September 2012

The steam rose slowly from my mug.  It was my favorite mug. On one side was a sketch of a jeep, the other side was the quote "Do what you love, love what you do.  Life is good."  I leaned into the mug and deeply breathed in the sweet moist steam.  Chocolate hazelnut --  a flavor most snuffed their nose at.  To me, it was the sweetness of cocoa in the smooth soft texture of a black tea.  Decaffeinated, it was what I thought I needed to get me through the next hour or two of scientific readings, but would still allow me to sleep soundly through the encroaching night.

It was well past dark out.  Fireflies that endlessly glowed were absent from my front yard and stars were no where to be found.  I could hear thunder, almost inaudibly, masked by the gentle rain that had begun earlier in the evening, before darkness took over.  It was a good night to read.  I was comfortably compressed in my desk chair, complete with soft sweats and a baggy hoodie.  In my heavily AC-ed house, the combination of lounge clothes and a hot beverage brought a certain relaxation to my mind, despite the heavy reading I was pressing through and trying to understand.

Despite the comforts I found in my house, I was distracted.  My sister had recently called and informed me of the dismal update on our grandmother.  Found on the floor, not breathing, she had suffered a stroke, so doctors thought at least, and was considered cautiously stable.  Our mother was already in Vermont, flying on a one way ticket, not knowing when she'd be home. I added more milk to my tea and took a long but slow sip.  I let the steam slide up onto my face, embracing the warmth and comfort it provided that my house lacked.

At the edge of my desk was a mostly empty bottle of Jim Beam.  The light brown clear liquid stared at me, taunting me, but the mug I was holding brought a warmth to my hands and soul that that bottle never could.  It was becoming an uncanny trend that I did my best research with a glass of stag in hand, like any good biologist I suppose, but tonight was an unusual night, for a number of reasons I didn't want to think about.

The update on my grandmother was certainly one reason.  Her health had been deteriorating through the last year, but bad news still always came as a surprise.  We all knew she had reached a point where she was incapable of getting better.  The only options from here were for her health to stay stable, or to simply get worse.  Though the stroke was bad news, this wasn't what was distracting me from my evening.

The news of my grandmother had brought about a sense of loneliness.  It was the first time I had thought about that embrace on the couch in Alaska, not out of force or habit, but out of longing.  I didn't long for that exact moment though.  That moment I knew was gone and he was gone with it.  I longed instead for a similar replication, only here, in my present location.  An arm that would hold me tight, teasing to not let go.  One that didn't disappear the next morning.

I took another sip, a short one, but as I swallowed the sweet beverage, I continued to hold the mug close to my face, letting the steam rise up onto my skin once again.  The rain continued to trickle off my window, steadily.  My body ached.  I was physically and mentally exhausted.  I had been training, vigorously pushing my body to unknown limits daily, on top of trying to keep up with classes and my research.  It was all taking its toll, and my sleep habitats, or lack there of, were reflecting it.

A loud clash of nearby thunder startled me.  Wind gusted against my window as the lights in my bedroom flickered.  I lit a candle, one that smelled of apple spice, then sipped my tea again.  Besides the approaching storm, my evening was calm and my mind was apathetic.  My grandmother, my tea.... him.  I let the storm outside enter my soul.  My evening, as peaceful as it was, was restless.  They were all restless.

Challis: Part 1

I sat back in my chair as I wrapped my blanket tighter around my shoulders and my arms.  My eyes were tired from staring at my computer all morning as I poked at numbers, trying to make sense of them.  Trying to find a pattern.  It was there, I just hadn't found it yet.  It was a Saturday morning, and usually I'd be out recreating instead of working, but today the winter weather kept me inside.

It was snowing outside, still.  It had started lightly last night before I crawled into bed, but this morning, all memories of yesterdays tracks were erased under a fresh blanket of white powder.  Now that daylight had finally broken free of the night, it was still snowing, with no signs of giving up.

