May Eve – A Time of Becoming

(unfurling three lobed Trillium by Trillium Rock)

 

Returning home to Maine in April has allowed me to experience winter turning her ancient wisdom filled face towards the maiden of spring. Although the month has been chilly, and until two days ago snow covered tree stripped mountains still held white dust, all Nature is celebrating renewal.

 

In the woods the maples are turning a deep rose red. Here in the yard all my fruit trees are waiting for May’s rain and the warmth of a waxing solar sun to set fragrant bursting blossoms, as are the lilacs. Blood red cardinals sing love songs in my pine forest, whistling up the dawn. Wood frogs croak in the vernal pools, laying jellied egg masses, young foxes race through oak groves crackling leaves in their wake. The goose stands watch over his nesting mate at the pond, a loon does the same, haunting the sky with his song.

 

On this still soft cloudy morning I peer into the forest beyond the brook noting a palette of grays  – the tree people on stilts – some slender, others thick, all well rooted – the trunks of some trees like maples and beech are smooth, others like ash and white pine are deeply grooved. All are well nourished by those who have gone before. Bare branches will soon be covered in feathery lime green. Balsam, Hemlock, Spruce and Cedar scent the air with Pinenes, those powerful healing oils of the forest whose fragrant breath heals damaged lungs.

 

This year I am listening to the sounds of woodpeckers – Sapsuckers bring in the first hummingbirds, Pileated woodpeckers carve oval doors, Downy and Hairy perch on telephone polls pounding deadwood when I walk to the pond.

 

On January 1st the first bird I heard was a woodpecker –a drumming flicker in New Mexico. The first bird sighting of the year always carries a message for me, and that day I had a vision of holes.

 

Something was coming… Now that this country is struggling with a pandemic that we humans have brought upon ourselves with our selfishness and disregard of non – human species – both plant and animal – we are reaping the first harvest of that which we sowed… And yet, all nature in the northern hemisphere celebrates this turning of the wheel, despite human suffering. Life goes on; and being able to participate in this process is a joy without parallel.

 

This year I turn towards May Day with reverence.

 

Yesterday I spent hours on my knees working in my overgrown perennial flower garden with the awareness that the position of my body revealed the depth of that reverence – I was bowed in prayer…

 

I feel overflowing gratitude for being alive, for being able to sit by still pools of water. I give thanks for ears to hear spring singing. I listen to the brook flowing – water rounding granite stone – just below the house. I walk through the deciduous wooded parts of this patch of land marveling over the tenaciousness of life to re –create itself out of a fallen tree stump, a rotting log. I count eight kinds of moss and lichen on Trillium rock. Emerald green sphagnum moss permeates my soul in the bog.

 

It is enough.

 

I am grateful, oh ever so grateful, to Nature for teaching me to see, to hear, to taste, to dream, to learn, to seek truth, to reflect, to feel fear, anger and heartbreak, and still to say yes to Love.

Tribute to Grizzly Bear Expert: Charlie Russell

(1941 – 2018)

 

 

“Learning entails more than the gathering of information.

Learning changes the learner.

Like dwarf pines whose form develop with winter’s design, the learner is shaped by what he learns.”

 “Talking with Bears: Conversations with Charlie Russell”   Gay Bradshaw

 

 Learning from Nature;

A Personal Reflection on Charlie Russell

 

Naturalist Charlie Russell never went to college. Instead he spent his youth backpacking through the Canadian wilderness with his family. Nature was his mentor and home.

 

Charlie was a life-long student of Nature*. Although I never met him personally I read his astonishing books, Spirit Bear and Grizzly Heart. By the time I watched the Canadian Film about his work with grizzlies “The Edge of Eden” I recognized a kindred soul.

 

Charlie dedicated most of his life to befriending, studying, and educating others about Black and Grizzly bears. He spent 11 years in the Russian wilderness raising orphaned grizzly bear cubs and interacting with adult grizzlies, demonstrating to the public that these animals are not dangerous to humans unless they are hunted down by them.

 

Charlie never carried a gun and never had an altercation with a grizzly; he did carry pepper spray that was only used to protect the cubs he was raising from adult bears who sometimes prey on the youngsters. Most pictures show him walking in the wilderness with a wooden staff.

 

I was profoundly impressed by Charlie’s respect, deep humility and endearing compassion for the bears he encountered. He allowed bears to educate him through keen observation, keeping an open mind, asking challenging questions, reflecting, drawing his own conclusions and sticking to them, (a way of being that mirrors my own process).

