Today started out like one of those days when one may be a bit irritated with the challenges of living a mile high in a northern clime. The promises of spring are here, yes, but on any given day they may be snatched away by winter’s firm grip.
Thirty-nine degress Fahrenheit with snowflakes flitting down. As you might guess, their appearance beneath the looming clouds was most unwelcome:
Like a swarm of mosquitoes. Toilet-water raining down from an airplane.
…Or a stranger breaking the distance barrier at the grocery.
Since this quarantine-thing has started, our family has persisted in making sure we get out each and every weekend for some sort of hike. Today was my turn to pick, and so I chose my local favorite: Hell Canyon.
When he heard about my choice, knowing how many birds we’d see along the way, Panther—our two year old cat affectionately known as Fuzzy, or Nid—didn’t want us to leave him behind.
Panther wearing my backpack in anticipation of what surely would be the ultimate bird-stalking adventure.
Although it was 11:00 am, the high had already been reached, and there was nowhere for temps to go but down. After packing a simple lunch consisting of cheese-and-crackers or crackers-and-peanut butter, we loaded up in our car and set out for a short ride to the Hell Canyon trailhead, about ten miles from the house.
Seriously, you gotta take me.
We are fortunate to live near one of the gems of the Black Hills. Half of the trail is situated along the bottom of a canyon, where thickets of shrubbery grow in abundance: chokecherry, serviceberry, red osier dogwood. Trees of birch, aspen, and box elder are prolific, and a small intermittent stream weaves through part of the canyon.
Starting out on the Hell Canyon Trail traveling counter-clockwise.
Hell Canyon is a nirvana of shrubbery, a haven for birds such as spotted towhees, warblers, and chickadees. In much of the Black Hills, the deer populations have mauled the native shrubs (the whitetails and mule deer are browsers, which mean they enjoy getting their daily dose of fiber from twigs of shrubs and trees). Hell Canyon is a beautiful anamoly and is one of the all-too-few places in the southern hills where shrub habitat remains intact.
It didn’t disappoint.
Near the start of the trail, along the creek, an orange-crowned warbler was flitting erratically amongst the dogwood bushes. I was barely able to glass it before it flitted away, down the creek. These small birds are transients in the Black Hills, loading up on insects as they continue their flight further west or to Alaska or Canada.
Orange-crowned warbler Credit: USFWS, D. Menke
Hiking with family is a catch-as-catch-can birding experience; one doesn’t have the luxury to stop and gape at the bushes for five minutes, in search of an LBJ (little brown jobbie)—or, in this case an LYJ (little yellow jobbie). There isn’t enough group-patience for that, so I try to limit my hey, come look at this!‘s to a few times a trip and a more cooperative subject.
Fortunately, birds each have a distinctive call: if you can recognize what it is you’re looking for, it is much easier to know where to find it. As we were hiking, three different wrens (feisty little LBJs) called from somewhere in the canyon: canyon wrens, rock wrens, and a house wren.
Canyon Wren Credit: Public Domain/D. Faulkner
A subtle arch along the Hell Canyon Trail; if you blink, you might miss it!
Also along the way, a gallery of floral beauties presented themselves:
(Clockwise from upper left: star lilies, phlox, violets, and pasque flowers)
These are just a sample of the amazing flowers blooming along the trail, yet they don’t measure up to one thing that happened on the hike. On the way into the canyon, my husband turned around to say something to me, but then he looked up at the sky and pointed.
Rainbow-amped sky
Of course this photo doesn’t do it justice. Not even close. It looked like a rainbow had been doused with sugar, transforming it into celestial sherbet. I was tempted to Photoshop the image to coax out the colors as we experienced it, but I didn’t want to make it look artificial.
Seraphims were flitting and floating and singing, Gabriel trumpeting his horn, the air euphorically thrumming holy holy holy…(ok, not quite, but it wouldn’t have been totally unexpected). It was that kind of moment, when you’ve swallowed a lungful of Helium (don’t try this at home) and any moment now your feet are going to leave the earth.
Wishing you a day with that kind of experience. Filled with faith that God is indeed good. And His love endures forever.
Do you like to live dangerously: sky dive after sunset, swim in a river with piranhas, or…
eat jarred pickles one year after the expiration date?
Do you think of
yourself as a balanced individual?
If so, you are the
perfect candidate to experience the premier hike in Zion National Park: Angel’s
Landing.
My family and I went
up there recently, and I can vouch that it is an apt name for that particular
hike. Only angels would be comfortable fluttering to a perch on that fin of
rock so high…so narrow.
Angels—or condors.
