The muse in the marsh

By Conrad Beaubien

We’re pretty well alone, the two donkeys and I, as we trek along the trail; haven’t spotted much in the way of traffic, the odd cyclist is about it. The donkeys and I always appreciate it when a cyclist or runner gives us the heads up that they’re approaching from behind so as not to startle anyone. So today Thunder’s brother Joe insisted he come along for a stretch. He made it clear when I reached the gate at the lower paddock and was the first to come over and greet me. Joe has a manner about him that is different to Thunder. I can vouch that Joe is clearer in his communication, as in when he will make himself inseparable from Thunder when he spots me holding a halter knowing full well that it’s going on Thunder and the two of us will leave on a walk without him. Man, I have to admit to the load of guiltydad emotion that I often deal with when it feels like I’m engaging in the preferred child dilemma. Joe also knows that undoing the chain that keeps the gate closed means fresh green grass waiting on the other side and therefore he’s adept at rattling the chain with his lips so that I get the message that it’s the dinner bell he’s ringing.

I never get too carried away thinking the donkeys are awaiting to embrace me like a pet dog might, as they’ll easily ignore me and dive into fresh grass as a reminder that it’s not about moi, so get over it. So I get over it, because donkeys are tops when it comes to lessons of humility.

It did take me awhile today to figure out what appeared to be a higher level of anxiety, as in pushing and shoving at the gate. Sure they figure I likely have carrots stashed away to dish out when I leave; also I tried something to distract the heavy horse Micah. Whenever I manoeuvre the donkeys out of the gate as quick as I can Micah has been known to barge through asserting both weight and insistence to come along with us, like it or not. So I teased the horse with a carrot and then tossed it into the paddock hoping, well just hoping you know that he might run for it like a rabbit would or any other sensible animal that knows a good thing when they see it, but go figure, it seems horses don’t retrieve or get into food unless there is human exertion involved.

Anyhow, it’s now early afternoon and the sun reigns over a large gaping sky. There is shadow play as from above low flying vultures circle, casting a play of light and dark that rides over the bramble of buckthorn and chokecherry and craggy old apple trees. Sumac and red dogwood rise in contrast to the copper green grass that blankets the expanse of open fields.

Buckthorn, I’m reminded, is a small tree species that was introduced from England into North America in the 1880s. It was planted throughout the land as an ‘environmental improvement’ for hedging and windbreaks. You don’t want to get any property owner going on the topic of buckthorn as it’s non-native invasive potency and its thorny characteristics make it an unwelcome guest most everywhere. It does produce a small red berry in season and while more acidic than chokecherry it’s popular with the birds.

The former rail corridor cum M trail is rife with invasive species having a range of names that sound rather innocent, except for swallow root which is more popularly known as the menacing dog-choking vine. The list goes on suggesting that non-native plants were brought here with the purpose of edibility. Garlic mustard, wild parsnip, and Oriental bittersweet are carryover herbs from the old countries.

But this very trail can rhyme off pages of history of the region if you listen, pages that reach beyond the idea of transporting living species from one region of the world to another. There is a silent war of dominance that goes on when species compete for survival. The trail in actuality holds a story of human impact that unfolds over centuries. There are stories of ambition, of visionaries, of truth, deceit, greed and corruption that circle around the simple want of plain folk to settle in a new land and get on with life. When I walk the trail I imagine all of this as there is telltale markers everywhere.

I figure it’s when I’m walking in the company of the donkeys that I’m reminded of their history too and also their place in the midst of legacy. Maybe after all it’s why I walk; maybe it’s about the motion and the heartbeats of the animals that accompany me. When it comes to donkeys, I know it’s not just about orange carrots and green spring grass that allows us to ponder together. That’s why I listen. Donkeys please tell me more.

www.walkingwiththunder.com