We have just about come to the end of the great unfurling. That moment in time when the trees have grown and budded and leafed and have stretched as far as they can go. They are bigger, brighter, and fuller than they were last year, and you can feel the canopy thickening. The woods are darker than they were last year; it’s cooler and increasingly moist below. Rocks are slippery, and you can see the imprint of your tracks—whether tire or hiking shoe, all our tracks are made with rubber.
For 50 years, Goodyear manufactured rubber shoes and sole parts in Windsor, starting in 1936, and was an essential producer of boot soles for the Army in the Second World War.
The great unfurling. Or just the unfurling? Maybe Spring unfurling? Something that captures the feeling that the season brings, the fresh energy, world- springs-anew concept, but talks about our beautiful green mountains. I like unfurling. I have been watching the ferns in my border garden just unrolling themselves, first the fronds and then the pinna. I had to google those terms, but I feel better knowing them.
One of the neat things about hiking the same location every day. Or having the same loop that you take, maybe one that you have made around your property—no matter the size—where you check everything over. You notice the small changes and unique differences around your home. Maybe it’s the paint chipping on the corner or a section of the log that needs to be stained. Or that one piece of lawn trash that you keep looking at and not moving because it’s in a good spot until Bulky Day, right?
But you must also notice your plants. How each day they get just a little bit bigger, a little bit wider, a little bit stronger. I remember when all those super sped-up, super-zoomed videos of plants growing from sapling to full bloom. They were on the Nature Channel all the time. I freaking loved them. It reminds me of “Genesis” from “Star Trek,” watching everything bloom so quickly is almost slightly terrifying, but in real-time … it’s marvelous.
That tender little plant, that fresh branch starting to squeak out of the trunk of the tree, the new branch overreaching farther than it ever had before, with more side branches and then, finally, much fuller plumage. As a kid, I always thought of it as “poofing” season. Everything just “poofed” in a matter of weeks, sometimes it felt like days.
That’s what I experience every time I walk up into The Canyon. It’s like Tux, only smaller and closer to home. A quick walk up to the bottom of a ravine, tall steep walls closing in on you from this narrow col at the bottom. It’s slightly overwhelming; you cannot actually see things right above you but only much farther up. And then, to walk just slightly up into it and sit on that jumping rock at the bottom of Downdraft. It’s like being in “Jurassic Park” on a cloudy day.
But I’ve been watching the plants grow, feeling nature actually closing in around me: the ground that once was mud is now plants that rise up to my waist in some spots. The walls of The Canyon feel like they’re closing in—with 4-foot plants on each side, that’s an 8-foot smaller space. It’s growing into an empty space. It’s so cool to watch and feel the differences, to hear the birds come out and rejoicing in the unfurling. Although unfurling does sound like a “Handmaid’s Tale” kind of experience.
I might go back to the great poofing. It shows a bit more joy in the experience. AI is telling me it could be the awakening, but that’s a story about a woman’s journey of self-discovery by Kate Chopin. But, damn it, I really like that. It reminds me that Mother Nature is female, that women grow their strength from the earth, and it would be like claiming that time of season from womanhood. Oh wait —it already is! ChatGPT also suggested green shine, leaf burst, blood rush, and spring flare.
No matter what we call it, this is the time of year when it is best to come to Vermont for a week, to really experience the great change, to become a real observer of nature, and take note of all the changes. To pay attention to life, in total, to take in a larger picture of the world than we had previously. To look beyond our computer screens and truly see nature.
My desk at home faces out the window. If I look beyond this small glimpse of the world and just lift my eyes slightly or even let them fade out. I can see it. I can see the world beyond my computer screen.
Sherman is a long-time Killington resident, global real estate advisor, municipal official, and Coach PomPom. She can be found @femaleskibum or [email protected].