Picture of soaring California condor; these birds have a wingspan around 109 inches, or just over 9 feet)
On the brink of extinction in the 1980’s when only about twenty-two birds survived, intensive recovery efforts of condors have led to a global population that is around 400 (about half of these are in the wild vs. captivity). Nearly 70 condors call wild parts of Utah and Arizona (including Zion National Park) their home. Currently, the biggest threat to their recovery is the use of lead shot by hunters (condors are scavengers, and suffer from lead poisoning after eating animals killed by lead shot).
Apparently, these enormous, magnificent birds like to soar near this prominent massif. Although we didn’t see the condors near Angel’s Landing, we did have turkey vultures circling above us; either it was the sound of the wind fluttering through their wings, or they were chanting something that sounded a lot like:
fall, fall, fall.
Yes, fresh from the
hike, I have a few phrases to describe it:
An intense cliff-hanger.
A
southwestern desert lover’s utopia.
Heart-pounding…or, if you have a fear of heights, heart palpitating (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase)…I kept my eyes open the entire time…let me tell you about the sights: I had a great view of the tan and blush-colored sandstone, my daughter’s blue sneakers, and the silver chain nearly the entire way up. Also, when I looked back, I saw some guy behind us who was wearing a funky totem pole bird-head like figure on his white t-shirt.
Exhilarating.
Shushh…the sound of the Virgin River’s lullaby from wayyy down below.
Other thoughts also come to mind:
Spooky (especially
as a parent).
Crowded.
Alarming.
Many
opportunities to commiserate with other people who had the same (healthy) fear
of heights.
(did
I already say spooky?)
View from the top of Angel’s Landing
An adrenaline rush upon arriving at the top, yet the knowledge that one would soon be going back through the lines of people near the edge of steep dropoffs loomed like a great shadow. But I found that dread to be unfounded. Maybe knowing we made it up installed the confidence that indeed, we could descend in similar fashion. The view of the valley below was amazing!
Although the hike
was wonderful in a twisted sort of way, it’s not an experience I want to repeat
any time soon because of the sheer volume of people that undertake the climb.
(No offence, people, but South Dakotans tend to get a bit nervous in crowds…where
we’re from, there’s lots of space).
An early start to the Angel’s Landing Trail
Although we started the hike around 8:15 am and there was plenty of spacing between upward-bound hikers, once we reached Angel’s Landing, we were amidst throngs and throngs of people going up and going down. There’s only one chain, and the width of the cliffs vary from one person can safely pass to a width of I-guess-I-can-let-go-of-the- chain-for-a-little-bit-and-hope-I-don’t-have-a-buffoon-moment-and- trip, or that no one is tumbling down the mountain above me and going to take out myself or my family.
That’s not to say it’s not worth doing. If I were to go again, I’d want to be one of the early birds and go up at 6 am just for the safety factor of being around so many people while we’re tiptoeing along the edges of cliffs.
Hang on!
We went with a ten-year-old and thirteen-year-old, sandwiching parents between each. I had to threaten my supremely confident ten year old mountain goat that his non-bovid mom would have a heart attack right then and there if he did not hold onto the chain.
Seriously.
Fortunately, my
thirteen year old had no issue with that edict.
Oh yes, from a mom’s
perspective, I had thought a different trail, the Observation Point trail
sounded much more attractive and reasonable for our family to undertake, since
that one isn’t fraught with quite so much excitement and offers similarly
spectacular views. Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted as many of the trails
in Zion National Park were closed due to rockfall, excess water volume (the
Narrows), and or road construction (without undertaking a two hour and change
car ride), so there we were.
These desert beauties, Indian paintbrushes, are in full bloom.
And there I was. Praying. You can do that as you walk, you know? I don’t think God cares whether you’re kneeling our standing, as long as you’re reverential.
Waiting for the free park shuttle from Zion National Park Visitor Center
Zion National Park has become one of the U.S.’s Disneyland Parks, meaning that if you want to experience the most popular trails, you can expect to wait in line. And if you want to do some of the most popular off-trail hikes (like the Subway) you need to apply something like three months in advance to do so (we entered a last-minute lottery for any leftover permits remaining, but weren’t selected).
Fortunately, my prayer was answered and our family survived to hike another day (much to the chagrin of my son; he thinks mountain biking is a far superior activity). Maybe, someday if/when we return…we’ll be one of the lucky ones and see the condors.
After all, with its
vertical cliff faces and prominent hoodoo at the top, Angel’s landing is
perfect for them.
Congratulations! This letter is to inform you that your company had the lowest bid for our lawn care project. No one—I mean, no one—could match your price quote of zero bucks to mow our lawn. And who doesn’t like to save money? (I get all doe-eyed thinking about all the green I’ll save using your company). I don’t know how you do it, though. Especially with that many mouths to feed. Not my worry, though, to figure out the logistics of your operation. Effective immediately, you will be the sole caretakers of our property.
I look forward to seeing your high-quality work in action.
