Winter Wonderland

I know that I ask too much of you, dear reader, to transport yourself from a sun-warmed beach in July to a snow-covered forest in late-December. Let me offer some assistance. Gently close your eyes. Imagine a hardwood forest where the glossy green leaves of sumer are touched by the cooling breezes of fall. All too quickly these leaves drop their orange-yellow-magenta selves to the ground. Now feel the chill of a cloud-covered day. Then visualize more days when brisk winds carry rain and then bountiful snow to cover the frozen ground.

Eventually the landscape is peopled with dark naked tree trunks and wispy branches that emerge in stark contrast to the overwhelming presence of white. Unexpectedly your eye catches the faintest hint of color: two swaying, yellowy orange leaves that dangle from branches. Were they bells, they might be ringing. It is now past winter solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas. The new year is upon us and it is time to bid farewell to the darkness and welcome the return of the light. The forest, released of its canopy of thick leaves, opens overhead into far reaching sky....

On Christmas Eve--three nights ago--Frances and I donned snowshoes about 8:30 pm to take a moonlit walk. A foot of new-fallen snow blanketed the earth and the full moon beamed like a huge yard light suspended from heaven. We walked deep into the woods past our property line and onto county forest land. With each step we left the leafless maples, poplars, birches, and oaks behind with our footprints. When we reached the snow-filled balsam fir trees, their snow-lacquered branches weighted heavily, we paused, and listened to silence.

We stood quietly for a moment then waited more minutes to hear the hoot of an owl, the howl of a coyote, the tiny footsteps of a mouse, or the faint whoosh of a breeze brushing treetops. We heard nothing. Silence surrounded us, breathed through us, nested into us.

Eventually I asked Frances if she heard the high-register hum of something unidentifiable. "What is it?" I inquired. "Is it the electrical impulses produced by my brain as it communicates with my nervous system? Does it come from inside my body--our bodies--or from without?"

"Perhaps it's the vibration of the trees," Frances responded. "Or maybe it's the earth or ionosphere," she added after more minutes of silence. Eventually we turned and retraced our steps back to the warmth and light of our house where unsplit firewood awaited us.

The next afternoon Frances speculated further about the previous night's moments of wonderment, "Maybe we heard the sound of stars talking to each other."

From Woods to Beach and Back Again ... and Again

Last Tuesday we ventured to Little Sand Bay for some much-needed relaxation. I had to convince Frances first that it was warm enough (mid-70s) to remove her long underwear--it was July 17th for Heaven's sake--before we headed to the sun-drenched shore. Once there, I read a book aloud as Frances sewed a sweatband into her new 50 cent straw hat and Namaste explored the beach and napped in the shade.

While I wrote in my journal I paused as a fishing boat glided past surrounded by seagulls. The sunlight reflected off the flapping wings and turned moving birds into tiny sparks of light. It reminded me of a pointillist painting, a technique that uses dots of paint which blend together in the viewer's eye. It was truly an impressionistic scene, my feelings stirred by the visual effect of light on fluttering wings, dancing gulls, and the smooth forward motion of the fishing boat. As I watched the light glance off the water and shimmer through the air I could see and sense the forward momentum but felt entranced by this one brief, captured moment. The sun, lake, birds, boat, and sky were my art museum as I tumbled into the light-infused painting, my senses sparked.

Soon, an eagle swept over the surface of the lake directly in front of us and flew to the top of a tree that poked its head high above the rest on the near-distant shore. It was hard to return home to work; the rhythmic waves had depressed the pause button on our frantic lives and I'd lost the desire to release that button and resume "Play."

Yesterday morning I drove to Bayfield to lead two t'ai chi chih moving meditation classes on the lakeshore. About halfway down our hill I saw a tall, long-legged bird standing in the drive--a Great Blue Heron--who took flight in that same instant, great wings lifting and rising, rising, rising above the driveway, above the trees, and out of sight. What a gift of beauty in the daily rush of responsibility! Downtown I practiced t'ai chi chih along the lakeshore while a Cormorant, or sea crow, glided silently by nearly touching the lake's surface.

