Reflections from a Season in the North Woods
By Eddie Nachamie
Preface
This series of essays records my experience during the summer of 2023 working as a forest technician for UMaine’s Cooperative Forestry Research Unit. It displays the challenges associated with a demanding field season. I have attempted to articulate the struggle to find joy in the mundane. Ultimately, this series of reflections is an assertion of the power of the natural world to teach and develop young minds.
On Solitude
It is twilight, and I am huddled in my orange tent. The day is done and my body aches. My feet are sore, blistered, and worn. My body is itchy and dirty and I am covered in forest grime. I notice the outline that mosquitoes and spiders make on the bright background of my yellow rainfly. There is a dull buzzing that underlies the quiet of the woods. Moonlight shines a purple glow across the lake and allows enough light for my favorite activity at this time of day: reading. I am engrossed in a book by Kenzaburō Ōe, and it keeps my mind alight while my body pleads for rest. His fantastical worlds and lurid wordscapes take me on journeys through a bygone era. This quiet time of reading and contemplation is one of the best parts of my day. There is no service around me for miles. I am at least two hours from established civilization. This solitude is a place that is intimidating but unavoidable. I have never spent so much time in such remote places.
The isolation is polarizing. It can be warm, beautiful, and comforting, or it can be cold, revolting, and scary. Slowly I’ve learned to make it a welcoming space. Our selfhood is on flagrant display when we are alone. We are confronted with the qualities we may want to avoid or ignore. But this begins to dissipate the more time that is spent sitting with the feelings of aloneness. Normally, we are allowed to turn these uncomfortable feelings off in the cradle of society through socialization, distraction, and preoccupation. This is not afforded while in the expanse of the backcountry. It is in this space of confrontation where we can cultivate a powerful compassion and grace for ourselves. As we spend time isolated, our sense of ego is dampened. There is no meaning or even opportunity to compare or compete with others in this environment. Nothing matters but the basic needs of everyday existence.
In this space of simplicity, we can recognize the quiet wholeness that is already our birthright. We begin to know ourselves better. Learning to know ourselves better allows us to come back to others with a heart of peace and compassion. Solitude creates the dangerous space for us to make mistakes, take risks, and become a better version of ourselves in order to allow for a more harmonious union and appreciation of the people in our lives. The quiet of the forest affords time for reflection and a deeper cultivation of the self.
On Care
The moments when we find ourselves most in need of the attention of another person are often some of our lowest. These can come as unexpected and scary circumstances. I could not have foreseen the ways that care would become so powerful to me this summer, but I appreciate those who have watched over me. They gave me grace, love, and support.
I began my position as a forest technician working for the CFRU in late May. After a week of training, my coworker and I were dispatched to Weymouth Point, a research site just outside of the western edge of Baxter State Park in Maine. Once we arrived, we set up camp and began to work.
During the first week, I was ill-prepared for the rugged conditions of northern Maine, specifically in defending myself against the bugs. I hadn’t brought DEET bug spray and was wearing a tight, thin long-sleeve shirt that mosquitoes bit right through. During the first day my coworker and I were swarmed by mosquitoes for several hours. We endured the countless pricking bites, thinking it a minor annoyance and hazard of the work.
I realized midway through the morning of the second day that my hands had begun to swell, and there were hundreds of welts along my arms. I went back to the truck to use our GPS communicator to ask my managers for advice. To my horror, once I returned to the truck and began to check other parts of my body I realized that my elbows, shoulders, and back were covered with welts. And when I say covered, I mean completely covered. Hundreds of bites all over my body. After initial unsuccessful attempts at communication, our field coordinator told us to come back to campus and get medical attention as soon as possible.
The severity of this episode is hard to communicate, but the doctor’s reaction validated its intensity. She gasped when I showed her the affected areas and prescribed me the highest dose of a steroid for 5 days to resolve the itching. Only one week in, and my summer job plans had been derailed. I was given the next week off from work and told to recover and contemplate what my thoughts were for a return.
I had planned to leave for Massachusetts at the end of that first week anyway to see my little brother graduate high school and give his valedictorian speech. I was back home in a near insufferable state of itching and wondering whether I would be able to continue working a job about which I had been so excited.
But at home I was greeted by two brothers who I have always leaned on. My younger brother is becoming his own person in a way that is beautiful and inspiring. He is no longer the young sidekick from my high school adventures. He had grown wings and was poised to soar into adulthood. My older brother’s quips and kindness give me hope for the kind of humanity which lies in each of us. He always provides me with a refuge in his blunt communication which often leads to laughter. Despite the torturous itching, it was wonderful to truly rest and be with my family.
