A Love Letter to the Backyard Trail
Dear Backyard Trail,
From the moment I could stumble across the soft, sweet grass, I was strongly connected to your soil. My parents tell me that when they brought newborn-me home from the hospital, I couldn’t stop looking out the window at the snowfall and your snow-covered trees. Perhaps you were always calling to me, even back then.
I have fond memories of growing up on these three-and-a-half acres of land, in this small A-frame cottage. One acre was my playground, with tall white pines, lilacs, and cherry blossoms, and plenty of space to play pretend and catch fireflies. The other two-and-a-half acres, woods of black walnut trees, were your domain. An untouched forest extending back to the Musconetcong River, a popular recreation and fishing corridor, designated a National Wild and Scenic River.
Growing up, I never played in your woods, as you didn’t formally exist yet. There was no path through the overgrowth, though you were always a presence waiting to be found. You teased us with glimpses of your wonder – deer, rabbits, groundhogs, opossums, foxes and even bears venturing from your trees into the neighborhood.
As I grew older, I became a steward of this land, starting with a suggestion to my parents we put up bluebird boxes after my Girl Scout troop saw them at a nature preserve. I kept watch over the bluebirds and their needs every spring, and your woods kept watch over them in the winter, when they moved from the boxes to the trees. Tending to our land was in my blood, and I held a great sense of pride in and love for our home, through my childhood and teenage and college years.
Even so, your woods remained an unexplored mystery.
Until the fall of 2020, when, in the midst of pandemic lockdowns, my dad looked out the window at the backyard while sipping his coffee and contemplating what to do with his free time. "I think I'm going to finally make a path to the river," he said.
In typical woodsman fashion, my dad grabbed his chainsaw and began the months-long endeavor to bring you to life. I remember watching from my bedroom window as he walked into your wild forest every morning, chainsaw in one hand and a bucket with tape measure, stakes, and string in the other. Each day, he would cover a section along the property line, placing stakes to mark the edge of our property so he knew what parameters he could work within. This involved a lot of measuring with the string and tape measure, surveying with a printed property map — aged enough to look like a pirate’s treasure map — and getting scratched by prickly bushes that blocked the way.
From morning to dusk my dad would work to create you, only taking breaks for meals. And each day, I trekked over cut brush and followed the string he placed to watch his progress and help in the small ways I could. Do you remember our period of rest during late winter, when several snow storms coated the ground and sleeping trees in white? Luckily, we were still able to visit you, following the stakes along the property line all the way to your river, admiring your magical winter scenery. I remember one afternoon where I watched gentle snow flurries float down into the water, landing softly and slowly drifting away downstream, as mesmerized as when I was a baby.
As soon as the snow and ice thawed, my dad was back at it, measuring, triangulating and placing down stakes in a perfectly straight line. Once he determined where you would officially be, he cleared out the brush and connected your pieces. By the time plants popped through the ground to welcome spring, you were complete and ready to explore.
Immediately you began to share your gifts with us, now that we could properly explore your world. The first of your residents to welcome us was a muskrat, swimming along the shoreline with his nose poking out of the water. The next day, we found the flock of geese that always flew overhead, taking up residence on the shore. Some geese, we later realized, would stay year-round, living upstream in the summer and moving downstream to you in the winter.
When the spring rains came, you showed us spring peepers and leopard frogs in a vernal pool hidden among skunk cabbage, singing their springtime song. In the summer heat, my dad brought you our kayaks, taking them to the river on a trailer hitched to the lawnmower. I carried chairs down and visited you daily, watching trout jumping out of the water and small turtles float by. And don’t forget the trail cameras we placed in several of your corners, catching video of foxes, coyotes, ducks, and a bear!
You taught me how to forage and provided me with a taste of wild foods, some I never heard of before. Turns out, all your prickly bushes are wild native blackberries! Hundreds of them, blooming in an endless display of wildflowers in the spring and an infinite supply of fruit in the summer. As we spent more time together, you shared more of your secret treasures, such as wineberries, wild leeks, rosehips, stinging nettle… “How had I never known we had these delicious delicacies before, growing just yards behind our house my whole life?” I would think to myself while harvesting. “Mother Nature and this Backyard Trail have so many gifts to bless us with!”
When autumn and winter came again, your bald eagles introduced themselves to us. Always silent, wary and shy, they only allowed us quick glimpses, though sometimes I’d be lucky enough to see them sit still and snap a few pictures. I’m amazed by all the life you house and protect, in this special, thriving ecosystem.
As the seasons changed and the cycle continued, I observed and made note of what happened when; when the blackberries were ripe enough to eat, when the geese moved in for the winter, when the bald eagles were active again, when the phlox patches bloomed (resembling a fairy hollow), when you changed your outfit to leaves of orange, red and gold, and when the river was high and low. Then the cycle would begin again.
We’ve had so many adventures together. Thanks to you, I’ve discovered hidden springs and coves while kayaking. I’ve observed birds making their nests. I’ve seen foxes and minks playing. I’ve watched mayapples burst from the ground and open up in a sea of tiny green umbrellas. I’ve witnessed the smallest of snails eat the skunk cabbage in the first days of summer. I've seen curious fawns, sleeping does, running bucks. Active rabbits and lazy cats. I’ve grazed my fingers along your violets in the spring and jewelweed in the summer. I’ve witnessed how weather impacts your land, the flooding with hurricanes, the greenery sprouting in the spring rain, the ice- and snow-covered branches glistening in the winter sunlight.
I enjoy sharing your beauty with family and friends, too. Your magic extends beyond the woods, beyond our yard, beyond our street. Everyone who visits finds you as unique and fascinating as I do. Do you remember when we placed a canvas in the river for a local artist, so she could use that soaked fabric in her cyanotype works? She’s one of many people who are inspired by you, by your peaceful nature and the sanctuary you provide.
There’s so much magic in your woods, on the banks of your waters. Having you in our lives and getting to intimately know you these past few years helped connect us more to the natural world. When I’m with you, I remember something I always knew, deep within me, from when I was a child playing in the yard. We're all a part of nature, not at all separate from it, despite what modern society believes. We are one with the earth, like the birds and the foxes and the frogs and the plants. I’m so immensely grateful that you taught me that.
I’ve since moved out of my parents’ home and into an apartment with my partner, but I cherish every time we come to visit you. It’s like visiting an old, dear friend. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me and for everything we’re still learning from you. May we always have this connection, to each other and to nature as a whole.
Love,
SC
Thank you for reading this month’s reflection. Something slightly different than my usual content - a piece I wrote a while ago, and felt the time was right to finally share with the world.
Click here for the February 2024 Photo Gallery.
As I'm getting more used to using Substack, I'm continuing to make some tweaks here and there. I decided to make one more big change: since all of my website subscribers are also Substack subscribers, I've decided to start posting my written post for the month only on Substack. This is so you don't get duplicate emails with the same post. However, I will continue to post my monthly photo galleries on Sincerely SC, which you'll also get notified about by email. So both sites will continue to be active.
Thank you for reading! Enjoy this deep season of winter!
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