Scene and Herd

Brains are like cars

2012-01-18T20:25:00.005-05:00

Brains are like the cars we ride
When put in gear and driven;
The highest peak or loneliest stretch
Is climbed and conquered, striven.

But fuel they need, and ignition too,
Or far they will not go;
Nor accomplish much on Life's long trip
But waiting for a tow.

'Cause brains not used are like the cars
Neglected 'til they're rusted;
Though power lies beneath the hood,
Ignored, is just like busted.

But with the proper tuning,
Attention, love, and care,
Brains last much longer than the cars
And none the less for wear.

Indeed, with use, comes added value,
Honed to a polished luster;
For models of a hundred years
Still actively pass muster.

Both brain and car must be engaged
When going for a ride;
'Cause neutral only gets somewhere
When nothing stops its downward glide.

Don't put your brain in park and stop
And leave it to ignore it;
Nor put it in reverse too long
Without a reason for it.

For if you do you'll never know
The thrill and skill of learning;
From the passing lane of open road
Comes knowledge, wisdom, yearning.

So with the proper maintenance,
Good fuel and extra spark;
Both car and brain are like as not
To help you make your mark.

Go forward then, run through the gears,
Sometimes get into overdrive;
For nothing happens, 'less it's made to
Nor neglected, stays alive.

The brain that came with your year's model
Can last at least a lifetime;
Don't wreck it with an aimless living -
To do would be a crime.

Fluxing fortunes

2012-01-05T21:25:00.004-05:00

Change happens:
● High in the upper atmosphere, the jet stream shifts subtly to the south.
● Suburban sprawl invades the woods in northern New Jersey.
● Bernie Marcus and Arthur Blank are fired from their jobs in a home improvement store.

Opportunities arise:
● Certain of their data, savvy AccuWeather forecasters pool their funds and invest in citrus stock before a freeze reaches central Florida.
● Black bears near the Delaware Water Gap learn to raid backyard birdfeeders and garbage cans. They discover the ease of preying on pets and breaking into kitchens for food.
● Misters Marcus and Blank co-found The Home Depot chain of retail stores and become billionaires.

Cycles come and go:
● The Dust Bowl of the 1930s was a product of an eight-year drought, relentless wind erosion, and economic depression that settled on the American Great Plains. After the rains returned in 1941, dust storms ceased, crops thrived, and prosperity returned.

● Many speculative dot-coms bubbled briefly in the late nineties before spectacularly failing. Fashion apparel retailer Boo.com burned through $135 million of venture capital in an attempt to capture brand recognition and market domination before profits. Unfortunately, the profits failed to appear before the capital vanished, and the company liquidated after just 18 months.

Have a bad day? It’ll pass. Have a good day? It’ll pass. Such is the temporal nature of all things.

The leadership issue in such fluxing fortunes, however, is not that change happens, but rather, when it does, how do we react?

Consider the raccoon: one of the most adaptable of all animals, it freely chooses among almost any kind of shelter or food or habitat and gets along famously. The omnivorous rascals eat just about anything—bird eggs, berries, snakes, crayfish, small birds and mammals, even roadkill and refuse. And as owners of paws with semi-opposable thumbs, they’re able to get the lid off your trash can anytime they want. Changes in their environment happen all the time, and the raccoons are ok with that.

But consider the plight of the dusky seaside sparrow, whose last survivor died at Walt Disney World in 1986. Like all other creatures, it had needs that were met by its habitat, but when its habitat shrank and changed, and other land uses crowded in, the poor sparrow couldn’t adapt. It refused to cross any barrier, even if that barrier was merely visual, such as a highway or a power line, and effectively doomed itself.

No one is immune to change; it finds us from all quarters. Some changes are manageable, others are beyond our control, yet all, by their very nature, are temporary. Those who anticipate and embrace change, and who are able to adapt to its nuances, are those who thrive while others dive. Pluck your opportunities while they’re ripe, and enjoy their fruit while conditions last.

MasterPoint: Anticipate change. Remain flexible and open to new opportunities, and things may go better for you.

The Special Gift

2011-12-21T18:56:00.009-05:00

lyrics © Tim Herd

chorus
Two men given a special gift;
To know the date of their own lives’ ending;
Free will in hand, their destinies shaping;
Legacies revealed in their own lives’ making.

verse 1
“No fear in a life of adventure!” said one.
To live and to know what I do doesn’t matter!
I can booze and snort and shack up with women,
Cut loose and drive fast and live big and get high!
Life’s mine! I take it! I make it!” he boasted—
“To get what I want and to want what I get!”