Sincerely,
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
I applaud you for your productivity: seven workers were on our lawn yesterday, mowing and fertilizing the yard at the same time. The same time!!! How ingenious! How avante garde!
As delighted as I am about your ingenuity; however, I must bring one matter to your attention: as a result of your ministrations our lawn looks rather, shall I say…disheveled. Grass blade heights are ragged; they look like they were cut with unsharpened implements. If you could talk to your mowers and have them try to even the grass to a standard two inches, I would really appreciate it.
Thanks,
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
Greetings on this fine summer day! Thank you for informing me that the flattened circles in the grass are only spots where your crew rested during lunchtime…I was freaking out, phone in hand to call the National Guard and tell them the woo-woo crop circles had expanded to people’s lawns. Phew! Dodged a bullet with that one (or should I say—aliens with bullets?).
Yesterday, my daughter tripped on the grass (God bless her, her name is not Grace). No, clumsiness is not the issue; guess what she stepped in? Oh gag (I’m gonna make a mess on this letter just thinking about it). And you know how hard it is to get suede clean after something like that? I “Shout”-ed the green smears. Yeah, right: to no avail. Only made a bigger mess on the shoes…not to mention—my comments, well, shall we say—sullied the airwaves. Good thing you weren’t around, else your big ears would be…well, they wouldn’t be able to flick toward the sound of the slightest coyote burp. (No, not a threat, just an observation). And the smell? Ple-eaze. Don’t give me the rhetoric that herbivores’ poop smells like hay and sunshine…Deer-puckey! And I won’t even go into your claims to be a herbivore—I’ve seen you sneaking bird’s eggs from junco’s nests—heard them crunch as if you were eating peanut shells.
No—the question whether you only eat plants vs. sneak an occasional hoeurs ‘d vore of eggs is not the issue. What pains me is that I’m out $160. Little Lil’s Purple Paradise shoes—ruined. Never going to be the same. I must, therefore, implore you to please try and spread out the fertilizer so unfortunate happenings like this don’t happen again.
Regards,
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
How green’s the grass! Your fertilizer is working wonders! I applaud you for your company’s commitment to going (and staying) green! The only gas involved is the…well, you know…
With things going so well, I hate to bring it up…but the coneflowers and Liatris…they’ve vanished. I am exaggerating, just a smidge—actually, they’re not completely gone. But the flowers and main stems have disappeared. They’ve been clipped with abandon. Chopped—no, I should say chomped, all the way to the soil. Didn’t you see the signs? You know, the spade-shaped white tags planted alongside each plant from the nursery? If you had read them, you would’ve noticed the silhouette of a deer with a black slash through it. That’s the symbol for NO DEER!
Oh dear…
No, you can’t blame the cottontails, they would’ve left a clean, surgical diagonal cut at the stem’s tops…their incisors, you know? So, too (gone), are the periwinkle asters (Twinkle, Twinkle, my blue yard—not any more…No blue flowers left:(!). And my favorite: the peach and pink-colored roses at the foot of the bottom steps. Mauled (a kind word for what they look like now—they say every rose has its thorns, but not these…no, not anymore…).
Those roses are your favorites, too? Oh deer—I’m biting my fist as I say this—$230 on perennials this year…down the tubes. Yes, I know you each have four stomachs to feed. But please…Please let your mowers know to keep their cutters ON THE GRASS ONLY. I have sprayed the remaining flowers with Deer BGone as an olfactory reminder to prevent such a mishap from recurring.
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
Yes, it was an untimely snow. In Custer, snow can happen anytime. And the upside of early white stuff is that it gives the flowers (what’s left of them anyway) something to cower under and avoid getting their heads lopped off.
But here’s the thing with the snow: apparently, you went dashing through it and crashed into our new fence. It’s now more wrinkled than time. I have several theories on what happened: you were tipsy; using the wire obstacles as hurdles for one of your deer games; or suffering from rut fever, perhaps? It is September, after all.
But you gave us a quote of zero bucks; what that says to me is that that rut fever thing shouldn’t be a problem. Do you have clandestine bucks on your crew, or not? If so, get rid of them: I demand that those antlered altercation-ists stay out of our lawn!
And I finally figured out where your money comes from. After shelling out fifty green ones to spray the flower beds, it’s clear you have stock in the Deer BGone company. Actually, come to think of it, I’m probably wrong about that. Something tells me that your company is actually the head (and tails and hooves) of the Deer BGone Company.
[sigh] Another $135 gone toward fencing. An entire day wasted re-installing it.
And now, the lawn is wired like Alcatraz. But there’s no way you are going to break through it. No, not this time.
