Woods Walker Online

Around Town with Michael

    I arrived at Norumbega with our two English Shepherds, Mocha and Sadie and my muscle-wood hiking staff to find Talking Brook swollen from the recent rain. When we entered the Stream Loop Trail at the rise overlooking Little Falls the stream’s voice was loud. Water rushed over the falls creating white water that leapt over the rocky bed. I paused to take some pictures and to record a video of the scene before us. Mocha and Sadie know my habits. They sat and waited for me to put my cell phone away and to continue on our hike. We passed through a grove of Quaking Aspens, their whispering leaves now silently covering the path we trod. On the stream side of the trail still vibrant green ferns covered the ground in stark contrast to the general brown hues of the forest around them. We dropped down to the bridge over ground cross-crossed with roots like frozen snakes waiting to trip up an unwary hiker. We stopped at the bridge. I looked upstream where the 19^th century stone bridge could still be seen, one side breached by some long ago flood. I glanced up the slope to the chapel where my Mom and Dad’s urns sat on the alter of the little sacred house. On other walks I have often stopped for a visit at the chapel, sitting on one of its benches to be in the presence of my parent’s mortal remains. Today I kept going seeking the kinetic energy of a vigorous hike.

    Mocha and Sadie had already covered much more ground than I as they followed the scent stories the forest had to offer. Moving on up the trail I delighted at the pool of light that the forest filtered sun created on the ground. The stream bed here was flat and mostly rock free. The stream’s voice was much quieter as the water passed over the clay bottom of the brook. I looked up-slope at the ridge above me. I promised myself that on one of these hikes I would leave the trail to explore that ridge. That was not to be today. Looking over to the other side of the stream, I gazed into the dark, quiet of one of Norumbega’s hemlock groves. Hemlocks cast the densest shade of any tree in the east. Nothing grows under hemlocks except mosses because of the lack of light. Hemlock groves are quiet peaceful places that I equate with open air houses of worship. 

    On the ridge side of the stream the woods are a mix of hardwoods with birch, beech maple and aspen in various combinations depending on the site. This forest is much brighter than the hemlock grove with a vigorous under-story. For decades this forest yielded firewood for the previous owner. This frequent thinning kept the woods open and filled with light. This part of the trail took us to a stretch of the brook that was wide and smooth bottomed. Here I have seen fish darting through sun rays in the water in the spring. Mocha jumped down into the brook, water flowing through her long black hair. Sadie, not keen on being in the water, came to the edge of the stream to get a drink, trying hard to keep her paws dry. 

    Here too is ground that became super saturated one especially wet spring many years ago. I was riding through this stretch on Tonka, my log legged leopard appaloosa gelding, when he began to sink into the wet earth. I quickly jumped off his back. I stripped off his saddle. I gave him words of encouragement to work his way out of his predicament. He did not give up. He eventually pulled his long legs out of the gripping suction of the wet earth. I dubbed this part of the trail “Tonka’s Peril” in honor of his courage. 

    Once again the terrain rose until we found ourselves on top of the rock face I dubbed “Swallow Cliff” after the birds that have made their nests in its crags. I made my way to the lip that hangs some thirty feet above the stream below. I delighted in the impatient water’s play as it tumbled over the boulder strewn bed of the brook. We descended again until we were returned to the bank of the stream and its rushing water. We came to a deep pool where in the summer I throw sticks for Mocha to fetch, giving her a good dunking in the water. Adjacent to the pool is “Henry’s Cavern”. It was discovered by Julie’s cousin Henry on a walk in the 70’s. It is a split in the rock thirty feet long, five feet wide and six feet deep. At one time this was on huge rock formation that was slowly pulled apart by the retreating glacier 10,000 years ago. 

    As I gazed into the split and remembered the day of its discovery long ago, my eyes shifted to further up the trail to a large beaver dam and the sprawling pool behind it. Three years ago beavers decided to take up residence here. They built a dam seventy feet long and four feet high. This caused the stream to back up and flood a large area of the woods. Mature dying trees rise out of the beaver pond, clues as to what this area used to look like. Evidence of their work was visible not only in the dam they built but also in the ash, birch and maple trees they felled and left behind. This has become one of my favorite spots that I hike to. Mocha can really swim here. I love to see how North America’s largest rodents have transformed the forest into an aquatic environment. I marvel at their ability to fell ten inch ash trees with just their teeth. Further along I saw evidence of recent activity. I saw two trees whose chewed wood was still bright not having darkened with time and exposure to the sun.

