It seems to be a week of split trees here at Roundrock Journal.

When I was last out to my forest, Libby and Queequeg took a nice nap in the cabin while Flike and I took a nice walk in the woods. We ranged all over the place, but it was a spontaneous walk and I failed to take my daypack along, which has a bottle of water in it, and the loppers, with which to liberate cedar trees from their earthly toil. The walk might have gone on longer or gone on farther if I’d had either or both, but at least we came to the spot in the forest that you see above.

When we first came to Roundrock more than a decade ago, I put this little round rock (the size of an orange) in the fork of this tree. When I’d come by again, the rock would have fallen out, and I’d wedge it in there again. I did this several times. And then, it seems, I stopped coming to this part of the forest.

But I remembered the rock in the fork on my hike with Flike, and we made this our farthest point. You see above what I saw when I reached it. The tree is eating the round rock now. This was, of course, my plan all along. It was also part of my plan to have a grandchild or two who I would bring along and point out the progress of the rock-eating tree. The grandchild part hasn’t happened, but the rock eating continues. And it seems I may need to find a larger round rock to wedge in the fork above this one so that it can begin being consumed, just in case I am honored with a grandchild some day in the next ten years. But I don’t want to be pushy about that.

A long time ago, I posted the picture you see above of an old oak tree in my forest at Roundrock. I knew then that it wouldn’t be standing like this for long, but it managed to hang on. Although I can’t find the post right now (I’m lazy in that way), I suspect I made it more than five years ago. Thus this is how that oak looked let’s say five years ago.

Here is how it looked on my most recent visit to Roundrock:

I took this shot from quite a ways back so you could get the fuller impression. From the looks of the split and the debris around (and in) it, I’m pretty sure the oak fell apart within the last month.

We’ve had some severe storms this spring, but they’re nothing more than can be expected for the Midwest. I’m sure one of the recent storms, the ones that are keeping my lake full so far this season, finally brought this old oak down. Now it can begin returning to the soil all of the resources if found there and from the sun.

Okay, so I didn’t intend for so much time to pass between posts here at Roundrock Journal, but there were some access problems last week (you may have noticed), and life has been hectic.

We were able to get out to our woods two Sundays ago, and we stopped by the pond on our way in to see how mama goose was doing on her nest. She was still sitting on it then, which suggested to me that she must have been near the end of the gestation. I think by now the eggs have hatched, and we probably have goslings swimming about the pond. I’m not sure when we’ll next get out there, but I sure hope we’ll get a look at them when we do.

I’m sure this would not be the first hatch of waterfowl in my forest, but it’s the first one I’ve been aware of, and it makes me feel that my stewardship has been worthwhile. I know. It’s silly in a way. But for me it’s also a big, encouraging, enriching deal. It makes me feel happy and warm inside. So there!

This is a new race for our area (though I understand it’s held in other cities). I probably would not have entered except that it benefits the local Ronald McDonald House, and that’s a charity we have supported for years. Plus, it was a “run” that Libby and I could do together, and after the wonderful disaster of the Whiskey Run 5K we did together, I was ready for something more walker friendly. This run was going to be conducted on the paved hike/bike trail that happens to pass right through our neighborhood.

As the trail runs, the start of the race was about 3.5 miles from my house, so I decided I would run to the event, walk the 5K with Libby (who would drive there), and then run home afterward. (I’m trying to run at least 20 miles each week, and so far there’s only been one week this year when I didn’t reach my goal — and I did manage 18 miles that week — so running to and from the run would get me the last miles I needed to meet my weekly goal. I ended with 23 miles run last week.)

So about an hour before the scheduled packet pickup time, I left my house and found my way to the trail then followed it to the start area. I did not need the whole hour to get there — not even most of it — and I arrived just as the organizers and vendors were unloading their cars. So I sat around in the still cool air, waiting for Libby to arrive. Which she did. And then we approached the picnic table where we could pick up our packets.

