect it was a draw, since I saw no blood and no one brought home a trophy.
Hysterical barks echoed from the holler, as if all the hounds of Baskerville had cornered their prey. I couldn’t see where they were, and I was not about to go down there. I was unloading feed in the rain, transferring it from the truck to the Kubota. Starting the Kubota usually brings the dogs running from wherever they are, if they are in earshot. So I wasn’t surprised when Sophie arrived, unscathed and relatively clean. I expect she must have been more of an observer than a participant, although I swear she can keep herself cleaner than any dog I know in rain and mud. Somehow, even when she runs through the mud, her paws are still white.
By the time I got the feed transferred, Carli had appeared, panting and muddy. The battle was winding down. Scout was the next to appear, covered in gritty mud from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, with his tongue hanging out but still rearing to go. It was obvious that whatever they had cornered had gone to ground – probably a groundhog den – and that Scout at least had tried to root it out. Unlike Sophie, he enjoys getting wet and dirty. He’s the only dog I’ve ever had that will just lie out in the rain.
Then Bear came slowly up the hill. He looked like an old general, bringing up the rear of the guard, muddy and exhausted. As he came closer I could see that he too had been digging. His nose was scratched, his tongue was hanging out, and he had a look of defeat in his eyes. He spent the rest of the day sprawled unmoving on the front porch, so motionless that I checked on him a few times just to make sure he was recovering.
But today was peaceful and the dogs found no enemies to chase. As I drew closer to my destination, I glimpsed blue through the trees and my heart lifted. At least the bluebells were there. I stopped just above the little grove where we have spent so many happy times. There they were – bluebells, trillium, trout lilies, even a few Dutchman’s Britches were blooming.
I scrambled down the last few feet and took inventory, feeling slightly foolish at my needless worry. I should have known that nature is resilient. Wild flowers and wild creatures have been surviving since before a human set foot on this particular piece of land. The delicate shooting star was there, lifting its buds above a wreath of green. The trout lilies were even bigger than normal, in defiance of the fickle weather. And I found one small jack-in-the-pulpit almost hidden among the other blooms.
I had to clear a lot of dead branches from the path to my sitting rock and swept leaves and dirt from its surface. A little patch of Dutchman’s Britches had taken root on top of the rock and hung a few tiny pairs of pantaloons out to dry. I took a picture of it just before Sophie and Scout sat on it.
No comments:
Post a Comment