And, of course, he had long since anticipated my need to know my surroundings, by giving me that beautiful little guide to Vermont’s trees and forest plants. At one point, he asked me, “So, have you read my autobiography yet?” In retrospect, I see that the book was an invitation to his world—a personal gesture than I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.
It’s filled with photos of leaves, trunks, blossoms, berries, and nuts, along with drawings of their profiles and diagrams of their way of branching, which varies greatly. When I’ve had spare time, I’ve taken to walking around with book in hand, inspecting trees and low growth. I can’t believe I wasn’t paying closer attention all along.
Thus far: Beech trees are the ones with that smooth gray bark. I think of their trunks as the legs of elephants, but lighter gray and without the wrinkles. They have a miraculous way of branching: horizontal limbs, uniformly spaced, their spiky-edge leaves held in spacious flat layers, creating a superbly organized “leaf mosaic.” If you lie down with your head at the trunk and stare upward into the green, you can see how neatly the leaves arrange themselves to gather the light that slants through the layers above. Turns out it’s the beech that makes the little shells I find all over, about the size of marbles, split and covered with spikes. The squirrels and birds eat the nuts, of course, but so do bears! In fact, the book shows—and I’ve been finding—smooth gray bark puckered by four-pointed claw marks made by bears climbing to get at the nuts.
The ash has rougher, spongier bark seamed with vertical grooves, a handsome sartorial choice that reminds me of tweed. They grow tall in this sunlight-competitive environment, but their foliage strikes me as insufficient for such big trees. They have compound leaves, meaning that several little boat-shaped leaves spring from a single stem, and when fall comes the whole cluster detaches at the base. Earnest says it’s these ash leaf clusters I’ve seen sometimes gliding through the woods like paper airplanes. Will says ash makes great firewood and that rocking-chair rockers are usually made of it because it’s so strong yet so flexible.
Black cherry trees do make hard little berries, but not the “cherries” we put on top of ice-cream sundaes. Their trunks have almost-black bark in loose scales or flakes and are wigglier than the upright columns of ashes. Will, my advisor on the qualities of firewood, says cherry is responsible for that sweet smell that sometimes fills the farmyard when Brassard’s woodstove is going, something like the scent of his pipe tobacco.
Oaks: There are very few here, so I’m especially glad to come across one. “Strong as an oak”—they deserve their association with all things sturdy and durable. And yet, they have a bohemian side, these staid trees. They branch in an improvisatory way—free-form, rebellious dance gestures. When the cold season arrives, the leaves turn a heavily lacquered purple-brown and make a brittle rustle, almost a clatter, in the wind. They’re the most generous of trees, and the animals flock to the mat of acorns they shed.
The white birches I recognize because Pop taught Erik and me how to use strips of their turpentine-scented papery bark to start campfires. They tend to grow in groves that stand out bright against the darker woods all around, seeming sunlit even on dreary days. In twilight, they can look like lightning bolts rising up from the ground rather than descending from above.
And, of course, I know maples, the most numerous trees on my land, with their hand-shaped, comely leaves and the showers of helicoptering spinners they send down. What I didn’t know is that these seeds are called “whirligigs,” the perfect name. Will says I have a good stand and should consider making syrup.
It’s a calming sort of “hobby,” learning one’s trees. I’m doing well with my deciduous trees, but next I need to get to know the evergreens. So far—not a point of pride—all I know is that they’re evergreen and we use them for Christmas trees.
I was happily absorbed in this exploration, far to the northwest corner of my land, when an explosion of crashing and crackling made me jump. It was close by, and that shocking primal fear hit me all at once and full blown, my pulse slamming in my neck, hands tingling. Something big thumped and careened violently among the low-hanging branches. Then I glimpsed a man between the tree trunks, hurtling away, disappearing in some low growth.
“Who are you!?” I yelled. I imagined one of the Goslants, come to poach again or sneaking up on me for who knew what purpose. “Stop! I mean it! Stop right now!”
The adrenaline of fear mingled with anger from the memory of those deer guts, and without thinking I ran after him, shouting, “I’ve got a gun! Stop right now!”
He burst from the thicket and began running pell-mell downhill. Then he tripped, landed hard, and tumbled messily for ten feet. He came upright again, holding on to a tree trunk, looking back at me in terror: a short, thickset man in jeans and a ragged T-shirt. He froze
