It's 2 a.m. I let myself out of the cottage and walk quietly toward Helen's Wood, eager to experience the forest at night, to feel its life.
This is probably a bad idea. If I fall down a rabbit hole I'll spend the night miserable ... but it's not freezing. I have my cell phone, and can usually acquire a signal. In any case, I'm going. I've wanted to do this for 30 years.
My feet crunch the stones that layer the parking area. I wince, and continue. David's heavy coat and my wellies, thick socks and silly felt hat should keep the shivers at bay.
A partial moon lights the path. Before entering my woodland cathedral I glance skyward. Carelessly scattered white diamonds decorate endless black. There's not a breath of wind. It's a fine night for a wild adventure.
I approach the Celestial Staircase, built with stone by my mother, and christened so. It rises gently toward the forest. She'd placed a bench at its bottom, then added a life-sized stone cat. A mature white birch tree marks the ascent. She loved to sit here on sunny afternoons, listening to the forest breathe amid overgrown rhododendrons and the myriad wildflowers that peer up at passersby through tangled twigs and emerald moss beds rooted in rotted leaves. Now tree-shadow has painted the moss black.
At the top I wait, patiently. Minutes pass. The nearby thicket rustles. A twig snaps. The abundant life in there -- bunnies, mice, forest rats -- is probably disconcerted by this alien invasion.
I move carefully through a tunnel of large, leafless trees supporting climbing vines that drop down to entangle green, rampant laurel. Far below, occasional traffic sounds remind me that humans and nature uneasily co-exist.
I follow the narrow, indistinct path, stepping over the large branches of trees toppled by last year's fierce summer windstorm. Countless infant snowdrops and narcissus promise an incredible show, soon. Moonlight makes a torch unnecessary.
Deeper into the wood a huge cave-hole appears between substantial tree roots in higher ground, just yards off the path. I know there are badgers about. Their distinctive tracks are often displayed in fresh snow below the veranda. Helen's Wood is their ancestral home. I listen for life. Silence. But I know. It's a badger's den. Humans very rarely come this far, so it's remained undisturbed. I wonder if babies are in there.
A sudden snap -- a bigger body bolts. Could it be a fox?
I lean against a tree, motionless. Minutes later I hear a scream; a rabbit is somebody's dinner. Time passes. The forest gradually comes alive with rustles, the rasp of claws on bark, an owl's call. My eye catches a cat moving, low-bellied, through the undergrowth. Yellow, slitted eyes glance my way. Then back to business. That black and white body soundlessly disappears. I shudder. She is mobile death.
The night ages. I remain absolutely still. My breathing is indiscernible. Only my nose twitches. The damp earth smells wonderful. I practice blending for a long time. Distant headlights, like giant eyes, pierce the night far away, then blink out.
Much later I move toward home again very, very slowly, trying to mimic the cat. Feet lift and descend deliberately, much more sensitive now to the forest's uneven carpet. There! Young rabbits are playing in a small clearing, perhaps 60 feet away. I watch, pleased to have crept so close to where the wild things are. I'm learning.
My own snug den seems a part of that other world. I curl into my pillow, and smile.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.






