My First Nighttime Sit Spot Experience

       As part of my Natural History and Ecology course, we had to pick a place anywhere on IslandWood’s land to be our Sit Spot.  We were told to return to our spot twice a week in September and once a week for the rest of the year to understand it intimately in all its seasonal changes.  Each time we go, we’re supposed to sit for at least a half hour, and simply be in that place, observing the goings on of the natural world around us.  We’re also encouraged to go at different times of day and in different weather so as to get to know our spot in all its diversity.

      My Sit Spot is against a large tree root along an open part of the marsh shoreline, with views over the cattail marsh on one side and into the shady hemlock forest on the other side.  In September and October, I went to my spot many times, in rain and in sun, but always in the daylight.  

      However, on November 4th, I did my first nighttime sit!  It was so thrilling and peaceful at the same time.  The moon was full, or maybe right on the verge of being full and the its light reflected off the water in the marsh, setting a peaceful, all-is-right-with-the-world mood to the scene.  The walk to my spot via the eastern side of the Marsh Loop was adventurous and stunning in its darkness.  The moonlight did not penetrate the forest in most places and no matter how long I stopped and waited, my eyes did not seem to adjust any further.  It seemed like there just wasn’t enough light for them to adjust to.  I had use my "fox feet" to sense what was ahead of me as I walked along the trail. I tested each step with my toes as there were many roots, fallen logs, and minor changes in elevation, many of which I don’t think I’ve consciously noticed before since I’ve taken my sense of sight for granted during the other hikes to my spot.  I made my way along the trail very slowly and just had to trust myself that I had taken that path enough times to know most of the twists and turns, although sometimes I stood in one place for a few seconds trying to distinguish any of the shapes and shadows ahead of me to figure out where to go next.  I finally made it to my spot after what felt like ages and was in awe of the moonlit world that glowed in front of my eyes. As I settled down, I noticed a star, or possibly a planet, was shining right at the tip of the tall skinny snag a ways out in the marsh, making it resemble a candlestick.  Over the course of the half hour I was there, the time of which I could just faintly make out by tilting my watch into the moonlight, the stars moved in a SE direction, so even just a few minutes after my arrival, the snag was no longer a candlestick glowing bravely in the dark marsh.

      Soon after I sat down, I heard a rustling in the branches to my right and a tiny movement in the water.  It seemed like the animals were stirring in their nighttime rest to make sure that I was not a threat, but then went back to being still or asleep, and I didn’t hear another sound of wildlife the rest of the time I was there.  I did, however, hear a very loud floater plane or helicopter that flew right overhead.  It was a shock after getting used to the calm and peacefully quiet night and so it probably seemed louder than it would have in the day since it was such a stark contrast.  Soon enough, it flew out of range and the soothing hush fell over the forest and marsh once again.  Since there was now more light for my pupils to take in, I noticed my eyes were adjusting and could make out more dimensions of the world around me.  I couldn’t see any insects or bats flying over the marsh and wondered why.  Dogs barked far away, and their voices sounded absurdly domestic compared to what I knew was roaming around me in the forest.  The moon rose higher, up to about 25° over the SE horizon, and my body temperature fell lower, prompting me to pull the flaps of my hat farther down over my ears and tie the cords tighter under my chin.  Since the sense I usually use the most, my sense of sight, was so much diminished, I noticed that some of my other senses had become heightened.  For instance, my nostrils were working overtime trying to take in as many scents as they could and I became aware that my hat smelled like pears—how peculiar.  Another sense that was heightened was my sense of hearing, as I desperately hoped I would hear any sort of animal that may be displeased with my presence before it stumbled upon me.  Because of this, I was also very aware my own sounds; my breathing, my feet rubbing against the dirt, and the scratching of my pencil as I blindly jotted notes in my “Rite in the Rain” all sounded monsturous in volume.  

     Before tucking my notebook back into my backpack, I took a moment to appreciate the glowing patches of light the moon made on the florest floor.  Then, trying not to let myself get too caught up in thought of the recent coyote spottings in the area, the howls that had been heard the night before on IslandWood’s land, the fatal coyote attack that had just occurred in Canada, and the fact that it was a full moon, I rose from my Sit Spot and made my way slowly but confidently around the rest of the Marsh Loop towards the cabins, singing “Baby Moon” softly the whole time in hopes that I would alert any coyote residents that a human was coming long before I happened to step on its den....

     The whole experience was transformational and I returned to my cabin that night feeling triumphant and at ease with life.