I walked down Woodside Road this afternoon. It’s a sparsely travelled and inhabited road that moves toward Lemmon Hill before curving off and becoming a gravel road winding toward Trafalgar. Broken by yards and houses, stretches of trees and a syrup-colored-with-earth river are a pleasant change from the main roads, though the houses are not often visually appealing. It’s a road I often biked in my childhood, but haven’t walked in many more years.
The day was wonderful. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shone, but a strong breeze lent the feeling of fall to my walk. Large amounts of rain on the weekend left the small river fast-running, another voice to sing with the wind through the trees. It was a day for romance if ever there was one, and I found myself wishing for some.
I veered off the paved road and onto a dirt road that I know has a branch that leads back to the maple syrup camp that my family owns. My plan was to follow the road, climb Lemmon Hill, visit the camp and then descend on the other side, returning home on the main road of Dean. I did not realize how many branches the road held, and had only travelled upon it in early Spring (with snow still on the ground and in trees) in vehicles.
I walked along the smooth road, noting that no recent vehicle traffic had marred the rain-smoothed surface and the beauty of being surrounded on all sides by healthy, pre-autumn trees. Through the trees to my right I could see the side of the lake at Lemmon Hill’s base that I had only ever seen from the opposite shore. The glittering surface was inviting, but I stayed on the road. I continued straight at a three-way fork in the road, and then took a left branch after another stretch of road. I then came to a third fork after ignoring some ATV trails that left the road, and chose to take the left route at this third fork. This lead me to an eventual dead end, so I retraced my steps and took the right path. It would lead to a couple of discoveries.
I first noticed, through a recently cut lot on my right, a small lake (Or a large pond. I’m told there is no standard measurement for bodies of water of this sort, it’s all subjective.) I tried to reach it through the cut land, walking along grounded branches and discarded wood, but when I neared the edge I came upon swampy ground and turned back, not wishing to sink into it while wearing my sandals. A short way up the road I found a path that lead to a more solid shore, where I kneeled down and took in the lake, all its plantlife and the small movements the wind brought to it. The water was cool, but pleasant to the touch as I dipped my hands in and tasted it, relishing the clearness.
I moved on, walking for quite a few minutes, and saw to my right old, large wooden beams sitting amid bushes beside the road and looking rather out of place. I continued on the a bend in the road and saw that the river flowed through the road I was following, with it continuing on the far bank with a grass-covered surface. I looked downstream and noticed that there had once been a bridge on the higher ground on which the beams had sat. On the near bank there was a retaining and strengthing wall still visble and in good shape, but on the far bank all by one splintered board remained on the washed out base. I climbed up to the edge of the wall and looked across, seeing an overgrown old road leading onward from the other side. It was a beautiful spot to sit and watch the water, it moving with uneven speeds and winding so naturally beneath the overhanging trees.
I broke from the magic of the river and made my way back home. I must return there to write and take photos soon, though, as I found it absolutely wonderful. It may even replace my former favourite dirt road haven, one which holds pleasant memories from last summer that are currently a bit muddy.
The day was wonderful. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun shone, but a strong breeze lent the feeling of fall to my walk. Large amounts of rain on the weekend left the small river fast-running, another voice to sing with the wind through the trees. It was a day for romance if ever there was one, and I found myself wishing for some.
I veered off the paved road and onto a dirt road that I know has a branch that leads back to the maple syrup camp that my family owns. My plan was to follow the road, climb Lemmon Hill, visit the camp and then descend on the other side, returning home on the main road of Dean. I did not realize how many branches the road held, and had only travelled upon it in early Spring (with snow still on the ground and in trees) in vehicles.
I walked along the smooth road, noting that no recent vehicle traffic had marred the rain-smoothed surface and the beauty of being surrounded on all sides by healthy, pre-autumn trees. Through the trees to my right I could see the side of the lake at Lemmon Hill’s base that I had only ever seen from the opposite shore. The glittering surface was inviting, but I stayed on the road. I continued straight at a three-way fork in the road, and then took a left branch after another stretch of road. I then came to a third fork after ignoring some ATV trails that left the road, and chose to take the left route at this third fork. This lead me to an eventual dead end, so I retraced my steps and took the right path. It would lead to a couple of discoveries.
I first noticed, through a recently cut lot on my right, a small lake (Or a large pond. I’m told there is no standard measurement for bodies of water of this sort, it’s all subjective.) I tried to reach it through the cut land, walking along grounded branches and discarded wood, but when I neared the edge I came upon swampy ground and turned back, not wishing to sink into it while wearing my sandals. A short way up the road I found a path that lead to a more solid shore, where I kneeled down and took in the lake, all its plantlife and the small movements the wind brought to it. The water was cool, but pleasant to the touch as I dipped my hands in and tasted it, relishing the clearness.
I moved on, walking for quite a few minutes, and saw to my right old, large wooden beams sitting amid bushes beside the road and looking rather out of place. I continued on the a bend in the road and saw that the river flowed through the road I was following, with it continuing on the far bank with a grass-covered surface. I looked downstream and noticed that there had once been a bridge on the higher ground on which the beams had sat. On the near bank there was a retaining and strengthing wall still visble and in good shape, but on the far bank all by one splintered board remained on the washed out base. I climbed up to the edge of the wall and looked across, seeing an overgrown old road leading onward from the other side. It was a beautiful spot to sit and watch the water, it moving with uneven speeds and winding so naturally beneath the overhanging trees.
I broke from the magic of the river and made my way back home. I must return there to write and take photos soon, though, as I found it absolutely wonderful. It may even replace my former favourite dirt road haven, one which holds pleasant memories from last summer that are currently a bit muddy.
