Owl Calls

February is a lovely season. Once the pruning is done, there’s not a lot of garden work yet, so there is time for long winter walks. This afternoon, after the laundry was folded, groceries, purchased, house cleaned, and starts moved inside (it has been nippy at night, we went for a walk. The day was kind of grim—forty degrees and cloudy—but that’s what wool hats are for.  We headed up to Dimple Hill from Oak creek, a steady slow climb for about two and a half miles, with a view over the valley. This time of year, we stick to the old logging roads to avoid mud pits. As we climbed, we covered the local, nation, and international scene, decided that “working from what’s working” and “raising the lowest boat” were not in direct opposition to one another, and considered dinner. Our voices rang through the woods. It was cold to start with, but we shed layers as we climbed. The top of Dimple Hill was clear. We could see over the entire valley from our bench in the trees; we quickly put our layers back on in the light breeze. Spring Queen crowned the hills; small purple flowers that bloom early in sheltered spots. The peace enveloped us.

On the way down, we were silent. At first, there was only the sound of our feet, left, right, left right, on the gravel road. Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch. We turned the bend and into the valley. A barred owl called from one ridge. My ridge, my ridge, he claimed. Left foot, right foot. Crunch, crunch. A second owl, from the other side, responded. My ridge, my ridge. Soon, we had debating owls. Left ear, right ear. My ridge, my ridge. We dropped down further and picked up the sound of Oak creek. Stream on one side, rivulets on the other. Left ear—my ridge, rivulet, gravel underfoot. Right ear—my ridge, stream, gravel underfoot. The rhythm deepened. Then the sun came out and turned all of the trees, wearing moss like old wooly sweaters, a brilliant shade of green. The ferns perked up and glowed deeper. The usnea, hanging from the trees in long, spooky drifts, turned from grey to green.  The forest glowed and echoed with winter life. Owls, streams, feet on gravel.

Then, the sun descended behind the ridge. The temperature dropped.  The owls stopped their debate. The road widened. We could see the gate ahead, and, beyond it, the parking lot.  And we were left with the sound of our own feet, once again, on the gravel.