Walk the Hill - No. 2
devastation and a bit of hope
Continuing this series with my February walk. By the beginning of this year, I set out to walk up the hill behind our village at least once a month. Various reasons brought me to this idea, but mainly it was a deep wish to see natures seasons unfold throughout the year, observe and feel them, feel closer to earth in a way, but also to visit a place more often that I love a lot and haven’t visited in a long while. If you want to know more about the Walk the Hill – Series, or would like to find out more about my motivation, start here.
No. 2 - February
And again, I had waited until the month was almost over to set out and walk the hill. Originally, I wanted to walk up these roughly 250 meters (our village on somewhat about 70 meters and the hill over 300 meters) on the last Sunday of February. The weather forecast was great, but I woke up that morning, incredibly tired with hurting legs after a Saturday spent serving people coffee in the café. My body said please do rest and so I did. Luckly, the weather was as great the following Thursday as well, and so I pursued my walk on the last day of February, the day that only exists every few years, the 29th.
I was really looking forward to it, was in a good mood and decided to start around lunch time, so I could invite myself to my parent’s home for a cake immediately afterwards. This time, I had chosen a different route. A longish gravelled forest track around the western side of the hill, going steadily up for several kilometres, but providing incredible views and – most important – I had the sun in my face throughout the walk. Later, I went down a sturdy, steep slope to the first turning point, where I went up last time.
So far so good. Yes, I had taken the car again, after thinking about it the whole morning. I still wasn’t ready to face the bare asphalt street behind our village. So, I parked under the northern forest edge, my rucksack packed with lots of stuff and, as I quickly noticed, too many “just-in-case-it’s-cold” pullovers. I didn’t need any one of my extra layers. The unexpectedness of spring weather: sometimes you look outside, it’s sunny, you walk outside and think “Oh gosh! Is that cold!” and then you walk outside on another sunny day, asking yourself why you hadn’t chosen lighter clothes or a t-shirt. However, fully packed and with my camera on hand, I started my walk to the west, curious to find out if I would be able to spot any signs of spring.
Early spring had already arrived in our village, crocuses blooming, violets as well. Birds singing and on sunny days people were busy as bees in their gardens. The apricot and almond tree in my mother’s garden were just waiting for some warmer days, but a few bold buds had opened their petals. However, in the beginning of my walk, I couldn’t spot anything fresh or flowery. Everything still seemed to lie and rest in winter mode. Later though, I noticed a patch of coughwort, little yellow dots on otherwise grey grounds, along my path, while the buds of the trees had also thickened compared to last time. Still, what else I encountered instead of spring, left me devastated and sad.
It was a weird walk, to be honest. I felt deeply moved as it was just such an affecting experience to set out on a walk, a longish stroll merely, to relax, seek nature’s aliveness and beauty, to feel connected and grounded to the earth around, while all I came across was destruction and death. Cut trees, dead trees, trees having suffered from the heat of the past years, with droughts leaving them without water. Barks burst, no needles where there should be some, whole forest patches and hill sides without trees, the steep, stony ground all bare.
Then, up the hill at the Wandermanns-Eiche, the spot where I wanted to walk to, wounds were still fresh and the forest I had seen last time, in January only, wasn’t the same anymore. One of the trees I had photographed was gone. Following my track down again, I stumbled on a muddy path, rumpled, and destroyed by a huge forestry machine. It had been a grassy path, all green and slightly overgrown. I loved to ride on it with my horse back then, but now no riding would have been possible. Deep furrows even made walking difficult. I was angry. Things like these make me incredibly angry. I’m usually a calm and settled human, but as soon as animals or nature is harmed, I get angry. But where to lead that anger when it’s just you and the forest? When, by tweaking the eyes, everything is still nice and peaceful? When you know that your stove is heated with wood straight from this forest?
I felt like a hypocrite, being angry about destroying perceived wilderness, even though I know that no forest in this country is true wilderness but planted and harvested just like any other field in agriculture, while at the same time using trees to heat my home during winter. My couch table is made of a huge tree grid, an old tree that could have been living there for ages to come, but it wasn’t good anymore – in human terms – and so it was cut, supposed to be firewood. We secured some pieces, saved them from the fire to turn into furniture. Am I a hypocrite? Is it ok to feel endlessly devastated and sad and angry, while you use what is destroyed? I don’t know how to feel about this and have many feelings at the same time as well.
What lit me up in the end, was curiosity. Walking down this destroyed forest track, I found paw prints in the mud. All the way down, they walked beside me, cheered me up, because I didn’t know which animal they belonged to. Though I hoped it to be a wild cat, as I know we’ve got some of them in this area of the forest. The paw prints were looking different though, than anything I had seen before. Soft and gentle, but strong, with claws leaving little dots in the mud here and there. I wondered what this animal had been up to. Was it walking down here searching for food? Or was it on a stroll, just like me? Or on its way home? Where did it live? And most importantly, what might had come to its mind when seeing its forest, a path it might walk along often, suddenly being destroyed?
I was sorry for this animal, for the intrusion of humans into their home. For occupying what’s supposed to be theirs. Usually, I feel at ease in a forest, immersed by wildlife and nature. I feel save. But this time I felt like an intruder, as if I’m not allowed in there, as if I should leave this part of the world to the ones that belong there. Am I part of the wild world or am I an intruder? Making a mess, stepping where I shouldn’t set my foot. We bring heat and floods, we bring destruction and death, we bring chaos and disorder. How can I bring something else?
However, I’m thankful for this badger – as I had figured out later, old school with a solid book – having left its paw prints in the mud, almost walking with me for a while. I took care to not step onto one of its traces in a way of honouring its space. Somehow, these paw prints gave me a bit of hope. They lifted my mood as it seemed that there is still a bit of wilderness and wonder in the midst of utter devastation.
About me: I’m Mareike, the writer of this newsletter hills to heart. I’m also the writer of my free Studio Journal newsletter, my Studio Blog and an artist, trying to capture the world around me with oils, watercolour or whatelse comes my way. Recently, I launched my art online shop, which you’re welcome to explore.