 

Charlie Russell life’s work may someday change the way humans perceive bears. Charlie understood what it meant to love a bear and how this ability shifted the relationship between humans and bears to one where mutual respect developed into deep abiding friendship.

 

Charlie spent his life as a truth seeker. He wanted to understand how bears think and was capable of looking at behavior from the bear’s perspective. In addition to having a keen, discerning, open mind, he acted on his intuition and used all of his senses to educate himself about the bears he studied.

 

In Conversations with Bears Charlie states that learning changes the learner; the learner is shaped by what s/he learns.

 

Learning about bears certainly shaped Charlie into a remarkable human being.

 

Charlie understood that bears needed respect just as humans need it; that bears responded positively to apologies, just as humans do, that bears needed to be loved just as humans do – and if these criteria are met people have nothing to fear from bears.

 

Conversely, if the need to slaughter is on the mind of humans, a bear will pick up on the threat. Most bears choose retreat as a strategy when threatened but occasionally one will attack, and it is those bears that feed man’s fear and hatred of nature, while terrifying images of giant blood soaked teeth and jaws keep the NRA in business.

 

As Charlie stated, bears don’t become dangerous without a reason. If a bear is frightened or hunted down by people or by dogs s/he might retaliate. The same might be true for a bear that is separated from his food by humans, or a female grizzly with cubs that is cornered. Dwindling habitat and a sustained policy of shoot on sight has created a situation in which traumatized bears – bears who have witnessed their mother’s being shot or being targeted for the kill generation after generation – is taking a terrible toll on these animals, who left to their own devices would befriend humans only too willingly.

 

Charlie’s dedication to bears, his extensive life experience living in peace with bears (even as a rancher), his love, respect, and deep compassion for Ursus provides us with a model the rest of us could follow. Bears and humans could co –exist peaceably if humans would only allow them to.

 

To this naturalist who has not had any encounters with grizzlies or polar bears but has developed extensive knowledge of Black bears, thanks to the bears themselves, who taught me most of what I learned, Charlie was a beacon of hope and sanity. Personally, he was the one person who helped me the most to trust my intuition, my senses, the truths of my body, when working with bears. When Charlie asked questions I heard my own silent queries verbalized.

 

To be educated and shaped by nature like Charlie was allows us to re-enter the Circle of Life, a way of being in the world that would end the existential loneliness that so afflicts our modern population.

The Quackers

( I chose this picture rather than using one of my own because it highlights the male’s emerald green head and the blue on its feathers – gorgeous duck!)

 

A number of years ago I decided to raise some baby Mallards. As a child I used to feed and make friends with them, even as a toddler I was told. Because I live so close to North Pond I decided to raise some Mallards and release them on the lake, although I had never seen them here and wondered why. After doing some preliminary research I learned that this area was a breeding area for wild Mallards, so I figured that I had nothing to lose.

 

What an adventure! The “quackers” were characters. My dog adored them and they seemed equally fascinated with her because whenever Star visited with them they would waddle over to quack excitedly at her when she pawed their cage. I came to love them too, and although they made a horrible mess I loved the quackers enthusiastic morning greeting. When the day came to release them I felt sad.

 

By this time I had spent a lot of time in my kayak looking for a safe haven for the youngsters. I created a nest at the end of a peninsula, and left them there on North Pond. I saw the quackers occasionally during that summer while kayaking but when they migrated in the fall they didn’t return… I believed my experiment to re- introduce them had failed.

 

About a week before leaving Abiquiu I spied a Mallard couple on the river a few times. Much to my surprise, when I returned to Maine the first of April, I also spotted another Mallard couple on the North Pond – the first Mallards I had ever seen here since I let the quackers go. Was it possible that this couple had returned to breed?

 

When I researched this possibility I learned that Mallards choose new mating partners each fall. They stay together throughout the winter and once the mating season ends the male abandons the female to raise her family (up to13 chicks) alone. The female returns to her original waters to breed, so it was conceivable, that the female was the original “quacker” that I had raised.

 

All the breeds of ducks that are common today can trace their origins to the wild Mallard except the Muscovy who roosts in trees in South America. No one knows for certain when Mallards were first domesticated, but there is some evidence to suggest that the Egyptians sacrificed ducks and also bred them for food.