      We three continued upstream passing some mature white pines large enough to have qualified as “King’s Pines” in the 18^th century. With diameters around thirty inches and heights of nearly a hundred feet of straight trunk, I could not imaging felling these giants with just an ax (cross cut saws were not in use until the 19^th century). Even more unimaginable would be hauling these future masts for the Royal Navy with a team of oxen. Still further along we came to another rock outcrop that rose about forty feet from the trail. On top of this cliff is a flat area, deeply bedded in pine and hemlock needles. When our kids were in grade school, we would pack up our gear as if we were headed to the White Mountains. With two dogs in tow, we would hike to this spot and camp for two nights. It is a magical place filled with fond memories.

    Mocha and Sadie were still flying around the woods following scent trail but always close enough to be called back for treats and pats on the head. Their energy and joy at being able to run free was infectious. It always makes me happy to see them so happy. This was our turn around spot. As much as I would have liked to have disappeared into the woods for hours longer, home and other responsibilities called to me. We turned around and headed back the way we came. The numerous gifts of the forest had worked their magic on me. I was a happy man, filled with gratitude and a deep love for these woods.  

                                                        Michael Fralich

Around Town With Michael

    In 1982 my wife Julie and I took up residence on Woodman Road in a home I built myself with help from family and friends. We were new to New Gloucester, having grown up in Maine but with no connection to our new town other than the land we purchased after our marriage in 1974. We both wanted to settle and raise our family in Maine. New Gloucester was where we landed. One of the first things I did to get to know our new community was to begin volunteering for our local paper, the New Gloucester News. At the time, my duties were to help with paste-up of the paper and then help with distribution. 

    At the time one of the contributors was a lifelong resident of New Gloucester named Alma Berry. Alma wrote a weekly column, The Nature Notes. In her column she reported her own wildlife sightings at her farm on Cobb’s Bridge Road. She also passed along sightings that other residents phoned in to her at their homes. When Alma died in 1986, Verna Hobbs, the paper’s editor, asked me to pick up her column. I was honored to be asked to attempt to pick up where Ala had left off. I called my column, Greetings from Norumbega. Norumbega was what we dubbed our home on Woodman Road. 

     I wrote my last “Greetings…” in 2008. The paper had become the New Gloucester Independent. It ceased publication in 2009. In the twenty-two years of writing my column it became a way for me to reflect on my journey not only in nature but also my journey in life. I still bump into people who remember me as that guy from Norumbega. In 2021 we built a new home in the Lower Village across from the Congregational Church. My mare, Cyra moved with us as of course did our two English Sheperds, Mocha and Sadie. We have throughly enjoyed getting to know our new neighborhood. Our wanderings now include the Interurban as well as ways of linking together other opportunities to walk and ride, both on foot and on horseback. While I miss Norumbega’s streams and trails, I have found many wonderful ways to immerse myself in the healing power of the natural world.

    I have missed my weekly time of reflection that my former column provided. I am resolved to begin a new series of articles about our life in the village. I am not sure what form these missives will take and how often I will find time to write but be assured that this will be the first of what hope will be many new columns where I will share my journey with all those who are interested to journey with me. So, I will see you again soon! Michael Fralich from The Village House on Gloucester Hill Road.

Winter Stillness
A star speckled canopy overhead,
A field of smooth white in front of me,
The jingle of Rosie’s collar,
Rings out impossibly loud.
I have stood at this spot,
Hundreds of times before,
Always listening,
To the sounds of the marsh,
To the sounds of the night.
But now a silence has fallen,
Along with the winter’s cold.
I know it is not the stillness,
Of death,
There is life here still,
But it sleeps.
The little creatures,
That will fill the air,
With buzzing, chirping,
Humming and singing,
Are either gone,
Or waiting,
For the icy grip,
Of winter to loosen.
So I have come here tonight,
To not listen to sound,
Rather the absence,
Of it.

The silence is just as magical,
As the sounds will be,
Come spring.
It tells me to slow down,
To be quiet myself,
Like the world around me,
I too should rest,
And wait for the warmth,
To return in spring.
So I leave this place,
Wrapped in winter’s cold,
My spirit quiet,
As the fields,
That surround me.

Michael Fralich
February 9, 1998

Winter Wind

Over the top of the banking it comes,
A white wave of tumbling, driven snow.
Out in the white glare of the open field,
Eddies swirl and dance their winter jigs,
As pines plaintively sigh from pasture’s edge.
A winging crow quickly rises and suddenly falls,
On restless air that speaks of northern climes,
With its stinging teeth and freezing blasts.
These are the gifts of the winter wind.

