Yesterday I posted a rather lengthy tale about getting lost in the forest with M Half. I chose not to illustrate it partly because neither of us took a camera that day and also because that post was so blessedly long already. Wowsa! Sharing that much was cathartic and a little exhausting, but it could have been an even longer story, you guys. A lot happened that day. Trust me.
Now I need to tell you that a couple of weeks after that traumatic life event, M Half was here at the farm again and we took another trip into the forest, this time with a camera. This second trip was only about a third as deep as the first. We came out this time not only emotionally unscathed but also carrying a glorious souvenir! Here’s a shorter, happier tale for you this fine Tuesday evening.
This is the people view of most of the Pine Forest.
Tall, straight tree trunks thrusting confidently into the open sky.
We enjoy a limited population of child-eating cows in this area.
This is the place we casually dubbed Yoga Meadow.
It’s a small but private clearing on the north edge of the forest.
On a a recent trip there by myself I discovered
lots of new spring flowers and budding trees.
Okay. This is called the Murder Sheyed.
I feel like I don’t want to explain that. Okay?
What I will tell you guys is that
sometimes when I visit the forest
that creaky looking door is open, like it is in this photo.
Other times, with no interference from us,
it is not only closed but LOCKED.
No one lives on this property, you guys.
No one except, perhaps… Sasquatch.
This tree takes my breath away.
Look at how smoothly it genuflects toward the earth.
Here is the climbing tree we’ve been talking about.
Don’t you agree it is perfectly designed?
The branches are arranged in a spiral staircase around the trunk.
It’s almost too easy.
Here is a little drop off and deer track tattooed by shadows.
I love that thick carpet of pine needles…
Bouncy, muffled, slightly crunchy…
When I was little I remember wishing I could nap in places like this.
When my girls were little they would ask for bedtime stories
about the Pine Forest of MY childhood,
a big beautiful one in southeastern Oklahoma.
And here is the rusty blue treasure
that tempted us back into the forest
despite our recent trauma.
We saw it near a trash heap and wondered at the way
it was perched so uprightly in those trees.
Like someone had just finished riding it
and had set it on its kickstand for a while.
The bike was so well buried in the forest and surrounded by thicket
that actually laying hands on it
required some patience and George Bush-style strategerie.
So worth it!
Oh, look. I am a huge dork.
This is how we show things on the farm.
We pretend to be Vanna.
We call it Vanna-ing.
After wrestling the bike from its forest embrace,
M Half and I spent a little time busting the immovable chain
and tearing the rotted rubber away from the wheels
in hopes of the whole thing rolling smoothly back to the farm.
Well, it never “rolled” exactly, but we did gain a little mobility.
And we did feel pretty invincible after the demolition.
And we did need hot, soapy showers after the exertion. Gross.
So there you have it. The forest doesn’t always chew us up and spit us out; sometimes it offers little gifts. Right now the bike sits at our front door with some pansies and metal artwork from New Orleans. I have high hopes of eventually securing it to the brick wall above our kitchen door and using it to grow morning glory vines, like a cool rusted trellis. Again, if we are friends, you will not warn my husband of this plan. He is more worried about vines above doorways than I am about bloodthirsty cows.