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
The aspen trees are such a beautiful gold this time of year. The sound of their leaves dancing in the fall air is like massaging your soul, no? It’s a special kind of rustle that reminds you to covet the last warm days, before—yep, here comes winter, lurking around the corner. And you’ve seen its lurks before—yes, I noticed your change in uniform. I like it. Your light brown was spunky for summer, but winter needs a more solemn tone. Dark grey. Nice. It’s great you want to blend in with the surroundings, not appear pretentious for what surely will be hard times ahead.
It’s also possible that you didn’t want to be caught doing what you did to my aspen tree, to its smooth-skinned, avocado-colored bark. You know the one. Yellow sunshine dripped from its beautiful leaves. Now it’s crying. Sobbing, as a matter of fact. And its sap dropped on my hair (actually, it got on my hands and I ran my fingers through my hair, I was so distraught). One big mat on my (bleach) blondie locks. $125 at the hair salon and my stylist still had to cut out chunks.
You may think graffiti-ing trees with your antlers is something that feels good. Well, I’ll tell you…when you rub your antlers against their trunks, THE TREES DON’T LIKE IT! And you haven’t kept your promise of ZERO BUCKS.
A promise is a promise.
Capisce?
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
Yes, you are right. I’m sure part of the aspen trees’ beauty can be attributed to your herd’s faithfully fertilizing the yard around their long black roots.
And I know by using our yard as a place for nappy time does increase our property value—for you are pretty lawn ornaments (ain’t nuthin’ like the real thing, baby).
But the pumpkins you clambered up our deck and ate last night has Little Lil screaming a tantrum today—sent me to the clinic, she did; her racket made a headache that just wouldn’t quit and so finally I went to the doctor’s office. Another two hundred bucks. Gone. Worse than that, though, is that her dad had spent all day helping her carve a little pony (precious) into one of those pumpkins, and on the second squash, while trying to cut out an ice princess, his back Just Let Go. Even after visiting the clinic (another two hundred), he can’t walk now, not to mention carve another one of those lanterns for our Lil Punkin’. Had to be greedy and take both of them, didn’t you…how disappointing. Yeah, and while I’m tallying the black marks against you, those big-headed squash cost me fifteen bucks. Each (they were ghost-pumpkiny-special-hybrid-somethings-or-another).
What I want to know now is—How are you going to replace those organic symbols of holiday cheer, I ask you? I can’t afford to do it, let me tell you…I’m afraid to open my mailbox for fear of all the credit card bills haunting me. But Lil is gonna go batshi— if her pumpkins don’t reappear before Halloween.
HOW?!
Ira Te G’Ardener
Dear WLA:
It is with a heavy heart (and heavier freezer) to think that your landscaping business didn’t work out. At least, not for us. My pocketbook is over a thousand dollars lighter due to me accepting your free services (it’ll be higher, I’m sure since my husband has been eating painkillers like candy corn to dull his back pain).
Some bargain.
Yep, I learned the hard way that there’s no such thing as free.
But no hard feelings. Not one to hold a grudge, I’m glad to know this isn’t the end of our relationship. Not for at least another year, for your backyard indulgences carried a lot of weight.
Please note: I wrote this article in the spirit of “respect your environment” & not as a story to justify getting rid of any/all potential hazards that you might encounter while adventuring in the wilds.
At 5:34 am in the morning, our 94-pound German Shepherd mix named Timmy woke me up. He rested his massive paws on a shelf situated below an open window and whined, staring intently at something outside. Seconds later, I heard a pffff sound and the pounding of hooves as an alarmed deer bounded past, white tail flashing.
The deer wasn’t alone.
One of the many whitetails that inhabit the Black Hills.
Seconds later, a coyote sauntered by, beelining for the deer. The canid was about 35 meters behind. Both disappeared down the hill. For a minute or two, I waited and watched at the window, but didn’t see or hear any more drama.
Little did I suspect that this event was a foreshadowing of things to come…
Timmy…best fitness trainer ever.
Fast forward four hours. It was seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit and nine-thirty, and the dog (Timmy) still needed his daily outing. Timmy is my trainer: he motivates me to get out and exercise nearly every single day.
No excuses.
I don’t usually run this late in the day in the summer, but had a morning event to attend to, so wasn’t able to leave as early as I’d liked.
Western wood peewees called a burry kee-eer! as we headed up the hill, and I admired the wildflowers as I followed a Forest Service road through the woods. It’s been a relatively normal year for rainfall, so the grass was still green and lush. Every now and then, I’d turn back and make sure Timmy was still following. At seven years old, he still has a lot of energy, but likes to stop and smell everything a bit more than he did as a pup.
Monarda in full bloom.
After about nine-tenths of a mile of dirt, we merged onto a gravel county road and travelled south. The sun was intense, the air white with smoke drifting in from western wildfires. After another half mile, Timmy and I turned west from the county road onto another Forest Service road. About five minutes later, our relaxing, routine run turned into anything but.