We returned to the lakeshore near Meyer's Beach last night around 7:30. As soon as we stepped onto the sand, a family of geese along the water's edge--two parents and six adolescents-- watched us with suspicion. We walked the opposite direction, not wishing to interrupt, and soon noticed a Merganser family (Mom and eight babies) swimming out from the shoreline. Mom led the way and her clutch followed, some more reluctantly than others. Just when I thought they were all gathered together, another two small fluffs of feathers shot out from the shore. They streaked across the water, running on tiny feet. Once reunited, youngsters piled onto Mom's back (see picture at the top of this entry) and she swam further into the waves. They rode, smoothly, for a short while before they piled off again.

Occasionally Mom dove under water to search for fish while young'uns flashed ahead, like enormous water bugs whisking along the lake's surface. Now Mom had to struggle to keep up. What a sight! I laughed ... this small family group with its humorous and unexpected behaviors reminded me of Last Comic Standing. Surely no one could top this act. Again and again, nature and her many actors feed my soul with their shining, bobbing, sweeping, flashing, flying, lightning mix of art, culture, music, and entertainment.

SunDay

It's cool, but heating up after several nights of rain. We're running through our paces with the Bayfield summer tourist crowd. I work as assistant innkeeper at Pinehurst Inn three afternoons a week, teach a t'ai chi chih class in Cornucopia, and am currently organizing classes on Madeline Island and lakeside in Bayfield. Frances is booked with massage sessions at our Island Inn office on Madeline and at our north woods retreat here on the mainland.

Today, thankfully, it's quiet. The phone is silent and the bird song magnificent. We're home most of the day .... actually took time to sit out on the deck as we ate breakfast. Then Frances gassed up the tractor to scrape and grate our driveway back into shape after its customary downhill slide into gullies from the heavy rainfall.

Even though we're busy, wildlife casually saunters by. A black bear appeared outside our south deck several nights ago. S/he was back again last night around 7:00 pm based on the dog's frantic barking, panting, and shaking. Yesterday morning Frances yelled to a deer eating in the near woods by our deck fearful that s/he may be too close to her horse chestnut trees. Later I let out the geese and played with the dog on the west side of the house, oblivious to the deer's continued presence. As I talked and yelled and laughed I heard a loud and continuous snort. The perceived message? "This is my woods! Who do you think you are chasing me away?"

Saturday I drove the eight miles to downtown Bayfield. A visit to the Farmer's Market provided welcome socializing and delectable produce. Jennifer, one of my t'ai chi chih students from Cornucopia was there with cilantro, parsley, kale, and lettuce from her garden plus fresh-baked delights (quiches in raised dough, brownies, pound cake and more). Tony, a neighbor from Town of Russell, displayed beautiful butter lettuce and romaine, and Sam (also from Russell) sold homemade apple cider.

Conversation focused on the expanding development in the area. We fear, of course, that once the trees are cut down and the expensive houses built, our own privacy, quietude, and backyard wilderness will be lost. The war in Iraq was also up for discussion. Could dissent in the streets be the only way to move toward change in that never-ending saga? Several other vendors enticed me but I stopped shopping after cash ran out and the dog lost patience.

My walk with Namaste on Brownstone Trail was wonderful. This lakeside hike reminds us of the coastal sea path in southern England. Of course, there you have an ocean view and here it's a lake, but either way you walk through beautiful wildflowers, vines, and bushes with occasional glimpses of water. The vegetation is so prolific in some areas that it grows overhead and provides much-welcome shade. And--the word must be spreading--it felt like a well-used country road out there with human, dog, and bike traffic coming and going in both directions. As I walked I realized that Frances and I, so busy during the summer, seldom venture onto this trail. Our spring, fall and winter walks are much different without the blossoming flowers, leafed out trees and bushes, and strolling tourists to fill our senses and mask our view of the lake.