I grabbed my mug filled with warm apple cinnamon tea and let it's warmth run up over my face.  The mug was warm to the touch and brought about a sensation of "coming back to life" to my cold fingers.  I breathed in the cinnamon and other spices until my nose tingled.  As I went to take a sip, my huskie shepard mix, Challis, pushed the door to my office open and pranced my way.  I sat my cup down and stared at him.  He had a certain bounce to his feet this morning.  He was happy.  He was always happy.  But today he seemed especially happy.

He walked towards me with a gentle expression in his eyes.  I smiled as he effortlessly plopped his head in my lap, nuzzling his nose up under my hand, forcing a head pat.  I took a quick sip of my tea before rubbing his ears vigorously.  Despite my recent life changes, Challis was a constant in my life who I couldn't have loved more.  He knew when I was happy.  He knew when I was sad.  And he knew when I needed a dog obnoxiously in my lap for a distraction from my work.  My numbers that didn't quite seem to fit together yet could wait.  For the time being, I rubbed Challis, kissed him on the top of his head, and silently thanked him for being there when I needed him most.  I didn't need to say it out loud.  In his eyes and his body language, I heard him say you're welcome.

Birding Oasis

To those who care to notice, my backyard is a birding oasis relative to the urban community that not only surrounds it, but dominates the area for miles upon miles.  With no decent "wild" or "pristine" area existing without driving for hours west of my small town, my small backyard is my secret escape.

The chickadees are among my favorites.  Their small black and white bodies, puffed up to make themselves appear much much larger than they actually are.  A faint "chick-a-dee-dee-dee" that confirms their presence.  They frolic, carelessly, between our feeders, the maple trees, and across the water to our neighbors pine.  They often stare at me with curiosity, before flying away, almost unnoticed.  This small passerine has followed me throughout all my travels.  The mountain chickadee in Idaho, with its higher pitched call and its smaller statue.  The boreal chickadee in Alaska, with its rufus colored sides and more monotone song, daring to embrace a bitter winter.  The Carolina and black-capped chickadees in the southeast, almost impossible to distinguish from one another.  Yes, to me, seeing a chickadee is the feeling of home, and I refuse to live in a place where I can't find them.

The red bellied woodpecker, who's belly is in fact actually not red, taps at an almost inaudible level on a pine tree.  His bright red head shining as the sun catches it against the dull, gray bark.  A mocking bird on our fence, singing the tunes of a song unknown to me.  A sea gull yawning in the sky, floating in a breeze, moving neither backwards or forwards.

With the changing of the seasons comes the changing of our birds.  As our backyard transforms in fall, winter, spring, and summer, so do the colors of feathers.  In winter, our starlings come.  By the hundreds, they sit on our pool cover and play in the water that has built up in it.  Green-winged teals and hooded mergansers show their faces in the marshes that brush up against our property, but only if you look for them.  Yellow-rumped warblers play in our fence while house finches proudly display their red.

In spring, other colors come.  Purple martins rent out the tall structure we erected for them two years ago.  Yellow warblers play in our bird feeders, while other countless passerines overfill their bellies with seeds and fresh suet.  As tide retreats and the mud flats become exposed, lesser yellow legs and other shore birds walk gracefully, pecking at the mud.

Occasionally birds of prey show themselves.  Turkey vultures, red-tailed hawks, bald eagles and ospreys.  And if you listen at night, the great horned owl.

My backyard is my oasis.  For in the morning, I can brew my tea and sit on the stairs leading down from our deck, and count 50 different species that flutter in and out.  Passerines, hawks, waterfowl, shorebirds, woodpeckers.  I count and mark them off in bird books and journals, waiting for a new species that has never called my small backyard home before.  I watch their behavior, listen to their voices, and observe them carefully through a small set of binoculars.

To most, the joy of birding is no joy at all.  A park ranger told me that birders were among his least favorite groups.  They would barge into his visitor center, inquiring as to where to find certain species (unique to that area) and nothing more.  To him, these birders were after nothing more than checkmarks on their life-list, and to him, this encouraged poor wildlife viewing behavior.

