An early spring foraging hike

 These days I am not overly fond of my "fellow" human beings, to be frank. I did a lot of work for others, and of course charity bears its reward in itself, but if you ALWAYS get mobbed and deadbashed and sabotaged in the process, you get some different ideas how you want to spend your life, or rather, what you´d rather not want. I would gladly work for free for someone or something worth it... but alas-those few that would be worth it, are spread thin.But then ...alas... I do not care that much any more :-). having a bout of the flu and not feeling like doing a 85k ride with some 1500 vertical metres at all, but still feeling the need to get WWWAAAAAAYYY out there, I hitched the bus to the mountains... more the foothills of the Sauerland, but still. Arriving at the trailhead and climbing the first 100 m of rather steep incline I realized I should have rather taken it a bit slower ;-). But, not that much harm done, I did my huffing and puffing while enjoying the scenerey...

Then I climbed on at a more flu-compatible pace...

Through the thicket I scrambled, quite literally, sometimes on all fours. The Sauerland mountains might not be that huge, but steep they are well enough... ;-). I relished in the silence and solitude, with the ruckus of the valley subsiding with every step I made. You might know this feeling; I always thought there is a subtle threshold, not necessarily a geographical one, while geographics matter in this, but something more subtle. There is not anything huge that will happen, no dramatic light effects or a bombastic portal standing there.

But still, at that point, the world changes, and you change. Your mind gets another perspective, and the vibrations of your soul thrum louder than they do in the everyday mayhem, hum in harmony with the rustling of leaves and the sound of the oncoming breeze.

Then I came to a fireroad, broad, but solitary, and I followed it for  awhile.

The hills in the distance summoned me on... I must admit i followed a trail I did not know. I did not know where the trail might lead me, but everything is better than the city and its madness on som days. This was one of those days, where even lying in bed curing a flu was less of an alternative.

Even better yet: There was a cure waiting for me just by the roadside: Balsamic fir resin.

I harvested some of it. At home I took three peanut-sized grains resin with a tablespoon of coconut oil and three tablespoons honey, heated the coconut oil (you can also take whatever is at hand, but coconut oil is slightly antiseptic in itself) and dissolved the resin in it, put the honey in and per three teaspoons of the stuff took three finger´s breadth of cheap whiskey (I am talking whiskey still, not glass cleaner, mind you ... ;-) ) in a pint and filled up with boiling water, constantly stirring. Don´t overdo this, you might get stomach problems if you drink too much of the unprocessed resin!

Anyway, I climbed on, and still the vistas became more wonderful... somehow my spirit always lifts at that place, and it is as if a heavy load is taken from my shoulders. The air was fresh, but not cold, and felt clean and refreshing to me.

On the top of things, I met this not so little fella. I really like this guy and I must admit I have developed sort of a bromance with him.

I like his cloak... and the owl...

And the way he looks...

And Mr. Fluffkins at his feet... ;-)

Quite spontaneously I decided to visit the villag, Nachrodt-Wiblingwerde. This village is how a village should be, in my opinion. You can simply tell it works by how the inhabitants greet each other, and kids and elderly people interact on the street. It always warms my heart. Of course, there might be  a lot going on behind the scenes that does not necessarily looks so pretty in broad daylight, but having sat in the café at the marketplace and having involuntarily overheard one or a hundred conversations ;-) I would guess life is a bit better on the heights, at least than it is in the city.  

It started to rain, and when the cold drizzle subsided...

I was rewarded with this beautiful rainbow...

And could not resist shooting this photo... :-P

At first I had contemplated taking the bus, but then it would have meant waiting for two hours in the cold, so I decided to walk.

And, of course, I was rewarded again with murky woods.

...and mist rising from the dale.

I like walking like this. When twilight falls and embraces you like a harsh, unforgiving blanket, and still, you feel snug and huddled in the dark.

When the owls cry and foxes bark and deer are shying in the distance, then my lifeblood becomes warm and strong.

Then stars come out you cannot see in the valley, and the moon is a haunted spectre hunting in the woods, setting beings dancing around rotten stumps...

And while I might be ostracized in the world of man, still I walk trails at moonlight they would not dare walk in broad daylight.

The hooting of owls and the fighting and hunting and living of little and large critter and predator and the badger bear no terror for me... not as much as the ugly nocturnal predators that have designed the world of man...and if you fear not the twilight, the twilight will become you, it will never be your friend, but you will not need for anything else.

And then, suddenly, it was over. In stealth I trod on an empty road.

But, waiting for the bus, a car just stopped. I was a bit alerted, for you never know in the city of Hagen, but there was someone with a smile and a good face OFFERING me a ride to the centre of Hohenlimburg, if I agreed (!).

Maybe all´s not lost... and knowharramean? :-P

Found a sickle;-)

In a lost place deep in the woods I found this ancient sickle. Sweet! The handle is a bit rotten, but I was not even able to take it home, for Fritz wanted it. Badly;-). So, I can always make myself one, und thus gave it to him. I like it that way: Finding things and doing people a favour with them. Perfect. This tool will now see use and not be left to rot, and its previous owner would most certainly approve.

