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FLRC Newsletter - Nov 2003 |
| Jill | |
It was just a week ago, probably the worst day of my life. It was the death of our best friend, which could have been prevented with a little care from us. The following eulogy for Jill, our Gordon Setter, was written by Don McCrimmon (V.P. for Academic Affairs at Cazenovia College), who recently became sponsor of a section of the FLT just 4 miles south of Dryden. He asked us to go out and help him clear a few down trees on his first trip out on his section. This eulogy is excellently written by Don, however, the last few paragraphs still bring tears to my eyes.
-Java Joe (10/19/2003)
She leaps from the camper top of the Ford F150, an 80 pound linear figure of energy. Her black and tan coat is intensely shiny and wonderfully wavy and curly. She's a Gordon Setter, intense, with big feet for a six year-old dog, ready to go, anxious to go. No time to make friends by sniffing me, or my daughter, Meghan, there's too much to do, too much to explore, too much of a splendid, sunny and dry October day to be caught up in. Its cool for us humans accompanying her, but soon hot for her. She relies on her tongue to dissipate heat.
Her name is Jill. She has a wet, black nose, moist and intelligent brown eyes, white teeth and a big pink tongue. Her legs pound for the start of the trail. She races ahead. Loose gavel is underfoot, at places slippery. Orange, red, yellow and green leaves flare in the afternoon sunshine. The legacy of summer surrounds us. Its fall in Upstate New York, made all the more glorious for the knowledge that the splendor will inevitably fade.
We follow Jill, but were slower. “Java Joe" is in his mid-sixties, a retired college professor. A physical scientist and engineer, who found early in his career that he loved teaching more than research. That led him to the hills and valleys of central New York. Over three decades he's also made a commitment to the land. Joe is intense in an endearing and trustworthy kind of way. He's the kind of guy folks make friends with easily. He's also tan, lean and in good shape from decades of physical activity. In a word, Joe is authentic. He loves this land and its challenges. He's a hiker and a runner. He's given his love of camping to his wife, Kathy, a Queens, New York native, a city girl, who has also learned to love this land because she learned, in middle age, to love Joe.
The first part of the hike is hard. In less than a quarter mile, we gain more than 300 feet in elevation. I'm younger than Joe and probably Kathy, but I'm out of breath fairly soon. They kindly agree to stop a couple of times to let me catch my breath. Joe keeps up a steady stream of interesting conversation as we trek upward. His ease, stamina and confidence remind me of how much conditioning I have to achieve.
Meghan is flawless. She's sixteen and a varsity swimmer on her high school team. She hardly expends an unnecessary breath. Nonetheless, to spread the load, we pass the chain saw that Joe has brought from Joe, to me, to Meghan. Kathy carries a folding saw and pruning shears. Meghan has a day pack with water and granola bars for everyone.
After the first half-mile, the trail more-or-less levels out. Occasionally, gaps in the trees provide a panorama of the Hartford Valley 400 feet below us. White farm houses, red barns, blue and white silos and a mosaic of golden, frost-killed corn interspersed with still-green hay fields are entrancing, all surrounded by red maples and yellow-orange oaks. Its peak color. Nothing better. Jill bounds ahead, occasionally turning back to see for herself why we are so far behind. She's assessing our well being.
Were on this trail because twenty years ago Meghan’s older brother Sam and I hiked it together. Sam was six. The trail, from a non-descript road south of the village of Dryden where we then lived to an equally unremarkable microwave transmission tower perched on the top of a hill named after someone named Hammond, was Sam’s first hiking experience. Since then he's hiked with me in California, Maine and Michigan. He's canoed the Boundarywaters between Minnesota and Canada.
Unexpectedly, long after Sam has left the nest, Meghan and his mom, Rena, and I find ourselves living again in upstate New York. Last August partly to reminisce partly to show Meghan something of her roots, we hiked the trail from Star Stanton Road to the microwave tower. The day was hot and humid. I quickly appreciated the difference twenty years of getting older made in my hiking abilities. Somehow in my treks with Sam, I remembered being fleeter of foot and the trail seemed shorter. The forest was also denser then. Numerous large windfalls, mostly hemlock and maple, now blocked portions of the trail. At home that evening, Meghan and I resolve to help clear the fallen trees. After discussions with Sam and Meghan’s sister, Melissa, we make a pact. A few e-mails and in short order, the McCrimmon family is appointed as trail sponsors. Joe, a steward with the Finger Lakes Trail Conference, volunteers to help us our in our first efforts at trail maintenance, which commence today.
