Snow Falling Morning by Kat Magendie

I'm never at a loss for words when it comes to my mountain, but sometimes you just have to be there. And since you cannot be there, I am sharing one part of my mountain walk. This little trickle of runoff you can see and hear, in the video below, during a fine morning snow, used to flow more than it does here, but we are in drought conditions and that is how it is--still beautiful.
If you could see the other short videos I took, all you would hear is wind against the trees, a bird chirping, and my breath. It is that silent here at Killian Knob. You'd also see, in between the trees, at glances here and there, development out and beyond - silent development, as it has all come to a standstill, and I cannot help but be glad. I'd be more glad if it had not been developed as it had at all, for Developers seem not to have a sense of the mountain and only of lining their pockets.

What you see and hear below, and what you cannot see and hear on the other videos, but you may have read from my posts before, is what I wish I could preserve forever. I live in fear that someone will take it away, or take more of it away than they already have. People ask, "What would you do if you had a million dollars?" and I know the answer to that: I'd begin buying up this mountain land and stop all development, preserve the mountain land. It is a dream of mine that I can never imagine happening without so much more money than I can dream of, but there are always desires and wishes and hopes.

I live in gratitude for this land, for these beautiful mountains, for the silence of a snow falling morning. I forget the fear of Developers as I walk the old logging trails, listening to the trickle of water, to the bird's call, to the sound of swaying branches, the snow crystals landing on my jacket. It is too lovely to bear. It is too beautiful to lose. I do not know how to protect it in the face of another's greed; I can only hope and dream and wish, and in the meantime, appreciate.

Wild Turkey by Kat Magendie

That title is not what you think. It’s not about what you may be consuming on Thursday along with taters sweet or not, and if you are in my house and my momma’s house: old fashioned cornbread dressing. And it’s not about the bet you made back in the 70’s when you were nineteen years old and stupid as a stick and you bet your roommate five dollars, which in the 70’s is like, what, $20?, that you could drink an entire glass of “Turkey” straight and your roommate and her boyfriend had to help you to their car and to the house and to bed wherein said roommate had to check on you all night because she thought you were in a coma. Nope. Not either of those turkeys.

I’m talking about wild mountain turkeys.

Yesterday while walking the mountain roads, Roger said, “Hey! Look! Turkey tracks!” There, in the last bits of remaining snow from Friday were the large bird tracks. I grinned, and then said, “Oh! our turkeys are here!” We’d not seen “our” wild turkeys in quite some time and had been worried. Before the developers (said as if I’ve just eaten a cup of bug guts with a side of raw liver over slugs) devastated Muse Trail One, we used to see signs of our wild turkeys. The first time we saw them, we were on Muse Trail Two and about thirty of them suddenly appeared and ran up Muse Trail Three and up and over the ridge. It was such a surprising site, we just stood with our mouths open. Then, for a long time, especially after Trail One was cut so badly, we didn’t see them or signs of them. Any time a critter disappears it is worrisome, for we don’t want to lose what we have here—none of it (and it makes us happy the development suddenly stopped-ha!).

We yapped about the turkey tracks all the way home. Then, later that morning, as we headed down the mountain to run errands, I shouted, “Turkeys! There are the Turkeys!” We stopped the car and stared. There they were; about ten of them, just milling around, eating, bobbing their heads. I laughed aloud. They were most unconcerned of us as we gawked. I thought it funny they’d show up days before Thanksgiving—as if they were hiding out among the very humans who would consume their cousins. But, what a site, what a wonderful happy site to see those wild turkeys again. Can you tell I’m grateful for my life here among the wild and the beauty and the unexpected? Lucky me. Lucky Turkeys. Lucky Day.