When morning arrives, and the light with it, the mist rises in multiples on my Virginia farm, like smoke from so many cooking fires. In times past the smoke did come from cooking fires, but the Indians left the area long ago, at the point of guns, and the mist is now a natural contrivance of the James River, which runs through the region, largely hidden by an evergreen forest; the river gives off the mist through convection, when the air temperatures change. I’m up early, taking notes. This is a record of a day on my farm. Rain is due, according to my cell phone app. But first there is the usual mix of low clouds and sun, illuminating the mountains on the other side of the forest. The mountains are blue here, and incomparably aged. The James started 600 million years ago, and the mountains are a billion years old. By comparison, the Mississippi River is a 10,000 year infant, and the best guess is that California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains formed within the last 40 million years. As to those Indians, they left their remains in my forest, and arrowheads just about everywhere. The best of the arrowheads are lovely, perfectly chipped from soapstone. Soapstone is a metamorphic rock that borders a full side of this farm, and apart from the Indian use it was once sold commercially for fireplace construction (it absorbs heat). We speak here of the Monacan Indians; they were a peaceful tribe; it’s said there are about 2,000 members left. The natives appreciated the mountain that became my farm. It soars nearly 800 feet and is comfortable the year round. In summer there is cooling air from the river valley, and in winter the colder winds get caught up in the trees. The trees dominate in this wonderfully rural patch. I have 100,000 on the tree farm, and there is little let up, in any direction, for as far as one can walk in a day. Most of them are grown for timber; others are gifts from the gods; there are old growth hardwood on my land that were young when Tom Jefferson traveled the ground. Jefferson was a pal of the family that grabbed these parts from the Indians. In the 1700s the Sam Cabells had a plantation that ran for 25 miles along the James, including my farm, and were almost as prominent as President Tom. There is a story that during one Jefferson visit, during a hard winter, he set out on a morning ride along the river. Noticing heavy ice, he decided to cross the river, only to have his horse break into the water. Calling for Cabell’s slaves, he was carried to safety from the ice, where he waited until the poor fellows also rescued his horse. Today I am the rescuer. A dog comes paddling by, captured by the current until I change the course with a long branch and the mutt scrambles to shore. He is unhurt, if unhappy, and quickly runs off, trotting along the nearby railroad tracks to wherever it is that he lives. There are two RR tracks here, meaning it’s a stretch the trains use to pass one another on their way to or from Richmond, the capital. At such times, one train stops on its track, as the second train passes on the second rail. At night, after dark, it’s a bit like watching a Hitchcock movie, if only a bit. The dog is an uncommon sight here, as are horses trying to cross winter ice. The dogs of the area are mostly game hunters, therefore valuable, and, unfortunately, kept in cages. There are horses bred in the fields, but they too are captives of their immediate environment. This doesn’t mean there are no animals at large; my farm is a zoo. There are deer and coyotes to begin with, and every kind of smaller game from rabbits to squirrels. Last year, in the forest, I was struck by the fattest timber rattler I’ve ever seen. There was leg pain for an hour, and then fortunate relief. And lest I forget, there is Mr. and Mrs. Bear, and family. They are the reason I carry bear spray in the woods, though I have not used it, and do not known if it would work. I see the bears rarely, though there have been a couple of “confrontations.” Once, a bear did not turn around as I approached it on a trail, and instead seemed to be coming at me. I spun on my heels and let out for the house, looking back only when I broke the woodline. I like to think I outran the creature, yet, in fact, the bear was likely not after me at all, but merely on his own good way and direction. The snake bites and bear meetings are singular occasions, to be sure. Not so my dealing with the deer, the animal emperors of my land. There are a dozen or more taking advantage of this sanctuary (no hunting) and four or five of them are partly domesticated. Three years ago I untangled a doe from a wire fence, and it has not since strayed very far. Moreover, it has bred four fawn, and it’s normal for the entire crew to show up in the evenings for a handout of cracked corn. They come on a whistle, even though they still be cautious of me, which is all to the good.* Then there are the 60-80 birds, including wild turkeys. Today there is an altercation between the turkeys and the crows, both of whom try to deny the other a share of the seed thrown down. The turkey is larger, but the crow is much more clever, and never really loses an argument. This time the black bird is pushed aside, and leaves – but quickly returns with friends. It is now one against eight, and the turkey correctly retreats. I have never seen the birds actually fight, just squabble; meantime, while they do, the cardinals and the jays take advantage to feed in peace. It’s correct to say that all the animals are companions of a kind. But the best friends I have on the farm are the trees, magnificent and robust. Thee are a dozen varieties, most of which give way to the pine. I grow white pine and loblolly pine, the past and present of this sort of eastern agriculture. The white pine was once the best selling lumber-tree in the southeast; but much of it was wasted by knotholes which weakens it for building. The newer loblolly is fast growing and dependably constructed. I’ve planted 10,000 loblollies by hand in the past 15 years; they are six- inch seedlings to start, but grow quickly (a decade) to tower over the ground at 80-90 feet. I’ve spent much of the day with one of the pines. It fell across the half-mile lane that runs through the trees. I had to cut it into nearly a dozen sections, in order to roll the beast away from the road. This is to say that $400 worth of store lumber has been ruined. One can not sell individual trees. I told the loblolly that I was sorry for the damage. Did you know you can talk to trees? Science says that trees have fungal networks to share information; if one tree is infected by disease, for example, other trees may swiftly activate defense mechanisms to protect themselves. So, anyway, it’s been a long day. I also cut six acres of grass, complete with (hated) hand trimming. Tonight the moon is out, and I’m sitting on a front deck overlooking the river valley (the rain never happened). There is a house light way to the west. Otherwise I’m alone in this setting, and it’s stiff to consider that, for the first time in history, rural people are being replaced by the urban kind. Researchers say the world population is now equally divided between rural and urban and that tree farms as a result are increasingly endangered. This year there are 400 cities with more than one million people, 19 of them house 10 million; one, Tokyo, has 32 million. But that is none of my affair, really. I’m alone here with my animals and trees, and am content, Well, at midnight there are also the stars. Do people in Tokyo see the stars? —————— * One doesn’t want them to be tame. That would reduce their chance of survival.
