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ARCHIVES 2001
June 2001
Summer Snow I knew moving into my first house would put a dent in my frequent Greenbelt rambles. Not only was their endless packing, I no longer live right by the river; no more strolling out the door down to the Greenbelt, once, twice, even three times some long, hot days! Instead I log miles in hot parking lots and the foreign aisles of Home Depot and Lowe's and garden nurseries, wild, new territory for this life time renter. I pull up my sandal backs as I would for serious walking and roam mammoth stores, unskillfully seeking repair materials. (By far my most painful injury of the year occurred as I wandered, gawking at towering overhead shelves, hooking a toe on a stocker's pallet. I sat on the floor in the aisle moaning, sympathyless, and was reminded of my carelessness for weeks with a tender toe.) I could, however, if my list weren't so darned long, get lost in the gardening section, as my long repressed interest in all things growing emerges. I intend to gently let my tiny piece of the world return to its feral (as one woman put it) state, B.S., Before Subdivision.
The good news is, in some way, I appreciate the wildness and magic of our urban river corridor more than ever, now that I own a plain green square of grass that appears to demand watering and mowing and offer neither shade nor inspiration. My reaction to a stroll down the Greenbelt is how terrific it would be to have the yard as wild and lovely as a pause along the Greenbelt! Ha! My first baby step is to watch what happens in the narrow strip of lawn along the back I asked the neighbor boy to stop mowing.
If I don't get the sprinklers working--they didn't switch on tonight--it's desertification express!
I pretty much missed watching ducklings grow into teenagers this year, spring move into summer. Yellow iris and bachelor buttons came and went while I hauled. The other evening Charlene and I walked the river stretch not too far from my new digs. Oh, how low the river this year! Char batted and swatted at willow and cottonwood fluff, mixed with little bugs. I love this time of year, when slow moving water is dusted with fluff and clumps of "snow" drift down from the trees. These bugs are nothin', Char. Wait'il July! Deep in a group of bushes we watched the silhouette of an owl, long eared, I think, dive bombed by robins.
Spring 2001 April 2001
Season of Bliss Although every season has its charm (like staying home in winter?) how can anything compete with spring! I wouldn't even enter if I knew spring was in a contest. So good to have swallows back winging; they've been back all month. Last week I watched mom mallard herd a huge group of new kids across a back street. Yesterday I saw a mom with a lone duckling out paddling. Sunday, the unmistakable blue of robin's eggshell caught my eye, official announcement of spring if there ever was one. In the same row of tall cottonwoods where they hung out last year, I heard gold finches and tried to get a good look at a small flock of what I finally decided were once called "audubons" warblers.
The world is full of shades of green that can only be called spring (I tried "lime", "bright" and "yellow green"). One early afternoon I lay on a bench sky gazing, awed at the collage of trees leafing out high overhead, each at its own stage, in its own time and way, no two alike. Narrow new willow leaves; box elder blossom tassels; larger, round cottonwood leaves caught sunlight; delicate pointy clusters--maple perhaps? I returned later with camera to try to capture the magic, but the light had changed.
Sunny days, the air is sublime with scent of cottonwood, their new leaves shiny with sap. My pants have big yellowish smears of the fragrant sap where I've sat on gooey catkins. I used to purposely dab sap on my wrists to sniff like wild perfume. The following year, quite suddenly this caused a bumpy rash. Musta overdone a good thing! Speaking of shiny leaves, in a moment of gratefulness I realized how good it is to enjoy pre poison ivy season, to wander care free through the woods.
Snakes are out though, in piles. Harmless, of course, if startling. When I heard a rustle recently I stopped and watched 3, maybe 4. They literally wove themselves together in a continuously shifting dance, tapping a distant memory of an oozing chain of human tumblers. I watched as yet another small snake joined in, sliding along a back, then begin weaving under various coils of bodies and tails. Small and large, is this a family affair? Watched with curiosity, an uncomfortable but fascinated eavesdropper. Que pasa here?
