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.