at the head of the Sugarlands

 

The Stone House

the stone house has pulled at me

since I first heard of it a decade ago,

up at the head of the Sugarlands

in the area where Big Branch

drops to the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River,

no Park Service trail leads to it,

we find specific directions through the magic of Google,

the first two and a half miles we follow established roads,

the last half mile we follow the trace of a lightly-used trail

which calls us up the valley,

sometimes the way only clear when we are adjacent to it,

finally we cross Big Branch,

a minimal stream this time of year,

and there the stone house asserts itself at the top of the ridge,

mortar-glued native river rock

holds shape of walls, doors, windows, chimney

for over 90 of the last years,

on the way to it various rock walls

speak of farmers clearing rocks out of the fields,

sometimes with gratuitous sharp edges of line and corner,

here at the stone house,

the workers defied entropy

and asserted will with stone,

most in this valley built walls with wood,

and even chestnut logs cannot endure for near a century,

elsewhere a few hearths and chimneys, mortar-less, endure,

at the stone house much of the owner's vision is still there,

here it's easier to reach back

and appreciate the humanity of they who built here,

enough metal of stove and tool is still there,

lovingly rescued from the forgetting

that leaves and downed trees rework upon the land,

stone and iron are like the artist's first sketch

that hints at the fullness a painting can achieve,

I love our time here at the stone house,

I love that I am still capable of the effort it took to get here,

I love even more how much it helps me 

make the empathic leap toward the past

when others appreciated these mountains

enough to build here, to live here,

to see and appreciate the fullness of their humanity

within the fullness that flora, fauna, and geology can create.

by Henry H. Walker

November 20, ‘23

opening day, this vacation

 

the first hike

my body is less enthused by the hike than my spirit,

yet my body needs it even more,

10 hours on the road yesterday takes a toll,

let alone the increasing crankiness my body feels with just the aging,

I push through and get into the rhythm,

we head straight up the valley 

with the November sun just before us in our eyes,

and spotlighting the cover of leaves over land and rock,

mostly all shades of brown, also deep red,

and occasionally more exotic hues,

a few birds scatter before us as we ascend,

only as the afternoon moves to dusk,

do larger animals appear where I can see them,

seven impressive wild turkeys

come to graze and peck at tulip poplar seeds in our yard, I think,

they peck, and scratch, and peck again and again,

the dominance games of the small herd fascinate me,

some turkeys just browse,

and react to each other with aplomb,

some assert themselves over another,

a few steps, a lunge, and beta retreats from alpha,

I walk slowly ahead of where alpha starts to go,

and the herd stays contained to our yard,

inside a great game of women's basketball continues,

I miss some of the end so that I can know turkeys better,

I work to balance the world on the screen

and the world the natural world so casually reveals.

by Henry H. Walker

November 19, ‘23

stories brought, stories found

 back here again

when I get to the mountains,

much of me is not yet fully here,

as I relax story after story surfaces

from my heart to my head,

the ongoing shorts I have a part in:

my students and their struggles to get where they need to go,

my colleagues, like me, are stretched so thin

that, like Bilbo would say,

there's too little butter

to cover too much bread,

lists jump into my mind of what I need to do

both professionally and personally,

yet, here at our cabin, sitting by the leaf-choked creek,

I start to call up the stories the natural world lives:

first I see the pool by the creek

where 50 years ago I cleared a way to be by it,

with rock steps down to it,

all seamlessly fitted into the land,

with a flat place to put a portable playpen

for our first born son,

I could then be by the creek while taking care of him,

the pooling water there a draw for our kids and countless others

who follow their whims and play with water and rock, and each other,

once we saw a snake work to swallow

a rainbow trout at the pool, 

we work to pull rocks from the stream to deepen it

and we use those rocks to make dams that hold the water some

so that we can dip in it,

not much over a year ago,

a mother bear and 3 cubs cavorted in the pool,

and my cousin got a video of it,

5 minutes of their playful spirit

and their distinct personalities

expressed and caught on a digital phone's recording,

I sit here now and ache to hear even more stories in my mind:

the pine tree falling 15 years ago, and still there,

on top of the great rock by the pool,

where many of us sat, discussed crawfishing,

that downed pine has captured dead hemlock trunks, 

killed by the adelgid,

and soared down the valley 

by excess rain from climate change,

I seek to notice and appreciate the leaves

which cover everything

and help any dams to hold the water,

I watch one leaf float gently down the pool,

then 5 more, the leaf dam grows,

tomorrow, I want to appreciate 

the story of fallen autumn leaves even more,

let alone whatever stories

the grace of nature reveals to anyone ready to notice.

by Henry H. Walker

November 18, ‘23