At last, my favorite time of year is once again unfolding up on Spruce Hill. The green leaves have turned to gold and fallen to cover summer’s scars, and as I hike I can see for miles and miles from the hilltop.
A three hour jaunt takes me from the southeast corner of the isthmus, around the hilltop, down the northeast side and back up into the field where I walk along the mowed path, past the milkweed packets, on to the pond and to the southwest corner of the isthmus.
The weather is overcast, in the 50’s, with occasional light drizzle.

I enter the preserve and am greeted by severed limbs and the whine of heavy equipment and chainsaws as I realize that the neighboring property to the southeast of the preserve is being logged. I had been hearing equipment and was worried about which property was being cut. Now I know…it is the one that borders Spruce Hill along the southeast corner and north to Cuckoo Point. So sad to see these empty spaces where grandparent trees once stood. I wonder if these stumps suffer from ‘phantom limb’ pain, much like humans who have had a body part amputated. How disturbing to think that that may be the case with trees, as well as us. Another thought intrudes—what about that empty space above the stump? What happens when this space, so long occupied by living, solid, tree mass, suddenly loses its identity? Is there a ‘tree soul’…perhaps a ‘tree sprite’….that still hovers in that space? It seems somehow like it would be a sacred space, at least for a while until the neighboring trees adjusted to the loss, wouldn’t it? It feels sacrilegious to invade that vacuum with something as untreelike as my hand. I don’t cross the boundary; I journey on, still wondering what dimensions exist beyond my feeble senses, for I know there is something here I cannot comprehend.
Fortunately for the Spruce Hill complex, when the property was first acquired, I was urged by the director to pay close attention to the boundaries and mark them carefully and often. Fluorescent pink ribbons festoon trees every 50-100 ft. I walk the boundary, at least relieved to see there have been no incursions onto the preserve by the logging activity. The grandparents’ siblings still live.

The trails along the field edge are much less travelled by four wheelers than I have ever seen them. Of course, the fallen foliage helps to cover the scars, but most of the oldest 4 wheel scars are completely grown over with grasses. Very encouraging development!

The remainder of my hike is uneventful with the exception of the sighting of a northern harrier cruising low and slow over the preserve hilltop, just northwest of the pond. It sails, dips down to pounce, fails and swoops back up and around to settle in a small tree and preen. With binoculars, I can see the gray, black and white markings, and from the predominance of the gray, I would judge this one to be a male, but I cannot get close enough before my approach forces it to take flight.

The pond area is rich with bird activity, particular woodpecker types, but the only bird I can catch sight of and identify is a lovely, little bluebird. What a visual treat! The pond level is way down and the edges heavy with thick mud. Turkey baths and places where they have been scratching around the pond are evident.