Timmy was running right beside me, when suddenly, he dashed ahead and disappeared over a slight hill. A moment later, I heard yips and yaps, thinking maybe he’d sighted a rabbit and was calling excitedly about that.
Wrong.
I ran to the top of the rise. By then, Timmy was sprinting back toward me, a coyote in hot pursuit. I hollered at it to go away, but it ignored me and just kept coming.
O-kay…(not okay)
Timmy turned back and started chasing the coyote. I don’t usually let him chase wildlife, but I wanted to encourage this critter to leave. The coyote stayed just far enough ahead that Timmy didn’t catch it (I had my finger on a vibrate setting of his training collar so that he wouldn’t actually get quite that close). When I thought he’d chased it off far enough, I called Timmy to come back. He came racing back toward me.
Immediately the coyote did too.
And that’s when it became clear that things were about to get complicated. I stopped and yelled in my meanest voice, but it didn’t matter: the coyote kept coming.
Timmy and I started jogging again. Again, the coyote followed. Timmy was behind me about 5 meters. When he thought the coyote was too close, he’d turn around and chase it for about 100 meters, then catch back up to me, sides heaving, breathing hard. We were progressing around the loop, but not fast enough; right then, the one thing I wanted most was to get the heck outta there.
This predator might weigh only thirty-forty pounds and only be as high as my knees, but thoughts of rabies kept resurfacing. The intensity of the creature’s doggedness in following us was (very) unnerving.
A mile to go before the county road: it seemed like ten.
Timmy’s tongue was hanging out, and he was wanting to slow down. His pants were coming loud and fast. But Coyote kept chasing and barking at us.
Sweat was drenching my shirt, and the heat was growing more intense. We turned the corner and merged onto another dirt track, one that lead east, toward the county road (where for once I was hoping there would be traffic). By now Timmy had dashed off to chase the coyote away over five times. His efforts were to no avail: each time Timmy stopped his chase, immediately, the coyote stopped retreating and became the pursuer. Whenever it changed roles, it would bark at us in a fierce high voice.
We’d only jogged about a hundred meters onto the new dirt road. A ridgeline of rock parallels this new change in direction, running east-west. And that’s when things got worse.
Not only did the coyote behind us start barking fiercely. Apparently, it’s barking was also a battle cry.
Immediately, that one coyote voice transformed into many voices.Yipping and barking reined like arrows from above, along the ridge.
Ambushed.
That’s when I really thought we were in trouble. In my mind, I saw a pack of coyotes materializing from the hills and descending on Timmy. It was a real possibility.
One aggressive coyote was already giving us plenty of hassle. Against an entire pack?
Timmy wouldn’t stand a chance. I don’t think I’d fare so well, either.
As we hurried along in the scratchy heat, I scrambled to pick up whatever sticks I could find. Anything. The first pieces of wood I picked up were rather decayed, so as I ran, I traded them out for stronger, longer, sturdier pieces of wood. Finally, I settled on two different sticks, both three-and-a-half feet long plus a white rock that weighed about five pounds. I didn’t care if they slowed me down. If any coyotes got close enough, I was going to use them.
The yipping and hollering on the ridge above us continued.
Poor Timmy—he was starting to lag, but Coyote was still chasing us, so he kept running.
Every few seconds, I turned around to survey the ridge and Coyote behind Timmy. The ridge-yippers still kept barking fiercely, but they hadn’t come down. Yet. Hopefully they would stay put, although I wasn’t very hopeful.
I passed a Forest Service road fork; on any normal day we’d usually veer left. This fork travelled north along another wooded ridgeline, keeping one inside the wilds for awhile longer. Instead, we kept going straight, beelining toward the more well-travelled county road (sorry, Mr. Robert Frost—sometimes it’s better to take the road most travelled).
Every now and then, I stopped to yell at Coyote, but of course when I did so there weren’t any small-ish rocks around me, else I would’ve thrown those at it (I didn’t want to waste my big rock unless it came really close).
At last: the county road!
We reached it and started north, toward home.
Surely, this wide roadway would dissuade Coyote. Surely a car would come and scare it off. Surely I could drop my stick and stone and get back to “normal” running.
Surely not.
You guessed it: the dang thing kept chasing us, yipping and yapping. Instead of a narrow two-track, we had a wide gravel road to run on. Nothing else had changed, except the ridge-runners had stopped yammering. I was hoping they had given up on following us and weren’t cutting corners and about to pop out somewhere close. Poor Timmy didn’t have the energy to try and run off the coyote that was harrassing him. I kept running and looking back periodically, just hoping the coyote didn’t rush him.
One more time I stopped and stood to holler at the coyote.
Yeah, right, it said, giving me the eye and still moving closer. You’re not the boss of me. (I knew it was saying that because it kept chasing us despite the arduous terrain).