It turned out that we weren’t getting bibs for this run. Nor was it to be timed either by chip or by gun. It was just a nice walk on a nice day with a nice lady. I did have my Nike+ watch on, and I recorded our distance and time, but we weren’t out to set any records. In fact, we happened to be the last two people to cross the start line. But as I said, that didn’t matter; we were just out for a walk.

It also happened that we passed three people on our walk, one of whom eventually passed us again, but we were not the last two to cross the finish. We were, however, among the last people to be at the finish area. Most of the other two dozen or so participants had long since finished and left for home. The vendors (both of them) were also packing up by the time we returned.

This was a small event, and I chatted with one of the organizers about it. She said that they’d gotten a late start developing it, and because there were two other Mother’s Day runs in Kansas City last weekend, she didn’t have high expectations for this first time.

It happened that my watch recorded that we’d walked 3.7 miles. A 5K is 3.1 miles. Had this been a timed event, or if runners were going to use their times to qualify for other races, that would have been a serious problem. (Several other walkers noted that their GPS devices recorded the extra distance as well.) But it was a nice 3.7 miles. The charity got some money. Libby and I had a nice walk. And then I ran home, a little more tired, with a more sloppy gait that earlier, but I still set a decent pace and was satisfied with my morning.

I have two 10Ks coming up and another 5K that I’m doing with Libby. It’s called the Color Run, and was you’re hurtling along, people throw stuff at you. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

My northwest corner is the center of a section. I had always thought that must be important, but everyone I’ve mentioned that to dismissed it as a mere technicality. It’s established fence lines, not imaginary lines that make sense only in some specialized maps, that are meaningful.

That’s fine. I can live with that. In fact, we’ve always known that our established fence lines are twenty or more feet from the surveyed lines. When we first tromped on what we would one day call Roundrock, the realtor had said that the surveyed corner was in our neighbor’s pond. I didn’t see much way to divide up a pond, and I certainly didn’t want to be the kind of neighbor who would make a dispute of that kind of thing anyway. My neighbor eventually sold his land, and Good Neighbor Brian became the new owner. He’s the kind of guy you could never have an argument with; he’s just so amiable.

We’d peeked at his pond several times when our feet had carried us to that corner, but it was generally so deeply ringed with cattails that we couldn’t see much from the shore and certainly not out to the middle of it. And what did we expect to see there anyway?

When we were planting the pines on a visit in April, though, the pond was cattail free and I was able to venture over there to have another look. The pond is up, just like our pond and lake, because of the recent rains. But there in the center I saw what you see above: a post rising from the water. Could that be the marking of my northeast corner? The center of the section?

Does it matter? Brian has spoken a number of times of getting his little Bobcat in there to improve the pond. Had he been able to do that in years past (means, motive, and opportunity not always aligning), he’d likely have taken out this post, not knowing what it was (if it was what it was, that is).

So we abide.

There is planting, and then there is re-planting. For our pines this year, it was a job of re-planting. I’d say our pines have been the most successful of our planting adventures at Roundrock over the years. Many of the plants we’ve put in the ground have vanished without a trace. The dogwoods are the best example. Others linger and languish. Those would be the nanny berries. Some, like the button bush, have flourished in a few specific places — above and below the pond — but haven’t made a show elsewhere. But the shortleaf pines have been our success story.

Granted we’ve lost about fifty percent of them each year, but given our record and our limited ability to nurture them at all, I’d say that’s a pretty good ratio. Part of that success is attributable to the fact that we’ve put nearly all of the pines inside fences to keep the marauding deer from eating or thrashing them into nubs. Even so, about half of those fenced-in pines don’t survive. But Pablo has put so much effort and expense into crafting those fenced cages that they become the locations for subsequent plantings when the current occupants are finished with them.