We search for a community to soften each bump in the road. After a week of thinking and a stubborn refusal to be derailed, I went back to the field. I found ways to protect myself from the aggressive mosquito population (mainly a slightly ridiculous hooded bug shirt that gave me the look of a beekeeper). This didn’t stop the mosquitoes from swarming us, but it did stop me from being bitten!
After recovering at home, I went back into the field. I do not owe my determination to my own mental capacity or some mythical toughness, but to the care and support of the people I am lucky to have in my life. Without those around me who uplifted me, my spirit would have given up. Our communities give us the gift of care. We cannot understate its importance to the mission of our lives. It is inseparable from our ability to endure. Care is the reminder that we are not our own strength. Our resilience is built from the faith of others.
On Perseverance
We trudge through raspberry bushes that reach my neck. The small thorns tack themselves to our pants. There are holes in this clear cut where your leg will sink down three or four feet when you least expect it. Sometimes your foot sinks, and you pull up your boot filled with mud and water. Other times you make a wrong step and a nest of ground bees is awakened. Through miles of hiking, we carry PVC pipes used for establishing study sites. There’s also 40 pounds of forestry measurement gear ranging from a hypsometer to DBH tapes to mallets to tablets all resting on our shoulders.
It’s a gray, cloudy, near-mystical vision of 6:00 am when we hike out from camp. The views of the rolling hills and mountains in the distance grant me the power to continue, if only for each passing moment. Two hours later, the rain starts coming down softly and gets heavier and heavier as the day continues. We work on as mist turns to downpour.
Knees, ankles, and shins get progressively more purple each time a branch hits us wrong. We are wet. It is miserable and cold. My rain jacket is completely slick to the touch. The waterproofing specs I read on the tag seem like a cruel joke. In times like these, I detach myself from the work. My focus is the inhalations and exhalations of my lungs and the light pressure felt above my upper lip on each one. The mind empties. We keep going. The day continues and my body shivers as I hammer in plot stakes.
Through the torrents of rain I shout heights, stump size classes, and coarse woody debris decay levels. I identify saplings and herbaceous plants. It’s hard to look at the regeneration squares in these areas. Young clearcuts lend themselves to advantageous species like red raspberry. These vines create thick mats and bushes that smother other saplings and plants, only allowing enough space for themselves. It’s depressing to see a mature forest reduced to a monoculture of rubus idaeus.
Walking through the tangle is paradoxical. We are scorned by thorns but blessed with brief berry-munching interludes. The raspberry smothers life, but once it decomposes it will help to stoke forest succession. In this paradox I find ways to continue the work. Our good and bad moments fight against each other, allowing us to reach a sense of equanimity and persevere through the experience. When I am finished with the workday and cooking over the camp stove, I am tired, yet strangely delighted. My dinner is a pack of instant rice and canned chicken, completely drowned in a seasoning packet. It is not gourmet by any stretch but in this state it tastes like the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Underneath the pink and orange glow of sunset, I sit and dig into my camp meal. I am exhausted, but my mouth still forms a soft smile. This kind of contentment does not come at the end of a normal day spent at home. It is the delight that comes with grit. It makes food taste better, books more enjoyable, and sleep a beautiful respite. These mundane objects of my day would not otherwise bring me this pleasure without being predicated by the pain in my back, the buzzing of mosquitoes, or the scratches left by raspberry. In retrospect, these troubles seem a pleasure to have.
On Discpline
My heart thumps a steady beat as footfalls tread over gravel. There is a swishing sound as my shorts rub against my legs. Sweat beads down my forehead, coalescing for a moment on my mustache, before dripping onto my shirt or the ground. The ritual of the daily run. It has become a sacred practice for me over the past three years, and this summer is no exception.
Running is a refuge where thoughts wash away, and presence is found. It is also a means to connect with nature. By putting myself into a heightened state of perception through strenuous physical activity, I feel a deeper sense of belonging within the natural world. Each time I run, I set an intention to fully appreciate the beauty of my surroundings.
At the beginning of the field season I was plagued by a feeling of ineptitude in identifying tree and herbaceous plant species. My coworker had already taken classes like silviculture and dendrology and was very familiar with many of the species we were working with. I needed to catch up. I turned to discipline to help with this matter.
My first plan of action was to sketch trees and herbaceous plants in a notebook and to label their parts and notable features. This allowed me to know the species more intimately and to become accustomed to the changes in leaves, stems, bark, flowers, and cones.
