Darkness and silence enveloped the world outside my tent. A sound roused me from deep sleep. I lay still in my sleeping bag, listened, heard a faint hesitant “chirp” followed by a stuttering “chur-chur,” kind of like a musical motor trying to come to life. Seconds later a rich song filled the air; the clear, resonant, melodic, “cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up” of the morning’s first robin. I checked my watch, 4:10, an hour and a half before sunrise and still…
Koppenplatz, a postage stamp sized park in the Mitte section of Berlin, like most plots of urban land, has a long and continuing history of reinvention and repurposing. It started off as part of an area for cattle barns outside the city proper, then was dedicated as a burial ground for the poor, next became the center of a neighborhood for poor Jewish and Eastern European immigrants, and when full urbanization arrived was artfully redesigned into a city park. In the Nazi reign…
It was only a half mile to the beaver pond, an easy walk down a wide mowed path. The urge to go there for a sit spot session on a warm spring evening popped in to my mind during dinner. Dishes done, I grabbed my binoculars and camp chair, cut across the yard, angled through a stand of tall, slender, newly leafed-in beeches and maples, and headed down the path to the pond. I found myself walking slowly, not due…
I walked in first light, heading to the beaver pond, treading quietly on dew laden grass down an abandoned road. On the horizon a smear of reddish-orange announced the coming sunrise. Ahead, two parallel red shale ruts separated by a stripe of green grass led through a mix of scrubby brush, second growth maple and ash trees, and reedy wet spots. I began to engage in bird listening, often the best way to get updates on any new spring arrivals….
Enveloped in dense fog I set up my camp stool on a large, flat, vegetation-covered rock that protruded into the still water of the back beaver pond. To my left the bare black branches of a willow tree splayed into the grayness. Beneath the willow ran the long shoreward reach of a massive beaver dam, an assemblage of uncountable sticks, branches and small logs woven together and secured with mud. Water spilled softly over the dam into the next…
Island of the Women “Coo-coo-cook, coo-coo-cook,” sounded softly but insistently from the dense jumble of trees, bushes, and vines just beyond the edge of the new concrete patio. This was the native vegetation of Isla Mujeres, the Island of the Women, a slender six mile strip of land sitting seven miles off the coast of Cancun, Mexico. According to legend, Mayan women seeking a fertility blessing would paddle across the bay to Isla, trek down to the stony cliffs…
I awoke at 4:20 a.m. in the midst of a dream with a crystal clear, 360 degree view of my home sit spot at Prompton Lake, the spot where I spent an hour a week during my year-long nature watching project. A voice from the dream whispered insistently, “Get up now. Get out to your sit spot.” Half awake, half immersed in the dream, I tried to make sense of the view and the voice. A longing to visit…
Silent observation of nature is an old and familiar practice. In Walden, Thoreau wrote, “You only need to sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turn.” In the early 1900s the noted naturalist and wildlife writer, Earnest Thompson Seton, promoted the idea of selecting a quiet spot in the woods, sitting still, waiting, and allowing nature to reveal itself. This technique, followed by outdoor enthusiasts and…