Timmy was now about twenty meters behind me. I simultaneously called encouragingly to him and yelled at coyote. Turning around, I jogged slowly up the hill, still clutching my sticks and stone. Eying the rocky bluffs alongside the road, I wondered if it would be wise to try and make a dash to the top of one of those and then try to fend off Coyote from there.
I turned around again…
Coyoted had vanished. Timmy was still jogging behind me, tongue lolling, eyes on me, telling me he’d catch up when he could.
Thank God.
About ten minutes later, a camper passed us on the county road (not soon enough!) and I was still running with those sticks and that rock—I’m sure they thought I was crazy.
But that’s ok. We arrived home safe. Timmy had one small scratch on his leg (probably from dashing all over the hillsides), but other than that, we were unscathed.
Timmy slept the rest of the day.
Some explanations for the coyote’s bold behavior (only speculation of course): The dog’s presence probably provoked the coyote; if Timmy hadn’t been with me during my run, I’m guessing the coyote probably wouldn’t have followed…the pack my have had young ones they were trying to defend…or possibly a kill they were protecting. In any case, this wasn’t your typical coyote behavior (at least not in the Black Hills or any other place I’ve travelled); oftentimes, when coyotes see people, they’ll hightail it outta there.
Never approach a coyote…they are indeed wild.
Got a different coyote story? I’d love to hear it!
It may be early November, but something happened this past summer that I’d like to share with you. This July, as I jogged along the Forest Service road behind our house, my eyes scanned the colors blurring past my feet: brown, grays, and greens.
But every now and then, a new color flashed before my eyes. Pastel, yet neon in a clarion call for attention.
Blue.
Shards of color lay, fragmented and still, on the ground before me. Upon closer inspection, the irregular pieces revealed themselves: the broken pieces of a robin’s egg.
An intact robin’s nest
Even though I didn’t stop to pick up bits from that particular eggshell, knowing that if I did it would dissolve into smithereens in my pocket, I carried the image with me on my run and ever since. Later, I found more robin’s egg fragments and took their photo.
A robin’s eggshell fragments.
Looking at fragments of eggshells, a sense of loss upwells and spreads inside me: a tightness in the chest, an undefined sadness. The feeling that something’s shattered. Broken. Like the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme, there’s a sense of irreversibility. Nothing is going to put those pieces back together again.
It’s similar to the heartsick feeling I get when I think about this country and the rest of the world. How the losses are multiplying, every moment our daily lives and way of doing things broken. This virus has tested our humanity and mocked our struggles to stay connected in a time when being connected in conventional ways can be hazardous to your health.
Broken eggshell fragments can mean that the chick inside was lost, his/her potential disappeared. Never to be realized, winged flight just a dream.
As a wildlife technician in New Mexico, my job was to monitor nests around a birder’s paradise called Rattlesnake Springs. Sometimes, hatchlings in nests would make it to the age to fly (called the fledgling stage). Many times they wouldn’t.
There was something distinctive that stood out while observing nests: for the nests that failed, the predator (the main cause of failure) didn’t leave any trace of their dastardly deed behind (I know, I know…a snake or rat or coyote, etc., has to eat too). In other words, there weren’t any fragments as leftover evidence of the nest attack that had occurred. Just the opposite: for nests whose contents were observable (nests less than about twelve feet in the air that I could use a mirror mounted on a telescope to see what was inside), what I most commonly found was…
Emptiness.
Instead of devastation, shards of brokenness can mean that a nest has hope. In many bird nests, after a chick hatches, the parent will take the eggshell fragments and drop them somewhere away from the nest (like many songbirds do with their nestling’s poop) so as not to attract predators and to keep the nest clean.
This behavior is a kind of defense mechanism.
In this time of covid, within our own lives, by distancing, we have grown more physically apart, become little fragments scattered over the landscape so as not to implicate our “nest”. But fortunately, there is still hope for wholeness. All is not lost.
The eggshell fragments scattered on the path were blue-sky blue.
Blue…as in the color of UP.
The sky’s the limit.
And together, we can go there…
May you and yours…and a collective “all of ours” be blessed.
Springtime along the Lookout Point Trail in Wind Cave National Park, South Dakota (photo taken in March 2009, and not reflective of current snowpack conditions).
When my husband Dan returned from his awesome cardio workout—a cross country ski through Cold Brook Canyon in Wind Cave National Park—he was dismayed to find our family’s efficient little Impreza disfigured by a hit and run. He frowned (and said a few choice words) as he studied the new four-inch long scratch and three-eighths of an inch deep crease in the car’s metal.
Bummer.
When your car gets marred and messed-with by someone else, you expect them to do what’s honest and right…
Right?
But alas, there was no note on the dash. No address, no name, no…nothing. But despite this lack of forthrightness, he found plenty of clues as to the perpetrator’s identity.
