A Sense of Place

The following piece was sent by Jean Druffner.

"This piece was written soon after Chet Gaede died. He grew up in Woodland Valley, loved and shared this most beautiful place with so many and most beautifully with me in long and often quite quiet hikes. We had marvelous times exploring the realm of Wittenberg, Cornell and Slide Mountains…. Some of his ashes have since been carried by me on a solo trek to a favorite place. The whole life experience is what friends do for one another, and Chet did do so much for so many.


A Sense of Place: My Center of the World
By Jean Druffner - February 13, 2008

Deep down in my heart of hearts is the place high on a Catskill Mountain where there is a sense of centeredness from which my heart beats in tune with all else. There is no trail to it; there is always a sense of surprise and gratefulness when I find it easily. So often I aim too high and miss it. The way to it goes through low, open woodland where even the stream rushing at one point disappears underground, and only if one puts one’s ear to the ground can one sense its continued flow under the glacial scree left by the last Ice Age.
From this lovely open woodland, one must gently climb until reaching a glacial depression, a vernal pond. It is not a deep pond and is sometimes dry, but it does catch the rain and snowmelt of periods of surplus moisture. It holds this precious water to which deer, bear, bobcats, coyotes among so many others come to drink. It holds the water and perhaps lessens the crashing force of flooding in the open forest below. It is a reassuring landmark that I am still traveling in the right direction.
From here there are traces of past travelers: loggers of over a century ago, hunters, and roamers like myself. Wild animal paths entice one to follow their direction in hopes of having an easier ascent up the very steep climb to a ridge. When one does follow these traces, one can then slip into a sense of ease. This is the point where I can lose my true way for there are no distinct markings, especially when the leaves are on the trees and the vantage point is a close circle of beech, birch, moosewood maple, wild cherry….
It is good to sit a while in mid-slope; look around at the nuts, ferns, spring beauties, shepherd’s purse, Dutchman’s britches, wild violets, trillium, false white hellebore, snakeroot, nettle, jewelweed, etc. depending upon the season. To close one’s eyes, to breathe deeply to inhale the rich smells of the earth helps the imagination to then place the next direction to turn. An acute angle towards the southwest will take one to a place of ledges. Now, it is a simple matter of pulling oneself up and over a few. I like best to keep looking ahead and not sneak a preview of what is behind and below me. One must maintain a delight of not rushing the reward! One must get well onto the flat. One must again close one’s eyes, take a deep breath, smell the openness of this space, listen to what the wind, trees, rocks, soil are whispering--- for I am the new arrival to their habitat. It is then that I turn around and open my eyes. And behold! I see what takes my breath away; I breathe what colors my mind; I hear what jingles my soul.
In this, my center of my universe, I know my being. My being in its totality smiles and cries with the beauty of the life I have found in my Catskill Mountains.
It is here that my dear friend who died just 13 days ago at the age of 86 brought me 32 years ago. It is here where my dog and I often came to camp overnight until the last time when, on our trek down the steep sloops, she could no longer walk. I tied her loosely to a tree and went to get help. My dear friend and another borrowed the brand new litter from our ambulance squad and we carried my collie home. She recovered but never climbed to our flat again.
It is here that we had picnic feasts, told stories, sung songs. It is to this sanctuary that I could dash on a Christmas morning the first year after my mother had died and so I did not go home. It is here that my heart finds its haven of memories and dreams.
This spring, I will carry my friend’s ashes to spread on the flats so that the wind and rain and sun and all the living beings might engage with what had carried a most beautiful soul. Now, my soul carries this fuller reverence with a conscious love for the on-going regeneration of life nurtured by the beauty deep in my heart of hearts, in my place of places, the Catskills.