Joe, Kathy, Meghan and I hike for almost two hours. Along the way we locate the windfalls, and discuss plans to remove them on the way back. Several are quite large, and will require the use of the power equipment we've brought up with us. All the distance up the hill to the tower, Jill has led the way, but as we start down on the return route, she appears to tire, stopping mid-trail along the way to rest. We urge her on and she responds enthusiastically.
Working together, Joe, Meghan, Kathy and I clear the largest windfall, a beech. The effort requires about twenty minutes mostly removing the crown of a very large tree and several saplings from the trail. When the beech came down, a gap in the canopy was created. Herbaceous plants have invaded, responding to the suddenly increased level of sunlight. There is lots of poke weed and raspberry. Pruning and stomping them down also requires time and effort.
Fatigued and sweaty, we continue down the hill. Another large windfall, a 70-foot maple, blocks our way, with a trunk of at least 14 inches in diameter stretching horizontally across the trail. This is going to be a big job. Joe cranks up the chain saw again. Wood chips begin to fly.
The cuts are complex, and my admiration for Joes skill with a chainsaw quickly grows. First, Joe completely bisects the trunk. Then, to complete the job we move a few feet over along the still horizontal member and make a second cut, creating a space large enough to allow foot traffic to pass, but narrow enough to dissuade operators of ATVs. Just as this second cut is finished, calamity strikes.
Even large trees can be rooted very shallowly in the shale that comprises much of the hills in this part of New York. When this maple came down, it vertically upended its large root mat, at least 15 feet in diameter. This massive mat certainly weighs a ton, probably a lot more. As the second cut is completed, the mat is freed from some of the counter-balancing weight of the nearly 20 foot long trunk. Unexpectedly, it tips up, rapidly resettling downward to the ground. The stump of the trunk is vertical again, and the mat has returned to its horizontal growing position.
Horror unfolds. Unseen by any of us and apparently seeking shade to recover from her triumphal romp up the hill, Jill has laid down in a dark cool cavity on the underside of the now descending root mat. She's trapped. Kathy, Megan and I hear a frightened bark followed by a long, low moan. Joe is spared from this by his hearing protection.
In stunned disbelief, we reflexively, collectively call for Jill to come. But there is no response. The silence of the forest is suddenly intense. Desperately not wanting to accept what has happened, we rush to the root mat under which Jill lies. Futilely, we try to lift it up. It is simply too large. There is no possibility that even four people can move it. Frantically, we fall to our knees and claw at the earth and the root tangle, not wanting to acknowledge our utter powerlessness. Somehow, Jill's muzzle comes in to view. She is breathing! All the tools we have are pressed into service. For anxious, guilty minutes, we dig, we claw, and we pray.
Too soon, it is over. Jill simply quits breathing. We check and recheck. But it is finished. We can do nothing.
The beautiful, black fur on her muzzle, eyes, and ears is defiled by the coarse, grey earth. The spirit, energy and abundance of enthusiasm that propelled her up the trail, and then down towards home is gone vanished in little more than the blink of an eye, by a chain saws cut. Joe and Kathy are stripped of a well-loved companion. Meghan and I are stripped of a carefree trail. Jill is stripped of far more than that.
We build a cairn of rocks to protect Jill's head. That's the way we have to bury her. Joe and Kathy head down the trail. Meghan and I follow after a little while, each of us lost in our own thoughts. There are no tears. Those will come later. The grieving will last for a long time, the memories forever.
P.S. from Java Joe: Kathy and I got an 8-week old
female Golden Retriever puppy three days after Jill's death; the puppy is
intelligent, playful, and doing well. Please: Watch your dogs on the
trail; freak accidents like this can and do happen!
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