A little more than halfway up Brushy Mountain a stream cuts across Pam’s Pathway with sparkling water slapping over rocks, cruising through sand and silt around moss-covered embankments on its way to merge with Doolittle Brook below. At this intersection with the path, two stone slabs are positioned either by natural formation of the glacial slide thousands of years ago, or perhaps the ingenuity of some industrious ancestors, the slabs create a perfectly aligned seat in the middle of the stream.

My shoes and socks came off and I grabbed a sturdy branch to steady myself to venture into the water crossing over a rocky path to the chair. I sat there with the stream flowing all around me. The crisp water rushed over my feet as I took in the lush forest, tall stands of birch, white pine, maple, and red oak with sunlight blinking through a high canopy of branches and leaves. It was peaceful and quiet but for the tinkling of water and cheerful call of a chorus of Red-eyed Vireo.

What a gift this land of Nepesoneag is. This place flush with medicinal plants like yarrow, witch hazel, partridgeberry, wintergreen, and sassafras. A place where birds sing and wildlife abounds from trout stocked in the brook, fox in their dens that keep their young safe from bobcats, deer and fisher cats, the community of beaver evident by the stumps of trees gnawed to precision to fall across the water, and the occasional bears looming in the distance.

It was that last category of beast that gave me pause as I perched on my throne alone in the forest, thinking to myself, what would I do if one should appear? I was at ease with the thought that the bear would recognize me as someone who had come to Nepesoneag in a good way. Someone who had come to welcome the land back to the care of indigenous people. Someone who had come to nurture the land as it should be and share it with the two legged, the winged, the four legged, and finned. The bear and I would coexist. But there was no sign of the bear.

I sat for a long while, at least for me a long while as my attention span is admittedly short and easily distracted. Still, I managed to meditate and appreciate the solitude in the middle of that stream, closing my eyes to engage my other senses. Feeling the mountain air distinct from coastal air with its unique incense emanating from the mulch and flora and pine, the natural symphony of the rushing water and bird songs, the coolness of the stones against my body. I leaned forward and cupped a handful of the stream for a taste of the sparkling water. With gratitude I carefully stepped back to the land where my socks and shoes were waiting and headed down the mountain to join nearly two dozen volunteers who had come to help the Native Land Conservancy with our first day of land care since the Nepesoneag was gifted to us in December. I stopped to snack on a few of the abundant bright red tea berries lining the trail and enjoyed the spray of spring wildflowers, red trillium, wild geranium and violets, and the fringed polygala “gay wings” creeping along the forest floor spreading magenta magic.

Below I could hear volunteers hacking away at the invasive Japanese barberry that had sprung up in several places along the trail and overtaken the stone bridge crossing Doolittle Brook. In my descent I found one of our board members and a crew of some of the more muscular volunteers clearing the trail of felled trees succumbed to our fierce northeast storms. His chainsaw roared as he ripped into a tree that lay on the ground, cutting it into sections that volunteers then hauled out of the way.

It was remarkable to see such determination in the faces of people we hardly knew, some we had just met the evening before at a meet and greet held in the Leverett Craft and Arts Center where about 60 locals came to learn, “who is this Native Land Conservancy anyway?” and what our plans for this wonderful land in their town would be. Honestly, we weren’t sure what to expect but the outpouring of acceptance, encouragement and support was overwhelming.

“Let us know how we can help.”

“What do you need.”

“Welcome home.”

I was prepared to respond to skepticism, apprehension, and even objections, but there were none. They put their faith in us, and many became friends and allies. It was all very genuine.

Our gratefulness was expressed in a traditional Nipmuc honor song that was sung as our tools, and gear were collected, and volunteers came down the mountain.

Following the volunteers home, the song echoed up and down the mountain, birds singing along and wildlife celebrated. I’m sure even the bears knew we were home.

I think they were dancing.

brushy mountain high

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