Two men given a special gift;
One cries “Power!” and makes Self Master;
Free will in hand, his destiny shaping;
Legacy revealed in his own life’s making.

verse 2
“No fear in a life of adventure!” said the next.
To live and to know what I do does matter!
I can serve and bless and raise up the standard.
Be real and grow tall and live right and aim high!
Life’s fine! I hold it! I mold it!” he marveled—
“To get what I want and to want what I get!”

Two men given a special gift;
One cries “Service!” and makes Christ Master;
Free will in hand, his destiny shaping;
Legacy revealed in his own life’s making.

bridge
“What—me worry? Why should I? Get real!
I can’t lose—oh, what power! Now get out of my way!”
With no fear of an immediate fate,
The first one chose to accumulate—
He spent all on self and wasted his youth,
On smut, drugs and filth, and relative truth.
He gambled with life and hoped he had won—
But in his choices, his wisdom was none.

“What—me worry? Why should I? God’s real!
I can’t lose—oh what power! He shows me the way!”
With no fear of an ultimate fate,
The next one chose to appreciate—
He spent all on love and invested in couth,
In service and faith, and absolute truth.
He wrestled with life and knew he had won—
For through his choices, his wisdom was done.

key change
Two men given a special gift;
One claims pride and a life that’s demeaning;
Free will in hand, his destiny shaping;
Legacy revealed in his own life’s making.

verse 3
Soon sick from cirrhosis, but high on cocaine,
He climbed a high building and leaped from its height,
But to his amazement, he dropped like a stone;
Not flying, not soaring, but only just falling,
Facing the music with head to the pavement—
Brought low hard and quick, he lingered a decade:
A shell of a man in a vegetable suit,
A shell of a man in a vegetable suit.

Two men given a special gift;
One claims Christ and a life of much meaning;
Free will in hand, his destiny shaping;
Legacy revealed in his own life’s making.

verse 4
Soon rich in his spirit, and high on life’s promise,
He completed a goal and leaped from its height,
And to his amazement, he rose to the next;
Now flying, now soaring, enabled, empowered—
Brought over and under and through and around,
He lived long and prospered, was full and complete:
A mold of a man in a virtuous suit,
A mold of a man in a virtuous suit.

All men given a special gift;
To choose the why of their own lives’ reason;
Free will in hand, our destinies shaping;
Legacies revealed in our own lives’ making.

bridge
Not a minute too soon or too late,
Both men died on the predicted date.
Yet one’s life had ended ages before;
And the other’s had only begun to explore.
For after their lives had been lived and been spent,
The first died again, and the other lived more.

All men given a special gift;
To know the why of their own lives’ reason;
Free will in hand, our destinies shaping;
Legacies revealed in our own lives’ making.

Recreation and re-creation

2011-12-10T10:16:00.006-05:00

Run with this idea: The greater our connection to nature, the healthier and happier we are.

According to accumulating research, time spent in green outdoor spaces by children fosters creative play and relieves attention deficit disorders. Among adults, the rejuvenation derived from such outdoor pursuits as trailing a tiny ball through the byways of a golf course—or the hours teasing trout with an artificial fly—are well known. Aerobic activities of jogging, walking, and swimming contribute directly to our physical health. But perhaps surprisingly, studies show that the amazing therapeutic benefit of the outdoors extends even to office-bound cubicle workers with a mere view of trees, shrubbery or large lawns—who experience less frustration and stress than their deprived co-workers!

Time was that all our outdoor activities were subsistence-based. The chores of farming, gardening, hunting, and fishing produced food; walking, snowshoeing, skiing, and horseback riding were for necessary traveling. As such, the inherent benefits of interactions with nature were incorporated into our basic lifestyles.

These days, however, such interactions are usually not found listed on our electronic taskminders. Recreation is crammed into overly-busy vacation days, and the concept of outdoor leisure for the conscientious professional is considered naively quaint. Yet getting out there is neither the unproductive time nor the inconvenience it may seem.

The creative soul mates of recreation and re-creation pursue the same worthy goal. By refreshing both mind and body in invigorating diversions (recreating) you are also casting yourself into a new and improved you (re-creating). Such dual exercise is crucial because our careers trample a mind-numbing, body-crushing, and soul-dimming domain. Without recreation/re-creation, the weary world just wears us out.

So it’s not an option if we’re truly interested in success. Our highest and best functions—physically, intellectually, psychologically, socially, professionally, financially, and spiritually—can only be achieved and maintained by regular, refreshing, and stimulating personal makeovers. Bring it on!

As a leader in your profession, however, you must concern yourself with more than just Number One. (Selfishness is not only irresponsible, it’s counterproductive!) Look for ways to create a positive learning and sharing environment among your staff, board members, and stakeholders. Organizing occasional fun, educational, and team-building activities help to create that kind of learning atmosphere while strengthening team bonds and individual commitments. And if you can get everyone outside while you’re at it, the healthful benefits multiply for all!