Michael Fralich
February 20, 1990

    I had eaten breakfast watching a Downy woodpecker eating suet as the snow fell outside the  sun-room in our house in the Lower Village of New Gloucester. We had a rare day off from babysitting and other commitments. I had not been out for a walk with Mocha and Sadie, our two English Shepherds, for several days. It had been murky, wet and icy.  I was eager to do my breakfast dishes and dress for an adventure with my girls. I donned my buffalo plaid wool coat and pants, topped with my red beret. I put the girl’s collars on, hooked them to their leashes and headed out the door. I was wearing “Ice Bugs”,  my waterproof winter boots with built in cleats. I knew how icy the driveway was. I figured this would be a good choice of footwear for our adventure. Grabbing my muscle-wood walking staff, we passed by Cyra’s stall. We paid our respects. She seemed eager to join us. I had thought of a ride after chores but deemed it too icy for her still barefoot hooves. Winter spiked shoes are due to be put on the next week. I did not want to take the chance that she might slip and go down. This would have to be a canine human outing. 

     Down the Chandler Land Road we went. When we came to the intersection with the Interurban, we took a right. In the summer I call this stretch of the Interurban “The Green Tunnel”. Trees overhang the trail creating a true growing tunnel. Now this was “The White Tunnel”. All the trees were coated in snow. The air was full of falling snow. A slight breeze caused some branches to shed their snow in waves of white. There was no sound save the striking of my staff on the ground, and the tinkle of Mocha and Sadie”s collar tags. I had given Sadie and Mocha a USP (Unlimited Sniff Pass) so the going was slow. What was the rush? I had my four footed friends with me to share in the joy of being out in a snow storm. The cold air woke me up to the beauty all around us. Even the breeze in the trees seemed to be telling me that I was right where I was supposed to be. 

     I had to pay attention to my footing. Just last week this part of the trail had been flooded with a rivulet running down the middle. This had all frozen. It was covered in new snow. I knew ice lurked below. I am not a big fan of falling on frozen ground. Twice the ice tried to bring me down but my cleated boots saved the day. I began a meditation walk. I focused on the sound of my staff hitting the ground, counting up to ten then starting over again. I have found in the past that this helps me clear the chatter that all too often fills my brain. It also helps me really see where I am, to hear the breeze and the sound of Mocha and Sadie’s collars. We came to the snowmobile bridge, the brook running under it adding its voice to the winter forest. We went straight through the intersection with “The Milk Road”. We dropped down to Steven’s Brook. We stopped. We took in the view of the snow clad rocks in the stream. 

    I took the girls to the edge of the stream. I unhooked them. They vaulted over the icy rocks. They scampered up the steep bank on the other side. I did not scamper. For my seventy years I felt I kept up a respectable pace until I crested the top. My heart was working hard which was not a bad thing. Before us was the Lower Village Cemetery, pristine in new snow. Sadie and Mocha could now be off leash. No one but the dead were here with us. Strong gusts traveled across the open ground, picking lacy swirls of white as it passed. My face felt the wind’s bite. We headed to the one bench in the cemetery that has a back on it. It is my favorite rest spot. On our way to it Sadie ran in joyous circles, teasing Mocha with her faster speed. It brings me so much joy to witness their joy. It is one of my most potent “medicines”. It is an integral part of my maintaining good mental health. 

    When we got to the bench, I sat. I invited Mocha and Sadie to sit with me. The cold wind had picked up. I was grateful for the snuggling warmth of my two companions on either side of me. Together we watched the snow swirling across the ground in front of us. My wool clothing had kept me warm. With my girls near and our warm home not far away, my heart was full of gratitude at the life I lead. After a contemplative break, we struck out for home. We crossed the granite bridge over Steven’s Brook. We threaded our way through the gravestones. At the road I clipped the girls to their leashes. A couple of cars past us. We mostly had the winter landscape to ourselves. Cyra spotted us as we entered the driveway. She called out a greeting, hopeful for a snack from me. In these crazy historic times, it is good to get out in the world away from the deluge of bad news that threatens to overwhelm us and reconnect with the beauty and healing power of the natural world. 