Yonder hill along the creek into the realm of twilight

 The other side did call me violently again, and so I packed my gear and followed an ancient trail into the realm of twilight, the ever-growing forest´s shroud. It greeted me with sunlit aisles, and as I leisurely strolled along the path, I heard what I often hear when I leave the roaring world of mankind behind: Five buzzards circled high above and cried their lonesome, eerie cries.

 Over treetops they circled, over the deep crevice of this ancient valley, where once upon a time there roared the smithies. Fallen sullen and silent, the old machines lie rusting in the wold, and death embrothers them to the red-brown mould of fallen leaves.

 One buzzard sat above in the crags and cried and sang to me; and as I passed, it flew along my path for a good while, some 10 m away from me, from time to time perching upon a tree stump. And I looked into the eyes of the bird, and I understood.

 All the while the creek sang its vivid, living, striving song.

 And over old hills I walked, not meeting a soul, but bird and deer kept me company. I found a lot of treasures that day; the skull of a marten, two spades, a nickel silver plate and a piece of horse bone. The spades I left in a cache in the woods...just in case;-).

 I´d love to restore this barn... and live there, by the stream.

 I met with this sleek fish hunter, a cormorant.

 And yonder crags I climbed along the stream into hidden thickets.

 For there it is my soul is soothed; I need these outings to remain sane and true to myself. The folly of the everyday race of life subsides, and in the quiet solitude of the woods I experience sense and purpose that in the hectic of our society goes alack.

 There is a beauty in the silent regard of tree and stone,

 and death and life, and plant and beast, blend into each other. My racing mind is calmed, and I understand without words, where my path is headed.

 I am grateful to be able to pass by the homes of those little inhabitants of the woods without disturbing them, the true rulers of the wild, the gentle servants of the savage grace of the woods.

 And when my roaming draws to a close near the evening, I take home those cherished memories to dwell on them forever.

Legally I am considered poor. But there is a wealth far richer than words can describe, that no banker or tycoon can take from me. The savage grace loves me, and I love her. More there is not to be said, and no worship done would do her justice, and there is no sacrifice that is mine to give. Just my love.

Toodling around the bush;-)

 The other day I was feeling the need again, that itchy, scratchy need to get out and put in some singletrack miles. Also there was the birch sap rising at mild temperatures and I saddled my steed and put some tools into my daypack and a fresh container bottle, made myself a flask of tea, and then I made for the hills. The sun was shining, and at first I was thinking about heading straight to the grove, but then decided otherwise and took in some much-missed singletrack riding. It is funny, I do njot often realize I miss it,l but when I am finally on my bike again and headed down a technical singletrail , everything fallos into place again. I contemplated a bit about that, while I was riding up a steep road that mends into a fireroad, and that I have ridden since I was a child. I took this route home from school when I was kid quite often. Now my time at school was not exactly an easy one. I was better at school than most, I had different questions, I was not very good at sports how it was teached (I hated football or basketball or gymnastics, and even though I rode mountainbike races already, even worldcup races, I always failed at school sports;-)), and, generally I was a strange kid, growing up in the woods as I did. Mountainbiking up that trail always had a kind of katharsis effect from all the mobbing and mocking and violence I had to suffer. I struggled up that road, and where it ends and goes on as a fireroad into the woods, I used to stop and relax, and it always was as if a great weight was taken from my shoulders. 23 years later my life is not exactly easy, and will never be, and sadness is a companion on my trail. But as I took my feet from the pedals of a way different bike, with a loooong high-mech suspension fork and no drum brakes at all;-), I felt the weight of it all subside, and I breezed in the early spring breeze freely. I often think about mountainbiking in general quite critical these days. Most mountainbikers I know behave like right morons. This is a development I witnessed since quite recently. Noone respects hikers, horseback riders, or hunters anymore, in fact it is deemed an act of coolness to ooze out quite some language into their faces. Slowing down before hikers is uncool, and tearing up the landscape with manmade stunts off the trail, is no longer  a no-go, but commonplace. Okay, so I have built stunts myself, on abandoned trails, and had fun with them. And it´s not really a great damage done, if it´s done properly and with respect to nature and fellow human beings. But this new generation of riders (with quite a lot of old-generation riders in it also) simply does not care a shit, to a degree that they even get bodily against people pointing out it´s not okay to do this or that. I always try to talk to people politely and to find a solution, but I have given up on trail access issues, for the worst enemy of legal trails are the mountainbikers themselves. And if you add politics to the issue you got a brew that will drive the sanest man mad. So the taste of mountainbiking has become a bit of a bitter one, for on many outings I meet with hunters, pedestrians and equestrians, and simply because I talk to them, even if it is difficult at times, politely and with respect, I get a right shower of the foul, of their bad experiences with bikers, and I often have to admit that they are right. I feel ashamed and cannot but try to make things right others have made worse, and continue to do so.

