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…
A flotilla of geese, large and dark, their white chin straps barely visible in the pre-dawn light, drifted slowly away from the stony bank of the abandoned boat launch at White Oak Pond. A quick tally revealed more than twenty-five, a flock well augmented by a fully grown, new generation. The geese paddled out toward open water, moving steadily and effortlessly, tracing soft Vs across the placid surface of the pond. Perhaps they had spent the night in the safety of…
Wet, dew covered grass muffled the sound of my footsteps as I walked down the wide mowed path toward the old beaver pond. Young brown rabbits, plentiful this summer, nibbled on green grass and scampered away at my approach. Ahead I saw the full rounded form of trees rising above the early morning mist. There was something evocative about the shapes of the trees in full summer growth, something compelling about the form of branch upon branch, leaf upon leaf,…
A push of the paddle against the bank and the kayak floated free into narrow Dyberry Creek. Another push brought the boat to mid-stream where the fluid fingers of the current wrapped around the hull and began to carry it downstream. Dim, early morning light surrounded me. Wispy gray mist floated above the water. The temperature hovered at a chilly 45 degrees. Suddenly, a clump-island of tall grass with narrow channels on either side loomed menacingly. Quick decision made I…
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…