Approaching Spruce Hill from the south on a hot summer day, I enter the dark, damp, green coolness of the line of tall trees at the eastern corner of the isthmus. It is a fleeting but welcome break from the heat of this summer day. That tenacious garlic mustard still lurks at the woods edge along the path. I try to ignore the tall, erect stems, now bulging with seeds, and am almost successful as they blend in quite well with all the other abundant greenery.
I hear the 'witchety, witchety, witch' of the common yellowthroat. Two, healthy butterfly weeds bloom at the first gateway. Male indigo buntings sound their fire alarms from the tops of small shrubs. Butterflies, dragonflies and goldfinch share their space while the white yarrow, trumpet creeper, and yellow and red clover add their silent, but no less vibrant, coloration to the living palette being painted before my eyes as I move through. A turkey vulture glides lazily overhead and lends its unique monotone. I reach the neck of the field and hear the yellow breasted chat calling high in the treetops. I stop and try to locate it. It takes me a while but eventually I see it perched just below a high, over-arching tree branch. It repeatedly calls a 'hoo, hoo, hoo, chip, chat' and proudly exhibits its vivid yellow breast and dark facial mask.
I investigate a trail that has been carved from the northern field perimeter, around the pond, and back towards the east. It meanders south across the field, passing hundreds of intoxicatingly fragrant blossoms of common milkweed, capturing the constant breeze along the low ridgetop, encircling the southwestern edge of the pond, and finally exiting on the east side. I think the way it was designed will discourage motorized traffic and encourage that of those with less ecological impact.
At the west side of the pond, I find a turkey sandbath; feathers, disturbed soil, and a slightly musty poultry smell are a dead giveaway. Standing quietly by the pond, I notice movement in the underbrush---a red fox squirrel is busy with its furtive investigations. Then oddly enough, stretched out atop the remnants of what Arlington Mallery in Lost America once described as 'the winged serpent mound on Spruce Hill', is an eastern garter snake. It strikes a supine, but intensely alert, pose as I snap its photograph. Contemplating that this snake's ancestry could likely be traced back for hundreds of years at this location, I feel the intruder in comparison and respectfully back away, leaving it to continue weaving that living thread.