To be a birder, there are a number of characteristics you must possess. Most importantly, curiosity.  No one becomes a birder to pursue the life-list competition.  The life-list is a list a birder keeps, mostly to himself, of all the species he's seen in his lifetime.  This list is not kept for bragging rights.  It's simply a list, particularly for when rare birds are seen.  Curiosity is what drives a birder though.  Most days, we all go out birding knowing we will see the same species we saw yesterday, last week, and last year.  But every time we see the same species and observe it for even 5 minutes, we learn something new about it.  We notice a new behavior, or a difference between that species and a common relative.  We pursue visitor centers and new species not to add a species to the list, but out of curiosity.  A curiosity of animal behavior, of natural ecology.  The curiosity of life.

This park ranger also told me that birders are not naturalists.  I beg to differ.  To be a good birder, one must meticulously understand birds.  The changing winds, weather that drives them, the subtle changes in vegetation that can trigger a species that  an occur there.  Behavior patterns, other species that affect a bird's occurrence.  A birder may not know everything about nature, the way a true naturalist does, but a good birder is a naturalist all the same.

Birders must possess patience as well, and a great deal of it.  I remember days in Alaska, sitting on the rivers edge at 10 degrees.  My toes going numb, wind slapping my face, my fingers barely movable, all in hopes of watching waterfowl.  Goldeneyes and pintails, swimming in water that would surely kill us in minutes.  Yet they swam and played on the ice the way we do the beach in summer.  No bird, rare or common, is found without patience.

The other piece of the puzzle that describes birders and the idea of birding can't be described through one word.  It's an inner component.  A sense of satisfaction that comes from birding.  I did not come to love the chickadee through reading books or watching movies.  My love for chickadees comes from the countless hours I have spent observing them, and through this, I've developed a connection.  In spring time, I enjoy nothing more than the simplicity of calling in a chickadee and watching it turn it's head as it tries to figure me out.  Birding is the one outdoor pleasure I have that can take place still in any environment, even an urban one.  And even my small backyard.

My backyard is small and plain.  But to those who care to notice, it is a birding oasis.

East Coast Travels

Though the airport was foreign to me, it felt familiar and brought a needed comfort to my morning.  It was small.  One check-in counter, and behind the currently closed security check-point, 3 “gates” that really just consisted of one medium sized room.  A single, small aircraft sat on the runway as a dozen or so passengers stepped down the planes steps and walked across the landing strip toward us.  Minutes later, I boarded.

I was in Coastal North Carolina flying out of a small regional airport.  But as I sat in my window seat, the seat next to me empty, my thoughts wandered.  In my mind, I couldn't have been further from the east coast.  It was raining.  More specifically, it was sleeting.  Our travels became delayed as a pink misty fluid was sprayed over the plane to prevent icing.  My window was blurred from precipitation and all I could really make out was a weedy runway and evergreen trees.  Low fog further dampened my view and as we took off, we quickly flew above the cloud layer.  As I stared at the gray cloud, I was happy I couldn't see whatever broken landscape lied below us.  I stared at the gloomy clouds and let myself dream.

I was back in Alaska.  Below the clouds was the cook inlet, a highly productive body of water unknown to most.  We were flying over expanses of untouched wilderness.  Spruces and birch, moose and porcupine, boreal chickadees and redpolls.  Yes, I was leaving from the Kenai Peninsula, that small dusty airport flying Era Alaska, an airline that serviced all the remote communities across the entire state.  In my mind I pondered…. Where am I traveling to?  The possibilities were limitless....

As clouds lifted, I was brought back to my reality.  I was traveling to Atlanta, Georgia.  The landscape below me transformed.  I saw pine trees in rows that were clearly planted, lakes in perfect squares, and housing complexes that appeared endless.  In my mind though, I stayed content in Alaska.  As I stared mindlessly out the small window, I imagined vast expanses of tundra.  Caribou herds as large as those housing complexes.  Small ponds called kettles and rivers that carved the landscape effortlessly.   From my eyes, I envisioned the view I longed for.  

I closed my eyes, and I stayed there.