November Hill farm journal, 12

Three years ago we said goodbye to Salina on the same morning the 11-acre wood next door to us was clear cut. Two years ago we mourned the timbering of a large section of the 100-acre wood behind us.

Now when I hear the scream of the cutting machines I feel the loss like an old bruise that still aches when pressed upon.

I heard those sounds this morning and they have gone on throughout the day.

Friday I found pink tape marking the property line at the back edge of our farm. I contacted the real estate agent who has the listing for the 100-acre wood and said again that we would be interested in acquiring a small parcel that would clean up the property lines and give us a buffer zone and a little additional acreage.

This time they offered to take our interest to the owner. There was no mention of logging so I figured it was the hunters who sub-lease the land who had put up the tape, marking their territory in advance of deer season.

I've emailed again today to check in but meanwhile I'm cringing every time a huge old tree hits the ground.

The land seems so precious to us and the trees equally so. 

This morning one of the red-shouldered hawks who lives at the edge of the 100-acre wood came and sat on a fence post and gazed in my bedroom window. It felt like he was asking me to come handle this travesty and I wish there was something I could do.

They have lowered the price of the 100-acre wood to 900k. I hope they realize that the more trees they cut the less likely it is that anyone wants to buy it.

I'm putting up walls of white light around November Hill, and, in spite of myself, beams of Edward Abbey fury are aimed at those screaming machines.