After inheriting the 33 acre woods, some time passed before I was able to visit the land.

In my mind, I pieced together a Walden Pond fantasy of what it would look like, based on some old happy memories and a few photographs from the property appraisal.

There had been an open, meadow-like area at the entrance, kept mown by a friendly neighbor in return for the right to fish in the pond.

The large pond had been built by my Grandfather, so he would always have a place to go fishing, an activity he loved. He kept it stocked with catfish, fed them from time to time, and I recall them being pretty good sized.

Near the pond, many years ago, my brother and I built a wooden tent platform on cinder blocks, to serve as a campsite for any of the family who wanted to use it. I don’t think anyone did.

To the side of the pond, there was a relatively clear lane where once in a while, we would shoot at tin cans with my Grandfather’s .22 rifle when we visited him.

I didn’t rationally believe that everything would be just as it had been left years ago, but I was hoping that much would be the same. So on a hot July afternoon, I made my way to my Timber Pasture.

Things had changed. The Timber Pasture had become virtually impenetrable.

I opened the gate and started walking through what had been the neatly mowed meadow. The neighbor had passed away years ago and the mowings had stopped.

Filling the old meadows were large, thorny bushes, small thorny bushes, and bushes with burrs that stuck tenaciously to my clothing. I was wearing blue jeans, and the thorns went right through the denim, scratching my legs and drawing some blood. Not hemorrhage, but the fact that my own thistles were drawing blood at all was the annoying thing. I plunged further into the “meadow.”

Buzzing insects distracted me. I swatted them away, but more returned. I didn’t get stung, but I considered that a very real possibility.

The heat and humidity were oppressive. Within a minute of exposure, I was sweating as the 90/90 (90 degrees and 90 percent humidity) weighed heavily on me. I suspect if I were younger, lighter, and adjusted to these conditions, it wouldn’t have been as much of a problem, but I was not enjoying my big adventure in the woods. It was nothing like I remembered it.

I caught a glimpse of the pond off to the right, and I thought I could see a little bit of the wooden tent platform to the left. I had to stop further exploration as the insects had called for massive reinforcements. I decided I had enough for one day (about 10 minutes), and retreated back to the gate and the safety of my air-conditioned car.

I later related this experience to my Uncle. He had jointly owned the Timber Pasture with my Dad, and he understood the problem. “You don’t want to go in there in July. It’s too hot, muggy, buggy and thorny. You should go early in the spring or late in the fall.”

This was my first forestry lesson.