Serious garden writers devote long, windy chapters to bones—the basic structure of a site as defined by its underpinnings and outcroppings—and their implications for landscape design. Anyone who’s pondered the human frame with notions of accentuating the positive will appreciate the challenge: structural details can be lost in fleshy folds and billows; rendered gawky by unflattering outfits.

I’ve had several weeks now to assess the bones of our new home site, and the analysis comprises the usual balance of good news/bad news. The evaluation process began on snowshoes with much hilarity. Obvious disadvantages notwithstanding, winter is an excellent time to study landscape bones. A thick blanket of snow reduces distractions and focuses attention on basics. (Focus, in my case, was already blurred by snowshoe ineptitude. Clomping up hill and down dale with my husband, I sprawled into a Significant Drift. Since my response to an awkward situation is an immobilizing fit of laughter, my husband found that standing a noodle upright on webbed feet was no small project. Snickers, giggles, and even wide grins were expressly forbidden after one downfall.) Nevertheless, March readings are worth the effort. In harsh winter light one cannot ignore the exfoliating bark of pines so stressed by harsh winters and excavation that, however much the previous owner struggled to save the trees, we decide to remove them in favor of sturdy, carefully-placed youngsters. We’ll choose evergreens for winter interest in an assortment that will help insure against the depredations of pests and disease.

Since our property lies within an area sculpted by a glacier, we have rolling contours punctuated by a generous deposit of pebbles, stones, rocks, and boulders. We can gracefully handle three out of four, but those boulders fall within the category fashion designers regard as “permanent figure flaws.” Obviously I’ll need to devise the landscape equivalent of bustles and shoulder pads here and there. (Sometimes the most interesting designs arise from a studied response to nature’s challenges.)

More bones have appeared with the change of seasons and the opportunity to begin the process of clearing. I choose a delicate approach around our twin ponds where many birds seek shelter and reward me with exuberant songs as I work, pausing to discover and avoid their favorite thickets. As I break out deadwood and nip crossed branches and face-whackers, I discover a gently-sloped, shaded site for a cherished collection of hostas.

My husband and I note the routes we travel as we work, for these instinctively-chosen paths are the natural ones to incorporate as the landscape evolves. We need access for large equipment as well as trails for hauling baskets of weeds to the compost pile. A sunny open area will serve immediate needs for nursery beds (and later for vegetable and cutting gardens), so we are in no hurry to establish perennial gardens. While one is tempted, flats in hand, to plop spring plants into whatever bit of soil seems tillable, I’ll wait and plant stakes and string instead. For now I study contours from several vantage points: the driveway, our living room, the spot where we’ll add a sun room, plausible outdoor sitting areas, and the upstairs window over my writing desk. I can enjoy clothing our yard through the coming seasons and years.

I find Gordon Hayward’s Garden Paths inspiring. He makes a convincing case for allowing paths to define the location and shape of planting areas. Using this approach, the gardener can design a flowing landscape and bypass the fussy details that tempt those who maintain a tight focus.

I look forward to a summer of strolling and pondering. Exploration of a new site resembles an archaeological dig. The bones in each instance have rich stories to tell and a host of implications for the future.

This essay was adapted from a column published in The Pilot Independent (Walker) in the spring of 1997 just after we had bought the property that is now Willow Fen.