MY HUSBAND’S family has a fondness for gathering over the fourth of July at their historic bicentennial farm in Winchester, Indiana. The Chenoweth farm has been in the family’s possession since 1815. My husband is the oldest of five children, all of whom are married now with sons and daughters of their own. Between all the siblings there are 17 first cousins. Now they are the ages we were when this vacation ritual began.
Over the centuries, the farm has been devoted to many crops, both animal and vegetable. The property contains two houses, the original brick farmhouse (The Brick) and the old renovated schoolhouse (The Schoolhouse). There are several hundred acres worth of pasture, a white barn, and numerous white outbuildings that at one time housed cattle, pigs, and chickens. There are also two silos, and other accompanying farm-like structures.
Like many farms, the Chenoweth property contains a wooded section, part of the original farm architecture maintained to decrease soil erosion caused by the wind. In the family forest, there are acres of old-growth oak, ash, and beech trees through which a trail has been maintained. The path starts at the edge of the property by The Schoolhouse, winds along to the back of one pasture and then zigs and zags across to another, and again until you reach a fork in the road. One forest trail runs to an old family cemetery, the other to a creek which lies at the backside of The Brick. You have to climb over a fence, ford the stream, and hike across the cow pasture to get to the barn and The Brick. When you’ve completed the hike, you have gone from one end of the property through the woods to the other side.
This ‘woody constitutional’ is one of a small variety of activities available to the family when we are all together at the farm. Winchester is a very small town in the middle of Indiana farmland. In fact, there is a town called Farmland situated six miles away. When we are together, we play a lot of games, fish in the pond, bike, walk “around the block” – four miles – a mile for each block, and take walks in the woods.
In July, the average temperature is in the mid-eighties and the humidity is high. It’s usually a good idea to exercise early in the day, or late in the evening, when the sun is not at its brightest and hottest.
So it was one July morning a few years ago that I found myself up bright and early and ready to hit the woods for an early morning sojourn before the rest of the crew awakened. It’s so beautiful on the farm in the morning. The dew rests lightly on the wildflowers next to the road. The sun is low in the sky with a slight breeze – fresh with a hint of manure. The horseflies sluggishly, half-heartedly, dive-bomb anything living – preparing for their angry ‘slash and suck’ attacks later in the day. The neighbor’s large German Shepherds – unleashed and unminded – prance out to the road reminding pedestrians to walk a little faster.
I figure that once I hit the woods, the flies won’t be a bother because I will be out of the sun and the dogs will turn around because they won’t see me anymore. I remind myself to maintain my morning calm because bugs and dogs are attracted to carbon dioxide and if I’m breathing heavily my fumes will make me a larger target. I pick up my pace on the pavement heading towards the chained entrance to the lane through the woods, and step off into the forest’s cool protection.
Once there, I take a deep cleansing breath and prepare to enjoy my morning hike. The diverse, multi-layered canopy and woody debris around me awaken ancient feelings of peace and unity with the earth. I look around, trying to see something new in the familiar landscape before me. Moss, lichen, seedlings, nuts, and leaves beckon to be admired.
“Is that a Cypripedium candidum” I wonder, moving in for a closer look.
BUZZZZZZ … Slash!
“Argh!” I cry, batting at my neck. I twist around, insulted, looking for the fly that I can still hear zipping around. I flick the back of my shirt in case it’s landed on me, wishing for the hat I inadvertently left behind.
“Hmm,” I thought. “I guess it didn’t get the memo to stay out of the woods.”
It zooms past my ear again, so I take another deep breath, swipe at my head, fan the air in front of my face, and continue on my journey. I walk along looking this way and that before turning around and running full stop into a moist, dew-laden cobweb.
“Eww..” (expletive).
I sigh and consider turning around. I’ve come halfway through the two-mile trek. Giving myself a mental shake, I decide to “not be silly” and proceed further into the woods. Now a friend of the first fly and perhaps his cousin have decided to join me. I speed-walk my way around the second bend in the lane, over the culvert that allows the creek to run unimpeded, narrowly missing an overhanging web featuring several small insects displayed in it.