I glory in this relatively bug free season. One can sit, nap, read and write comfortably. Sunday I scooped out the sand, lay back and read, until my eyes drooped, as they usually do, in warm sun. Each time a cloud covered the sun, I tensed, immediately cool. So many gray days makes these warm, sunny ones truly divine.
Red winged black birds are still calling. Pairs of silent doves feed along the trails. Magpies carry sticks to nests. Quail scurry through the woods--I never tire of catching a glimpse of that nifty bird. What a feast: sweet mild air, fresh spring leaves, golden current in bloom, robins' egg blue, and a snooze in the sun! Purr!
March 2001
Spring Snakes and Walkers Last week--or was it the week before--I noticed the ribes putting out its little green leaves. Boing! Spring is here! Now where only a few weeks ago there was ice, mallards paddle in pairs, with widgeon, wood duck and bopping coots. Mergansers and Canada geese hang out on the river. As usual, I missed hearing owls call and court while there was still ice. Fair weather walker that I am, much as I'd love to hear hoots, no way can I get myself out on long, dark winter nights! Red winged blackbirds have called riotously for weeks. Flickers drum loudly; doves glide; magpies swoop; fox sparrows scratch through leaves. The last few weeks I've heard and watched those terrific little brown creepers (birds!) spiral up tree trunks.
After "endless" winter, it hardly seems possible, but spring is undeniably here. Fragrant cottonwood catkins have exploded onto the trail already, although their leaves won't show for sometime. Pine cones crackle. Snakes came out a few weeks back. I forget about them and nearly step on them. Must they snooze on the path!! In the woods, box elder bugs are already flying about, awaking or hatching, I don't know. All people fishing spots are fully occupied.
Cloud cover seems more common than not the past month. (I'm sure optimists would disagree.) I admit, several days have been T-shirt weather, roll up pant legs days. When March winds blew, I retreated.
Last week a wringing wet mink bounded across the trail in front of me, from canal towards river. As I stood watching where she went, a larger wet mink followed into a pile of pile of brush, where I heard chirping. Another day, another mink scampering along the path.
Tonight, on my first sunset walk of the season, unable to resist the mild evening, I met a pair of dog walkers--2(people):1(dog). Not unusual until I noticed the woman with a can of cat food, trying to feed a stalking cat. "I'm a cat at heart", she confessed. The couple's dog barked and lunged furiously; the cat dashed off. We laughed.
Some weeks ago one noon I finally remembered to take the remains of a fossilized loaf of holiday zucchini bread along with me to recycle (hopefully without harming furred or feathered). As I tossed chunks into the bushes, I could tell the couple following me was suspicious. Fortunately, as they caught up and asked what I was doing (wasn't it obvious?), a couple of ducks appeared, and I said in the same tone I'd answer a two year old wanting attention, "Feeding ducks". I might as well have said stupid aloud. It was a fib; I was recycling, ducks just happened by, but I wasn't going to mention sparing the landfill and confirm their fear I was abnormal. Mea culpa. If I was that rude on the Greenbelt, my favorite place, hate to think what a terror I was that day! I suppose I was wearing one of my alarming, haphazard getups, merely ambling, kid and dog free (indeed a strange sight in Idaho), through a designer outfit (even couples often match) stretch of the Greenbelt. Good thing I wasn't talking to squirrels--or was I?
Winter 2001
February 2001
Sun Drops Waiting until sun warmed the day as much as possible, the other late morning I slipped down to Flicker Forest for a look see. A pair of flickers waited by an attractive hole in a dead tree by the pond while a pair of starlings investigated. Like birds, I too am scouting real estate this time of year! The black back end of a gadwall caught my eye in the pond, floating and feeding along with the usual occupants. I forget to mention the occasional presence of gadwall on Greenbelt ponds. Except for their distinctive black rear end, their appearance is somewhat nondescript to non hunting, human eyes.
