Standing Dead in the Water

This morning I perched on a fallen timber at the edge of the beaver swamp, camera ready. The slow sun climbed above the distant tree line. As I waited for the swamp to awaken, a shiver came over me; reminded me to blow warm air into my gloved hands.

My seat was a long reclining tree trunk, likely felled in the past 5 years by the beaver whose job it was to make a wetland home. That home I now surveyed with quiet wonder as the vapors condensed in the cold air. A pileated woodpecker ratcheted a morning hello. Another replied. I saw the first chase the second towards the sun. I started thinking more about the trees in the wetland. Many were standing dead in the water. Others, like my seat, were lying dead. I developed a greater appreciation for dead trees this cold morning. The pileated woodpeckers depended on them for food and home. The wood ducks I sought to photograph also depended on them for shelter. Here in the swamp the arboreal sacrifices diversified the habitat, enriched the ecosystem. I found beauty in a tree strewn beaver pond.

There is a conflict to puzzle over. Why in one location is a dead tree a thing of beauty while in another, evidence of harm? As an admirer of trees, I tend towards angst when I find one ravaged at the base, tooth-marked and weeping sap. It isn't a pretty sight, especially in a hardwood forest along the banks of my beloved Eno River. But here in a shallow valley fed by a trickling stream, the result is wholesome and acceptable. I guess the juxtaposition supports the notion that every place has a purpose, as do the things within that place. Sometimes we lose our place and need some redirection.

Well this morning I was glad to be in that place. I hope I didn't intrude too much, leave a nasty mark for the beavers to loath. I didn't see the wood ducks today, maybe too early. I'll try again in a few weeks.

A Traveling Tale

Heading to work the other morning, I walked from the warm house to the cold car and heard the sound from the edge of the yard. A dying high pitched whistle, as a finger once around a crystal rim. In an instant I was on the rocky edge of the trail in Maine, four years back, with Katahdin, mysterious in the distance.

I now listened once more, hand inches from the cold door handle, eyes half closed, ear to the sky, between two places. The White Throated Sparrow was back for the winter. I smiled and drove to work, recalling time in the great north woods.

Funny how a little bird carried that memory to me on weary wings, from its mild summer home up north to its southern winter retreat in my yard. Before my trip to Maine in the summer of '06 I didn't know about the White Throat. But it was there, near tree line in a true wilderness, where the lonesome sound caught my attention, defined a place. The park ranger had confirmed it for me and told of its later departure for warmer winter climates. That winter back south, back home, I heard the sound again. It had new meaning.

I consider it my Maine bird, like a distant relative bringing tales of other lands home for the holidays. It hides in the thinning brush, scratches at the ground leaves, visits the window feeder. When the air is crisp and the sun is low, it sings out a traveling tale.

Creatures Teaming

The river otters were unexpected. But there they were, suddenly. I was startled for a moment, then excited. I had just flushed a family of wood ducks and my heart rate was settling as I stepped over the beaver logs, through the bent grass, to the edge of the backwater. The sparrows were in and out of the grasses, like hide and seek. It was a quiet spot save for the wild creatures teaming all around. I had to laugh, for a second, at the seeming providence leading me to the wilds.

A red tailed hawk screeched as it joined the scene atop one of the many sun-bleached deadwoods standing over the wet lowland. We both watched the otters.

Spore of Adventure

The Eno River Watershed, infinite diversity. The plan was to walk the quarry path and maybe sit in the spotlight of sun on the high bluff overlooking the river, if Grayson was up for it. He rode in the backpack carrier and promptly, but not surprisingly, fell asleep on the trail within the first 5 minutes.

About 40 minutes later he awoke just as I descended a wooded slope to a bubbling bend in the river. He immediately stretched out his finger and uttered a slightly tired, yet hopeful, coo towards the shimmering water. We had never stood at that spot before. We didn't know exactly where we were, but we were glad to be there.

While he had slept, I found myself on a blissful bushwhack. He didn't seem to mind at all. It wasn't the original plan. Some spore of adventure settled upon my will and quickly germinated. I departed the trail at a dense green carpet of locally rare ground cedar, which I considered a sign of unique geography worth exploring. Standing in the middle of the lush ground cover, I noticed a not too distant ridge of dappled light through the trees, signifying the edge of a bluff. Soon I was standing on the break, in an airy woods, surveying my options. My ear caught a faint gurgle of water below, and so I went with gravity, gradually down the gradient.

