Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, July 19, 1993 TAG: 9307200590
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: 6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Bill Cochran
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
During our week's stay, we figured we'd have the place to ourselves, with the exception of an occasional deer that would give off a series of indignant snorts when it caught our scent after happening by at night.
But at dusk on the first evening, the stillness of the July woods suddenly erupted with the rich, melodious, flutelike calls of a wood thrush. The serenade went on for 20 minutes, until almost pitch dark, when the last ee-o-lay sounded.
Then the wind section of nature's orchestra gave way to the percussion-like sounds of a bullfrog in a pond so tiny and remote that I wondered how it had arrived there to assume its big-frog-in-a-small-pond status. By parachute?
A late-rising moon illuminated the woods with chalky light that filtered through the oaks to splash on the forest floor like patches of spilt milk. At 3 a.m. I could read my watch by it, then I reminded myself that time should have little meaning for a guy with a week to spend in the deep woods.
Camping forces you to cast the urgency from your daily routine, to slow down, to become not just an observer of nature, but a participant. Even in the modest luxury of a pop-up camper - which is one giant step above sleeping on the ground - camping strips away your brick-and-cement cocoon. It gives you a direct kinship to the wind and rain, the sun and trees, the clouds and wildlife, even the insects. And the wood thrush.
We had intended to get up early the next morning, but nothing like the wood thrush had in mind. The bird became our alarm clock at daylight, its lovely song penetrating the canvas walls of our camper to jump-start our day.
The busy bird doubtlessly was declaring his whereabouts to his mate in an area so thick with mature trees that sound was a better means of communication than sight. It was a most delightful way to be awakened, even better than the aroma of coffee brewing over a wood fire.
After breakfast, we filled our sun shower with water until it looked like a pregnant groundhog, then placed the solar device in a clearing where it would catch every golden ray from heaven. Often in the evening you jump back from a sun shower because the water is bracing cold. But not when the days' highs hover near 90. This time we jumped back even more vigorously because the water was too hot.
At dusk of the second day, the wood thrush sang again, but well down the ridge from us.
Had our arrival, our little hooverville, degraded this scenic neighborhood to the point that the bird felt it necessary to relocate?
The fact that he could be viewing us as spoilers bothered me. I could understand his move had we converted the woods to cropland or pasture, as is happening in the tropical forest where he winters. Or if we'd built a subdivision or power line or parking lot or highway.
But we had wanted nothing more than to share his oaks for a few days, to breathe the air he breathes, to view the same beauty, to hear the rustle of the same wind, to see the forest bathed in moonlight that is the color of dogwood blossoms, maybe to pluck some black raspberries from the same vines running wild along the edge of the woods. He could have all of the insects for himself.
The next evening he was back, his cascade of sounds even closer and louder, so near that we wondered why we couldn't catch sight of his plump, spotted breast. Once again, when he grew quiet at full darkness the bullfrog of the night shift took over. The moon came up, and we slept a deep sleep that came from the sense of belonging, of being accepted, of having an alarm clock you delight to hear even if time really doesn't count for much.
by CNB