You never know where a brief walk with the dogs will take you.

I finally found my way back to Sunken Meadow late last week for my first visit of the New Year. The field is wide open, minus a slim cuff of granular corn-snow along the southern edge, where the sun is obstructed in the partial shadows of naked wetland cover and tall, bare hardwoods along a bordering, 15-foot-high lip. I’ve taken the short trip there twice daily ever since and have enjoying every second, so peaceful and private.

My springer spaniels also love the small, secluded riverside depression, romping to a joyous songbird symphony through rows of Christmas trees and a thin bordering wetland — mostly sumac, its pale red fruit scattered along the edge, also alders and wild rose, no sign of cattail patches that were obvious last fall. Where they went, I do not know, perhaps flattened by snowstorms. The dogs, bred for high energy and endurance, stay very busy, noses high and alert, investigating every scent, splashing through large, steel-blue puddles, the brushy edges soon to be mallard nesting grounds. Who knows? Maybe wood and black ducks as well.

Lily, six weeks pregnant and showing, has slowed a tiny bit but displays no sign of that tell-tale waddle, the excess girth not dampening her spirit one iota until it’s time to head home. Then she stands below the tailgate and gets psyched for the leap before adorably wiggling her flank and jumping up, no problem once she puts her mind to it.

The rows of Christmas trees — infant, mature and in-between, some flagged — stand out against the drab, March-brown field. Upon close inspection, there are fresh, red, root-like sprouts clinging to the frozen turf here and there, soon to be rich, green growth that’ll need chopping or mowing, maybe even uprooting at some point. A tall, broad pignut hickory dominates the meadow north of center, towering over a shorter mature tree some 100 feet west, maybe half its height and gnarly. I still haven’t identified that tree but noticed for the first time this week that it once had a larger twin. The stubby tree that’s still standing is connected along the ground to rotten bowl-like remains of its thicker, vanished twin, which must have fallen years ago. Soon I will bring along “Sibley’s Guide to Trees,” an illustrated bible of trees and their identifiable parts by Concord author/artist David Allen Sibley, better known for his bird books. Maybe I’ll have a positive identification before the leaves pop. Then again, maybe not. But who cares? There’s no rush. That tree is not nearly as regal as the mature hickory, aristocratic in every sense as it towers over the meadow like a presidential monument.

Monday was the first day I walked to the water’s edge and focused on the Green River, running about perfect for wader-fishing. The water is deep and cold enough to hold feeding trout just about anywhere. Problem is that there are probably few trout left this time of year, with the water just right. When the state liberally stocks the pretty stream in the weeks to come, most of those fish will be quickly hooked where they are dumped by a parade of truck-followers. Then, when the water drops to its summer level, the few fish that survive will have limited refuge. That’s always been the problem on Green River: It’s too shallow to fish in most places during the summer. By then, whatever trout are left retreat to the deepest pools, which are few, easy to fish and thus quickly fished out. Probably a man with patience and determination could find a few holdovers this time of year, but likely not enough to make the effort worthwhile. Sad but true. Yes, the Green is now just another put-and-take stream.

As I stood and watched the swollen river flow strong and green, faraway whitewater flashing in the sunlight above and below me, for some reason I reminisced back to the last time I had stood in riverside observation back in December. That day I was standing on the upper plateau looking far down a steep bank to a ruffled section of flat water disturbed by a brisk, cold, north wind. It was just before Christmas and the bitter wind was penetrating my Polarfleece jacket, creating an uncomfortable chill as the dogs scurried about free, easy and unaffected. On the water were two beautiful mergansers or redheads, both males, seemingly enjoying the afternoon. I remember watching them and wondering why in God’s name free migratory creatures like them would choose to stay so far north when they could be swimming in southern climes. I guess for the same reason a man remains in an dead-end job, a woman in an abusive relationship for a lifetime. It’s what they know. Change can be disruptive. What is it they say? That familiarity breeds contentment? Something like that. But you can’t convince me those ducks would not have been better off in Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas or even south Jersey, for that matter. But no. There they were, totally content in frigid New England winds. Who am I to judge? They looked perfectly happy. To each its own, I guess.

When you look at Green River this time of the year, you totally understand that it came by its name due to its greenish hue. Called Pocommeagon by the Natives, then Green River by colonial settlers, the river runs a grayish-green this time of year and after hard summer rains; likewise the tributary Hinsdale Brook, centerline of which establishes the northern boundary of my Greenfield home lot. The green tint of that backyard stream comes from clay banks a mile upstream, where powdery gray silt is washed into the flow. That type of clay must be prevalent throughout the Green River drainage.

Although I cannot be certain, I must assume from what I’ve read that the Native name also meant Green River and the English settlers adopted it in their own tongue. As for the spelling, well, because the Natives had no written language, their words have always been spelled phonetically and, I might add, inconsistently. Deerfield historian George Sheldon spelled the Native version of Green River the way it’s shown above, while Greenfield historian Francis M. Thompson spelled it Picomegan, and a more-contemporary report published by the Massachusetts Historical Commission spells it Pocommegan. Take your pick. I guess there is no right or wrong. Although I prefer the look and sound of Thompson’s word, I’d probably lean toward the state spelling for the sake of consistency. Problem is that I seldom publish the Native name and will thus probably have to look it up again the next time I do. I’ll likely then go through this whole footnote issue another time. Oh well, such are the drawbacks of writing a weekly column, far from unbearable.

And to think this all began with a refreshing morning walk through Sunken Meadow. God, I love a walk; sets the blood, the brain aflow.