Trail Working in the South Mountain Reservation

Okay, let me warn you: trail work is mucky—muddy, sweaty, muscular work. I'm glad I wore my heaviest work gloves and my very worst pair of jeans when I joined Dave Hogenauer and Sandy Felzenberg a couple of weeks ago on my first-ever, hands-on effort to make a difference in the South Mountain Reservation.

Dave and Sandy are both active members of the South Mountain Conservancy, a volunteer organization committed to maintaining and enhancing conditions in the 2,110 acre Reservation. Over the past several years I'd observed evidence of their efforts on my almost daily hikes—a path cleared of dead-fall or bright new blazes to replace the faded paint splotches on the tree trunks.

I'd often considered getting more involved, but the impulse almost always faded by the time I'd stepped through my door and into the daily business of my life. It was only my growing awareness of the complex issues of the annual deer hunts that finally pushed me to take some personal responsibility for the forest I so enjoyed.

On that overcast Friday morning about two weeks ago, I stood in the Turtle Back Picnic Area parking lot watching Sandy and Dave unload shovels, axes and fire rakes from the back of their cars. The heavy firefighter's tools with names like "Pulaski" and "McCloud" brought to mind the immigrant workforce of the 19th century American industrial boom. Holding my measly plastic garden rake by its feeble wooden handle, I couldn't help but feel intimidated.

After a bit of clanking and rearranging everything in the well-worn wheelbarrow Dave had brought, we started bumping together down the trail. It wasn't long before we came to our first spot, a muddy seep rutted by bicycle tire tracks.

Mountain bikers are technically banned from the Reservation because of the erosion they cause, but clearly someone had ignored the rules. When I asked, Sandy shook his head. "You know, I don't mind the mountain bikers. Most of them are really nice people who care about the forest. We're planning to add some new trails soon where mountain bikes will be allowed."

We settled the wheelbarrow and the men picked up the heavy tools while I turned to raking thick piles of muddy leaves. Dave, who I'm guessing is somewhere in his seventies, is a wiry workhorse with indomitable energy. He moved purposefully to lift boulders and shovel mud while he instructed me on some of the history of trail management. Pointing to one of the many stone-lined trenches that cut the Reservation's trails, he explained, "Most of these were built back in the Depression by Roosevelt's Civilian Conservation Corps." Sandy playfully mocked Dave's trenches as "old school," then described a newer approach that aims for a sheathing effect that naturally disperses the water.

We talked while we worked. All too soon my pitiful garden rake proved utterly worthless, so I begged for a sturdier option. Even then, I found sometimes the best option was simply to bend, lift and toss the drippy piles of leaves with my arms.

Finally the water began to flow, turning the stagnant puddle into a trickling stream.  Dave hefted the wheelbarrow's handles and we headed off for the next muddy spot.

Along the way, I noticed tiny plants with delicate buds. "Those are ephemerals," Sandy said. "They come up for a day or two and then they're gone."

Dave knew every plant by name: wood anemone, jack-in-the-pulpit, trout lilies, Christmas and New York ferns, and mayapples—all species that the reforestation project has been hoping to see return to the barren landscape.

"The deer hunt has already made a big difference. Look at all these plants. They're really coming back."

Most of them would've been unremarkable in a healthy forest, but the South Mountain Reservation suffers from Empty Forest Syndrome where broad patches of the landscape have been destroyed by overgrazing deer. Renewing the "understory" returns vital habitat for countless insects, small mammals and birds. Besides the tiny buds, we found beech trees saplings growing in broad patches and bright green skunk cabbage crowding the edges around tiny creeks. There were also stands of barberry, a lush green shrub that I've long mistaken for spice bush.

"No, not that one," Dave shook his head. "That's an invasive."

I looked at the shrub with newfound scorn, a little guilty for having thought all these years that it was pretty.

We kept moving along the twisting stone- and root-rutted path, taking our turns at the rakes, shovels and axes. As we stopped at one mud seep, a woman came along walking her dog. Both men knew Nissy—Denise Stanton. She'd helped them on the trails before and it wasn't long before they'd cajoled her into picking up a rake.  Pretty soon we were working side by side, ankle deep in mud, digging and shoveling.

We came to my favorite part of the trail where the valley spreads out and the view includes a glimpse of the Orange Reservoir. Not far beyond lay a notoriously muddy turn.  We stood discussing our options, all of which seemed daunting, especially after an hour and a half of pretty heavy work.

"There's just no way we're going to get this seep to sheath," I said to Nissy under my breath, "not without a bulldozer."  She and I took the easier out and began digging trenches.  I worried that Sandy would be disappointed, thinking that we'd taken sides in the debate. To be honest, I'm not sure how much good we did. A few days later, when I returned to show my family all we'd done, that stretch of trail was still pretty muddy. "I guess we'll have to try that spot again," I told them, "with a bigger, less tired team."

There's a fascinating sense of ownership that comes from lending a hand, whether it's picking up litter in the neighborhood or volunteering at your child's school. I've walked those woods for years and thought I knew them like my own backyard. But now I see things completely differently. When I cross the spots where I'd sweated and dug, I stop to analyze the water flow. I pick up a boulder to fortify one of our feeble trenches or move a tree branch that's fallen on the path. I check which buds have withered and take photographs of the new ones that have bloomed.

And when I see that the mud really has dried up and new shoots are sprouting from the moist, rich humus, I know that our efforts have been worthwhile.

To volunteer for trail maintenance, reforestation, or just to join one of the hikes that Dave and other Conservancy volunteers frequently lead, visit www.somocon.org.