Merle's Door

Europeans understand dogs. Their dogs are typically well behaved. Dogs are welcomed in restaurants, and only American tourists seem to notice. In Merle’s Door, Ted Kerasote described the center of Chamonix where the local dogs congregated to socialize during the day before returning to their respective homes in the evening. They were well groomed, collar wearing, and registered. And they were enjoying the liberty, equality and fraternity guaranteed all French citizens.

Most dogs aren’t so lucky, at least not in the developed world. Our dogs may be well fed and thoroughly inoculated but they are nervous and behave poorly; often they are not able to be simultaneously happy and relaxed. Cesar Millan spoke of his grandfather’s farm in Mexico where all the dogs figured out how to fit in both in their immediate pack but also the larger community of people and other animals. They had jobs to do and were well adjusted. The village dogs I saw in Asia also seemed to get along well without much human interference. These third world dogs were filthy but happy. (The farm and village dogs should not be confused with the frightened strays scavenging around cities in the developing world—these truly are wretched creatures.) In Kelly, Wyoming, where Kerasote lived, the local dogs were free to come and go as they wished. And Kerasote’s dog Merle had his own door. And this, he believed, was the key to Merle’s success in becoming an equal partner in their life together.

Interspersed between the stories of Merle’s ability to learn, mature, and enjoy himself, Kerasote referred to a variety of experts, including Temple Grandin, Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, Douglas Smith among many others to find scientific evidence to support assertions based on his own observations of dogs in general and especially Merle. The book offers a lot of practical advice on how to understand dogs and what NOT to do to allow them to mature. But mainly, Merle’s Door is the story of a rare friendship.

Monk's Pond and the Burbank Trail

Kids from Namche Bazaar in the Khumbu region of Nepal hike a couple miles to school in Khumjung. They start 11,200' and end up at 12,600'. Flat landers like me were astounded by the sight of children in uniforms with bookbags joshing around. The altitude had already rendered us breathless. (Perhaps sherpas are fascinated by American kids skateboarding to school.) I thought about those kids this afternoon as I walked up the BNRC's mile and half long Burbank trail from Olivia's Overlook to the hardscrabble home sites at the top of the hill.



After the land was cleared for firewood or charcoal, it was farmed for the better part of a century until Anson Phelps Stokes bought it as a part of his Shadowbrook property. The terrain was rocky and steep in most places. From a twenty first century vantage, I briefly imagined life at a remote hilltop settlement with little other than impressive views in its favor must have been oppressively difficult. Then I remembered the joy of the kids from Namche on the way to Khumjung.



There was a lot to see and smell at walking speed. The rain yesterday amplified the damp leafy fragrance of the woods. Hemlock, moss, wintergreen, punctuated by a little skunk.



Mike concentrated on aromas beyond my ken. Most of the items he investigated were invisible. But he did discover an enormous pile of scat. Since its contents were entirely herbaceous, I suspected a moose but found no tracks to confirm the theory. I saw at least a dozen newts. Mike ignored them.

Olivia's Overlook on Memorial Day

"Hanging on by your teeth" has new meaning. The view of the Stockbridge Bowl from Olivia's Overlook was superb. Marketers everywhere were trumpeting the first weekend of the summer and the elements agreed: it was sunny, cool and still. A perfect afternoon for a walk in the woods. Or so I imagined.



The Berkshire Natural Resource Council has done an excellent job marking and maintaining the trails. Mike and I set off to the south on the Michael H. Walsh trail. After crossing a footbrige at the edge of the meadow, a large sign provided a map described the Walsh, Charcoal and Ridge trails in detail. It warned of "tricky footing" in some sections.

The Charcoal Trail was named for the pits used to make the charcoal used as fuel early in the industrial revolution. By the middle of the nineteenth century, most of Massachusetts had been deforested, and these hills were no exception. Now they have largely reverted to mature forest with tall oaks, maples, white pines and hemlocks forming a thick canopy.