For once, rather than walking into the woods without looking ahead, I paused and heard the whistle of wood ducks. Sure enough, a pair or two (not certain) sat on the branch over the stream. I detoured sideways, to grandmother tree, in order not to scare them, and to have a listen to an obvious rustling going on. Que pasa? I puzzled, what am I hearing! Can I solve this mystery--often nature skunks me!
Although a sunny day, there were small, crackling/plopping sounds, like rain, vaguely reminding me of the opening of locust pods in spring heat. Not the scamper of squirrels, rustle of ground birds, even mice or insects, I decided; not sap, bud casings, nor human footsteps. First theory: sun drying damp leaves, causing them to curl and crinkle. Then I thought I saw a small something fall. Although I tried to focus on just one patch of leaf covered floor, whenever I heard a noise, or thought I saw movement, my eyes jumped. Several times I thought perhaps I saw exactly where the sound and movement intersected, and, possibly, a drop of moisture. Couldn't be sure. Finally, as I bent to investigate, something hit my hat. I immediately looked and licked a drop of moisture, finding it slightly sweet. Ah ha! Just took one raindrop falling on my head on a sunny day to more to theory #2: how about a cold night's condensation melting off branches? Wary of leaping to conclusions, I continued to observe for verification. More drips dropping, more tasting.
Henry David (Thoreau) would be proud! I've been tormenting myself, listening to Walden for the umpteenth time, as I drive around (a la spring birds) scouting for a home. The worst part is knowing Thoreau is absolutely right: we're slaves to housing, society. The best part is his descriptions of nature, watching loons on Walden Pond, bubbles in pond ice, observing owls, the simplicity and clarity of his rows of beans, eating, life and thoughts.
By now I'd moved deeper into the grove, flushing the nervous beauties (wood ducks) to sleuth the sound. My qigong practice became standing and observing, although I moved constantly for "a better view" and to stay in patches of sun. By the time I abandoned the project, satisfied with the experience, and moved to the bench for horizontal sky watching (my latest closing practice) the woods were almost still, night's drops fallen.
January 2001
Moon Slipping through FogA New Year for humans; winter on the Greenbelt, my fourth and coldest. Ice covers much of the ponds, and part of the side stream. The river is low and slow, spray forming ice on snagged branches. After weeks and months of cold and gray, the inversion over the valley parted, and sun drew me down to see the sights. During the full moon evenings that just passed, the moon shown behind thick fog, occasionally peaking through, occasionally coming out fully, with stars!
Ducks and gulls were busy in the open center of the first frozen pond. A group of white gulls sat nearby, on the ice. Wherever there is ice, it is inset with rocks passerby's have flung. On the river, a lone bufflehead mixed with pairs of mallards. Common mergansers and mallards look stunning on the river. Once, the distinctive white patch on the heads of a pair of spectacular hooded mergansers surprised me--don't see them often! All the ducks sport fine winter plumage, male mallards and mergansers look especially grand. On the next pond, a lone coot stands on the ice, a pied-billed grebe floating nearby. Plus another grebe and another, always diving out of sight.
Light morning rain froze on the trail made walking a bit uncertain; I was glad to get on the gravel path. Love those wood ducks, standing awkwardly, high in trees! Often their familiar call alerts me they’re around. A downy woodpecker was busy on the trunk of a bare tree. Magpies called and dived; crows cawed; kingfisher scolded and followed the creek. Doves fed. Business as usual.
In Flicker Forest as I practiced standing qigong, I was delighted to hear, then see, a brown creeper, working up a tree trunk. Looks like it’s resident again this winter, although I didn't see it earlier this fall. Unlike the winter I saw a small group of creepers regularly, this one was traveling solo today, no chickadees, kinglets of other creepers near. A few squirrels scampered through the trees. Life in the woods is rather low key, wintry. Studying the stream, I realized I’d not seen a mink hunting its edge all year. I always listen for signs of the approach of that fluid, furry wild creature.
Often these winter days I look up to see and hear long skeins of geese flying, where, I don't know. From field to field, or pond to pond, perhaps fleeing new construction or just restless. Only geese know. Especially at night I love hearing geese call. It gives me a great sense all’s right with the world.