I feel that I know the Eno well, yet often and again I am stunned by its secrets. We stood at a simple, beautiful corner of river where angled light danced from the turning leaves to the emboldered stream. Deep shadows rolled off the backs of the smooth, large rocks. The water was clear today. Grayson pointed again. My camera's battery gauge blinked a red warning. I sighed, but it didn't really matter; I wouldn't have been able to capture that moment with a million button pushes.

We walked back a slightly different route (adding a couple more adventures), but still through the woods, up and over the ridge, through the cedar patch, and finally back along the familiar trail.

Prelude To Fall

We got a break from the heat this weekend! Blue skies prevailed. Clouds drifted by, light and feathery. It was the first time in a long while that people commented favorably on the weather.

I got the idea while sitting on the front steps with Grayson Saturday morning. I was just sitting there in blissful celebration of a cool morning. My son was between my knees exploring the brick steps with his tiny pink fingers. He discovered the stem of a dry leaf. He figured out how to lift and twirl it above his head. I found a similar one and, mimicking my son, ended with a gentle flourish that sent my leaf floating back to the ground. Well that did it. Grayson was hooked on the magic of leaves.

I decided we needed to retire to the front lawn to sit beneath the tuliptree from which those leaves had tumbled. It was there, for the next hour or so, that we laid in the shade on a cool cotton sheet littered with a local assortment of leaves,pine needles, and a twig or two. Grayson got his first hands-on experience with the prelude to fall. I got to recline and breath deeply as I spied the sky and tossed leaves up into the breeze. So here's a reminder for when the weather is just right: "Lie down and look up."

Swallowtail Summertime

For months now, in our part of North Carolina, a breath of fresh air has been rare as the heat and humidity snuffed it out. Midweek and midday finds me sweating through my office clothes as I go from car to building to car. The weekend arrives and pants become shorts, shoes become barefeet, and time spent in an office becomes time spent in the shade of a sycamore tree overhanging the Eno River.

Between the shady weekends, how is one to find relief?

This summer I have found inspiration by watching the butterflies. They whirl across an open sunny field in search of succulence. With awkward grace, they alight above the canopy, drying their delicate wings in the blaze of afternoon warmth. They are beautiful and full of life. But why do they spend so much time in this sun that we are trying to avoid? I'm sure science can convincingly explain the relationships between sun and butterfly. I'm sure we can guess many of those reasons correctly. But I'm going to offer a simple reason that I hope, rather than know, is true: Butterflies spend all this time in the sun because, as winged beings, time is short and they want a clear view of the world in which they live.

This summer I've seen more butterflies than times past. I don't know if it is me or them, but whatever the reason, I'm glad we've crossed paths so frequently. I'll admit I'm looking ahead to fall, but I'll fondly recall this swallowtail summertime, when stained glass heartbeats captured my attention, made my baby boy point and smile, and reminded me to embrace even the sun scorched moments.

Even While We Whisper

We had a view of the Chesapeake Bay for a whole weekend.
Sitting on the dock, you experience the weather moving over the Bay like you would feel the weather over an Oklahoma wheat field. Rain in the distance rolls in as an advancing fog. The wind pushes the water towards the land. Like horses running for the stables, the sailboats drop sail and briskly motor on home.

An expanse of water and land reward the keen eye with abounding treasures. A fluttering speck on the horizon, just at treeline, flies near to become a whistling Osprey carrying a fresh catch tight in his talons.
The still water bursts into a boil in the distance as a thrashing school of menhaden escape the current and swirl ahead of a gang of hungry striped bass. If you're paying attention, now is the time to cast your line and take advantage of the marine madness. The old slate heron watches from the shadows, slowly nodding approval.

The sun, moon, and sky preen in virtuous vanity above the reflective bay. We gather on the shore to admire their beauty. Even while we whisper our respects, our awe carries to the far shore. Our presence becomes part of the scene. May the Bay, in its benevolent way, forever stay.

While the Gulf Choked

i watched the suspect on camera,
i drove the getaway car,
i fumed at the news on the radio,
i felt guilty every day,
i cursed capitalism,
i hugged my son tight and feared for his future,
i sat in traffic,
i counted plastic,
i took out the trash,
i recycled,
i lived a life of luxury,
i searched for sacrifice,
i acknowledged my hypocrisies,
i remembered public school classes teaching that progress is good,
i envied the Amish,
i wasted energy while i saved my energy,
i wiped my eyes when i read the report of the kid who sent his lemonade-stand money to a Gulf Coast fisherman,
i remembered the Exxon Valdez,
i remembered Three Mile Island,
i remembered Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Iraq,
i convinced myself "these things happen",
i thanked the trees, the clouds, and the sun,
i mourned the loss of life,
i was lucky to continue my life.

Getting Your Feet Dirty

If you felt the earth gently shake a couple weeks ago, let me comfort you with an explanation.

