Logging

We hiked up Knox Mountain yesterday into a vast expanse of undeveloped woods owned by some old guy named Bayard Henry. I didn't bring the camera, to my dismay as these were magical beautiful woods with brooks literally babbling and glistening in shattered bits of sunlight, moss covered rocks, tall pines and beech, maple and oak, birch and ash, a cathedral of trees. The place hold remnants of the past - the road formerly brought the traveler to some unused hunting cabins idyllically set alongside lime-green meadow-lined pond, where I'm sure the moose must congregate. The damn which formed it obviously old and allowing water to rush out, surrounded at the edge by unknown purple flowers. The bridges on the road appeared to be a continuation of the dirt road but here and there you could see wood planks poking through, only to notice the sign posted next to the strategically felled tree: "Bridge unsafe. Enter at your own risk. Bayard Henry, land owner."

Just past the cabins the road converged with another, more travelled road. Sandy with big ruts, this road was different. And soon we were aware we were on a logging road. Our walk ended in the loggers' yarding area where they bring the trees and cut them into logs for sale. It was horrible. A big mess that reminded me of images i've seen of genocide, carcasses piled up. A pile of beech logs scraped on the edges, a bigger pile of majestic oaks and finally a huge pile of "junk wood," huge trees with rotten sections or knots. I know I sound like a hippie but it really made me sad.