I have had animals in my life all of my life. My first memory of a pet is of Mickey, our cocker spaniel. He came into our lives in the mid ‘50s when I was six. We lived in Ohio then. We came to Maine in 1959. Mickey did not make the transition to New England successfully. He became fixated on our mother. She could not go anywhere without him or risked disaster in her absence. In my young mind I came to realize that the relationship we had with our animals was just as complicated as our relationships with our fellow humans. That perception has not changed for me in the six-plus decades since Mickey was in my life.

In the intervening years I have kept not only mammals but birds, fish, reptiles and amphibians as well. Every animal I have had under my care has connected me not only to the natural world but more importantly, to myself. At the peak of my animal husbandry I had over the years kept a barn filled with horses, rabbits, sheep, a goat, pigs, chickens, geese, turkeys and ducks in various combinations. In the house we gave a home to an ant farm, parrots, guinea pigs, freshwater fish, mice, a snake, a turtle, dogs and cats. I have learned many things over the years I have been a keeper of animals. The most important lesson I’ve learned is that my animals are my greatest teachers.

My menagerie has shrunk since we moved from our farm on Woodman Road to our Village house. I now take care of two dogs, English shepherds Mocha and Sadie, and one mare, Cyra. She is a cross between a Clydesdale and a Newfoundland pony. As with all my animal charges, Cyra has reminded me many times in the fifteen years we have been together that a person can never have enough patience in dealing with four-legged as well as two-legged beings. I have also learned the power of mutual respect and trust. When those are in place, amazing things happen.

Since our move to town–we are located directly across from the Congregational Church in the Lower Village–my relationship with Cyra has continued to evolve and deepen. Gone are our days of working together in an equine-assisted psychotherapy practice. Now we live for enrichment of each other as well all those we encounter in our rides through the village. This is the first time in Cyra’s life that she has not lived with other horses. She does not seem to mind one bit. She lives in a stall that is an integral part of the garage and house. My study shares a wall with Cyra’s stall. I can sit at my desk and watch her whenever she is present there.  Gone is her old three-stall barn with hayloft and acre of pasture. Now she looks out, as we do too, at the world that flows past our house on Gloucester Hill Road. She now has a small forest paddock when she feels the need not to be so social.

Together we now spend more time together than I did in the years my life was centered around the three hundred acres we called Norumbega on Woodman Road. We have asked and been granted permission to ride through neighbors’ yards and fields. We have stitched together rides that are every bit as beautiful as the world we left behind at Norumbega. We can choose rides that are contemplative away from people. We can also choose to ride through the village with the express desire to see people and be seen by people. One loop on the quiet side of the ledger takes us down the Interurban to the banks of Stevens Brook and then up to and through the Lower Village Cemetery.

Our social rides take us on a combination of Grange Hall Road, Cobb’s Bridge Road, Intervale Road and Church Road. We have figured out ways to shadow those thoroughfares without actually riding on them much. Late afternoon seems to be the best time for horseback conversations with on-the-ground neighbors. Summer afternoons are prime time for not only seeing my adult friends but also the many children that make our village so lively. Grange Hall Road is the most reliable kid zone.

The road is dirt and so when the kids call to us to “Go fast!” we have no problem with busting out a canter for their entertainment. I ride with no saddle and only a simple rope halter. We make quite a sight with Cyra’s thousand pounds running pell-mell down the road. I also frequently pass by the Community Building behind Town Hall. On those rides I often see children from the Rec Department’s Kids Club program. If appropriate, I invite them over to say hello and to give Cyra’s neck a scratch. That is as thrilling for me as it is for the children. I love to share Cyra with people of all ages. One time when I was at the Town Hall complex I even returned a library book from Cyra’s back.

Quieter visits with my adult friends are equally enjoyable. We will often park ourselves in a neighbor’s dooryard, and I will chat and catch up on news as Cyra does her best at keeping their grass short. I will often pick up news that I might not have otherwise heard and pass it along to my next stop. One time I came across Kevyn Fowler in his driveway as he sat in his WMTW vehicle and edited a video from the day’s shoot. He put down his window and in went Cyra’s big head to say hi.

We ride all year round. I put studded shoes on her January to April so ice and snow do not keep us home.  Winter is one of my favorite times to be out with Cyra. There are no bugs in winter! It is also so quiet in the winter woods and fields. Since I always ride bareback, her warmth is especially welcome on our winter rides. In the winter I drape my grandfather’s sleigh bells over Cyra’s neck. The chiming of the bells is a joyous sound that says to the world, “We are here and happy to be so.”

