The Aldo Leopold Bench
The Aldo Leopold Bench
At 3:30 a.m., with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and a notebook. I seat myself on a bench facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot of coffee beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamations to begin.
Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac, pages 41-42.
The proclamations Leopold awaited were morning bird songs. I woke up at 4:50 a.m., a good bit later than Leopold. At 5:01 a.m. while doing a few stretches, I heard, through the screen window, my first proclamation of the morning, a Carolina wren, piercing the departing nighttime silence, greeting the arriving hints of first light with a clear, clarion, TWEEpudo, TWEEpudo, TWEEpudo.
Minutes later, binoculars around my neck, camera slung over my shoulder, I walked to a quiet corner of the back yard. I didn’t have a pot of coffee, just a cup of tea. But I did have a bench to sit on, one I had built, a version of an Aldo Leopold bench, a type of bench reputed to be good for bird watching and nature photography—perfect for my purposes. It was a July morning, and I did have a notebook on my knee. I too was ready to notice the proclamations around me—those heard, seen, felt, and smelled.
Pandemonium
At first the morning bird chorus was the peaceful, soothing music I had happily anticipated—a robin caroling cheerily-cheer up, a cardinal whistling purdy, purdy, purdy, and a special treat, a wood thrush, a forest virtuoso, singing its haunting, flute-like ee-o-lay. All was well in the patch of woods beyond the stone wall that edged the back yard.
Suddenly, pandemonium broke out. The robins shifted to loud, rapid, shrill tut-tut-tut-tut calls. The cardinals voiced a troubled, metallic tink, tink, tink over and over. The wood thrush gave up its morning song and cried a harsh insistent pip-pip-pip-pip. A catbird whined a volley of complaining mew, mew, mew calls. A tufted titmouse joined in with raspy, hoarse, scolding zhree, zhree, zhree tones.
What was going on? Why this shift from sweet forest harmony to shrill cacophony?
I thought back to what Jon Young had written about bird language in his book What the Robin Knows. I was hearing what he described as bird alarm calls. The calls were constant. All the birds joined in. And the calls grew louder and more insistent.
What was the cause? These were not the quick alarms and silent scattering caused by a hunting Cooper’s hawk. The instigator was most likely a ground predator stalking through the woods. What could it be? Possibly it was a feral cat. I had seen several in the neighborhood, and in particular a big, rough looking, dark-gray tomcat skulking through the yard and into woods. But maybe it was a fox or even a coyote.
Whatever it was, all the birds perceived it as a threat and were VERY upset at being disturbed during their crucial morning feeding and singing time. Whatever it was, it moved slowly. I could almost trace its slow progress by following the moving focal point of the alarm calls proceeding through the woods.
Slowly, after about ten minutes the alarm calls faded, but there was no return to the melodious morning chorus. Gradually, I began to hear a few song snippets from catbirds and robins. In the distance crows cawed back and forth, a morning dove cooed, and a blue jay called.
I felt a disappointed about missing the morning chorus, but then reminded myself that when out in nature it is best to let go of expectations and to take whatever comes as a learning experience.
I had learned what real avian alarm calls sounded like. And I knew the sound of an alarm created by a slow moving ground predator. But, I had questions too and more to learn. An experienced bird language expert could have probably identified the predator. Also, I was reminded that the life of songbird is not easy. Every living creature has its challenges.
The Ground
Looking out at the yard in front of me I saw a patchwork of bare spots, clumps of dirt, irregular grass, opportunistic weeds, and dented earth—open disturbed ground, the residue from the clean-up of 14 dying ash trees that had been felled in the spring, a colossal mess that had taken me three months to saw, split, stack, load, transport, and clean up uncountable branches and twigs.
The robins and catbirds, skilled ground feeders spotted and quickly took advantage of this disturbed ground. They flew in and hunted successfully for worms, bugs. and caterpillars. The yard was their territory and they kept a sharp eye out for any changes that might offer improved foraging opportunities.
Past the yard just beyond the stone wall stood yet another tall, dying ash tree weakened by the invasive emerald ash borer. Its branches stretched gaunt and skeletal against the gray sky. Only two limbs with clusters of leaves sustained the tree. It would probably die next year.
Other trees, red and sugar maples, black walnuts, and cherry would grow to take up the space, but I felt a pang of sadness for the loss of these fine ash trees. I also thought about what Aldo Leopold wrote about the complexity of a nature community and how the loss of even one species, of one member decreased the overall quality of that community.
While the birds called out in response to the threats they saw, the trees seemed silent in the face of their challenges. But then I thought again. The trees spoke of their distress too. I felt it. They just had a different language spoken on a different time scale through different mediums; fragrances through the air or connecting, neuron-like strands of fungi through the earth or other channels I couldn’t perceive.
Textures
To the southeast the sun edged above the horizon. Tints of pink and orange appeared and disappeared in the soft clumpy clouds above me. I watched the clouds move and shift and the colors change, all of it filled with a vibrant luminous quality.
The light and textures reminded me of a day I wandered alone through the rooms of Impressionist paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and felt surrounded by, immersed in, and uplifted by color and light.
I gazed up at the clouds and the light and felt even more transported than I had in the museum. What a gift it was to be out in nature, sitting still, viewing this fleeting panorama of light and color.
