In the middle hours one Friday afternoon, I chanced to take a short walk through my neck of the woods, with eyes set on the woods themselves.
I was partially inspired by one William Wordsworth who I stumbled upon while reading a biography about Thoreau. I then purchased a biography of Wordsworth and came to learn that he too, like Thoreau, was keen to the Art of Walking.
It wasn't a particularly long walk, and it was not planned out with any reservation. On this particular Thursday in mid-November, it was vibrant blue skies, and a steady and still 65-degree temperature. One of those gifts the morning sun brings, once every blue moon.
DEPARTING
I wore jeans, hand-me-down Merrells, boot socks and a three-season jacket, Hanna hat on top. My pockets housed a shitty and neglected cell phone, a pipe, a lighter, a cigarette pack containing two cigarettes, my wallet, and an Aleve canister with a gram of cannabis inside. Why I brought my wallet and not a pocketknife instead, I am not sure. I wasn't planning on buying anything or particularly visiting anywhere.
The sun was still almost completely above the trees when I zipped up my jacket and crossed my street. The air was the epitome of fall, with the added treat of warm temperature. With the sun still beaming, I remember feeling like I could take my jacket off, and unzipped it as I walked down the road's hill and into the sun rays.
At the foot of the hill I passed an older fellow walking his small, toy doggie that probably really "belonged" to his wife. From a distance still, I watched them up ahead of me, the man letting the dog snoop around someone's yard amongst the leaves. As quiet as my step generally is, the dog noticed me and from a distance still, he began barking. The man did not take action, he just tugged on the leash, and basically dragged the dog as it continued to bark at me as I approached. As I passed, I glanced at the dog and widened my eyes at him; he then turned away and begin barking at something else.
THE ROAR OF ROUTE 9 AND THE FOREST-GREEN BICYCLE
After passing the entrance to the supermarket I came to the intersection of Route 9 and Lake Street. I thumbed the walk button and tapped my foot as I waited for the light. Where are all of these people going, I remember thinking; green light, yellow light, read light, all underneath the autumn sun. Curse these mongloid transit hounds. They've got you all by the balls - oops - pedestrian light.
I ran across Route 9 to avoid an ambulance screaming toward me. I started walking up the hill with Border's Book Store to my right, and I can remember already growing tired of walking on the road. Passing a small yard sale on my right, I took a gander as I passed by and saw nothing except a forest green mountain bike that interested me. I remember saying to myself, "Fancy that; a walker who buys a bike at a yard sale."
I continued walking on and eventually approached Ed PaQuette's acre or two, where corn grows in the summer. It had all been pulled and there was nothing but tilled dirt and leaveless plants and trees, so I decided to get off the road and saunter the perimeter.
OFF-ROAD AT LAST
I dunked my hands into the ground and examined the soil. To my surprise it looked very meek. I walked on and observed the woods to the left of me, the back line of the plantation. I wanted to relax under the trees, "where I am more well-known", and have myself a smoke. I thought I noticed some open area with some large rocks and fallen timber through the trees, so I disappeared off the farmland into the woods.
Immediately I was overcome by the loud annoyance of walking on the dead leaves. A hunter would be absolutely disgruntled, I remember thinking. It was a beautiful sound, and one I've always loved, but I wasn't trying to draw attention to myself, so I walked swiftly through some brush and the terrain dropped down to this "rock spot" I had seen.
Someone had been here before. As soon as I arrived, I peered up to examine the impressive oaks, and immediately noticed what looked to be a hunter's ladder-and-seat system fastened to one of the trees. I looked up higher and noticed the tree's thick, slender, and curvy branches that are easy to reach with the aid of the ladder-and-seat. I began wondering if it was a hunter's tool, or rather just a child's means of reaching the tops of trees?
I took out a small cannabis blossom and relaxed on the pipe for about ten, fifteen minutes. I seated myself on the rocks, and with nearly all the leaves off the trees, I was able to observe the distant, surrounding landscape through the trees. What a marvelous gem of land, and I remember thinking. My thoughts drifted toward farming, and how plentiful agriculture was in Shrewsbury back in the 19th and 20th centuries. It must have been pleasant living here; quiet and not far from the nearby and up-and-coming city of Worcester. Lake Quinsigamond was probably clean and clear, and tradesman of all kinds probably walked these hills as I have today, though not on roads of asphalt and fallen trash but on nothing but dead leaves and the dirty ground, the Mother Earth below the human foot.
LAST STRETCH ON LAKE STREET
I wanted to beat the sun. I pocketed my pipe and retraced my steps back onto the farmland, coming back out on Lake Street. Passing by the Hillside Cemetary, I remember running around through there as a younger boy. Even back then I was able to remark at its beauty, and as I walked by the sign and was reminded of the images in my mind, I thought about having my own gravestone there someday, which would read:
JON BONNER
MUSICIAN/NATURALIST
"WALK WHAT'S LEFT OF THE
SHREWSBURY WOODS, MY
FRIENDS; THEY ARE AS
PRETTY AS ANYWHERE ELSE."