On our summer rides, I go out before dawn to catch any coolness left from the night. There are fewer bugs in the morning before the heat of the day begins to build. I try to ride out at dawn as many days as I can. There is nothing quite so magical as witnessing the sunrise from Cyra’s back in a small village not yet awake.  We have found a way (and gotten permission to be there) to make it all the way to the banks of the Royal River. I will be forever grateful to these landowners for allowing us passage over their land. There is a chain of emerald gems of grass that I never knew existed that I am allowed to explore to my heart’s content. I am routinely filled with joy and gratitude on our adventures. I have seen deer many times on our rides and seen and heard eagles soaring above me.

At seventy, with Cyra north of twenty, I joke that we have hopefully a solid ten years of adventuring together until our bodies say, “Enough!” I ride to keep me grounded to the earth and to my equine companion. She never refuses my request for trips out of her stall. I also ride to stay connected to those who I share this village with, be they five or eighty. The magic never goes away for me. Every time my leg swings over Cyra’s bare back, it is as if I am a young man again experiencing something truly amazing. My gratitude begins with Cyra for her willingness to share with me this place we call our home. She has become known as “the Village horse.” I am just the guy happy to be upon her back.

    I have a neighbor and friend named Field Rider. Since moving into the village, I have gotten to know him better. He lives right down the road from us. I frequently walk across his property with Mocha and Sadie, our two English Shepherds. One of Field’s many talents is being able to fly a plane. We have talked about flying together but until today, we had not made it happen.

    Field sent me a text mid-afternoon asking me if I wanted to fly. He told me to wear a bathing suit. I jumped at his offer. Field picked me up at 5:30. We drove to Twitchell’s Airport in Turner. Field has two planes. Today the plan was to go out in his float plane. He keeps it tied up on the Androscoggin River. Field pulled into a dirt road at the airport. This turned into a grass track. This took us to the bank of the river where Field’s 1976 Citabria two seat float plane was waiting for us.  

    I followed him down to the river, excited to be going up in a small plane. I had not done this for ten years. I took off my shoes. I felt the mud of the riverbank ooze through my toes. It had rained before our arrival. The ground was soft and warm under my feet. The storm clouds had slid away leaving a rainbow in their wake. The sun was hiding behind a remaining cloud-bank. Rays of its light shot out from the edges of the cloud. 

    Field told me to climb into the plane and settle myself into my seat. It was located behind the pilot’s seat. I rinsed off my feet and stepped onto a strut below the wing. I climbed into my seat and fastened my seat belt. I had a secondary control stick between my legs. There were also secondary foot petals flanking Field’s seat. Field informed me that in the advent of his death in the air, I had everything I needed to fly the plane at my disposal. I hoped that would not be necessary. 

    We both put on our headsets. Field explained what was going to happen. He did an equipment check. He started the engine. We began to taxi into the main channel of the river. With my headset on, I could focus on the visuals and not be distracted by the roar of the engine. I once again glanced up at the rainbow as we began to skim over the water. In what seemed like no time at all we were airborne. The river receded below us. The waters of Androscoggin Lake dotted with islands its shores an unbroken wall of green forest. As we flew Field pointed out features below through our headsets. I was so happy every cell of mine was smiling.

    We flew over the village of Leeds. It looked like a model of what a New England village should look like. It had a white steeple church, a cluster of buildings and homes all surrounded by fields and forests. The sun was peaking out from behind a cloud off to our west. Below I saw a herd of about twenty beef cows, little black dots on a field of green. After about ten minutes in the air, Field pointed out Lothrup Island. It was our destination for today’s adventure.  His intention was to land on the lake adjacent to the island and then to beach the float plane. We descended to the surface of the lake. Soon the water was just below our floats. The floats then made contact with the water. Jets of spray shot up into the air. Field throttled down the engine. We coasted onto the black sands of the island’s beach. 

    Field hopped out. He gave the plane a tug to firmly beach the floats. I shed my shirt, grabbed my towel and joined him on the beach. He explained the origin of the black sand. I could not recall a time I had ever seem a black sand beach in Maine. Field said he had learned that where we were standing millions of years in the past had been the site of an active volcano. The black sand was from an eruption of that volcano. My bare feet already had taken on a dusting of ancient blank sand.

    I waded into the  water of Androscoggin Lake with Field right behind me. I dove into the lake and swam under water for several pulls of my arms. The water was warm. When I came up for air, I looked around me. I marveled at what this summer afternoon had presented to me. The lake was surrounded by trees. My vantage point offered me no sign of humans. No boat traffic broke the stillness or rippled the surface of the lake. I was in heaven. I love to fly. I love to swim. Never had I ever combined these two passions of mine. 