We use chicken wire around a pair of posts to make the fence. (I still use steel fence posts in some situations, but lately I’ve been making posts out of young cedar trees, which reluctantly volunteer to take on the responsibility. I estimated that I have more than a hundred steel posts doing various duties at Roundrock, and when I calculate how much that has cost me over the years, I blanch a bit. So now the cedar posts, which seem to work just as well, at least for this purpose.)

We set the posts, then plant the pine, then wrap the chicken wire around the post, then affix it with zip ties. They’re cheap and quick and versatile. And then when the pines die and we come back to the same spot the next year, we snip the zip, open the fence, plant the pine, close the fence, and zip it tight once again.

I always collect the snipped zip ties. I don’t like leaving them on the ground. That’s litter to my eye. Plus they might foul the blades of a mower if enuf accumulated. (I have mowed around the pines a few times.) Or get ingested by some unfortunate forest critter. What you see in the photo above is just some of the snipped zips from our last planting expedition. On subsequent trips to the pine plantation, I’ve found a few more former zip ties that had somehow fallen out of my pocket or the backpack or my attention. As I said, these things are cheap, but like the steel fence posts, I probably shouldn’t calculate how much I’m spending on them through the years.

What you see in this photo is Danger Island, truly an island now that the lake is full (at the time of the photo at least). And the fenced area you see on the island is where we have (once again) planted a dozen or so shortleaf pine trees with the hope that some of them will survive and give me a little forest there. All of the pines we planted last year died because of the heat and drought of last summer.

That great expanse of water you see in the foreground was our challenge of the day when we planted the pines. This was in mid-April and the water was only slightly warmer than the air, yet we had to pass through both to get the pines onto the island and into the ground. Now, that great expanse amounted to no more than about thirty feet across and two feet deep, but it is near the headwaters of the lake and far from the comfort and convenience of the cozy cabin where we outfit ourselves for our adventures.

I didn’t want to wade through the water with my boots on, but I didn’t want to hike across the rocky ground to that point without them. In the end, I left the boots behind. Libby and I each have a pair of water shoes that have hard soles, and while they don’t provide much in the way of ankle support (always a nice feature when your hiking anywhere in the Ozarks), they can help you get across the rocky, uneven ground without contusions and lacerations on the soles of your feet. That day I was carrying a sharp shovel and a day pack filled with various tools and other gear necessary for planting pines. Libby carried the bucket with the pines, half filled with water to keep their roots moist until we got them in the ground.

Our hike to the water’s edge was without mishap, in part because we’ve covered that ground many times, though we did leave the dogs shut in the cabin. Flike would not have been a problem until we got to the water. I don’t know if he would have wanted to enter the lake with us or fuss and fidget on the shore as we crossed. I am not looking forward to the day when he realizes he can swim and comes back to the cabin (or into my truck) sopping and dripping. Queequeg, on the other hand couldn’t be left behind on the shore. He would wander off while we were across the water since he is a willful little guy. And carrying him to the island with us would be just one more burden to bear. So we made our trek without their help.

I didn’t tell Libby at the time (or since, now that I think about it), but as I stood on the shore waiting for her to catch up so we could wade across, I saw a snapping turtle the size of a turkey platter paddling about in the area where we always cross. An encounter with a beast like that would probably be benign, especially in mid-April when it was still waking from its long nap, but that thing could also easily bite through the thin fabric of our water shoes (and the flesh and bone within) if provoked. For whatever reason, though, the turtle paddled off before we made our way across.

The journey across the water was without mishap. We got the pines into the rocky ground without too much trouble (or even effort) and marked each of them with a pair of round rocks. (When I had the island built years ago, the dozer man simply pushed a lot of gravel into a pile. I didn’t think anything would ever grow on that, but now it is covered with lush grasses and scrub. There are even some trees growing on one side — though my pines haven’t been so fortunate. By mid-summer it will be hard to find the little pines amidst all of the growth. Thus the pair of round rocks beside each, so we can find them later.) Libby later used the bucket to bring some lake water up to them to give the pines a first drink in their new homes.