I dodged traffic as Lake Street started going downhill. I was going to cut right into the powerlines and come out on Oak Street, which was just over half-a-mile ahead. When I approached the lines and found my first opportunity in, a small footpath that lead to a dirt walking path.
The powerlines, seem to run North and South, through all of these surrounding Worcester suburbs. The lines crackle and hiss, and the towers that support them are impressive clunks of metal that look like they're right out of Star Wars. Friends and I have joked about radiation and being "exposed" when you're out there, but I've never noticed anything.
THE POWERLINES (RADIATION TOWERS)
As I walked through the Radiation Towers and the sun began to get low, walking by myself, I heard a noise. It sounded at first like a motor, like a leafblower or a dirtbike...As a walked on, the dirt path was taking zig-zags up and down the terrain, and the motor-like noise was getting more intense, louder, and more powerfully driven. At this moment it began to sound like a chainsaw, getting closer and closer to me each minute.
I pressed on, a bit anxiously, and was stopped in my tracks by a piece of white paper posted to one of the wooden Radiation Towers. I approached the sign, and even found a few more copies posted later on in my walk. It read:
HELP!
I AM A FELLOW BOWHUNTER. I'VE HUNTED THESE
WOODS FOR MANY YEARS. THIS YEAR, FOR THE
FIRST TIME, SOMEONE STOLE NOT ONLY MY NEW
TREE STAND BUT ALSO MY $300 TRAIL CAMERA.
LIKE YOU, I CAN'T AFFORD THIS LOSS. WORSE,
I FEEL DISPIRITED THAT MY HUNTING HAS BEEN
RUINED BY SOMEONE BOTH THOUGHTLESS AND
GREEDY. HE OBVIOUSLY KNOWS THESE WOODS AND
HAS NO SENSE OF HONESTY OR RESPECT FOR HIS
FELLOW HUNTERS. EVERYONE ELSE IN THESE WOODS
IS IN JEOPARDY, AS WELL, FROM THIS FELON. I
HOPE HE HAS A CONSCIENCE AND PUTS WHAT HE
STOLE BACK, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. NO ONE HAS
GOOD LUCK IN LIFE STEALING FROM OTHERS.
WE FELLOW BOW HUNTERS NEED TO STICK BY AND UP
FOR EACH OTHER. WE DON'T NEED OR WANT
UNETHICAL THIEVES IN OUR RANKS. THEY DIMINISH
US ALL. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT
THIS THIEF, PLEASE CALL ME CONFIDENTIALLY AT
XXX-XXX-XXXX. GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL AND GOOD
HUNTING.
As I finished reading, the mechanical engine noise from behind me began to grow very loud and intense. "Man," I said to myself. "It's the felon, I'm about to be mugged and murdered." I hastened my pace forward and even thought about running. I again began wishing the bulging wallet in my backpocket was a blade instead.
Suddenly, I glanced behind me and saw the outline of a biker top the hill, riding what looked to be at least a 200cc dirt bike. I stepped off the trail and onto the grass, pumping my fist in the air as he whizzed by. No chainsaw. I was relieved and felt like a child at my fear of being mugged. However, I was still keeping my eyes peeled for hunters.
I passed on my left a small, dilapidated red building with evidence of fires, break-ins and other human activity. I was tempted to check the place out and approached the building, but soon stopped and listened silently for any noise or movement. There were strange vibrations all around me; I felt like I was being watched. I knew it wasn't quite the time to investigate the building, so I backed off and resumed my walk on the trail.
OAK STREET AND A FRIENDLY LIFT
I eventually spotted a cross of power wires in the sky and Oak Street popped up ahead as I topped the hill. I heard the dirtbike rider in the distance and followed his tracks out onto the road. It would only be a fifteen minute walk to Route 9, passing by Beverly Hill Drive on my right and staying clear of the abrupt traffic on this narrow road.
As I topped the hill, I began approaching Dennis Molinari Insurance. I called Dennis, and he confirmed that he was there, at the office. The sun was just heading over the horizon, so I figured I'd take a ride home from there if Dennis was willing.
It turned out he was just about to leave, so we prepared to head out. I showed him the letter I had found and he was quite amazed. Driving up Route 9 we passed by some of the areas I'd walked in.
As we topped the hill on Route 9 to take the left on Lake Street, I told Dennis about the yard sale I had seen the forest green bike at. I remarked to him that I'd wished I had bought it.
"Ha, that's funny; a walker buys a bike. Classic." He replied.
Sure it's funny. But I couldn't buy that bike. There is no Art of Biking. There is only the Art of Walking, and never shall it end!