    We swam out a ways. I found a submerged rock. I sat in water up to my chest. The air and the water were very close in temperature which was around eighty. Field and I chatted about this and that. We were both enjoying this day and each other’s company. After a pleasant interlude, we headed back to the shore and the waiting Citabria. I stood on the warm black sand as Field pushed the plane out and turned it around. 

    With the plane headed out into the lake, I rinsed off my feat, wrapped my wet bathing suit in my towel and climbed back into the plane. Field did the same. He fired up the engine. We taxied out. Field revved the engine. We were soon skimming over the lake with plumes of spray fanning out to each side. We became airborne. We climbed to nine hundred feet. The sky was a golden hue from the setting sun. The air was calm. The plane flew straight and smoothly towards home base. 

    I felt so blessed to be where I was with my friend at the controls of this magic carpet of a plane. We descended to the surface of the river. When Field cut the engine and we were once again on the banks of the Androscoggin, I hopped out with my heart full of gratitude and joy. 

    I was in Cyra’s stall at 5am this morning. I could see that it had rained overnight. I checked to see if it was still raining. It was not. The sun was not due to rise for nearly another hour. Gray light greeted me as I walked out to fetch the wheelbarrow. The train horn called out from the Intervale crossing. The rich smell of the manure pile came to me as I prepared to do my chores. Cyra nickered to me as I opened her stall door. With her grain tub in my hand, we walked over to the corner where I feed her. She was very respectful of me. She did not try to grab an early bite of her breakfast. At one thousand pounds, I appreciated her good manners. 

    I decided it was a fine morning for a ride. I kept my raincoat on in case the rain started up again. I gave Cyra’s mane and tail a brush. I brushed her body. She continued to eat her breakfast hay as I attended to her. The sound of her chewing blended nicely with the awakening bird songs. I put her rope riding halter on her. I donned my helmet. I led her to the mounting block in the driveway. She stood quietly as I swung my leg over her bareback. She knew where we were going. She headed out the driveway to the left and up Gloucester Hill Road. 

    Three houses down on the left, we crossed over a stonewall and onto my neighbor’s yard. We skirted his mowed lawn. We entered the woods behind his house and were in the gray of the forest at pre-dawn. We picked up the path to the Interurban. The muted light of the overcast morning and the hour of the day gave the woods a magical feel. I could see but the light was dim and sounds were also muted. 

    Cyra snatched a mouthful of ostrich ferns as we walked along. Off to our left a red squirrel scolded us for disturbing her morning. I could here distant crows having a conversation. It felt like a morning where one might catch sight of woods fairies. At the Interurban we turned left into the green tunnel of the old rail bed. I kept my hands and body light and loose (I hoped my mind too!). Cyra did not need directions from me. She knew where we were going and how to get there.

    We emerged onto the the Roger’s lawn. We crossed Intervale Road. We entered Grange Hall Road behind the still sleeping houses on Cobb’s Bridge Road. I asked  Cyra for a canter. She obliged. Her bare feet rang out on the packed earth of the dirt road.  We were headed to Aaron Mosher’s fields opposite Eastgate on Cobb’s Bridge Road. I stopped in Aaron’s field to let Cyra graze. As she did, I took in the misty view in front of us. The far side of the field was softened by the moisture in the air. A hint of pink colored the eastern sky. 

    We crossed the field and dropped down to Gina and Charles’s fields below Aaron’s. The road down was steep and gravel strewn. It was there to service the haying equipment used to cut the lower fields. This was Cyra’s least favorite part of the ride. She’s not fond of going downhill. Add to that the uncomfortable footing and its no wonder why. I too am not a fan because of the wild roses that reach into the path to snag my clothing. I go this way because at the end of this access road is the most beautiful chain of fields I have ever ridden in. 

     At the bottom of the tractor road we came out into a rolling hay field green from the summer rains of late. Cyra’s ears pricked up and I followed her gaze to see three deer on the far side of the field. They saw us too. They bounded off, white tails flashing in the mist. I could hear the call of a raptor off in the pines at the edge of the field. I had seen a bald eagle in this field. I hoped I would see it again. We stopped at an apple tree. I picked and apple and fed it to Cyra. We crossed through a break in a narrow brush line into another field. The terrain here was a gentle rolling of the earth. The rounded knoll in front of us gave way the a stand of fir on the far side of the field, conical tops all pointing to the sky in a line.