Real leadership is not measured by position or rank, nor in accumulated honors and awards, a corner office, or a corner on the market. It is found in the number of the times we’ve tried, failed, adapted and re-tried; the people we’ve encouraged and uplifted; the challenges encountered and overcome together; and the healthy, productive balance in recreating and re-creating.

MasterPoint: Get out! Refresh. Create. Lead. Succeed.

Matters not for legacy

2011-11-23T20:34:00.001-05:00

There are conflicting stories about the precise heritage of my 7th-great grandfather, Augustin, a protestant minister born in 1661 in Germany. One claims he was rightful heir to an ancient well-known noble lineage; the other alleges he was the grandson of a common miller and an aristocratic pretender. Neither can be conclusively substantiated because the Thirty Years’ War, which ultimately and messily involved most of Europe, has permanently muddled the records. But no matter: either way, his story remains fascinating.

Whether he was of well-to-do birth or not, Augustin did marry well—to the youngest daughter of the Danish Count of Waldeck and Pyrmont, and began climbing the social ladder. And in the passions and patterns of the day, they settled down to raise a large family. At first, because of the warring French, they were forced to flee with their young children several times to new cities of refuge. In Vacha, while serving in a promising position in the Reformed Hessian Church, and soon after the birth of his sixth child, the preacher also fathered a girl born to the neighboring farm maid—thus forfeiting all his upwardly-mobile ambitions. Augustin lost his post, his profession, his future in Hesse, and his freedom. After serving a prison sentence in the city hall tower, he relocated his family to Brandenburg, Prussia, for a new vocational start, where he was appointed minister in Drossen.

But there he was poorly housed and paid, and the young family continued to suffer while Augustin worked, wrote, schemed, and strived; yet the blessings failed to reappear. While hunting, Augustin accidentally shot a boy. So the family moved again, this time to Berlin, where he attempted living as a traveling lecturer. Another child was born and the family remained impoverished.

The persistent preacher eventually removed to Drechen, where, as one of the historical accounts maintains, in this smallest province of Prussia, far from Berlin, he began his new aristocratic life as Senior Pastor. Three more children were born to the preacher and the Countess, and he began his life’s work on an exhaustive exposition and commentary of the New Testament. Sixty-five years old by the time he completed it, he presented a leather-bound, gilt-edged copy of the great book with his personal dedication to each of the two protestant European monarchs: King George I of England, and Frederick I of Prussia.

His calculated gift paid off. In gratitude, the Prussian Soldier King appointed Rev. Augustin as the Royal Supervising Preacher to the Reformed Church in Brandenburg; accepted his two eldest sons into privileged military service; and became godfather to the minister’s grandson in 1730, even bestowing his own name to the baby: Friedrich Wilhelm. The child grew up to serve his king, Frederick the Great, as Aide de Camp in the Seven Years’ War, and was later appointed Inspector General of the struggling Continental Army at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania: the Baron Von Steuben, recognized paradigm of military leadership and profound difference-maker in world history.

So apparently it doesn’t matter if you have a particular ancestry or not. Nobody’s past is pure, nor free from troubles or bereft of opportunities to excel. Everyone has just one lifetime—his or her own— and no one else’s— to create a lasting legacy. As for Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Gerhard Ludolph Augustin Von Steuben, he’s credited with instilling the high standards required by General Washington for his soldiers: integrity, knowledge, loyalty to conscience, and aversion to fraud and waste—and his legacy endures even today as a modern model for civilian professionals. He’s my first cousin, seven times removed. He’s in all the history books.

Currents

2011-11-10T20:16:00.004-05:00

The Class IV rapids on the Youghiogheny River flipped me and the raft skyward. When it finally occurred to gravity to reclaim me, the raft and my pals had already moved on without me, and things came down to just me and the river. (You could say I became totally immersed in my work!) I broke my paddle on a large rock and almost did the same with my tailbone. Fortunately for me, my buddies were able to retrieve me from the swift currents and haul me back aboard before the river took me for good.

Three awesome things about water trails:
1. They move.
2. They’re better with a buddy.
3. They can be navigated by almost any kind of vessel.

Tocks Island is a narrow strip of land in the Delaware River, and the site of three memorable stands against the flow:

1. A highly controversial proposal by the Army Corps of Engineers to dam the last undammed major river of the eastern U.S., flood upwards of 23,000 acres, create a 37 mile-long lake, and drive thousands of people from their homes and livelihoods. After 19 years of planning, investing, acquisitions, legal wrangling, pitched campaigns and hearings, the plan was halted.