It's a precious gift to live in a peace-filled environment. I'm soaking it into every pore ...

Fly Away (from) Home

July 2, 2007. Today was the day.

I breakfasted on the front porch in order to observe our Eastern Phoebe fledglings as I ate. They certainly were noisier ... and larger. One parental feeding revealed four baby birds, as evidenced by four beaks pointed straight up to receive one much-awaited insect, not three babies as previously thought.

The peeping continued unabated until I opened the front door underneath their nest to let the cat out. Suddenly, all was quiet. The most visible baby directly in front stretched, spread its wings, then turned and climbed over her/his siblings' heads to relocate in the rear.

One parent flew near the nest several times which inspired a loud and insistent chorus but no meal was forthcoming. Clearly, no amount of lobbying was going to draw mom or dad closer. Unexpectedly, all four birds began to push and agitate for a better location. One baby, now several, tumbled out of the nest onto their human-built wooden deck. Wings stretched and babies moved, hopped, and turned. Suddenly and unexpectedly, one fledgling took flight and landed on the branch of a nearby tree. Just like that! Could it be that easy?

Within a minute or two each bird swooshed into the air to the cover of the nearby forest until there was only one fledgling left. S/he was, actually, the first baby to tumble out of the nest onto the deck. After tipping close to the edge several times and waiting, waiting, waiting to no avail, this bird, too, swooped to a nearby branch. The nest was empty!

Both Frances and I climbed a ladder to confirm that the nest was vacant. Now I know what empty nest syndrome feels like! I miss those little peepers. Life won't be the same without them right outside my kitchen window. I hope I continue to hear and see them in the coming days.

(Photos to come when we figure out how to upload and post them!)

Nestlings, June 30

The Eastern Phoebe nest above our kitchen window contains several young 'uns hatched more than a week ago, family size uncertain. First we heard tiny peeps through our open window. Then, when a parent flew in for feedings, Frances dashed from kitchen to porch to peer at the nest. Finally some tiny heads surfaced!

Initially several baby heads were mostly visible over the edge of the nest though eyes were closed and bodies asleep. Since I could see only heads with a fluff of down protruding from the crowns I wondered, is this where the phrase "sleepyhead" originated?

Now as bodies expand and grow feathers, nest size shrinks. More body parts emerge into view. Frances just took a picture that indicates at least three siblings share these living quarters.

This is our third year of conscientious Eastern Phoebe co-parenting. Initially a pair constructed their nest of mud, grass, and moss above the narrow strip of window frame under the front eaves of our house. We marveled at their derringdo, balancing nest and young atop such a fragile foundation. Last year we grew tired of the mud and dirt slopped across our just-washed windows during nest reconstruction. Frances added a small wooden shelf beneath their nesting site which she attached to a piece of wood that spanned the window. It provided the Phoebes with nest space AND a deck.

This year, nest construction went so smoothly that we were minimally aware of parental comings and goings. According to our bird guides, fledgling stage lasts a mere 15-16 days so these babes will vacate their nest long before we're ready to see them go. Last year they launched their first flight on a day drenched with unending downpours. We worried whether these novice pilots could survive such a storm after vacating their safe, dry home. It's our best guess that they did since they're back again this year.

The Eastern Phoebe is one of the most identifiable bird species I've met here. Their characteristic repetitious song "phoe-be" is a favorite refrain. A species of flycatcher, they perch on an exposed tree branch right beside our porch from which they sail forth on their short insect hunting expeditions. To me, their most distinctive and endearing feature is the tail bobbing they engage in while at rest.

What a gift we have in these wee gray-green birds who bring daily enjoyment to our life in the forest. We couldn't ask for a better tenant to share space under our roof.

Lions and Tigers and Bears ... Oh My!