    We picked up a wooded trail that led back up to the farms along Cobb’s Bridge Road. When we entered the trail I collected a handful of Cyra’s mane, shortened my reins and asked her for a canter. She willingly responded and began to charge up the hill. We came to rocky section and her hard hooves clattered and dug in the rocks for traction on the hill. She soon ran out of steam. She came back down into a walk, huffing and sides heaving under me. We got in one more canter before we topped out in the fields behind Shady Lane Farm with its big wedding barn off in the distance. I let her graze as I too let my heart slow down from our mad dash up the hill.

    We took the rest of the way home at an easy walk. It was not yet 6:30 and we had already had a wonderful adventure together. I can’t imagine my life without Cyra. As a life long horseman, I feel blessed at seventy years old to have such a willing partner for my morning rambles and a body that still lets me enjoy my passion.

The Village House
Gloucester Hill Road
Michael Fralich

I firmly believe that the view out our windows helps define who we are and gives us a sense of place. For thirty-eight years the view out my kitchen window was of a wall of green forest. It was mixed hardwoods in one direction and a planted pine stand in the other direction. In this place we dubbed Norumbega, the woods were our comfort and our escape. No matter the turmoil, internal or external, it could all be left behind by simply walking out the door and into the forest. On three sides of our house, the woods hugged us in a Silvan embrace.

Now as I sit at my computer composing this, the view is quite different. I am in the study of our new Village House. It is located directly across from the Congregational Church in the Lower Village of New Gloucester. The window just above my computer screen looks out into the stall of my Clydesdale mare’s stall with Gloucester Hill Road and the church in the background. Cyra is my mare’s name. Her stall is attached to my study and to the garage.

It is windy today. Brown leaves are skittering across the pavement of the road. Cyra’s mane lifts and falls with each gust. I am listening to Benny Goodman on vinyl. Cyra occasionally comes to the window to put her blue eye (her other eye is brown) to the glass to check up on me. Other times I will come into my study to find her snoozing with legs tucked under her body like a dog.

At our farm at Norumbega, Cyra lived in our barn, a hundred yards down slope from the house. While it was not far away my access to and connection with Cyra is vastly different in our new house. My view of her out my window is more than a glass pothole, it is an open invitation to go out and explore our new neighborhood.

Looking beyond her, I can watch the world go by in ways not afforded me on Woodman Road. I see walkers, bikers, strollers with babies, and of course many cars and trucks in the course of a day. I can still see trees but they, like I, are watchers of the village life that now surrounds us. I loved the view from our Woodman Road kitchen. It was peaceful and comforting. My view now is vibrant with life moving past our house in all manner of ways.

We love village life as much as we liked country life. Here we can walk to the Village Store, Church, Town Hall, Library and to the house of our many friends who live in the village with us. My window has not only a view of Cyra, it looks out onto the rest of my life.

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. These two opposing statements seem irreconcilable and yet they describe my feelings every time I go to the barn to care for Cyra and prep her for a ride. I have ridden horses for nearly six decades. I have been a horse owner for over three decades. The horses have changed. The venues have changed The routine has changed very little in all those years. Horses need to be fed. They need to be watered. They need to be cleaned. Their stalls need to be cleaned. When I head to the barn in the morning I know what awaits me. I know what I need to do. This grounds me in a time when it is easy to become ungrounded by a new and sometimes threatening reality.

When I am in the barn, the world falls away. My world then is a broom, a shovel and a wheelbarrow. The average horse produces forty pounds of manure a day. My barn currently is home to two horses, Cyra, my Clydesdale cross mare, and Teddy, my friend Karen’s Quarter-horse gelding. Karen and I take turns doing the chores. I do the morning. Karen does the evening. First I give Cyra and Teddy their grain. Mocha, my female English Shepard and all around side kick, heads into the stalls to clean up any spilled grain that falls on the stall floor. I sweep and shovel the manure. I put out hay. I take the manure in the wheelbarrow to the manure empoundment where I empty it and return to fetch Cyra to be groomed.

With her rope riding halter on, she stands patiently in the aisle as I curry her coat and brush out her mane. All of these tasks push away the troubles of the world. They focus me on the job at hand. I take satisfaction in caring for my equine friends and providing them all they need to be healthy and happy. In return, Cyra gives me her 1100 pounds of unconditional love. Its not a bad trade. That’s not to say she does not have her own opinions about life. Being pulled (ever so gently!) from her morning hay is concerning to her but not once has she ever refused to come with me out of the stall to begin a new adventure.