Native azaleas and evergreens formed heavy undergrowth. The "swamp pink" was already in bloom and the mountain laurel was on the cusp.



Mike and I continued further into the woods on the downhill slope with ease. The ascent was where the footing got tricky. For Mike. Under most circumstances, Mike is game for any hike. He will gladly march through heavy snow in sub zero temperatures; he is fearless in front of black bears. But the carpet of dry oak leaves on a narrow, steeply inclined trail bested him. Even with his claws fully extended, he was unable to obtain any purchase. He slipped off the trail and began sliding down the slope on his back. He accepted my hand with the only tool he had left: his teeth. And he hung on as tightly as he could without causing me harm. I slid down beside him, picked him up and carried him back to the trail. Nothing doing. He aimed straight down hill and walked away, completely off the trail. I followed, eventually putting him back on the leash. We made our way back up the hill on an ancient diagonal track which I suspect was originally used to drag logs up to the charcoal pits.



I was not able to figure out the purpose of the rock columns. Druids maybe? Mike was totally disinterested.



He was, however, thrilled to be back on the ridge and in the sun. Haze obscured our westward views but not joy of sitting and enjoying them.

Earth Day in Central Park

Three years ago, Christo transformed Central Park. I was reluctant to spend a gray February day in the park and was fully prepared to be disappointed. I wasn't. In fact, I was converted by The Gates within seconds. The installation was magic. The scale was breathtaking, the execution was impeccable; but for me the beauty was mostly in the mood The Gates created. Everyone in the park or near it was thrilled. For three of the most dismal winter weeks, those bright orange flags made New York a sunny place. Yesterday, Central Park had much of the same vibe. Rather than emanating from the vision of one artist, however, it came from the efforts, and perhaps relaxations, of many: Pope Benedict XVI, the local Earth Day organizers, Frederick Law Olmsted and the sunbathers.



Along Fifth Avenue, throngs gathered to see the pope. Signs read "WE LOVE YOU"; some waved Vatican flags. There was lots of music and singing, mostly Latin American. Kids waited with their parents and dogs; no crying or snarling. Everyone was in a fine mood and the helicopters hovering directly overhead did nothing to dampen it. I saw Pope Benedict for a few blinks an eye, encased in his white popemobile. Lots of waving, cheering and then it was time for a walk in the park.



There were activities all over. Like the police spotters guarding the pope, Red Tailed hawks watched us from skyscrapers; we spied on them through Swarovski scopes. One meter yatching enthusiasts raced remote control boats in the Conservancy Water. Following in Dylan's footsteps, Don McCloskey sang protest songs to a new generation at the band shell. The music was part of an all day program organized by peacexpiece. Paul Kostabi provided direction for a collaborative patchwork mural, said to be the world's largest and longest "eco mural." Sunshine Burger and Wholemato handed out organic whole food veggie burgers with the best ketchup I've ever tasted. Glint and Rely Records distributed Dawn redwood seedling kits with instructions how to propgate them (and a web address to track where they are eventually planted). Lennon fans decorated the Imagine Mosiac with dozens of cut flowers.



It was sunny, warm, and positively bursting with life. The grass was lush, the daffodils and tulips were glorious, and Olmsted's trees were sprouting fresh foliage which cast a lemon lime light. New Yorkers were soaking it all in. I can think of no better place on Earth to be on this particular day.

Tyringham Cobble

Tyringham's cobble has old rock on top of newer rock. I thought perhaps this might have been caused by a receding glacier. After all, Long Island and Cape Cod are massive moraines so the ice sheet had once covered this area too.



Not so, the old rock at the peak is pre Cambrian while the sandstone outcrop at a lower was formed somewhat more recently.



This morning's jaunt on the Tyringham Cobble was an interseasonal joy. Winter has passed but spring has not yet arrived.



The air was still and crisp, the ground was frozen, most of the snow was gone but the buds were still hibernating. Once the rain arrives and the frost is out, the fields and trails will be soup for several weeks.