 

Breeding Mallards nest in the North Country and in Canada and Alaska. Females will build a nest out of breast feathers and twigs near a body of water. She lays a clutch of eggs and incubates them for a month. Once the ducklings hatch, they are immediately taken to water for safety. The ducklings will follow their mother for the next 50 to 60 days, maturing and developing their ability to fly. The ducks can reach breeding age after a year. Mallards frequently interbreed with Black Ducks and the Northern Pintail.

 

There are four major flyways that Mallards use. Migrating Mallards in Abiquiu use the Pacific Flyway; In Maine they use the Atlantic flyway. Non breeding Mallards inhabit most of the country, and some live year round in Florida and other southern most states including southern New Mexico. Many are considered pests and millions of these birds are killed each fall by hunters.

 

Mallards are the latest fall migrants and fly in a V-formation in order to have the lead bird break the headwinds and lower the resistance for those that follow. They migrate at night and although theories abound, no one knows how they manage to navigate such distances. Mallards can travel 800 miles in one day. They are excellent endurance fliers, sustaining speeds of up to 40 miles per hour. They usually fly at altitudes between 400 to 2,000 feet, but have been spotted much higher and have even gotten into crashes with commercial airliners above 20,000 feet.

 

Mallard ducks can be found in the Northern Hemisphere throughout Europe, Asia, and North America. Most Mallard ducks are migratory birds, flying south to temperate climates during the winter, and northwards in the summer to nesting grounds. Mallards prefer wetlands near water sources with an abundant supply of food and cover. They can be found in many types of habitats throughout the country including lakes, rivers, streams, small ponds, swamps, marshlands, and water reservoirs.

Their diet consists of aquatic vegetation, insects, worms, and more recently grain crops like wheat and corn. They dip their heads under the water and forage for plants on the bottom. This “dabbling” is the feeding technique the ducks prefer and execute most often. When visiting the Bosque del Apache I was delighted to see so many Mallards. The heads of the males are fashioned out of shimmering emeralds, and to my mind are astonishingly beautiful to behold.

Mallards are also the most heavily hunted North American ducks, accounting for about 1 of every 3 ducks shot. This species can also be affected by poor water quality, including mercury, pesticides, and selenium pollution, wetland clearing or drainage, oil spills, etc, etc. They are losing ground. Across the continent, millions of acres of wildlife habitat have been converted to agriculture. Some have adapted and eat harvested rice, corn, wheat, barley, peas, and lentils. I cannot help wondering what agricultural pesticides might be doing to these ancestral ducks.

 

Mallards, like so many other migrating species are migrating later and returning to breeding places earlier than ever before. And perhaps like other migrating birds their patterns are shifting.

 

I am anxious to learn whether the Mallards I saw for a few days were still migrating or if they will spend summer on North Pond.

Little Foxes

 

(little foxes – note facial differences)

I am hiking through the woods one day with my dogs when we hear a rustling. Investigating the sound we are all astonished when three little foxes shoot out of a pile of oak leaves to greet us. My little Chihuahua Lucy wags her tail – everyone wants to play until Hope (2^nd Chihuahua) barks at which time the foxes dive for cover. I call out “hey little foxes” a few times and two reappear but don’t emerge completely from the den. I snap two pictures.

A couple of days earlier on the same hike I had seen an adult fox scurrying up a hill hugging a stone wall at mid day; now I knew why. I returned to the den area each day around the same time and called out “hey little foxes.” I believed I could teach them to respond to my voice. It didn’t take long. On the fourth day as soon as I greeted them one emerged. To say that I was thrilled is an understatement. Yesterday I was amazed to find a good sized dirty baize egg dropped outside their door. One of the parents must have brought it home?

Because I feed foxes here I am used to seeing both reds and greys bringing in their kits to snack on birdseed later in the spring (from June on). But because they are older, they look more like their parents. One of the dens on this land can be viewed through binoculars but it is not the same thing.

These little characters wore dark brown coats and I soon learned that this coloring identified them as young grey foxes. They were about five weeks old and I was so excited because I had never had an opportunity to visit with young kits on a regular basis in such close proximity. I hope I am writing this article at the beginning of a long spring journey to learn more about grey foxes…

All animals like routines, so I visit each day at the same time and hope to get some more pictures as time passes. These delightful children are so curious and unafraid. At this point in their lives no human has yet threatened them.