Once curried and combed I lead her to the mounting block to throw my leg over her bare back and settle myself into the contours of her body. With Mocha leading the way we head down the barn driveway to Woodman Road. At this point it is easy to let my thoughts intrude on our time together but I have tools in my mental toolbox to forestall that. I listen to the sound of her right front hoof coming down onto the ground. I count to ten using the sound of her hoof as my metronome. This focuses me on the world we are passing through. It is like life itself, full of ruts, rocks and roots. Cyra’s body has to deal with these impediments to our travel and in so doing transmits a lot of physical input to my body.

The counting of her hoof falls guides me to feel all that input by shutting down my spinning brain, all too often overwhelmed by all that is new and scary in our new world. I become much more in harmony with her efforts and her body movements as we pass through our woods. We almost always take the same route. We enter the woods at the Stream Loop Trail East Trail-head. This has sometimes been a problem for us. In the past Cyra has expressed quite strongly her aversion to this route. I always told my students that you will never win a physical battle with a horse. They are always stronger that the rider. It has taken patience, stillness and slow breathing to overcome Cyra’s dislike of this trail. I am happy to report that this morning we only had a brief “discussion” before she acquiesced.

This trail rises steeply from the road. We are rewarded at the top with a spectacular view of Talking Brook. By now my counting has blended with my “being” in the woods making my way on a big beast who knows the trail so well I can let the reins go slack and enjoy the ride. Mocha takes a much longer route than we do. I frequently lose sight of her as she explores the scent inspired stories of the woods. We follow the brook to a big pool then turning right and heading up once again to the top of a ridge. We always stop at the to let Cyra catch her breath and to let us both take in the beauty of the open hardwood forest below us. We also try to spot Mocha as she makes her way back to connect with us. We are halfway out now. She is content sensing she is now headed back to the barn and her breakfast hay. I am content having shed the troubled world and replaced it with one of quiet beauty shared with my two favorite four legged creatures. Michael Fralich May 4, 2020

    It was 4:30 when I arrived at the barn. The light of the day was already draining away. Cyra and Teddy were both in the barn waiting for their dinner. I expected that Cyra would object to my request for a ride. This was out of pattern for both of us. Our routine is to ride early in the morning. I could not remember the last time I had asked her for a ride at dusk. I was wrong. Cyra accepted her riding halter willingly. 

    When I led her to the mounting block I feared that we would not have enough light left in the day to ride safely. With Mocha trotting beside us, we headed up Woodman Road towards the trail head to Big Falls. I had ridden in the woods earlier in week and was confident that Cyra could handle the snow cover. When we reached the trail head I expected Cyra to object to my choice. Again, I was wrong. The last time we had ridden here was after the big rainstorm some weeks back. Then it was the middle of the day with full sun. The falls had been spectacular, made even more so because I saw them from Cyra’s back.  

    We headed into the dusk woods with Mocha leading the way. While the light was still fading, we still had enough to see the trail. Though the light was dim it was also beyond magical, it was mystical. It was the time of day when the boundary between this world and the world of the spirits is very thin. Cyra was handling the fading light and snow cover with easy confidence. I kept losing Mocha in the dark recesses of the woods. She would reappear if I gave her my two note whistle. While I frequently did not know where she was when we are out in the woods, I know she always knows where we are. I have not lost her yet. 

    We passed the 1947 Plymouth coupe, its rusty hulk now covered in snow. We headed down the hill to the banks of Meadow Brook. When last here, it was a leaping torrent. Now it was a dimly visible bumpy aberration in the forest floor with occasional windows of whispering water. 

    When we headed into the pines I wondered if this was a good idea. It was now quite dark. The tall pines with their interwoven canopy blocked out what light that might try to reach us. The light of day was rapidly giving way to the cloak of night. When we reached Big Falls it presented a very different image from the scene at our last visit. Then the icy rocks were being pounded by a large volume of water from a recent storm. Now the falls were silent. The cascading water had been locked in place by cold January nights. It was difficult to even pick out details of the scene I had witnessed many times before.

    On Cyra, with Mocha running along behind, I marveled at how blessed I was to be able to share these adventures with my four footed friends. When we emerged back on to Woodman Road and were headed back to the barn, we had become one with the transition from day to night.

                                                   Michael Fralich

                                                 Norumbega Farm