Cold Brook Canyon is a treasure-loaded trail situated in Wind Cave National Park. Following an old roadcut, in the summer it is a place for viewing such gems as lazuli buntings, rock and canyon wrens, numerous woodpeckers, Clark’s nutcrackers, swallows, eastern phoebes, and many other birds. The various seeps in the canyon provide habitat for reptiles and amphibians in the park, and, on one hiking occasion, we discovered an elk rack laying in a nearby drainage.
Skiing on Forest Service land in the Black Hills.
Wintertime in the Southern Black Hills oftentimes provides sporadic opportunities for cross country skiing. This year, we have been blessed with more white stuff than usual, so on this particular day, my husband decided to take advantage of this fact to get his heart pumping. He likes to brag that he’s put in around 50 ski days this winter so far (with a minimum of 30 minutes of actual ski time each episode). I like to brag right back that I’m at least at 75 ski days; there is a lot of Forest Service land in the Black Hills, and most are crisscrossed with logging roads—perfect for cross-country skiing (after you make your own tracks).
Because of their concern for damaging the park’s outstanding underground resources (Wind Cave), the park doesn’t salt their roads (they are worried about the chemicals seeping down and compromising cave resources). Consequently, any cars driving into the park function basically like salt blocks on wheels. Whenever a vehicle is parked for any length of time, bison and/or deer gravitate toward it and start licking the door panels, bumper, fenders—anywhere that might be splashed with salt.
Tongue-lick marks on the sides of the car.
Tasty.
And when several bison crowd around a single car, they tend to get a bit feisty to maintain their territory. Horns and head butts/swipes are common tactics used to tell competitors to back off.
And that’s what my husband speculates happened: a bison, crowded and annoyed by his buddies, tossed his head and, in the process scraped and dented our vehicle.
(Here’s the other part I didn’t tell you: when Dan returned to his car, there was a large male bison licking the car’s passenger side door. Bison are unpredictable; they can decide to lollygag in one place for hours on end. Dan didn’t have that kind of time, so he snuck over to the driver’s side, quickly opened the door, jumped in, put the car in reverse, and made a quick getaway. By then, people had driven into the parking lot and saw this entire ridiculous episode. They were laughing. I would be too, assuming everything went as planned).
Dan is 99% sure that our car’s damage was made by a bison.
But I know better. That lightning-shaped scar gives it away.
The real culprit was:
Voldemort (and I’m guessing he doesn’t carry car insurance)
I hope this finds you and yours healthy…or at least on the road to recovery.
So this is a rather silly post, but I was on a shopping mission at our hometown grocery store…had plotted to get there early to avoid other peeps. I was successful in that regard.
One of the store clerks saw me pausing in front of the empty toilet paper shelves, gaping at the cavernous space like it was one of the seven wonders of the world. He informed me, “there’s a shipment coming in at 10:30 am.” I thanked him and moved on.
Little did the grocery clerk know that he would be the inspiration for this post…
Yesterday, we received eleven inches of fresh, powdery snow, and last night the temps dipped down to -17 Fahrenheit (-27 Celsius). During the snowstorm, I took the kids to the local hill to sled for an hour or so (with us, there was a total of six people there, and we maintained our distance). It was a wonderful experience to be out amongst the community of falling flakes and the fresh air.
Today, I rescued my husband from his desk sentence, and together we took a short cross-country ski behind our house. Everything outside was fresh and new and spotless. The red crossbills were foraging in a group in the pine trees, their chattering voices drowning out the sounds of the chickadees, nuthatches, and juncos nearby.
Yes, in desperate times, people have been compelled to use this, ahem, so-called frozen bidet. This au natural substance is an effective solution to those of us who live in climates filled with chill and desperation.
Hope this helps you out, with either a chuckle or…well I don’t need to say any more; you know what you gotta do.
I hope this finds you perservering during what most of us are are finding a challenging time. Please keep saying those prayers and being supportive: to those in the healthcare field, those who are ill, immuno-suppressed, and/or elderly. If you are one of those people…may God bless you!
Despite that, please, please have faith that magic is yet afoot in this world.
…or should I say a-winged?
It’s been too long since I’ve updated this page, but something happened over the winter that just makes my soul sing “amazing grace how sweet the sound”. I could almost fly after feeling the special awesomeness of the moment, and it is one thing that I shall cherish in my heart for a long time. It was so cool, I’d like to share that moment with you, and maybe get the chance to hear from you—of your own magical moments.