It's a beautiful summer morning: 40 degrees; clear, fresh air; sunlight filtering through tree leaves with a shimmer and brilliance that's impossible to describe (you know what they say, "You have to be here!"). Around 6:45 am the mosquito-buzz of a low-flying plane interrupts early morning stillness. Planes never fly this low so I know it's the annual spraying for gypsy moths (the scourge of the forest!).

I have to admit that I'm still thinking about bears. Frances and I discussed our Thursday night visitation and, when I read her my previous blog, she mentioned that I didn't sound fearful. It's true! When I saw the second bear pausing by the side of the woods, I felt an immediate calm. There was wariness on both sides, human and bear, but as we both scoped each other out I sensed that the bear was not willing to take any more chances than we were.

Frances, admittedly, felt fearful. "The way the dog ran toward us, shivering and frantic, scared me," she said, "I thought he was being chased." She segued into a past experience several years ago when she and Namaste were returning from the mailbox. The dog ran ahead and disappeared into the forest near our house barking frantically. She heard a yelp. Then silence. Frances dashed into the woods, yelling, as she followed the sound path of crashing trees and underbrush. When she found Namaste, he was alpha no longer; he cowered on the ground with a sheepish expression on his face and a wet slick of saliva on his back. It appeared that someone held him in their mouth, then spit him back out again. Too close for comfort!

My cat, Hiziki (Zeke), and I had a close encounter too. Our first spring living in the woods I woke early one morning to the sound of running footsteps on the deck. Zeke spent nights outside, a risky venture since fishers, deadly, vicious martens who frequent the area, are well-known for their appetite for small animals. I dashed to the patio door intending to intercede on my cat's behalf regardless of the imminent danger. There on the other side of the glass was Zeke, back up, fur raised, and hiss emanating through bared teeth as he faced off with a black bear who stood no more than six feet away. Being a good mother, I didn't think or hesitate. I picked up the barking dog, flung open the patio door, and leapt onto the deck BETWEEN my cat and the bear.

That bear, another youngster about two, rose up on his hind feet, stared at me, whirled, ran off the deck, and climbed into the nearest tree. After I retrieved my cat, my dog, and my self I re-entered the house. The bear quickly climbed down the tree and rushed into the woods. It took several hours for my heartbeat to return to normal. My grateful cat followed close behind me for several days. (I now understand why mama bears are so protective of their young.)

My t'ai chi chih students tell loads of stories: the bear at the front door, the bear retreating from the patio, the bear that absconded with one of their chickens. Other neighbors tell of the bear on the deck staring through the living room window while the homeowner stared back, the bear who reached up to retrieve the bird feeder outside the bay window--that hadn't been filled for several months--and ended up banging up against the window as his bear paw swipes missed, or the bear who ate garbage until it was moved into the house and then broke into the house to continue his feast. Several years ago I heard tell of a mama bear with two cubs who hibernated underneath the porch of a house in downtown Bayfield. Later in the summer Rittenhouse Avenue, the main street, had to be temporarily closed when the mama and two cubs strolled through downtown and climbed a tree.

Lots of local bear stories this year. Which makes me wonder: Are the bear having a harder time finding enough food? It's a common fact that the strawberry crop is not as abundant as it's been in previous years. Or do we simply know more people up here this summer so that we hear more of the bear lore as it accumulates? Or, as we humans develop and expand and improve upon nature--logging is booming and new homes and condominiums are springing up everywhere--do we compress and confine bear habitat while oppressing their natural bear behavior? Of course, many people believe that humans have higher status than animals. Witness how benevolent and compassionate we are even as we kill hundreds and thousands of people each day through wars, terrorism, starvation, neglect, and untreated illness and disease. But, hey, that's nothing compared to the mass murders performed by bears all over the world!

This one-up attitude filters into our language and how we use it. For example, in my APA Publication Manual (Fifth Edition, 2001), regulations specifically state: "Use who for human beings; use that or which for animals and for things." Hence, my flagrant disregard for those rules in this blog. Who lived here first anyway? Who roamed through this forest and made it their home long before it was tamed, logged, homesteaded and, dare I say, violated? Whew. It's time to end, though I've bearly begun.