Gray foxes are the only member of the canines that can climb trees and have retractable claws like a cat. They are sometimes mistaken for red foxes, because they have some reddish fur, but gray foxes have a black stripe and black-tipped tail; Reds wear black stockings and have a white-tipped tail. The latter are found from southern Canada southward to Venezuela and Columbia, except in mountainous areas of northwestern United States, parts of the Great Plains, and the eastern coast of Central America.

Gray foxes thrive in forest and brushy woodland areas – they choose habitat with hollow trees or logs, rock crevices, or hillsides they can use for dens, places that have access to water. They have adapted to living in close proximity to humans.

Gray foxes have several natural predators, most notably coyotes, followed by bobcats, but great horned owls, eagles, and cougars also prey upon them. They are territorial among themselves, yet they share these spaces with red foxes, enabling both species to make use of mutually desirable habitat with minimal conflict.

Their “unnatural” predator is man who shoots and traps them and whose most egregious act is fox penning, a canned hunt of foxes that are trapped in the wild, placed within fenced areas, and then set upon by dozens of dogs who are let loose to hunt them down (they do the same thing with bears and deer). The live foxes are literally torn apart by the dogs, dying in massive pain and agony. This disgusting behavior on the part of man makes a powerful statement about the extent of human cruelty that is impossible to ignore.

Gray foxes are solitary most of the year, but while their kits are young both parents share in caring for them. Keen vision, hearing, and sense of smell help them hunt for cottontails, tree squirrels, voles, mice, wood rats, black rats, birds, amphibians, reptiles, and invertebrates. By adding fruit and mast to their diet in autumn, they become helpful as seed dispersers.

Sometimes gray foxes will rest on high branches or in the crotch of a tree. To climb trees, they rotate their forearms, enabling them to hug the tree, while pushing upward with their hind legs. Once in the canopy, they are nimble enough to leap from branch to branch. Coming down is a bit trickier than going up… it’s either a slow and careful tail-first descent or, if the angle is not overly steep, a speedy headfirst downward run. A low center of gravity and four well-clawed feet make the latter option less scary than it sounds. These foxes also like to swim if denning near water.

According to the literature breeding occurs in January or February and the kits are born in March or April. They begin to emerge four or five weeks after birth. I met these little foxes the third week in April. Gray foxes dig their own dens or enlarge dens that other animals have used before. They have a number of entrances.

Both gray and red foxes are supposed to be nocturnal; however this has not been my experience perhaps because animals know I am not a threat. It is more common to see adults hunting during the day while they are raising young. I can attest to the fact that little foxes love to play around their dens during the day.

I am already getting attached to this family and hope to meet the parents one day soon.

Earth Day 2020

 

 

I awakened this morning to frozen raindrops hanging from trees – jeweled beads, snow capped hills, and a cacophony of spring songs – I was serenaded by robins, chickadees, phoebes, goldfinches, and nuthatch tweets as I walked out the door into the early morning sun. I listened for the cardinals who for the moment were absent. It was cold! 28 degrees at the end of April speaks to anomalies – or more realistic – Climate Change.

Yesterday we had rain, and working in the still damp air is literally a healing experience. The unbearably sweet fragrance wafting through thin air is a combination of chemicals released by soil-dwelling bacteria, oils released from plants during dry spells and ozone created when lightning splits oxygen and nitrogen molecules that then turn into nitric oxide.

I dug in baby trees that I had rescued from the side of the road the day before. Salt kills tender seedlings if the road crew misses slaughtering them. Around Maine trees are worthless except as an economically viable product, a heartbreaking reality for someone like me. That the lungs of the earth are worthless says everything I need to know about how this culture prioritizes money and power over LIFE.

As I turned over rich woodland earth to create a home for the seedlings I breathed in the intoxicating scent of moisture laden decaying detritus until I thought my lungs would burst. After living in a dry wind driven desert for months I am still inhaling woodland air like a starved creature (Fresh unpolluted air is a gift without parallel). Placing my trees in their new home near a “mother tree” I tamped down the soil with a deep sense of satisfaction. I potted up two other seedlings with damaged roots hoping that they will recover enough to be planted in the ground by fall.

Later today I will place the two tiny trees in a terra cotta pot down below moss covered Trillium rock where I dug in my brother’s ashes on an Earth Day thirty two years after his death. Normally, wild Trillium and Mayflowers are in bloom by his natural granite marker, but not this year – the most consistently cold April I ever remember, and perhaps one that is eerily appropriate.

