My Forest...of course it is!

My Forest.

Not all of Luxembourg's forests are broad leaf.

Of course it is my forest, it is the forest just a kilometre from my door, I ride in it at least 4 days a week, it is my commute, it is my entry to the bigger, wider expanse of woodland beyond, it is MY forest. I share it of course, I like to share, it is good to see people out walking, collecting berries and mushrooms. It is good to see the dogs and the dog walkers even if some of them have a very dubious idea of what “under control” actually looks like...and don't get me started on the idiots with extending dog leads and earphones...but that is another story in itself.

In my forest I watch the seasons change. The coming of Autumn is spectacular most years, the changes astonish me and the trail changes on a daily basis. Spring always fills me with hope. Hope that the cold, dark commutes are finally over and as I watch life return to my forest I begin to dream of the longer exploratory rides of summer when new paths, new trails, new castles, new worlds open up.

But there is always that time I dread, that time at the end of autumn the beginning of winter. The time when the leaves have fallen but the frosts have not made the trails hard. These are the days I fear for my forest. You see, my forest is not just mine, nor is it the dog walkers and berry pickers. The forest in truth belongs to the loggers. These are mostly old beech woods. They may look and feel natural but many of the paths I ride are in fact logger’s roads. The grass, bush, birch and nettle may crowd the trail but these were once roads for logging trucks and will be so again. These forests belong to the loggers. These are the days I fear, the days when I look forward to slipping into my singletrack descent and arrive at the entrance to this secret pleasure only to find the singletrack destroyed and replaced with a 3 metre wide scar of mud and caterpillar track. These are the days when I wonder how I will get home tomorrow, how I will find my way to my favourite spots, how life will ever be the same. These are the days I grieve for my loss and the damage to my forest.We are entering that time.

The loggers perform their duty with ruthless efficiency

What once was a swooping secret descent becomes a muddy scar.

I grieve less and less every year, it is not that the loggers are more careful, more respectful of my place in my woods. They are not. My passing is not noticed at all. No instead I have come to learn that the forest itself is by far the most powerful thing here. The trucks, caterpillar tracks, extractors, might seemingly destroy the forest but in reality it is never for long. The forest has a knack for reclaiming itself and as it heals itself and the cycle wheels, walking boots and dog paws tread down the muddy imprint, so the trails return to the way they were, for the most part. This is not the clear-fell destruction that we see in other parts on the world’s forests. These forests have been harvested over the centuries. They are now carefully managed, they have time to regenerate,  a few trees here, a few trees there are brought down, dragged to the main paths and stacked. In fact the biggest danger to the forest is that it is getting old, there is not enough space for the young trees to flourish, Luxembourg may have to step in and actually clear bigger areas in order to help the young trees thrive. So now, while I grieve for my loss, I also smile knowingly at the stacks of logs appearing at the side of the trail and celebrate the power of the forest. 

The loggers, the feet, the mountainbikes, the storms, very little can truly destroy my forest, with in a season or two the trails will look much as they did. Nature is amazing and given a bit of time nature will return my forest to me, as the loggers give way in the spring time and the trails begin to dry out, so nature will begin the job of reclaiming what it lost. I will once again be besotted by the growth, the change, the colour. But for now, for now I must stay out of the way of the chaisaws and trucks, I must find new paths while the loggers widen and submerge the old trails under centimetres of soft slurry. But not for long...not for long.