Our boy Grayson officially shook hands..er...feet with Mother Nature in an unpublicized and informal ceremony in the foothills of Pennsylvania beneath the sheltering branches of the hemlock and ash, within the stone circle where Heather and I were married.
He hadn't had much use for his feet up until then.

With a guiding hand, we lowered him to the earth. He stood tall and dug his toes deep into the dirt and duff, and smiled serenely. It was a moist and cool afternoon. We simply asked him and the earth to respect each other and work towards a healthy, long term relationship.

It takes some work you know. Many adults still haven't figured out this relationship. When we focus on ourselves it is easy to overlook the ones we depend on.

Depend on the earth. Get to know her. Even if it means getting your feet dirty (it usually washes off).

Hold on to the Ephemeral

Last year around this time, I found a butterfly-shaped green leaf cluster on the ground alongside the backyard creek. And then I found another nearby. The more I searched, the more I found. As it was early Spring I waited and watched for days, hoping to see what kind of flower this new find would produce. Those leaves kept getting bigger, but no flowers emerged. One cluster held a tiny pod I was sure held the ingredients for perfect petals. But nothing happened. An Internet search showed a picture of a pristine little white flower unfurling, with a caption that read, "One of the Spring Ephemerals." A couple clicks later I learned the meaning of ephemeral: short-lived; lasting only a day or so. Ah, so I had somehow missed the blooming of that mysterious plant called the Bloodroot.

My son turned three months old last week. Every week I see something new and exciting when I look into his eyes. I wonder sometimes how I can hold on to the ephemeral beauty I see before me. He is in this stage now that if he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he grins the most sincere grin I can imagine. I have been visiting the bathroom mirror a lot lately with him. I can't help it. I want to hold on to these moments, for I know they will pass. But of course some of them might return.

And so I returned to the creekside a little earlier this spring, before the green clustered leaves emerged. I watched for three weeks and finally last week I got my reward. The Bloodroots bloomed one cool morning and soaked up the afternoon sun. I was pleased to witness their day in the sun.

Enjoy What We Have

Last week we learned that one of our favorite local hiking trails, previously designated to be replaced by a highway bypass, is now going to be preserved as a natural area! We are relieved, perhaps selfishly, but none the less relieved.

Walking down the "Old Speedway" trails on a quiet afternoon, searching the ground for signs of early spring, is a natural tonic. Hearing nothing but the breeze through the trees or the faint laughter of exploring children is preservation of the soul. We are thankful.

The trail leads down to a bend in the Eno River beneath a large Beech tree. Here, another type of preservation is in progress. In this case, both the antagonist and victim is nature, for the Beech is a target of the beaver. Another player in this drama is the river itself, gnawing, year after year, flood after flood, at the soil and root upholding the big Beech. The humans are trying to help out here, with a wire beaver barrier wrapped around the tree trunk. It seems to be working. But the river is still doing its job. One day, I know the Beech will fall into the river and the beaver will get a nice surprise. Until then, we do what we can and enjoy what we have.

And so I think the same is true for "The Old Speedway Trails." For now, we do what we can and enjoy what we have. Remember to enjoy what we have!

Along a Path of Leaves

Ah, the sun felt good this weekend. We went for a hike with little Grayson. He bobbed quietly on my chest, in and out of sleep. I shielded his face whenever the trail turned directly into the sun. As we walked, we brushed through the dry leaves. I imagined Grayson listening to the rhythmic swishing; lulled by the rustling heartbeat. I don't know what he sensed, but I sensed he liked it.

Ever wonder what you would do if you lost the ability to do the things you love to do? I think about this often. Call it self-preservation, call it paranoia. I call it planning ahead and keeping my options open...having a plan B.

Well, as we were walking today, and I was thinking about Grayson and his developing senses, I imagined what I would do in nature without my full use of my own senses. Specifically I thought about eyesight, or rather the lack of sight, and how my great appreciation for the beauty of our natural world would be significantly altered. How would I deal? Grayson helped me understand that I would simply trust in someone else to lead me along a path of leaves. I would bask in the sunlight and listen to the foot scrapes. I would thank the trees for their gifts.

With Eyes Closed

I've been watching the sun a little closer. Lately it always seems to be in my little baby's eyes when we go out. Grayson jerks his head clumsily, but effectively, away from those screaming beams of light while I shuffle my feet and pirouette into the shadows. Speaking of shadows, I think Grayson is already looking ahead to Spring when the leaves emerge and the trees return their sheltering shade.
For now we stand on the front stoop with our back to the sun embracing its warmth with eyes closed.