Normally I do not ‘celebrate’ Earth Day because every day is an Earth day for me, but this year is different. We are in the midst of a pandemic, one that humans brought upon themselves with their disregard for the Earth. Nature does not discriminate; she is focused on Earth’s survival and our egregious behavior has created a perfect storm for viruses to erupt killing people indiscriminately as S/he struggles to re – dress gross imbalances. Climatologists have been telling us for years that pandemics would occur with more and more frequency as the Earth continues to heat up.

Working outside to dig and plant trees is my way of honoring the Earth and my little brother this day. I think how much he would appreciate the trees I will place under his stone hollow. He loved trees as much as I do; On days like today, I think I must love all trees for us both.

Cross Country Journey…

From New Mexico to Maine

–

 

Last November I had a terrifying dream. I was looking down at a river from a great distance. A huge iridescent pulsing blue serpent (it looked like a python) was swimming along the river; it was bearing down on us; there was nothing I could do to stop it. For the Huichol and some other Indigenous peoples the presence of the blue serpent means death is on the horizon.

 

As a precognitive dreamer I recognized that some frightening force that involved a bodily threat was on its way (snakes represent the life force/body in most mythologies), but beyond this realization had no idea of the precise nature of this menace – just that it involved the whole culture. In late January I had two more precognitive dreams reinforcing the same threat before the C/virus struck the United States.

 

I was planning to return to Maine at the end of April because I had to be present for foundation work to begin on my little log cabin, but in early March I had a very personal precognitive dream. “It’s time to get going.” I began packing that day. More frightening dreams followed as my sense of urgency increased to an unbearable pitch. All I knew was that we had to leave as soon as possible. I barely slept, yet my dreams were relentless. I trusted the truths of my dreaming body because she is connected to the Body of the Earth… my earth body self knows things I cannot even imagine…

 

We left for Maine on the last day of March. A 2500 mile journey lay ahead but I was so relieved to be on the road moving away from an unknown threat even though we were also moving towards a peopled concentration of the C/virus. I had planned carefully for the trip. We slept and ate in the car, used the woods as our bathroom. Our only contact with people was at gas stations where we wore gloves, kept our distance, and paid with a credit card. With the C/virus escalating as we moved towards the east coast it was imperative that we took no chances.

 

There were some serious issues between my companion and I that went unattended. I believed we were not in any hurry and could take as long as we needed to make the trip safely. My driver disagreed, refusing to stop for any breaks despite knowing that this unexamined  willful behavior was dangerous to his health. We made a record breaking trip in three and a half days, arriving here in the middle of the night in heavy rain.

 

I was unbelievably grateful although my nervous system had been on scream because of the interminable high speed driving and stress. Two days later my companion was hospitalized. He paid a steep price for ignoring my pleas and (probably?) those of his doctor. Fortunately, he is all right now. For about a week after our arrival every time I closed my eyes I saw a speeding highway. I am still recovering from an acute PTSD episode.

 

What got lost in the chaos/trauma around our return were the special moments we shared during this trip. All the astonishing Rosebud trees were blooming in four states we sped through. If we hadn’t stopped each evening I never would have gotten a picture of one. Night became my Beloved… every morning I longed for her and the peace that would come at the end of that day’s frenzied driving…

 

 

After finding a quiet place on a country road to spend the night I made sandwiches for us, fed the dogs, gave my dove Lily b his water and took my dogs Hope and Lucy for their only really long walk of the day exercising my aching back and body and breathing in the sweet night air in the process. On April 1^st I heard the first peepers singing their hearts out. Every night I gave thanks for the day that had just passed. I experienced a strange sense of being protected by Something.

 

In the morning I awakened to the whistling calls of the Cardinals, (my absolutely favorite bird except for Sandhill cranes). I was starved for the spring bird cacophony that had been missing in Abiquiu. I was relieved to see that diversity still existed elsewhere. One night we stopped before dusk to camp in the driveway of an abandoned house. Lily b had a chance to be outside; he perched on an old upended garbage can and stared at his surroundings with rapt attention. I watched a phoebe fly into an open porch with twigs in her mouth. Meadowlarks sang heartrending serenades. Awake before sunrise I walked the dogs for at least 15 minutes and gloried in the shimmering golden light of dawn… The pale green of unfurling leaves brought tears to my eyes. One night we camped on a hill inside a magnificent six-acre state park. While walking the dogs just before dark a whole herd of white – tailed deer passed by us in the valley below. It was here that I was able to take pictures of the Rosebud trees. That pre-dawn walk will stay with me forever. The rolling mountains were so astonishingly beautiful tinted in deep green and lime. I fell in love with spring again.