I will continue to follow my heart on the path of my soul, and this involves riding as well as being a part of nature. And I do not think it´s a contradiction. Tire tracks will heal with time, even stunts would be okay, but you have to know where, when and how you do it. If you love nature, you want to get to know more of it, and if you know, you will have your fun in a manner that does not ruin too much. But this is not a post for the morons. It´s a post about silent joy. It´s a post about feeling flow on a singletrail as well as sitting on a stump and having a sip of tea, savouring the sun, and a gentle breeze in early spring, listening to the birds singing and feeling the sap rising. The morons will never understand. They are too busy posting the weight and mass and colour of their morning shit on facebook or what´s app to simply sit back silently. Language? Quite truly so, but that´s the only jargon they understand.

I have always been different to them, I never had a part in their business. Mountainbiking has been my vehicle into the other world, to get there faster, there, where I was born and where I belong. I am a different being, and have more in common with an oak or birch or a hare or fox or the wandering hunter´s moon than I have with their world. As an infant, my lullaby was the song of the breeze in the soft treetops of spruce and fir, and the hooting of owls and the cry of the buzzard was more important to me than the latest top ten pop song.

I will no longer partake in a world where I don´t belong, at least not more than I must, and I will become stranger and wilder still.

 I arrived in the grove with all thoughts run out, as it well should be, for these thoughts are poison. Death it is to insult a poet, death, to love him, and to be a poet means death also. He who knows must not ask, he who asks, knows not. So, I left all these thoughts to the breeze and the light and the eraly scent of spring, wafting through the birch grove ever so gently. Down I sat with my back against a birch tree, and sipped my tea.

 I took out my two latest projects, two Kopis knives, that will fit in the concept of "Grimsarksberarmál", a poem and a story I have in the making, given by the wandering moon and a feather of the cat-owl;-). The topmost knife is made from Zwissler damascus with a wild pattern, which I know nothing of, but it took a good temper. Below is a knife out of Wootz steel I found in the woods.

"Beyond the dream road through the iron wood

Lord of the forest made love to a faerie:

Silently the moon´s reflection in the water."

The hours passed in thought and without thought, and in reflection and meditation (others call that drinking tea;-)). Then it went a bit cold, and I went over to the birch I tapped and got me a bottle of sap and fixed a fresh one to it. Oh the loot:

And I rode home with freed shoulders.

Path of the huntress...

 On Tuesday I simply needed to get out into the woods. I wanted for the silence and solitude of the green, of the song of the wind in the treetops of pine, spruce and fir. Of the cry of the buzzard and the sight of roe deer in the distance. Of rain and earth, and of twilight. I did not have much energy, so I did not the biggest of hikes, but hitched the bus and rode out to the hills. I immediately vanished in the thicket, and it was as it always is: It felt as if a leaden blanket was taken from my shoulders. The woods welcomed me with warmth and silence and a twilight pleasing to my eye. They embraced me with their solitude and the virility of the sprouting green. And spring is definitely on the rise; birds were tweeting and fluttering about, I spotted a hare looking at me from ten metres distance (and fumbled my camera, which refused to work...). And the ever-present buzzard was gliding above in a beautiful chute through the treetops.

 I climbed a steep slope. Everywhere I saw the tracks of wild pigs and the desolation they left in their quest for insects, snails, mushrooms and roots and leftover acorns. And in the ruts they plowed with their snouts, tiny plants were sprouting and a myriad of insects was scurrying about.

 Then I came across this owl cast, and I imagined this stately huntress gliding through a starlit night, a silent shadow amongst the deeper shadows of the night. I imagined twilight-wan feathers and a solemn hooting, and I imagined I was on her trail that day.

 Deeper, ever so much deeper I went into the woods, sometimes lit by a pale sun, sometimes grey with the cloudy light. I walked silently, but with little effort, my thoughts and feelings echoing through my mind and my heart. The trail went on and on, and sometimes I spotted the hare in the distance. Yonder hills I went and then into a valley seldom trodden. You can find traces of human history there, but now it´s little known, and there were times I remember well when you could not find it on the map. It´s funny how man believes just because he can draw maps that he knows every place... and sometimes forgets to calculate. Nowadays it´s laid out on the map, but it is just too small to matter. You cannot make money with it, so they neglect it. I am the richer for it. On I walked and followed the trail marked by hare and owl droppings, deeper into that valley. And, resting on the ground, under a tree marked with owl droppings, I found this treasure:

 A sheep´s horn, and the skull of a tiny raptor, which I take to be a baby weasel, plus its bones and fur.

 I left the skull, and took home the sheep´s horn, and wandered on on the trail... is this a piece of badger fur? I don´t know, really...

 And who might be living under this stump?

The trail went on and on, and did time pass, or did space, or was it me or the world that turned? Moss covered the tree trunks, and ancient roots clawed at the soil.

 This is the skull of the weasel. It is conveying meaning to me, but the story it tells in itself is sufficient. It has been prey to the owl or an even bigger bird of prey.

I returned to the roar and din of civilisation. I took the bus home with a somewhat surreal feeling, and I had funny dreams that night...