Nature really hates a vacuum when it comes to paths.

Vines and grasses spread over bare patches; overhanging branches engage in slow-motion races to snag better light; mud flows over worn depressions, followed by new growth. Before you know it the trail is gone.

Sometimes removing traces of intrusion is beneficial – paths that cut through wetlands or other fragile terrain should be erased and rerouted – but a thoughtfully laid out, carefully maintained trail is a joy to behold, allowing us humans to appreciate the natural world and, however briefly, escape civilization’s cluttered, chaotic network of concrete and asphalt.

We who hike regularly in such popular local stomping grounds as Haley Farm and Bluff Point in Groton, Pachaug State Forest in Voluntown, or on any of the 825 miles of blue-blazed trails in Connecticut, owe a huge debt of gratitude to volunteers from the Groton Open Space Association, the Connecticut Forest and Park Association, and other organizations that help keep these pathways clear. Elsewhere in New England the Appalachian Mountain Club and Green Mountain Club also organize work parties armed with picks, shovels, pry bars, clippers and saws to make the going easier for pedestrians.

One of the most satisfying days I’ve spent in the woods took place a few years ago when I joined a group from the AMC that rebuilt a stepping stone bridge across Yawbucks Brook in North Stonington. Our crew spent hours rigging up cables, slings and grip hoists to maneuver enormous boulders into place – much more ambitious and fun than the various rock-moving projects I’ve undertaken over the years around my own house.

Archimedes was right: Give me a lever, and a place to stand, and I can move the world.

I was reminded of nature’s relentless determination to reclaim neglected pathways the other day when I meandered on a trail a couple hundred yards from home that I constructed years ago to gain access to some dead oak trees that I eventually cut down, sawed into logs, split, dragged to the woodshed and burned in the wood stove.

Though I’m pretty much through harvesting trees from this area I try to keep the trail open for strolls and, when conditions permit, cross-country skiing. I’ve shared this path with coyote, deer, fox, possum, chipmunks, squirrels and other four-legged creatures. One snowy morning I watched two dozen wild turkeys trot single-file on the path; I’ve also gazed overhead at owls, hawks, osprey, woodpeckers and even a bald eagle or two.

But for the past few months during scorching heat and when I was occupied with other activities I hadn’t wandered onto this section of trail, let alone performed any routine maintenance.

Unlike my well-worn path to the garden and woodshed, in this relatively short time bittersweet, green briar and grapevines had choked parts of the unused trail; fallen limbs blocked others; rock steps had loosened, ruts washed from cloudbursts had deepened.

When confronted by two roads that diverged in a yellow wood, the narrator of Robert Frost’s celebrated poem may have whimsically chosen the one that was grassy and wanting wear. While I, too, often prefer the road not taken, I admit getting snagged by briars and vines quickly loses its charm, so I spent the past few days repairing the damage to my neglected trail and am happy to report the path once again is perfect for perambulating.

I did, however, pay a price. While hacking away at weeds I evidently struck a hornet’s nest, and one of them nailed be on the wrist with such ferocity that I leaped 4 feet in the air and unleashed a torrent of invective rivaling the last time I smashed my thumb with a hammer.

Anyway, the throbbing and burning have pretty much subsided now, thank you for asking, and the swelling has sufficiently diminished so I can put my wristwatch back on.

The woods may be lovely, dark and deep, but you do have to watch your step.