These precise images stand out with a peculiar starkness and clarity, perhaps because overall the trip was exceedingly difficult and exhausting. For those moments at least, I was emotionally present, living in my body.

 

I am writing this reflection eighteen days later. The threat of the virus is minimized in this area because stringent precautionary measures were taken from the beginning of the viral outbreak. It is possible to shop, use a pharmacy and get gas locally. My vet, doctor and the dedicated folks of the Bethel Health Center are less than ten minutes away.

 

I wonder what specific threat was avoided by our hurried departure from Abiquiu. If past experience is any indication, I probably will never know.

 

However, with that much said I suspect it had to do with the virus itself. My companion repeatedly ignored my pleas to use protection when dreams told me the virus was “under our feet” before it was publically acknowledged in Arriba county where we lived.

Mother Tree Meditation

 

A couple of days ago after an exhausting day of chores I lay out in the sun in my snow pants under the tree I call the “Mother Pine” because she shelters so many creatures from birds to bears. It was late afternoon and the sun was sparkling like a cracked diamond through a myriad of branches over my head. I closed my eyes and listened to an evergreen symphony. The songs produced by pines and other conifers as needles sway and touch soothed me. How much I appreciated the sound of light winds slipping through the trees.

 

I had recently returned from the desert where these sounds are totally absent. Instead, ferocious west winds hurl and churn dust and dirt in my face making it impossible to be outside in the winter and spring on many days. Because I have emphysema, I am too often trapped in my house by polluted air… To be present in this precious breezy moment allowed me to feel a deep abiding gratitude for all the songs of trees … and for this patch of land I call home.

 

While lost in this reflection I was startled as a small object dropped onto my chest. I opened my eyes to a nuthatch (who was perched on a branch overhead) who promptly released another piece of bark that fell on my belly. Laughing, I was tempted to believe the nuthatch was trying to get my attention…

 

However, the most probable cause was that the little upside down bird was hunting for insects. Either way this delightful creature had gotten my attention! I gazed up into other branches of the old field pine and counted about 10 nuthatches all ferreting out tasty insects. I noted a bevy of robins; the chickadees were chirping on twigs, or using the tree as a lift off pad to reach the nearby feeder. During the summer, a pair of Red winged Blackbirds nested here and the Cardinals camouflaged their scarlet coats in deep green needles as they too readied to visit the feeder. Last year a lone Grackle made a home in Mother Tree’s branches.

 

I shuddered, remembering how I had considered taking this tree down thirty – five years ago because it blocked my view to a few of the undulating mountains beyond, at least when I was sitting on the porch. Nature intervened by placing a double set of deer antlers just beneath the tree just a day or so after I had this thought. Since white tailed deer were aspects of the Beloved finding those antlers settled the matter permanently…

 

Above me the tree limbs and needles disappeared into a deep cobalt sky and as I lay there a deep peace flowed through my body and quieted a mind cluttered with fear over the Corona virus, other health issues, and a crumbling house foundation.

 

I breathed in the sweet scented mountain air …

 

Then lightening struck. Here I was lying under the Mother Tree on the same day my mother died in 1993. And I hadn’t remembered.

 

In the intervening years I had come to forgive my mother for her harsh treatment of me. I was never good enough, bright enough, kind enough… I spent my entire life trying to please her.

 

Only recently have I been able to face the stark truth. My mother did not love her daughter; and now it no longer matters why.

 

As I continued to peer up through the thick green and blue the peaceful feeling returned. I acknowledged my mother’s death day … thankful that despite her feelings for me, she had opened the door to that greatest Mother of All – Nature. And because of this gift I lived.

The Croakers

 

(Frogs mating – note the one who didn’t make it! Eggs in upper right)

(Look at those golden eyes!)

 

The most exciting part of arriving home in early April is that signs of spring are everywhere. This is truly the season of new beginnings. I listened for the croaking quacking wood frogs at every ditch, puddle and vernal pool and was rewarded by one croaking male wood frog on April 12^th.

Two days later in the same place I discovered one couple mating and laying; a few clumps of jellied eggs were scattered close to the frogs who were still clasped together. The frogs vanished the next day. I realized then that in this place there should have been many couples, not just one…All frogs and toads are the most threatened species on earth, our canaries in the coal mine. They absorb pollutants through their skin – human induced poisoned air, earth, and water. We are currently in the process of losing the species for good.