“Phew!”
I mentally high-five myself before my shoulder brushes into a different web. Now I’m swiping at my shoulder and my ears and am dismayed to notice my breathing has increased.
I pick up my pace even more and am now sort of jogging, my mental goal set on making it to The Brick and out of the damn woods! There are cobwebs everywhere. How did I not notice this when I began my walk? I am now a carbon dioxide-generating bug attractant, sweating – which is making the cobwebs adhere better, running the last leg of the route to the gate by the creek.
Remembering my father-in-law’s admonition to “mind the poison ivy by the creek” I carefully scamper up and over the old cattle grid, now overgrown with weeds (not poison ivy, please!), bookended with rusty chicken wire, and into the mud by the stream. I quickly scan the area, knowing the cows are in this pasture, but hoping they are far away. I can see hoofprints and cow patties all around me, but no animals. I scan for somewhere to cross and see a few rocks and limbs that might suffice.
I make it over and hurry out of the woods to the edge of the pasture, swiping and wiping and breathing and swearing as I go.
I can see the herd.
They are up by The Brick in the far corner of the pasture.
I consider my options.
There are basically three choices: walk straight ahead through the pasture to the tractor lane that runs to the barn, walk towards the brick, or turn around and go back through the woods.
If my children and their cousins were in my shoes, they would think nothing of this predicament. In fact, I’m sure any other adult present would not think twice about walking through the field to The Brick at that moment. The difference for me is that I have a healthy respect for, and am perhaps mildly apprehensive of, cows. They are big – like six feet tall and 1,000 pounds each – and they are many. I am small – like 5’6” and 130 pounds – and there is only one of me.
Nevertheless, I realize I DO NOT want to go back through the web and fly-filled horror I just came through. I consider that the path by the barn is shorter, but realize there is more barbed wire to negotiate and that it might take longer to BE DONE WITH THIS WALK. The cows look very peaceful and happy under the trees way over in the corner of the pasture far away from me. They aren’t even looking at me. So, I decide to slink along the fence that leads next to the fishing pond, across the pasture to the old chicken coop, to the final gate – up and over to the safety of my family.
Keeping myself small and very quiet, I inch along. With one eye on the cows and the other eye on the cow pies and the plants that have thorns, I try very hard to not wave my arms around at the horseflies as I proceed forward to the pond. I make it around this feature and begin angling toward the coop when all of a sudden I see the entire herd looking at me.
“Oh crap.”
I freeze, but they start to amble over in my direction. I look to the left and see barbed wire. I look to the right and see barbed wire. I look ahead and see a dead tree. The ambling cattle are now trotting right at me so I tear over to the dead tree and climb up as high as I can. Sadly, this is not very high as all that remains is a stump and one branch on the ground.
I stand up just as the entire herd reaches me and encircles my roost. They stare at me, as though transfixed by the spectre of my magnificence.
“Shoo!” I try.
“Go on! Go away!”
Nothing I shout convinces them to break rank and go back to grazing. After several minutes, I start yelling “Harold!” (my father-in-law’s name) over and over thinking someone at the house might hear me and come help.
This goes on for a while (it felt like hours) and then I give up and stop shouting. We stand there eyeing each other, which is hard for me because I have to monitor one hundred eyes. They snort and stomp and move around to get a closer look. Attempting to provide myself maximum protection, I draw myself up to a height unequaled in my lifetime and try to stand in the exact center of the stump.
Eventually some invisible signal is given and they turn as one and head off to the creek.
I exit as quickly as possible and run up to the house, sniveling to all that will listen about flies, and cobwebs, and man-eating cows that ‘tree’ people, where my story receives little sympathy and a lot of laughter.
They – and you – might pooh-pooh my experience, but remember this: statistically speaking, you are much more likely to be killed by a cow than a shark. There are approximately five deaths caused by sharks annually, while cows kill about 22. The next time you watch 47 Meters Down or Jaws or go swimming in the ocean and scan for a dorsal fin, just be grateful you are not on a hot bicentennial cow farm in Indiana.