My birthday’s coming up in a few days, but lately it feels like I’m aging in the other direction.
Sure, I’m acquiring wrinkles and mystery moles just like any other 30-something-year-old. I’ve found a few white hairs snaking from my scalp. Yet I increasingly find myself doing things I used to do as a kid.
As I sit down to write this column, for instance, the knees of my jeans are muddy from me crouching beside a streambed this morning to inspect a bright green, six-spotted tiger beetle.
And a few nights ago, I tried to surprise my partner by presenting him with a large toad that I’d found in the garden. Then I nearly pitched a tantrum when he seemed less than enthusiastic about searching for salamanders and frogs in the rain. (In his defense, we’d been traveling all day.)
This childish behavior can only be attributed to my growing infatuation with all things in nature. In a sense, I’ve discovered the fountain of youth, and it’s in the Maine woods.
Many things in life “keep us young,” at least at heart. Dancing in the kitchen. Laughing with friends. Swimming in the ocean. Playing with puppies. These all do the trick.
But I’ve found, more than anything else, that my desire to learn about nature has truly brought out the kid in me. And I think that’s true for many people.
When I was a little girl, the Maine wilderness was my playground. I’d walk through the woods spooking turkeys and white-tailed deer. I made necklaces out of dandelions, wove mats out of cattail leaves, picked wild raspberries and slept in a treehouse.
Many of the outdoor experiences I have today remind me of those happy childhood memories. But that’s only part of the magic. Because even if you don’t have those early outdoor memories — say you grew up in a big city — I still think nature can make you feel like a kid.
Over the years, my curiosity about the wilderness has grown. It’s one of those situations where the more you learn, the more you realize there is to learn. And so, the quest to comprehend the natural world is neverending.
For example, I’ve learned to identify most of Maine’s birds by sight, but not by ear. So now I’m attempting to learn their songs. I’m also on a mission to learn more about edible plants and foraging.
All this learning sounds like a very adult thing to do. So, where’s the clock-rewinding magic?
I believe it lies within the sense of wonder that nature, in all its complex beauty, evokes. It’s in the awe I experienced upon spying a blue-spotted salamander for the first time, and the excitement I felt while watching a moose swim past my canoe.
When we’re children, this sense of wonder is easy to come by. So much in the world is new. Sadly, as we age, we often become jaded. Been there, done that.
The wilderness can wake us back up.
In the woods near my house, I often stumble upon something I’d never seen before, even though I’ve lived in Maine my whole life. The wilderness is a diverse place, after all. Scientists discover thousands of new species every year.
Last week, I laid on a gravel streambed for about 30 minutes watching water striders skate back and forth. With long, spindly legs that are covered with tiny hair-like structures, these insects have adapted to be able to stand, walk and even jump on the surface of water.
I understand that not everyone is as fascinated by bugs and birds as I am. But I do think that if you spend some time outside, you’re going to find something that interests you. I’ll bet you $5, and I’m not a betting person.
Right now, in the flourishing month of May, wildflowers are popping up. Trumpet-like trout lilies, delicate starflowers, violets, goldthread and big, red trilliums are just begging to be admired. And who doesn’t like flowers?
The wilderness is full of opportunities to feel pure delight and curiosity.
Yesterday, I was photographing trout lily blossoms when I spotted my first crab spider of the season. It was bright yellow, blending in perfectly with the flower. Perched with legs outstretched, it was waiting to snatch up pollinating insects.
To me, that’s fascinating. I love crab spiders.
I’ve always loved small creatures. When I was in grade school, I used to collect caterpillars and beetles, placing them in terrariums built of soda bottles and cardboard boxes. I wasn’t allowed to keep them long, lest they die and I become inconsolable, but their temporary imprisonment allowed me to study them up close.
Now I capture them with a camera. But I’m still getting mud on my knees and sticks stuck in my hair. Maybe if I keep visiting the Maine woods, a part of me will never grow up.