We were X-country skiing with family in the Sawtooth mountains of Idaho when it happened. My son Bryce was right in front of me and stopped suddenly. He pointed his ski pole into the woods nearby. A small grayish-black bird with bright red eyebrows (a structure known as a comb) was walking toward him. About the size of a small chicken, the bird came out from the forest, stepped onto the groomed snow trail, and approached my son who was quietly watching. When he reached Bryce, who was standing still, the bird calmly and speculatively gaze up the trunklike features of my son’s black snow pants. After a moment of eyeing this curiosity of a human boy, the grouse decided to hop at Bryce’s pant legs, pecking gently at the black fabric of the snow pants.
Spruce grouse are hardy birds, and their main diet in the winter is composed of needles (including those from spruce, pine and fir) from evergreen trees. As a result of consuming all of this roughage, the birds’ gizzards grow by about 75% and their intestines lengthen by about 40%.
Given its diet, I wasn’t worried that the little pecker was about to sample this smallish human for lunch. And it wasn’t nesting season, so there wasn’t much in the way of territorial behavior. I had heard spruce grouse were supposed to be relatively tame—one of their nicknames is fool’s hen—but reading about it and experiencing it are two different things.
The rest of the ski group stopped to watch this amusing spectacle, and the bird kept hopping up and delivering short pecks to my son’s pants. Eventually, it moved on to do similar hop-pecking motions at my daughter, who was watching nearby. And then, after a few minutes, the bird just kind of wandered amongst the tall pillars of humans surrounding it.
Occasionally, it would pause and make a guttural clicking sort of noise sound; at the same time, it’s tail feathers would fan out then contract.
And then I knelt in the snow and held out my hand toward the bird, my index finger extended. I didn’t know what to expect; didn’t really expect anything to happen. But then to my surprise, the bird boldly walked up to my hand and studied it for a moment. With a flutter of wings, it flew onto my extended finger. Its feathery feet tickled my fingers as it just perched there and eyed me curiously.
And then, as if nothing special had just happened, it calmly flew back down and resumed its wandering amongst us.
But the magic.
It was sparking and glittering all around us, transforming the moment into one that will be forever etched inside the cupboard labelled with “special family moments.”
There is something incredible about interacting with nature, with the feeling that you are part of something bigger…something awesome.
Amazing!
All too soon, it was time to continue up the trail. Spruce grouse followed us as we swished forward on our skies. As we were too fast for his little legs to run, he soon fell behind. We thought that was the end of it, and giggled as he dropped from sight.
But no!
Moments later, we heard a fluttering sound behind us as the creature took to the skies to keep up. He landed just behind us and started running, his neck outstretched in pursuit. Eventually, though, he tired and said his goodbye. No longer could we count the little, chickenlike bird as a physical member of our group. But our hearts will always be filled with just a touch more whimsy because of our paths crossing in the middle of the forest that day.
Wishing you days that are touched with magic, no matter how big or small. They are great, after all.
If you have a moment, share your own magical encounter.
A snowy day was forecast. A snowy day arrived, indeed. Over a foot of snow, blowing, blustering. Smothering thoughts of anything bright green.
After hours of shovelling
…what else was there to do but ski?
As usual, Timmy (above) was anxious to escape the house. But once outside, he did seem to question the wisdom of such an endeavor.
We weren’t the only ones venturing. Intrepid white-tailed deer crowded around the backyard compost bin; they’ve learned how to knock off its lid and mine it for goodies, like a pineapple crown (upper right), apple cores, and the insides of grapefruit rinds.
A dark-eyed junco braved the weather for a pick-me-up at the bird feeder.
Yesterday I participated in the Christmas Bird Count located at Wind Cave National Park, SD. It had just snowed about a half inch overnight, sprinkling a dose of magic to the already enchanting landscape. Following are a few pictures to document my adventure.
The Christmas Bird Count is a citizen-science annual event hosted by the National Audubon Society and takes place in the U.S., Canada, and many countries in the Western Hemisphere. This year marks Audubon’s 120th Christmas bird count, and—depending on your local count schedule— takes place sometime between Saturday, December 14, 2019, and Sunday, January 5, 2020. On one day within this date range, volunteer birdwatchers of all types and abilities come together to count all the birds seen/heard within designated 15-mile circlar areas. If you are interested in participating, you can find out more: https://www.audubon.org/conservation/join-christmas-bird-count
For questions about the value of this project, the Audubon Society has an answer: “The data collected by CBC participants over the past century and more have become one of only two large pools of information informing ornithologists and conservation biologists how the birds of the Americas are faring over time.”
In other words, through your participation, you are making a (positive) difference! It’s also a great excuse to spend a day in nature therapy.
An American robin was singing very quietly from atop a sunny perch.Box elder seeds donning crystals of ice.Snow icing on rocky orange cliffs.A northern flicker “becomes one” with the snag he’s perched on.By afternoon, most of the snow along all but the northern aspects had melted.
Even if you can’t be part of the Christmas Bird Count, it is always amazing to find a patch of nature and to listen and watch. She’s a good teacher.
