I watched the blue water of the San Joaquin River flow through Lost Lake Park, swiftly moving water on a long journey from the Sierra Nevada Mountains down thru the Central Valley, on to San Francisco Bay to eventually merge with the Pacific Ocean. The quick current created surface swirls that spun downstream like miniature whirl pools only to be reabsorbed.

Fluffy white seed streamers, like milkweed or cottonwood seeds, sailed up stream just above the surface of the water blown by a steady breeze. Streams of water and wind flowing in opposite directions, a contradiction that seemed to fit a setting filled with contradictions.

Across the river a bone dry field of tan grass stretched uphill toward a bare rock topped bluff. But all around me, all along the river banks a profusion of willows, shrubs, trees and reeds flourished, a verdant riparian ribbon winding through the dry hill country.

The warm breeze caressed my face, a pleasant sensation as the humidity was low and the temperature a comfortable 85 degrees. The wind carried spicy, earthy fragrances. But every once in a while a gust would dip down, scoop up the chilly air that hovered above of the snow-melt river, cool my face, and waft a menthol fresh fragrance to my nostrils.

Driving out from the city of Madera, California in the late afternoon, I had traveled through miles and miles of flat bottom land and had seen acres and acres and rows and rows of walnut and pecan trees, and grape vines. Then, when I crested a small hill a completely different landscape came into view, one with rolling fields of dry tan grass, herds of cattle, and ranches with decoratively lettered entry gates. Miles ahead the fields lifted into brown contoured bluffs which in turn ascended up to rocky hills. Beyond the bluffs and hills and barely visible on the hazy horizon rose the steep dark green, pine-covered foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.

This unexpected and stunning panorama created sublime feelings, sparkly lifting sensations that flooded my heart and chest and shoulders. It was a vista I had never seen before, never even imagined, a vista completely different from the rounded hills of my home in Northeast Pennsylvania. With mounting excitement and growing curiosity I continued the drive to Lost Lake Recreation Area, a nature spot recommended by a participant in the training I had conducted during the day.

Now, I sat on the warm ground next to the river and gazed at the swirling current. Two miles upstream stood Friant Dam, the last of four dams. The San Joaquin was a hard working river, its waters dammed in four locations to create water supply reservoirs, its current diverted to fill the irrigation canals of the fertile Central Valley. It was a thoroughly tamed and domesticated river, yet as I looked around, the river still seemed wild, surrounded by trees, a haven for birds and wildlife, a home for salmon, bass and panfish.

I tuned into the sounds around me, the wind swooshing through the leaves, the soft gurgle of the water touching rocks, the hoarse croaks of ravens, the squawk of a mockingbird, the loud rattle of a kingfisher, and the cooing of mourning doves. I had learned to love, even to honor, this process of settling in to stillness, this progression of my senses awakening and taking in more and more of my surroundings. As the minutes floated by I felt myself blending into the setting, the disturbance of my presence diminishing, the life of nature resuming around me.

Above a rock at the edge of a tiny island I spotted a bird perched at the tip of a dead branch. I had no binoculars and no bird guide for western species. This was an identification challenge, but for some reason I welcomed it. I was on my own west of the Rocky Mountains on the Pacific Flyway where there were many different and unfamiliar bird species.

The bird, smaller than a robin, sallied out over the stream, skimmed the surface, snatched an insect, flew back, and landed on a big rock. It appeared dark on top and light underneath. I plugged this info into my Merlin Bird ID app. Black phoebe popped up at the top of the list of possible birds.

Then I saw two of the birds working around the rocky island, flitting out over the water, returning to perch. One flew across the river right towards me and landed in a nearby bush, close enough that I could clearly discern its blackish head, charcoal gray back, white belly and long gray tail which it flicked up and down. It looked and behaved very much like the eastern phoebes I knew from home.

Identification confirmed! I felt a smile of contentment on my face and a surge of joy in my heart. Part of this positive reaction probably came from successful problem solving. But there was more to it and I wasn’t sure I could pin it down. Perhaps it was the happiness of meeting a new bird friend, one I had never seen before. Maybe it was the joy of seeing a perfectly evolved species, in its precise plumage, in its preferred habitat, exhibiting classic phoebe behavior.

I watched the phoebes fly and feed above the flowing river. Two Canada geese swam slowly upstream. Near the reeds in the shadows by the far shore a bird set low in the water paddled and dove, surfaced, paddled and dove. I knew this was a grebe of some kind but without binoculars impossible to identify. I felt a tinge of frustration.

A flock of little birds swept into a tall bush next to me. They were all gray, in constant motion, calling back and forth with short high pitched scratchy calls. They flipped and fluttered among the branches and combed the undersides of the leaves with their bills. I focused on the field marks of one bird and put the info into Merlin. They were bushtits, another western species, another new friend. I watched them ramble on to the next bush, saw gray plumage, long tails, heard their constant cheerful calls, and felt my joy return.

I glanced up and spotted a mockingbird diving toward the bushes, a Coopers Hawk in hot pursuit. My movement or maybe the reflection of sunlight on my glasses must have distracted the hawk for a fraction of a second. It hesitated and swerved. The mockingbird took the opportunity and dove for shelter in the bush. It had been a close call for the mocking bird. I realized that even here in this county park with its well-used campground, picnic tables, charcoal grills and hiking trails the drama of the hunted and the hunter played out as it had for centuries.

The sunlight, angled now as the sun settled toward the horizon, cast a warm golden hue on the panorama in front of me. I looked across the river at the tan fields and stared at the swirling, moving, ever changing river.

A gust of wind blew the smell of grilled meat to my nostrils. Walking to my sit spot I had seen two Latina women, their children playing nearby, skillfully tending a charcoal grill spread with shiny dark green poblano peppers. They must be preparing the meat course now I thought.

The smell of grilled meat brought hunger pangs to my stomach and a surge of saliva to my mouth. According to my Eastern Time zone stomach it was 9:30 p.m. and well past my normal dinner time. I was hungry. I was tired. It had been a long day. It was time for nourishment, time for rest, time to head to the restaurant I had discovered yesterday, where they served fresh pasta dishes smothered in savory sauces and featured a hearty garage mix of red wine made from grapes that grew in the surrounding vineyards.

I walked back to my car and hoped that I might return to this park someday, maybe early in the morning when the mist hung over the river and the wildlife welcomed a new day. I would sit by river for a full hour long sit spot. Afterward I would drive east, up the high brown bluffs, up into the pine covered mountains of the Ansel Adams Wilderness, up to find the source of the San Joaquin River.