I was partially inspired by one William Wordsworth who I stumbled upon while reading a biography about Thoreau. I then purchased a biography of Wordsworth and came to learn that he too, like Thoreau, was keen to the Art of Walking.
It wasn't a particularly long walk, and it was not planned out with any reservation. On this particular Thursday in mid-November, it was vibrant blue skies, and a steady and still 65-degree temperature. One of those gifts the morning sun brings, once every blue moon.
DEPARTING
I wore jeans, hand-me-down Merrells, boot socks and a three-season jacket, Hanna hat on top. My pockets housed a shitty and neglected cell phone, a pipe, a lighter, a cigarette pack containing two cigarettes, my wallet, and an Aleve canister with a gram of cannabis inside. Why I brought my wallet and not a pocketknife instead, I am not sure. I wasn't planning on buying anything or particularly visiting anywhere.
The sun was still almost completely above the trees when I zipped up my jacket and crossed my street. The air was the epitome of fall, with the added treat of warm temperature. With the sun still beaming, I remember feeling like I could take my jacket off, and unzipped it as I walked down the road's hill and into the sun rays.
At the foot of the hill I passed an older fellow walking his small, toy doggie that probably really "belonged" to his wife. From a distance still, I watched them up ahead of me, the man letting the dog snoop around someone's yard amongst the leaves. As quiet as my step generally is, the dog noticed me and from a distance still, he began barking. The man did not take action, he just tugged on the leash, and basically dragged the dog as it continued to bark at me as I approached. As I passed, I glanced at the dog and widened my eyes at him; he then turned away and begin barking at something else.
THE ROAR OF ROUTE 9 AND THE FOREST-GREEN BICYCLE
After passing the entrance to the supermarket I came to the intersection of Route 9 and Lake Street. I thumbed the walk button and tapped my foot as I waited for the light. Where are all of these people going, I remember thinking; green light, yellow light, read light, all underneath the autumn sun. Curse these mongloid transit hounds. They've got you all by the balls - oops - pedestrian light.
I ran across Route 9 to avoid an ambulance screaming toward me. I started walking up the hill with Border's Book Store to my right, and I can remember already growing tired of walking on the road. Passing a small yard sale on my right, I took a gander as I passed by and saw nothing except a forest green mountain bike that interested me. I remember saying to myself, "Fancy that; a walker who buys a bike at a yard sale."
I continued walking on and eventually approached Ed PaQuette's acre or two, where corn grows in the summer. It had all been pulled and there was nothing but tilled dirt and leaveless plants and trees, so I decided to get off the road and saunter the perimeter.
OFF-ROAD AT LAST
I dunked my hands into the ground and examined the soil. To my surprise it looked very meek. I walked on and observed the woods to the left of me, the back line of the plantation. I wanted to relax under the trees, "where I am more well-known", and have myself a smoke. I thought I noticed some open area with some large rocks and fallen timber through the trees, so I disappeared off the farmland into the woods.
Immediately I was overcome by the loud annoyance of walking on the dead leaves. A hunter would be absolutely disgruntled, I remember thinking. It was a beautiful sound, and one I've always loved, but I wasn't trying to draw attention to myself, so I walked swiftly through some brush and the terrain dropped down to this "rock spot" I had seen.
Someone had been here before. As soon as I arrived, I peered up to examine the impressive oaks, and immediately noticed what looked to be a hunter's ladder-and-seat system fastened to one of the trees. I looked up higher and noticed the tree's thick, slender, and curvy branches that are easy to reach with the aid of the ladder-and-seat. I began wondering if it was a hunter's tool, or rather just a child's means of reaching the tops of trees?
I took out a small cannabis blossom and relaxed on the pipe for about ten, fifteen minutes. I seated myself on the rocks, and with nearly all the leaves off the trees, I was able to observe the distant, surrounding landscape through the trees. What a marvelous gem of land, and I remember thinking. My thoughts drifted toward farming, and how plentiful agriculture was in Shrewsbury back in the 19th and 20th centuries. It must have been pleasant living here; quiet and not far from the nearby and up-and-coming city of Worcester. Lake Quinsigamond was probably clean and clear, and tradesman of all kinds probably walked these hills as I have today, though not on roads of asphalt and fallen trash but on nothing but dead leaves and the dirty ground, the Mother Earth below the human foot.
LAST STRETCH ON LAKE STREET
I wanted to beat the sun. I pocketed my pipe and retraced my steps back onto the farmland, coming back out on Lake Street. Passing by the Hillside Cemetary, I remember running around through there as a younger boy. Even back then I was able to remark at its beauty, and as I walked by the sign and was reminded of the images in my mind, I thought about having my own gravestone there someday, which would read:
JON BONNER
MUSICIAN/NATURALIST
"WALK WHAT'S LEFT OF THE
SHREWSBURY WOODS, MY
FRIENDS; THEY ARE AS
PRETTY AS ANYWHERE ELSE."
