Gifts Gathered, North on the Towpath

Princeton Patch readers know I am still moving through hurdles of reclaiming my pre-hip-replacement self.  Today, for the first time, I walked the D&R Canal Towpath north of 518, my 'old stomping ground'. 

There was a good deal of resistance in me, resistance not physical: Too late in the day.  Too many hours at computer and desk.  I'll have three hours of p.t. tomorrow anyway.

But the trek turned out to be rich in gifts.  I managed the entire way WITHOUT trekking poles.  I've now done Bull's Island (between New Jersey and Pennsylvania in the Delaware); Belleplain Forest (almost to Cape May - prime warbler territory right now), and this part of our Towpath, without trekking poles. 

Dr. Gutowski had promised I would have no more grinding pain, [which had made it impossible to get out of bed without a cane or two.]  "From the O.R., on!', he'd insisted.  And he was absolutely right, impossible as that sounded at the time.

Dr. Gutowski's right at my side on the essentiality of imminent return to kayaking.  But he hadn't revealed that I'd be back on so many trails like the 'normal person' that he insists that I am.  [Which, frankly, no one has asserted before.]

I can't begin count the trails to which this new hip has led me. 

I can list blessings from that Towpath North Walk, just moments ago: 

[And turn to my dear friend, Brenda Jones, for images to evoke the gifts of the Towpath North.]

The bridge over the canal at the Speiden House provided a perspective whose  vistas evoked northern France.  [Near Auvers-sur-Oise, where van Gogh painted last masterpieces.]

Pale pink sprays of spring beauties were doubled in the canal.

Blossoms tall and blinding yellow as buttercups rose like exclamation points among shorter, frailer spring beauties. 

Endless expanses of formidable skunk cabbage, like Kelly green bushel baskets, extended to the horizon.

New red maple leaves fluttered like minuscule butterflies along branch tips.

Dandelions rose, spiky and arrogantly healthy, exultant -- despite egregious lack of rain.  I like their attitude and vow to manifest same, as I work (and I DO meanw ork!) through this fourth month of rigorous physical therapy.

Spikes and spikes of slim green filled a floodplain.  They will soon 'bookend' either  blue flag or yellow flag flowers beyond counting.  Think 'wild iris.'

Cardinal song filled reaches so verdant that I could not see those red males.

A single red-bellied woodpecker purred and purred, claiming his territory.

Titmice endlessly counted, 1,2,3 or 1,2,3,4.

It's warbler time.  I should be seeing or hearing yellow warblers, yellow-rumped warblers, common yellowthroats -- but not yet. 

A river burch unfurled impossibly curly, even lively, bark over still water.

A very solid bird's nest crowned a young sycamore, pale amidst so much greenery.

Hither and yon, I strode through drifts of fragrance -- realizing it's apple blossoms.  This brings me to climate change, since the romantic song signifies May as "Apple Blossom Time."

Here and there were other troublous aspects of catastrophic climate change.  My Princeton Patch readers know, I'm Johnny One Note on this theme:

Trees to my left were twisted, turned and toppled, as though by a woman angrily doing laundry back when it had to be wrung by hand.

It was hard to see through the powdery air.  I have only experienced this at Chateau Gaillard in Normandy (France), during "la secheress de la siecle." That drought-of-the-century had begun in mid-March.  We were in the region for the Bicentennial Fourth of July.

The very air, despite the canal at my side, smelled dusty.

My new Thorlo hiking sox (ordering these expensively cushioned items had been proof that I am healed) were dyed brown before I even turned around.

A waterway to my left was more gravel than moisture.

But then the gifts resumed, perhaps the best of all:

Apple blossoms, perhaps the most beautiful of my life, were at the touchable level on the non-canal side.  I assert that mule-tenders tossed apple cores in that direction, so these bountiful trees are the descendants of those that burst from seeds of other days.

I stopped to examine the rosy yet snowy blossoms at nose level, discovering a scent more appealing than roses. 

I also had stopped because I was somewhat alarmed by a cadre of riders galloping closer and closer.

One man leaned down, empathizing, "Are you afraid?"  I nodded.  He smiled reassuringly.

The next rider sang out, "Take time to smell the roses!"

The third rider astounded me, calling for all to hear, "You look a whole lot better than that flower."

On my next birthday, I'll be 75.  Physical Therapy has has been simply amazing.  But in wildest dreams, I never expected such a compliment. 

A nice reward for getting out on 'my' Towpath, when I wasn't really in the mood...

Try it.  You'll like it.

Courageous people preserved both this waterway and its path.  Key among them is D&R Greenway Land Trust, where I work.

New Jersey is greatly blessed by Towpath and Canal.  Let them bless you.

And do what you can to turn climate change around.  Drought in April - who ever heard of such a thing.