Quite a few parties agreed today would be a good time to walk the two mile circuit: when I arrived at the Trustees of Reservations parking lot there was one car; by the time I returned an hour or so later it had been replaced by seven others. Most seemed to walking up the gentle slope or perhaps over from the Appalachian Trail. They may have found the path down challenging.

Sunday Thrill on Monument Mountain

Route 7 northbound out of Great Barrington, Massachusetts is steep enough to merit two lanes going up hill on the east side of Monument Mountain. The posted speed limit is 50 miles per hour. I have been passed by guys on crotch rockets doing at least twice that. One friend who rides a Japanese wannabe Ducati claims to have done 130. He covered the mile and a half stretch to the Trustees of Reservations parking lot in about 45 seconds. If he were to complete the trip to the summit of Monument Mountain, he would be obliged to do so on foot and it would take at least another 45 minutes (longer at this time of year). I will not claim that reaching the peak on foot is as much of a rush as the high speed ride, but it is thrilling nevertheless.



Mike, my hound, is extremely indulgent. He always forgives my absences (sometimes extended) and has submitted to being spirited across oceans and continents (he was born in Taipei sixteen years ago). For the past several days, he has ridden shotgun while I have made my rounds. Long hours in the wagon with only short pit stops. And all he asks is that he be allowed to clean the dishes and go for interesting walks. Since both benefit me, you might think I would repay his kindness more often. Last night he scored some leftover steak and today we tackled a big hill. I reckon I still owe him, but I am moving in the right direction.



Hiking up and around Monument Mountain is an excellent way to spend a couple hours. The paths are challenging but well marked and maintained. The the oaks and pines form a nice canopy so undergrowth is minimal, but there is lots of mountain laurel. Outcrops of ledge are punctuated with seams of marble and flint. The views from the peak are superb, extending in all directions from several different lookouts. From the parking lot, I prefer to follow the trail north and make the steep climb up, then complete the circuit by following the gentler slope down to the west and return to the lot from the south.



Monument Mountain has been attracting visitors for hundreds of years: Nearly 200 years ago William Cullen Bryant wrote a poem about a Mohican woman who leapt from a cliff (a cairn in her memory resulted in the name of the mountain). Years later Nathanial Hawthorne and Herman Melville were introduced there; Melville was already writing Moby Dick, their mutual admiration was so strong that Melville dedicated his masterpiece to Hawthorne.



Today the mountain attracted a few hearty souls. We saw several groups of two or three hikers; one couple was accompanied by a four legged yearling blond. Mike made her acquaintance and was feeling fine. New snow had fallen so the trail was not as slick as it would become after having been packed and frozen. I followed European alpine fashion and walked with a pair of poles: they were a boon on the way up and a life saver on the way down. When we arrived around 2:30 the snow had stopped falling and there were patches of blue sky. I hoped we might have clear skies by the time we reached Squaw Peak.




We were on top by 3:30 and had fine northeasterly views of Stockbridge and Lee. Two hikers approached from the south and warned about a snow storm coming from the west. They did not stop to admire the view to the north. A wiser soul would have joined them for the trip back down. I was more interested going forward and looking out over Alford, Great Barrington and Egremont.



Mike was an intrepid hiker as long as he was convinced his footing was sound. That excluded foot bridges and rocks. Back on the leash, he was happy to follow and crossed the foot bridges and stony ledges without resistance. Now it was important to keep him on a short lead to eliminate lengthy inspections of interesting trees, boulders, nooks and cranies. The snow squall to the southwest was less than five miles away, so we had little time to get off the peak and back on to the wide gentle slope trail half way down the mountain. Hoping to avoid being caught in a white out on a trail with white blazes, we made haste. The wind came up and it started snowing soon after we began our descent. It was 4:30 when we arrived back at the car, now covered with new snow. Mike was thrilled to have spent the afternoon in the woods and I was thrilled to have seen the winter landscapes from the top of Monument Mountain and escaped a blizzard on the way down.