“Oh, to be in England, now that April’s there” is the first line of Robert Browning’s popular poem, “Home Thoughts from Abroad”. Written in 1845 when the homesick poet was visiting northern Italy, it is the ultimate tribute to Spring and to home. As I was enjoying Spring in Western Pennsylvania this morning, that refrain came to mind and I realized that there really isn’t anywhere else in the world I would rather be this time of year.
The occasion was a morning hike in the woods across the street from my home, on a lovely May morning. I had chosen to explore the northeastern corner of the park for the first time in a few weeks; normally my strolls take me to the southwestern corner where the trails are better maintained and not nearly so steep.
This end of the park is less travelled and much wilder, still a domain with nearly impassable thickets. The work the local Conservancy has done elsewhere in the woods clearing out underbrush and fallen trees is commendable, but I keep hoping they will leave a little portion where the deer and groundhogs can still find sanctuary.
The trail along the northeast edge of the park runs uphill; it is heavily eroded as a result of this Spring’s heavy rain. About halfway up, it is the location of the “fossil rock”. I have found very little evidence of fossils in these woods; this is an exception. It is about eighteen inches square and three or four inches thick. On its surface is an intricate collection of dendritic patterns, surely the residue of some ancient vegetation.
At the top of the hill this trail meets a very old trail that parallels the southeast edge of the park, just far enough from a busy street to still be secluded. In the past ten days the understory has exploded in the woods, just in time to coincide with the leaves popping out on all the trees. Buttercups, vervain, and knee-high phlox are blooming everywhere. The transition from the monochromatic “Pittsburgh Gray” in the woods a month ago to today’s sun-lit splendor is reminiscent of Dorothy’s thrill in Oz when the world turned from black-and-white into technicolor.
I was surprised to see a large patch of wild rhubarb on both sides of the trail. Remembering how much I liked cultivated rhubarb as a child, I broke off a stalk and soon realized this was something completely different. The combination of a convenient bench and my I-Phone quickly identified the plant as common burdock and confirmed it really isn’t edible.
The bench was located at the edge of a clearing that was the result of a 2015 project to replace invasive plants (honeysuckle and privet) with native plants and trees (blackeyed susan and serviceberry, for example). Despite these good intentions, the clearing has been taken over by a healthy population of thistle. By mid-summer it will be waist-high.
Just beyond the thistle patch I noticed a new trail heading back down the hillside. Obviously a work trail associated with the campaign against thickets and invasive plants, it links several new clearings filled with plastic tubes and seedlings (mostly chokecherry).
Eventually I spotted an old friend, a massive oak that stands out in the second growth woods on the hillside. Eighty years ago that part of the park was abandoned farmland, with just a handful of mature trees scattered across it. This oak is close to my beloved “brick garden”, a spot on the hillside where someone dumped a load of paving bricks decades ago. Sure enough, right at the base of the tree I found a perfect “C P Mayer”.
One of the byproducts of the war against invasive plants has been access to parts of the woods that have their own treasures. Close to the oak there are a pair of springs, each feeding a lovely little rivulet that cascades down the hillside. We have had an above average amount of rain this Spring and all the small streams are flowing nicely.
The oak is on a trail that runs along the main (northeast/southwest) axis of the park; the trail takes us to the more-travelled end of the woods, a popular area for dog walkers and families with small children. In the middle of it is a bench, a very welcome spot for me to sit and meditate.
Close to the bench are a pair of tulip tree saplings that I have been nurturing for four or five years. Early in their lives they were covered by a pile of mulch dumped on Earth Day. I dug them out and have followed their progress ever since. When they were five or six feet tall, something broke them off. Since then they have produced suckers near the base and appear to be surviving. In the same mulch pile are numerous tiny tulip tree seedlings. I currently have three transplanted in pots on my patio, hoping to be able to nurse them long enough to become legitimate candidates to be mature trees.
I think Spring was about one week late this year. I follow the succession of celandine, Mayflowers, trillium, and hawthorn each year. Sad to state, the rare sessile trillium has not bloomed for several years. It has three stem-less wine-colored petals that curl into each other, and distinctive variegated leaves. I found three tiny plants that probably are this species, but none of them bloomed.
Browning’s classic poem echoes my concept of succession. Even though he is far from home, he knows which group of miracles is about to be repeated this time of year and the order in which they will materialize. It is easy to understand his nostalgia for England, pear-tree blossoms, and the song of a thrush. For me, nothing can top Pennsylvania, trillium, and the hammer of a pileated woodpecker in the Spring.