Late winter hike

The promise of spring is a whisper in the air. The day is balmy, the sun bestowing its radiance and warmth, but a brisk breeze serves as a reminder that it is March after all.

Jesse and I scramble from the car, eager to hike the trails at Frenchtown Preserve in Hunterdon County, N.J. I exclaim with delight when I see that the plastic bin attached to the information board has been replenished with trail maps (it doesn’t take much to make me happy), a godsend for those of my ilk – the directionally impaired. The preserve encompasses 150 acres and, while the trails are color-coded and fairly well-marked, they can be a bit convoluted; I have found myself going in circles on more than one occasion.

Islands of snow remain tucked away in places untouched by the rays of the sun; patches of tender young grass sprout in areas blessed by the sun. I search for other splashes of color against the somber late winter terrain: A few red berries of barberry and bittersweet that have yet to be gobbled up by the birds, mosses, Christmas ferns, and leathery mahogany leaves of the semi-evergreen honeysuckle vine entwined through shrub and cedar.

Jesse and I hike a wooded trail that opens up to fields that reveal a sweeping vista of the hills and bluffs of Bucks County in the distance. Trekking the perimeter of a field, we play leap frog with a bluebird, our feathered friend jumping from tree to tree above, us skipping along below. This is the time of year when love quickens the hearts of birds, the bluebird being no exception. The male entices the female to his nest site by presenting her with bits of nesting materials, but after that it’s up her to actually take on the home building. Both, however, are attentive parents, and the dad makes it up on the back end, usually taking over instruction of the fledglings as the female begins preparing for the next brood. The family will likely remain together through the season.

High up in the bare branches of a tree I spy another bird flitting from branch to branch. Eager to identify the bird, I gaze upward, shifting my position with each of its movements in an attempt to get a better view. Jesse, who has been out in front, doubles back, standing by my side with a patient look, but after a bit he’s itching to move on. Had he the power of speech, he might just be tapping his paw and enquiring, “So why are we standing here?”

Taking a circuitous route back, we follow along a trail that looks down upon the Nishisakwick Creek (can’t say that one time fast, never mind three). Evidence exists that the Lenni Lenape occupied this place, and it’s easy to imagine them fishing in the stream and hunting in the woods and fields.

As Jesse and I approach the end of the trail, our path converges with that of several folks accompanied by their dogs. It’s a doggy convention, and woofs of greeting are sent around. Watching the dogs frolic about, sniffing this and exploring that – doing what dogs love to do – I contemplate how beneficial it is for our canine buddies to have these opportunities to be outdoors and active, contributing to sound mind, body and spirit.

Cindy Woodall resides in Upper Black Eddy.

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