Each day I would run into the woods while we were off work and identify as many trees and herbaceous plants as I could. I’d dart over roots and fallen logs, observing small patches of Canada mayflower or noting the short spiky needles of red spruce. This continual practice, reinforcement, and commitment allowed me to start to see the forest in a different way. In the same way that running transformed from a painful and scorned habit to a joyful interlude, my frustration at identifying species dissolved as I committed myself to getting better. I’m now greeted by a circle of well-known friends each time my footfalls lead me into the woods.
On Awareness
The smell of pine, fir, and spruce becomes more intense with each step I take. It’s one of my favorite things about these woods. Even while the mosquitoes take their blood meal from me and the heat makes me sweat profusely, there is nothing that can compare with the scent of the forest. What I love more is that, when I walk into these woods, I am greeted by a sensory experience unlike any other. My position as a forest technician forced me to learn to see the forest in a different way. Instead of seeing every patch of forest as the same, I’ve become attuned to the nuanced differences among this complex ecology.
In May, I would walk into the woods, and I’d feel as though I was in a sea of unfamiliar people. Over the first month I became acquainted with these faces. The conifers endeared themselves to me first. Their rounded and intricate cones, the bubbling pitch, and their unique leaves provided me with a sensory experience that made it easy to find my way back to them. When I walk hurriedly and with my mind ablaze, I forget who surrounds me. But when I carry myself with presence and awareness, I see old friends everywhere.
Over time, new friends joined my path as I continued to cultivate awareness in the forest. In these places, the ground is dotted with the dainty forms of Canada mayflower and wood sorrel. These were some of the first herbaceous plants I could consistently recognize. I rejoiced as the summer progressed and I met new friends: starflower, pink lady slipper, trillium, agrimony, false Solomon’s-seal, bunchberry, ghost pipes, partridgeberry, plantain, and more.
I became acquainted with the way that tree seedlings look like younger siblings of the mature members of their species. I began to recognize the red maple’s small form everywhere I went, whether I was deep in the backcountry or back home in Orono. These hardwoods slowly joined my community of friends as I became an admirer of yellow birch and paper birches and soon all the maples from striped to silver to sugar.
The trees and the plants of the forest became familiar to me once I slowed down and found more appreciation for each moment that passed. There was perfection in these seemingly mundane moments. The curling bark of a paper birch has come to feel familiar between my index finger and thumb. The spike of red spruce on my neck as I trudge past young stands is easy to imagine. The spiral of spinulose wood fern seems to accompany me everywhere. By the end of the summer, I found myself filled with awareness of and admiration for the forests’ diversity and abundance.
On Joy
Joy is the jewel of our daily experience. It can be sparked by a variety of experiences and events. This summer it was important for me to center my moments of joy and to practice gratitude for them. My job was difficult. I told friends and family that this job was the hardest position I’ve ever worked in, due to the combination of isolation, long days, and unpleasant bugs and heat. I made sure to take time to appreciate beauty, despite the challenging conditions. Joy came to me in several forms. I drank it up wherever and whenever it was offered.
I have an extremely fond memory of the last week of work with the CFRU where my coworkers Ashley, Mack, and I all cooked dinner together and shared it over a fire. The smell of kielbasa and peppers accompanied by burning birch bark transports me back to the north woods.
I am also reminded of the morning spent canoeing while I was at work camping at Long Pond. My coworker, Mack, and I had the choice between an hour and a half hike or a twenty-minute canoe trip. We took the canoe trip with zeal. The morning was misty, with a light layer of fog rolling over the pond. With each stroke of my paddle, I could not shake the side-to-side grin on my face: I was getting paid to canoe! That morning was special, and so was the trip back to camp. On our ride back for dinner, we were fortunate to witness an adolescent moose chomping on aquatic vegetation before clambering into the cover of an adjacent bog.
A daily ritual in my time with the CFRU emerged from our constant access to water. At the end of each workday, no matter how cold it was or how exhausted we were, my coworkers and I would go swimming. This simple practice allowed us to cleanse ourselves of the day’s dirt and the mental strain that came with the work. It was another way to connect with the natural world and renew us before the next day.
Our lives are filled with a myriad of different experiences, all of which synthesize to mold us into the people we become. Joy can be found in every corner of our lives. We should take advantage of it and appreciate its power to rejuvenate, re-center, and recalibrate our direction. If I did not hold joy dear, I know that I would be lost.