I dodged traffic as Lake Street started going downhill. I was going to cut right into the powerlines and come out on Oak Street, which was just over half-a-mile ahead. When I approached the lines and found my first opportunity in, a small footpath that lead to a dirt walking path.
The powerlines, seem to run North and South, through all of these surrounding Worcester suburbs. The lines crackle and hiss, and the towers that support them are impressive clunks of metal that look like they're right out of Star Wars. Friends and I have joked about radiation and being "exposed" when you're out there, but I've never noticed anything.
THE POWERLINES (RADIATION TOWERS)
As I walked through the Radiation Towers and the sun began to get low, walking by myself, I heard a noise. It sounded at first like a motor, like a leafblower or a dirtbike...As a walked on, the dirt path was taking zig-zags up and down the terrain, and the motor-like noise was getting more intense, louder, and more powerfully driven. At this moment it began to sound like a chainsaw, getting closer and closer to me each minute.
I pressed on, a bit anxiously, and was stopped in my tracks by a piece of white paper posted to one of the wooden Radiation Towers. I approached the sign, and even found a few more copies posted later on in my walk. It read:
HELP!
I AM A FELLOW BOWHUNTER. I'VE HUNTED THESE
WOODS FOR MANY YEARS. THIS YEAR, FOR THE
FIRST TIME, SOMEONE STOLE NOT ONLY MY NEW
TREE STAND BUT ALSO MY $300 TRAIL CAMERA.
LIKE YOU, I CAN'T AFFORD THIS LOSS. WORSE,
I FEEL DISPIRITED THAT MY HUNTING HAS BEEN
RUINED BY SOMEONE BOTH THOUGHTLESS AND
GREEDY. HE OBVIOUSLY KNOWS THESE WOODS AND
HAS NO SENSE OF HONESTY OR RESPECT FOR HIS
FELLOW HUNTERS. EVERYONE ELSE IN THESE WOODS
IS IN JEOPARDY, AS WELL, FROM THIS FELON. I
HOPE HE HAS A CONSCIENCE AND PUTS WHAT HE
STOLE BACK, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. NO ONE HAS
GOOD LUCK IN LIFE STEALING FROM OTHERS.
WE FELLOW BOW HUNTERS NEED TO STICK BY AND UP
FOR EACH OTHER. WE DON'T NEED OR WANT
UNETHICAL THIEVES IN OUR RANKS. THEY DIMINISH
US ALL. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT
THIS THIEF, PLEASE CALL ME CONFIDENTIALLY AT
XXX-XXX-XXXX. GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL AND GOOD
HUNTING.
As I finished reading, the mechanical engine noise from behind me began to grow very loud and intense. "Man," I said to myself. "It's the felon, I'm about to be mugged and murdered." I hastened my pace forward and even thought about running. I again began wishing the bulging wallet in my backpocket was a blade instead.
Suddenly, I glanced behind me and saw the outline of a biker top the hill, riding what looked to be at least a 200cc dirt bike. I stepped off the trail and onto the grass, pumping my fist in the air as he whizzed by. No chainsaw. I was relieved and felt like a child at my fear of being mugged. However, I was still keeping my eyes peeled for hunters.
I passed on my left a small, dilapidated red building with evidence of fires, break-ins and other human activity. I was tempted to check the place out and approached the building, but soon stopped and listened silently for any noise or movement. There were strange vibrations all around me; I felt like I was being watched. I knew it wasn't quite the time to investigate the building, so I backed off and resumed my walk on the trail.
OAK STREET AND A FRIENDLY LIFT
I eventually spotted a cross of power wires in the sky and Oak Street popped up ahead as I topped the hill. I heard the dirtbike rider in the distance and followed his tracks out onto the road. It would only be a fifteen minute walk to Route 9, passing by Beverly Hill Drive on my right and staying clear of the abrupt traffic on this narrow road.
As I topped the hill, I began approaching Dennis Molinari Insurance. I called Dennis, and he confirmed that he was there, at the office. The sun was just heading over the horizon, so I figured I'd take a ride home from there if Dennis was willing.
It turned out he was just about to leave, so we prepared to head out. I showed him the letter I had found and he was quite amazed. Driving up Route 9 we passed by some of the areas I'd walked in.
As we topped the hill on Route 9 to take the left on Lake Street, I told Dennis about the yard sale I had seen the forest green bike at. I remarked to him that I'd wished I had bought it.
"Ha, that's funny; a walker buys a bike. Classic." He replied.
Sure it's funny. But I couldn't buy that bike. There is no Art of Biking. There is only the Art of Walking, and never shall it end!
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