And so once again we planted hope in the ground. Maybe this year a few will survive. The rain has been well timed in the weeks since then, and the temps have been mild for the most part. Send warm (but not hot) thoughts their way when you have a moment.

I realize it’s gruesome in a way, but I also think this spine that Buck Mulligan no longer needs is beautiful in a symmetrical, work of nature kind of way. When we hike on the south side of our lake, Queequeg always runs directly to this collection of bones. (In fact, for having the blunt little nose of a Pomeranian, he always seems to find the smelly stuff on the forest floor while big old Flike trots blithely past, no doubt looking for a stick.)

I assumed I would leave these bones for the critters to gnaw on, but the last time we were by I thought I might collect them and others like them I’ve found here and there in the woods and do something with them.

My first thought was to clean them and then string them together like a sort of necklace. Then, whenever we have ceremonies at the cabin, someone would wear the necklace with great gravity and purpose and perhaps preside over the ceremony. Or it might be worn by initiates to Roundrock, guests on their first visits and such.

What do you think? When you come to my woods for the first time, won’t you be pleased and proud to wear such a necklace?

I’ve mentioned before that I am slowly building a rock wall behind my wooden cabin in an attempt to create a break should a ground fire ever sweep through my forest. It’s not much of a wall, and its construction is limited to what rocks I can find in the forest and carry back. I’ve found all of the near ones; my rock hunting adventures are taking me farther afield these days, which means carrying them longer distances, so the wall is growing more slowly.

The photo above illustrates what I think is a positive effect of my wall idea. My cabin is off to the right about thirty feet. The combustible leaves seem to have been stopped on the far side of the wall. On the cabin side of the wall there are far fewer combustibles, so should a ground fire ever come along, my thought is that it would run out of fuel once it passes the wall. That’s the idea anyway, but other parts of the wall don’t display this clear demarcation of leaves.

And I wonder if my bright idea might actually be counterproductive. That’s a lot of leaves accumulated behind the wall. More than are on the forest floor randomly in the forest. If a ground fire ever does come along, might it reach these leaves and flare up? Moving from a slow-moving ground fire into a canopy fire? I don’t know.

I try to clear the scrub that grows around the cabin. Not only does that remove more fuel, but it removes what can stop blowing leaves so they don’t accumulate inside the wall. I’ve also taken down a few smaller trees close to the cabin, but they would hardly make a difference in a fire situation.

I don’t know if I’m winning or losing this fight, so I just keep paying my insurance premium.

I realize this is not best photo, but it was the best I could do under the perilous conditions.

What you see is a small island in the pond at Roundrock. (Note that we have a tiny pond near the pine plantation that is not the same as the lake at the other end of our woods.) During most of the year, this area isn’t an island at all, but since we’ve had a wet spring, the pond level is up and the island is formed.

But it’s not the island that I want you to see here. Rather, look closely and you’ll see a goose sitting on a nest on that island. Libby first noticed the goose there two trips ago (more than three weeks past now). For some reason, the goose raised her (?) head as we drove past. Otherwise, I’m sure we would have missed knowing what was happening right there in our little pond. Once we realized what we were seeing, though, I stopped and got out with my camera to get a shot. I crept toward the water slowly, trying to keep trees between me and the goose, but I suspect she (?) knew I was there the whole time. When I got within about thirty feet, her partner, that I hadn’t seen on the side of the pond, began honking at me and swimming my way. I squeezed off the shot and headed back for the truck. I didn’t want to distress them such that they would abandon their nest.

When we were out at Roundrock the next week, she was still on the nest, so I think my interruption was long forgotten.

Canada geese will incubate their eggs for about 30 days. Given that we don’t know how long she (?) had been sitting on them when we first saw her, they might already be hatched, with little goslings paddling about. I’m sure there have been other nests on our pond over the many years we’ve been stomping around, but this is the first one we’ve actually known about. It warms my black and shriveled heart to know that my stewardship efforts (mostly benign neglect) are actually having a positive effect.