Gradually the bright orange-yellow orb of the sun lifted higher shining brightly through the trees. Sunlight flooded the sky. Patches of blue appeared between the clouds, a normal daytime sky; the morning light magic was over.
Time
I had been sitting now for forty minutes and felt myself beginning to blend in to the surroundings. A robin landed in the yard in front of me. It still seemed a bit skittish from the earlier alarm, but apparently had decided that I wasn’t a risk and that it needed to get on with the business of feeding.
I watched it hop, hop, hop, then pick at the ground. Then hop, hop, pull up a worm. Hop, hop, stand-still, look and listen. Nothing. Then hop, hop again and snatch a bug.
Yards were good habitat for robins and there were several that called my yard home. They are pretty birds with their dark orange breast, dark gray back, and strong yellow bill, common and cheerful to see. But watching this robin I realized that it was hunter too—hop, hop, pick, pick, snatch bugs and worms.
Tendrils
Across the yard, past the fenced in garden I noticed splotches of light green on dark green. Looking carefully I realized it was a wild grape vine growing on top of dark green privet bushes. From the dark brown dead ropes of winter the wild grapes now grew exuberantly.
Tuned into vines I noticed more; a Virginia creeper with five lobed leaves winding high up the trunk of the dying ash tree. A vine of poison ivy with red-tinged, oily, three lobed leaves climbed up another ash tree.
In the garden pole beans fully entwined the seven foot high poles I had set out for them. I saw the light green leaves of the Kentucky wonder and the purplish tinted leaves of Blauhilde, a German varietal. Both beans reached beyond the tops of the poles. I could see their delicate tendrils stretching up into the air wanting to climb even higher. And in the middle of the garden stood a wooden obelisk covered with morning glory leaves and more tendrils reaching skyward.
It was July, the warm temperature plateau of summer. All of the vines grew readily in these long days of sunshine and warm, humid nights. These vines prospered in their summer niche in nature.
I looked more closely at the morning glories. Wow! They were in full bloom, covered in lovely purple flowers. Just yesterday afternoon while working in the garden I had seen only withered blooms.
Later, I learned that morning glories are true to their name and do bloom in the morning flowering as early as 4:30 a.m. due to a process initiated by the particular blue light emitted before and during sunrise. This blue light triggers enzymes which open up tiny pores on the leaves that then push water up the stem into the flower buds causing them to open.
This sunrise schedule along with deep tubular flowers loaded with nectar and pollen make morning glories attractive to pollinators active in the morning such as hummingbirds and hawk moths. By midday as the amount of blue light fades the blossoms collapse like tiny folding umbrellas, dying in the afternoon to be prolifically replaced by new flowers at the next sunrise.
For the poetically minded morning glories are filled with meaning. They can be seen as a resurrection flower that dies each afternoon and then rises again the next morning signifying not only death but the return and beauty of life. The short life span of the flower can also represent the fleeting nature of love as well as the way that love and affection can be renewed each day. Their resilience and ability to grow through adversity are thought to make them the perfect gift for someone needing support and encouragement as they face a major milestone in their life.
The Bench
My hour long sit spot was coming to an end. My butt hurt from sitting so long on the wood. Just not enough cushioning tissue back there I guess. Next time I would bring that stadium cushion that hung in the garage.
And there would definitely be a next time for a sit spot and for more frequent visits to just sit, sip coffee in the morning, lemonade and iced tea in the afternoon, and perhaps a glass of wine at dusk. The idea of a bench, placed in a quiet corner of the back yard, a spot dedicated to observing, being in, and communing with nature seemed to have proved itself. I had experienced beauty and learned much about nature during my solitary sit spot.
Light
It was full daylight now. I felt fulfilled and fortunate to have witnessed another transition from darkness to light, to have observed a luminous sky, to have been present as plant, bird, animal, and in my case human life awakened for another day. I wondered if perhaps I too was affected by the blue light of sunrise, wondered if that light induced a kind emotional and spiritual opening in me.
I had fully acclimated to the outdoor air. I was reluctant to leave and head back to inside spaces. I paused and inhaled the fragrances of the grasses, trees, saw dust, and even the faint perfume of the morning dew. As I walked back to the house, I remembered that pot of coffee that Aldo Leopold wrote about. It sure sounded good now.
This sit spot was conducted in Bethany, PA on July 24, 2023
Notes:
Aldo Leopold (1887-1948) was the first professor of Wildlife Management at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. An outdoor enthusiast, nature lover, and early conservationist he is well known for his book, A Sand County Almanac, a classic of nature writing. In this book he presented the case for the development of a “land ethic,” an ecological conscience wherein each individual personally and society collectively perceives that humanity belongs to a nature community that needs to be preserved, protected and cared for. More information on Aldo Leopold’s life, career, and legacy can be found at this link to the Aldo Leopold Foundation.
Here is a photo of Leopold seated in nature at his namesake bench.
Aldo Leopold Bench
There are many plans and instructions for building an Aldo Leopold bench to be found online. The original design featured one board for the seat and one for the back which allowed the observer to sit with their legs under the back and thus use the top edge of the back to steady binoculars or a camera for nature photography.
With the help of my friend Michael, I built a modified version with two boards for the seat and the back and set at an angle designed to be more comfortable. Here are several links to plans to build your own original or modified AL bench.
Michael Smith and I building my AL bench.
You can read about more sit spots and wander walks on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available on Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.
The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)