November 2008

On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky--gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak--Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless! But his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle.
--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

 There were few surprises more delightful when we moved up on the hill, than discovering the wooded path that runs along the northeastern boundary of the borough. While the whole neighborhood is blessed with abundant tree cover, there’s something almost magical about the small woods that the trail bisects. Who would guess that downtown is just minutes away when walking along—leaves crunching underfoot, birds flitting overhead, and dogs barking in the distance.

We explored all of the streets of Rosslyn Farms on foot that first week or so after moving in, spending an hour or more each evening marveling at the wide variety of architectural styles represented in our new community, and trying to figure out what species all the different trees were. Years later, not that much has changed: we still spend a lot of evenings out among our neighbors and their dogs, making the circuit up Priscilla, down King’s Highway, then looping around Terrace & Edgecliff (daring to risk the RFPD and go the wrong direction, to get the cardio benefit of the long, steady grade).

But it was the woods and the trail that captured our attention, and imagination, from the start. Even a narrow sliver of forest can be enough to set the mind wandering. In its pre-renovation days, it was easy to imagine the house at the end of Club Road as an English manor, and the trail leading off to some Oxfordshire village with a stone-steepled church as its centerpiece. Another time, when the dog inadvertently flushed out several wild turkeys, it was an unspoiled trail through Shawnee or Iroquois territory (although all but the most modern-day Indians would have shaken their heads at how startled the humans and dog were, and how nonchalant the turkeys). At other times, walking the path for exercise and fun, I imagine what travel must have been like in Europe and elsewhere before paved roads and automobiles—lovely at times, but also muddy, and dangerous, and exhausting.

Most times, though, the trail is the one that Ichabod Crane travels from the Van Tassels’ party back to Sleepy Hollow on that long-ago Hudson Valley night. It is almost inevitable that the image of the Headless Horseman appears in my mind’s eye each time we walk the path through the woods, especially during these autumn days, with the changing leaves, the low-slanting sunbeams, and the chilly nip in the air.

There’s something about the tall, spindly, almost skeletal trees perched precariously on the hillside, and the way the pathway weaves through them that lends itself to flights of fancy. How easy to imagine a flaming pumpkin or some midnight-colored stallion careening down the path toward us. Even in the early morning sunshine of a November Saturday, I sometimes think I hear quick hoof-beats just around the bend. It must be the wind—I mean, the Headless Horseman is just an old folktale. Right?

No matter whether English lane, Indian trail, or nightmare alley, I’m so glad to have the path and woods as part of our community. The trees and wildflowers that grow there are wonderful ways to watch the seasons spin past—lovely in their autumnal hues, welcomed harbingers of warm weather in the spring. The squirrels and rabbits, and even the turkeys, are good companions to have on a stroll. And the fact that the path leads to wonderful neighbors on either end seems to me to make it just about as perfect as perfect can be.