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.
Today and yesterday…
All around us snow.
Falling from the trees, their flocking like
Manna from heaven.
…And then enlightening.
I just had to make this poster:
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.
Looking back it’s been since April (gasp) that I’ve visited this site. Yes, before this summer started, I had suffered from delusions of using a few hours a day to finish editing my latest novel and I realized at the time that this feat would require dropping other writing projects if I wanted to get that done. No excuses, but since school’s out, time has been in hyper-speed mode and I’m just trying to hang on. If you’ve got school-aged kids, you probably know what I mean.
Don’t blink: July is almost over.
Summer vacation started out strangely…my kids had a snow day on the day before school let out (instead of using the day before, if my husband were writing this, he’d use the word “penultimate”—he loves that word). The day before! As I drove to the school to pick up my children on their last day of school, the neighborhood’s lawns were covered in snow.
The kids spent their first day of “summer break” building immense snowballs and watching as they rolled down the hill and smashed into smithereens.
Nature keeps a treasure chest whose delights appear in the most unexpected places and times.
I’ve lived in the Black Hills of South Dakota for eleven years now and I would tell you that, nope, we don’t have fireflies here. Maybe if you travel east, yes, but not here.
And then our family goes camping at a lake in Custer State Park.
This particular lake is located about eighteen miles from our house. A couple of years ago at this same campground, I’d thought I’d seen a yellow flash from a lightning bug as I took a stroll in the dark, but discounted it as my overactive imagination, as that particular insect only lit up once. No, on that particular long-ago night, I wasn’t able to satisfy my hunger and catch a second glimpse of the firefly smoldering like the emerging petals of a buttercup. By doing so would bring me back to summer days when we visited my grandparents’ house in Indiana,where we spent hours chasing after these small flying lanterns lighting up the humid dark sky.
And then, just last week, we visited that same campground.
Lo and behold—wouldn’t you know it?— the little buggers flashed us as we sat by the campfire roasting marshmallows. Their erratic, bright yellow beacons added even more cheer to an already glowing campfire and were a cogent reminder of how little I know about life, the universe, and everything (thank you, Douglas Adams). And my little part of the world.
Look at this: these birds aren’t native, but it was still quite astounding to see: I was preparing a cup of tea and noticed a pair of female peacocks as they wandered behind our house then continued up the hill as if they had important business to conduct.
The deer around our place may rival the number of people in China (a slight exaggeration), but, even with my cold, hard, gardener’s heart, seeing a fawn pant after his mother is still worth a few awwws.
I hope you are finding your own taste of nature to be incredible.
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
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.
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.
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.
Shushh…the sound of the Virgin River’s lullaby from wayyy down below.
Other thoughts also come to mind:
as a parent).
opportunities to commiserate with other people who had the same (healthy) fear
I already say spooky?)
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
It’s spring in the Black Hills of South Dakota, and, as of today, April 3, the mountain bluebirds have been here for about three weeks. Their winter home is in the southernmost west states of the U.S. (California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas) plus northern Mexico. But if you didn’t know where they were coming from, you would think pieces of the sky were indeed falling, for these birds are colored the most brilliant blue imaginable.
Mountain bluebirds (along with gardeners and farmers) are the
ultimate optimists. The day after I saw the first pair for the year, a blizzard
struck the plains about an hour to the east of us.
No, in the Dakotas, winter doesn’t give up easily. Today, we awoke to an inch-and-a-half of the white stuff on the ground (a bit more is on the way). With a diet comprised mainly of insects and spiders, mountain bluebirds have their work cut out for them. What self-respecting spider, wasp, beetle, grasshopper, or caterpillar is going to be doing loop-the-loops in the air or taking an upside-down stroll on the underside of a leaf? (especially since the leaves here have yet to emerge).
Yet, as you might imagine, there are still insects and spiders
outside, but they aren’t nearly as accessible or in as large numbers observed
Fortunately, mountain bluebirds have other places to look for six- and eight-legged prey. Currently, mountain bluebirds along our road spend a lot of time foraging in a large unmowed field where the dried stalks of grass and thatch provide shelter to over-wintering insects. Other places the birds may search include: tree cavities, under the eaves of buildings, in the leaf litter, or in galls. Other insects, like ants and termites (not really mountain bluebird food anyway), aren’t accessible, for they winter in the soil below the frost line; nor are the larvae of dragonflies and damselflies, who grow and thrive under winter’s blanket of frozen water.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. When spiders and insects are scarce, mountain bluebirds will resort to hackberries, grapes, currants, dogwoods, elderberries, and dried fruits of other plants for food. I can attest to the value of hackberry trees to songbirds in early spring: just last week in Pierre, SD, the neighborhood’s hackberry trees were dripping with robins and cedar waxwings as they devoured the trees’ berries (When I spent time in west Texas, I observed a goshawk nesting atop a hackberry’s main trunk, while in the vicinity, a pair of Bell’s vireos and several hummingbirds built their nests in some other hackberry trees’ branchtips).
Warmer weather in South Dakota will eventually prevail. And with it will come other birds, adorned in the spectacular palettes only nature can conjure. I look forward to the day when I see the first western tanager of the season. Black and bright yellow feathers color the wings and breast of this bird, while the fire of a sunset blazes atop their throats and crowns.
When that highly anticipated moment finally arrives and I hear the tanager’s characteristic upward tik-tik-tik declaration in the canopy of a pine tree, I’ll be the first to say:
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.
When your car gets marred and messed-with by someone else, you expect them to do what’s honest and 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.
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.
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)
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.
Ira Te G’Ardener
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.
Ira Te G’Ardener
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.
Ira Te G’Ardener
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!
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
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
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.
Ira Te G’Ardener
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.
Ira Te G’Ardener
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).
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.