Great Pond Hike

This is the truth:  It started storming here the day after Christmas, and hasn't stopped since.  This has been the snowiest winter/ wettest spring-summer-fall in recent memory.  And I'm tapping the memory of Connecticut lifers, and not just me.

So when we catch a break in the weather, it's a criminal offense to waste it.  Like today.  It was a mid 70s, totally sunny, absolutely gorgeous New England autumn day.  This meant only one thing.  We had to ditch school  to go for a hike.

Really, it's written into the state constitution.

I'd been hoping to check out Great Pond State Park, which is right down the road from me, so today was the perfect day to do it.

The park is billed as a great place to observe hawks and owls.  And while I didn't have high hopes for my screamtastic children hearing any actual, you know, wildlife, I still told them to hush their dang mouths up so we could spend 5 minutes in a row without the normal din that is the soundtrack of Clan Donaldson.

And you know what?

We heard them!

"Them" being Barred Owls.  There's no mistaking them once you've heard them.  So I, being the ever maternal and nurturing mother, say, "Shut up! Shut up!  Owls!"  and all the kids shut up.
We hear them again!

So now, channeling my inner Andy Carter, I cup my hand around my mouth and call back.  It's a passable call, I think, but the proof is in the pudding.

And you know what?
They call back!
Now the kids think I'm a freaking magician, and they start jabbering on.  "Shh!  Shhh!"  I say, and do it again.
They all back again!
Well now all hell breaks loose amongst my minions and they all start calling.
All.  Of. Them.  Even the baby!
And those owls call back!!


Now the kids aren't just satisfied hearing the owls.  They want to see them.  So we start traipsing off into the woods.  And then they see the Great Pond.

Immediately, several things start to happen.  Lotus and Joaquin decide they want to flip Lilly pads over with sticks, Gabriel and Jude want to catch frogs, and John-Luke simply wants to fling himself into the water.
Clearly, owl prowling is off.

I bark out commands, save both children and native flora from certain death, and still have time to take an artsy picture or two.

Then we're off, down the trail, with the goal of hiking round the pond in mind.  However, the wardens of this particular park weren't on board with our plans, since none of the trails were marked with blazes.

Think about this for a minute.  If you're not a hiker, you may not know what I'm saying.  Generally, a trail, particularly a trail in a state park, has a blaze system.  This is nothing more than spray painted rectangles on trees marking the way a hiker should go.  One rectangle means "keep going, you're on the right track", two rectangles stacked on  top of each other means "turn up ahead".  It's a very simple, very efficient way of marking trails.

This park had none of it.  Instead, there was simply the "this way looks like people have walked on it an awful lot, let's follow their path".  Which is a horrible way to go, particularly if you live in a land of never-ending precipitation, like I do (see: beginning of this post)

Eventually, our not-trail turned into sloggy areas (tar pits, as Jude called them), then sloggy areas with branches put across by fellow hikers as make-shift bridges, to the inevitable sloggy areas so deep there was nothing short of the Army Corps of Engineers to make it right again.

We were stuck.
Irritably, I told Joaquin, "When you're an Eagle Scout, this should be your project- blaze these damn trails!"   Dutifully, he nodded, mentally removing the word "damn" from my suggestion.  We turned around, and went back the way we came, walking ever so fast this time, since the sun was swiftly sinking in the valley, and I didn't have any flashlights with me.

But, like I said:  it was a beautiful day; and a beautiful day spent outdoors, lost on a tar pit trail is still better than one spent inside, writing down the plural possessive form of common nouns.