 

I happily scooped up the newly laid eggs to bring home to scatter in various vernal pools on this property where the have a better chance of surviving, grateful that I had not missed wood frog emergence. Normally they begin to croak before ice –out in late February March (March around here). So I am a bit puzzled by their current behavior.

 

Wood frogs are native to our Boreal forests in Alaska, Canada, and throughout the Northeast. Wood frogs are the only frogs that live north of the Arctic Circle.

 

Wood frogs are omnivorous, and eat a variety of small, forest-floor invertebrates. Adults consume a variety of insects including spiders, beetles and moth larvae. The tadpoles feed on plant detritus, algae (they also like lettuce) and also eat the eggs and larvae of other amphibians.

 

Similar to other northern frogs that enter dormancy close to the surface in soil and/or leaf litter, wood frogs can tolerate the freezing of their blood and other tissues. Urea accumulates in tissues in preparation for over wintering and liver fluid is converted in large quantities to sugars in response to ice formation. Both act to limit the amount of ice that forms and reduces osmotic shrinking of cells.

 

Amazingly, these creatures can survive many freeze/thaw events during winter if no more than about 65% of their total body water freezes.

 

After wood frogs emerge from hibernation they begin a yearly migration to the nearest vernal pool for breeding, starting in late February or March. This species is often described as an explosive, short-term breeder which means that the window for survival is minimal. In this region, breeding often takes place over just a few days. Males search for a mate by hugging other frogs until they find one who is round enough to be carrying eggs. Females lay approximately 1500 – 3000 eggs, often in the deeper sections of the pools. Out of the large amount of eggs deposited only about 4 percent survive. The egg mass retains heat, and those eggs located near the center of the mass have a higher survival rate.

 

Communal egg masses are sometimes attached to vegetation within pools. The ones I have found in ditches are free floating. Eggs will hatch in 4 to 30 days. Temperature is a factor. Around here the eggs I have hatched have become tadpoles in 2 -4 days.

 

In four to sixteen weeks, depending on water and food supply, wood frogs have completed their growth cycle. My tadpoles become frogs during the month of July. Maturity may be reached in one to two years, depending on the sex and the population of frogs. A wood frog’s lifespan in the wild is usually no more than three years.

 

In my eyes the glorious sight of a wood frog (now very rare) is cause for celebration. I used to see a few each summer, but no more. They are found in deciduous, coniferous, and mixed forests; marshes; meadows; and swamps. Most of the time the frog lives close to the ground, hiding under leaves in woodland areas.

 

A wood frog’s most distinct characteristic is the black marking across its eyes, which has been said to resemble a mask. The bodies of wood frogs can be varying shades of brown, red, green, or gray, with females tending to be more brightly colored than males (note picture). These frog hues sound dull but each has an iridescent sheen. Adults can reach about three inches. The ones around here do not.

 

It seems to me that everyone loves to eat wood frogs from eggs through adulthood…Herons maneuver their way into my vernal pools for a snack even in the deep woods! My kingfishers love them. A variety of snakes eat adult wood frogs. These creatures fall prey to snapping turtles, raccoons, skunks coyotes, and foxes. Beetles, turtles and salamanders feast on eggs and tadpoles.

 

In the amphibian world, wood frogs may be the species best able to recognize their family. When many tadpoles are in the same place, siblings seek each other out and group together (my guess is that it is the only species that has been studied). My observations of all frogs confirm that the young like to be close to one another.

 

Wood frogs are found in deciduous, coniferous, and mixed forests; marshes; meadows; and swamps. They spends most of their time on the ground in woody areas except for during mating season when they are breeding.

 

I am anxiously awaiting the birth of these tadpoles hoping that my attempts to scatter the “Croakers” around my property will lengthen the time they remain on Earth.

Canada Goose

Canadian Geese have been on my mind a lot lately. This past winter I have missed the skeins of geese that fly back and forth up and down the river appearing every single morning like clockwork. In Abiquiu when winter turned to spring I noted that the geese were behaving in much the same way the Sandhill cranes did before they migrated, splitting into pairs or groups of three and flying erratically. I was puzzled. I didn’t recall witnessing such behavior before this year. I wondered about migration patterns. Were the geese shifting their flight patterns too? Or perhaps the small groups I saw were staying year round? Some days it almost seemed as if these water birds were confused by something.

