Trail Work

I started clearing trails with my hand-held bypass clippers, clipping back the briers and sapling branches. I suspect anyone with actual pruning knowledge would cringe at my hand-and-slash, er, snip, technique. I myself cringe at my persistence in imposing my will on the plant life around me. Why should I have more of a right to put a trail in a place where another being is simply trying to live out their life the best they can, to survive long enough to pass their genes on to another generation? I often think of clipping as a form of weeding, removing some plants so that others can exist – not that a trail is a plant, mind you. Yet I still feel disquiet, imposing my own “plan for the greater good” upon the seemingly defenseless, something humans seem to feel compelled to do wherever they go, “conquering” new land along the way.

As I move along, taking successive levels off the inconveniently placed plant life, I often come across both deer and moose scat. This reminds me that other animals also blaze trails through the woods and thickets. While my trail is usually wider than theirs, it is no less needful for enabling my passage through the area. The balance, I think, is making something that fills my needs but no more. I don't need a 20 foot road to be able to hike to my future homesite, and once construction is completed even an eight foot tractor trail can be allowed to close in somewhat. Besides, the moose seem to prefer these clearer paths, apparently endorsing my choices and actions!

So on I continue, lowering the surrounding growth a few feet at a time. First to shoulder height, waist, knee, and finally to the ground. This method keeps forward momentum, a crucial feedback to my need for visible rewards. It also limits the briers above my cutting hand, saving me countless injuries as the natives attempt to defend their territory. But another, more subtle, side effect is covering the same ground as the season progresses and witnessing the changes. There's an intimacy in watching a dip across a trail become a babbling brook during snow melt, then calm into a series of pools separated by mud berms, and eventually become a green swale populated by ferns in lieu of grasses. Following the same trail multiple times, observing the changes in drying moose scat, and one day being surprised by a new hoof print in some soft mud, I feel relief that I haven't inadvertently chased away the residents who were here long before my arrival. At least not entirely – that can be no way my presence doesn't affect their habits.

My clipping method also developed out of my respect for physical limitation. The first time out, I developed a blister within an hour. Okay, let's stop before this gets really painful! A week later the blister had healed and I went out again, this time for only a half-hour. No blister, excellent! Every day or two, I'd clip for another half-hour or so, and the progress was both inevitable and satisfying. Instead of another blister, I slowly started developing a callus instead. Progress was made, pain was avoided, and my respect for listening to my body's complaints was reinforced. Oh, I suppose I could have pushed through and worked 8 hours straight, getting much of the task done in one fell swoop, but why? I might get impatient at the slowness of my progress, but I am working instead at a sustainable rate, and taking satisfaction in my work. Ah, the two guideposts that let me know my journey is following a correct path. Gotta like that!