It’s early October, and the leaves are already falling. The result of a drier and cooler fall than last year. The colors are a little less vibrant this year, but still beautiful. Leaves crunch underfoot as I walk the trail, dry and brittle, breaking apart nourishing the soil that will feed next year’s growth. Some leaves don’t fall straight down but tumble, bumping into other branches on their way, creating a soft and rhythmic song that blends with the disturbance of my steps. I try to catch some on the way down, unsuccessfully today, but fun nonetheless.
Like most of the land around here, this used to be a farm. After that, it served as a private hunting preserve for a well-to-do family. Now it’s maintained by the Aspetuck Land Trust as the southernmost access point to their jewel, Trout Brook Valley. Parking in the lot off Freeborn Road, I’m on the pink trail today, and won’t be trekking all the way into the larger preserve.
Off to my side, a crooked tree catches my attention. It twists sharply, as if it once tried to escape a pushy neighbor. The main trunk bends outward, forming what looks like a spine and a belly, only to lean back toward the same tree it had earlier tried to escape. It’s a living example of tension and persistence, an uneasy peace formed over decades past.
A few yards up the trail, a single amber maple leaf hovers in midair. For a moment it seems supernatural, but I can see the thread of a spider’s web holding it there. There are always reminders of the invisible on these trails. You just need to be fully present to see what’s in front of you.
This trail could be run if you wanted it to be. The footing is firm, the path clear, and the markers on the trees are easy to follow. Yet there’s something about this stretch of wood that begs for you to slow down. If you lose yourself here, it’s not in the physical sense. The maps are too well done and the numbered trees too clear. You might just get lost in thought instead.
The forest is alive with the sounds of life. The squirrels crash through the leaves like small deer while the chipmunks dart silently from one side of the path to the other. In the distance, a wild turkey calls for a mate. Hunting is allowed in portions of this preserve, but not here, not today.
It’s easy to think of Easton’s forests as quiet, but that’s not true. The quiet here isn’t absence; rather it’s presence. It brings the kind of peace that reminds you of just how loud your thoughts have been. Walking through it, you begin to slow down enough to hear what the world should sound like. I think maybe that’s why I come back to these trails time after time. Not to escape the daily grind of “living the dream,” but to remember how to listen.
The Cultural Easton 