 

I saw three Canadian geese on the last predawn walk I took to the river/Bosque – just an hour or two before leaving for Maine. I knew that a perilous journey was ahead because we were driving. The C/virus was a frightening threat though I brought all food, and planned to camp/use woods as bathroom. The first morning after my arrival at home I saw and heard three geese honking over my head. I was struck by the odd synchronicity remembering the mother goose tales of my childhood – and later as a graduate student when I learned about their mythology.

 

Mother Goose is a benign and loving image of the ancient mother goddess* that is present throughout world mythologies. I like to think that the presence of geese at both ends of a challenging cross – country trip were harbingers of the safe passage…

 

The Canadian Goose is native to North America and it breeds in Canada and the northern United States in a wide range of habitats. By the early 20^th century overhunting and loss of habitat decimated populations almost to the point of extinction, but with the help of preservation programs most populations have recovered.

 

In some areas these birds are regarded as pests. Many are routinely shot. I find this behavior sad and ironic because the root of this problem belongs to humans who have killed off the birds natural predators, as well as the fact that people have created an abundance of man made bodies of water near food sources like those found on golf courses, manicured green lawns, public parks, lakefront cottages, and beaches in planned communities. Geese love succulent grasses, sedges, aquatic vegetation, cultivated grains, seeds and berries. They also eat insects and some crustaceans.

 

 

Geese mate for life; life-long pair bonds are formed during the second year. Offspring remain with their parents for about twelve months traveling together in large flocks of family groups. The female chooses the nest site, which can be found in unlikely spots like cliff ledges as well as on elevated hummocks. Geese need good visibility to protect their eggs and young goslings. The male defends their territory with elaborate displays well worth watching!

 

Some geese don’t migrate at all and live year-round in the southern part of their breeding range, which includes both coasts and parts of northern Mexico. When the geese fly over in their characteristic “V” shaped patterns I am compelled to stop to watch this astonishing sight.

 

If they do migrate, geese tend to breed in northern areas in the US and Canada. Sometimes geese fly to Alaska or the sub – arctic to raise their families.

 

When migrating, if one Canadian goose falls injured, immediately two companions accompany the goose to the ground and do not leave until the bird either recovers or dies. I have observed evidence of this kind of animal compassion throughout nature in every species I have ever studied.

 

The geese that migrate return to the exact nesting and overwintering locations every year. In fact, migrating geese use various stop-off resting points when they travel, and these remain largely the same, too. When geese fly south to overwinter, they usually settle somewhere in the middle or southern continental US. The geese that you see every spring or fall are probably the same geese that were around your home the year before.

 

Since my return a week ago I have seen a few more geese – not the V shaped skeins but small groups that are flying or swimming in nearby ponds. During the late spring I look forward to seeing the parents with their fluffy waddling toddlers feeding at the water’s edge. I am perpetually amazed at how fast the youngsters grow. Geese have beautiful feathers and every summer I collect a few. This year when I find my first flight feather I will be thanking Old Mother Goose for her help.

 

Postscript:

What is goddess spirituality?

“Goddess spirituality understands nature (or the world) to be the body of the goddess and affirms this world as our true home. This world is understood to be an interconnected web of life shared by humans and other than human beings.” (International scholar/writer Carol Christ)

This earth -based way of being in the world allows us to be present for human and non – human species in a compassionate way – a way that is not based on ‘power over’ and privilege but on respect and equality. The Indigenous Way.

Red Bird – The Edge of Hope

papa last summer…

 

Two days ago I had a dream that I saw my beloved male cardinal in the snow. Cardinals have been my spirit birds in the North Country for 35 years.

 

On the trip from New Mexico to Maine I heard cardinal songs every evening and morning. Listening to their symphony helped me believe that I was being welcomed home to the east.

 

We have been here at my little log cabin for nine days and although other dear birds have visited the feeder, no cardinals have been in sight – until last night.

 

At dusk I opened the door to the sound of the male’s mating call – “Oh, I cried, you are back – I love you” – my whole body/mind was thrumming with impossible joy. I kept talking and he kept singing. Tears of gratitude stung my eyes.

 

Over the past years I have had so many squirrels that I have had to stop feeding my cardinals on the ground. But every morning and every evening the cardinals would begin to whistle and I would run out with seed to scatter below the feeder.

 

Last summer I witnessed the male cardinal teaching this strategy to his young son. the little fledgling had such a high pitched voice! I have yet to see my friend in the flesh this morning, but just knowing he is here brings me to the edge of hope once again.

 

Blessed be the birds that bind us…