Bearly There ... Then Gone

There were two of them last night but I missed the first.

Frances, Namaste (our 12 pound Maltese/Bichon dog), and I walked down our quarter mile driveway about 6 pm to retrieve the mail, pausing to notice the previously unnoticed and comment upon it. I pointed out tall grasses toppled over in the north ditch and speculated about the deer that may have passed or, even, rested there. Frances said, "No, that looks more like four-wheeler tracks."

"Naw," I thought to myself, "Looks like deer to me." Although, I had to admit, the paths looked wider and more downtrodden than those typically made by deer. I didn't want to think it was a four-wheeler since it was near the top of the driveway close enough to the house to feel like a trespass. We continued on.

About two-thirds of the way downhill Frances stopped. "There's a bear!" Namaste barked wildly and headed off toward the ditch on the south side of the drive.

"Where?" I asked. I hadn't seen anything as I was too busy watching my feet.

"There," she replied, "A bear just crossed the drive." We paused. Now a large black hulk appeared on the edge of the woods on the other side of the drive. It stopped, watched, started to retreat back into the woods, stopped again, watched.

I worried, "Was this a mama bear?" You do not want to get between a mama bear and her cubs. Frances assured me that the first bear I'd missed was larger than a newborn. In fact, they seemed to be about the same size. It was obvious that this bear wanted to cross the drive too but was considering its options. Namaste, of course, ran to and fro and barked frantically. Frances and I called the dog to us. Once he was safely lifted into Frances' arms, the bear seized the moment and loped across the drive. We continued downhill discussing size, age, and relationship. The bear were about 300 pounds. Were they siblings?

When we got to their crossing point, Frances noted the smell. We both sniffed. It smelled different here ... like an intense influx of ferns and vegetation. "Funny," I thought. A friend who lives in the woods near Mille Lacs, MN told me once that you can always smell bear when they're around because their scent is so strong. From her description I assumed that bear scent was nasty. This smelled sweetly woodsy.

Mail retrieved, we re-crossed Old County K and, again, sighted one of the bear walking across the blacktop road, pausing to observe us just as we observed him (her?). S/he moved toward us, casually turned, and strolled the rest of the way across. I was struck by the easy, limber, non-lumbering way the bear moved. It reminded me of a monkey. You could tell that the front legs functioned differently from the back legs. There was surprising agility in those limbs.

Back near the top of the drive we reconsidered those crushed grasses on the north side. Huh. Perhaps they could be the trail of two bear walking side-by-side.

Approaching Storm

It's midday on a Tuesday near the end of June and, though I should be marketing my upcoming t'ai chi chih classes or advertising our office space on Madeline Island, I'm caught in the hushed expectation of an approaching storm. The temp is now down to 60 from a high of 80+ and, when Frances and I walk out onto the deck, we hear the roar of approaching wind through the trees. The sky to the south is dark and as a few scattered raindrops begin to fall we scurry to carry our planters and hanging flower baskets into the porch and living room. I rush to the kitchen sink to draw a pitcher of water in preparation for an electrical outage.

After all precious living plants are moved to shelter inside we step onto the deck again to survey the rapid weather change and listen to the whoosh of wind, drawing closer. As Frances opens the patio door, though, the sun shines down. And, even as we stand by the railing looking east toward Lake Superior and watching the darkness of rain falling, we feel the sunlight grow stronger, the heat rise, and the sounds of gathering winds collapse into a low, distant murmur. Our anticipated storm has passed us by and we're left with unused adrenaline, unwatered flowers, unnecessary preparations. Ahh, life in the woods.

I return to the computer to post my first blog and sigh with relief. Somehow the intimidation of trying something new is made smaller by the just-missed cycling storm of spent and unspent energy that surrounded us moments ago. Nature's gathering power puts everything into perspective. Once again, I'm brought into the present. Just this moment. Now.