2. My Scout troop’s campsite during a paddle trip. As most of our provisions had been delivered to the shore a short distance downstream, we undertook several round trips in the canoes to ferry it all back to the island for the night. Pulling strenuously against the current with the heavy loads took much longer and required much more energy than riding the empty canoe the same distance downstream.

3. That same campsite, when late that night one of the boys walked in his sleep, threading his way among all the tents’ intersecting guy wires and stakes until he stepped barefoot in the river and woke up. It was harder for him to find his way back in the dark fully awake, than it was for him to proceed apace while asleep!

Three life lessons from water trails:
1. A lot of the time it’s fine to go with the flow, but there are times when reversing against it is the only viable (or honorable) option you may have. Realize that it takes both strength and determination to buck the status quo, and advance against majority opinion or ingrained opposition. Prepare, then go for it.

2. It’s better if you’ve got the strength and assistance of a partner or team working with you toward the same goal—no matter what direction you’re heading. Collaborating in almost any venture dramatically increases your chances of success. (No man is an island, and all that…)

3. Real life is not the place for sleepwalking—unless you want to sleep with the fishes! Currents can quickly transport you to your destination or your doom. Keep alert to the trends—both physical and ideological—swirling about you at all times, and paddle accordingly!

MasterPoint: Keep current with the issues and trends within your profession, partner up, and navigate with purpose!

Thinking and being and doing

2011-10-20T22:33:00.004-04:00

Olympic champions, bodybuilders and dieters, sales representatives, and all your basic goal-setters keep before them a clear picture of the desired end results even as they work toward them from afar off.

You see, our brains are gullible: they believe what they are consistently told.

The teen berated as a screw-up continues as one; the girl ostracized for being different becomes a loner; the man who confesses he has no willpower succumbs to temptation. On the other hand, the child praised for being thoughtful continues to be; a student who believes she can overcome dyslexia does; a disadvantaged young adult rises to the challenge of being a single parent. All of us act according to what we believe we are capable of doing, to the degree we believe it.

Sometimes the “facts” are irrelevant. You wish to be a professional musician, but you’re simply not proficient enough. That may be true. But it doesn’t mean it always will be. A professional musician practices many hours every day to hone and maintain his or her skills; so does the aspiring professional musician. We must take on the habits and behaviors of the professional before we actually become the professional.

Professional motivators and creative thinkers speak about thinking “outside the box” or acting beyond our comfort zones to effect innovation and change. The truth is, ruts are comfortable. We spend a long time carving them out to our exact dimensional habits and then resting in them: aahhh! But to seek improvements in our lifestyle or to dream an impossible dream forces a change in our thinking, which in turn affects our doing, and eventually, our being.

When I was in junior high school I enjoyed a couple of semesters of Mechanical Drawing, where we sat at large drafting tables and used the T-square and triangles and scale ruler and dividers and compasses to draw 3-D objects on a piece of paper taped to the table. Mr. Dotter insisted that he did not mind us making mistakes, declaring often that “He who makes no mistakes, does nothing.” But he did warn us about making grooves in our work. We all had a tendency to push hard on our pencils, firmly and irrevocably etching our decisions forever. Sure, we could erase the line if it was wrong, but we couldn’t erase the groove in the paper the line created, so our mistake remained even though we had repented of the error.

We may not always be sure of our exact pathway to progress, but we can tread lightly as we train and develop to avoid unnecessary and unsightly “grooves” in our professional lives that may mar ourselves, our relationships, and our future. To do anything at all guarantees that we will, from time to time, make mistakes and fail. That is certain. So the issue is not when or what we fail, but how we fail and recover, while consistently reconfirming to our own minds the purposeful image of our destination.

It is the willingness to do what it takes; to purposefully banish negative, destructive, and counter-productive thought patterns, and substitute them with uplifting, edifying, and encouraging ones to motivate a change in our behavior. It is to accept in faith that which we cannot see as though it is. And to act upon that belief to fulfill our own greatest potential.

MasterPoint: Think to believe; believe to act; act to become.

Unique gifts = niche value

2011-10-07T20:39:00.006-04:00

The acorn woodpecker spends most of its time drilling holes in a single tree, only to plug each one with a single acorn. How do you fill your time?

The specific role an animal fills in its habitat is called its niche, which in turn facilitates the healthy function of the entire interdependent and interrelated community.

Similarly, your unique gifts and how you use them reveal your niche and enable your life purpose. What is your vital function? How do you facilitate vibrant living in your family? In your profession? Your community? Your world?

By this time of year, the pecker may have stashed as many as 50,000 acorns into one granary tree! Not only does that peculiar behavior develop an extensive food cache for itself and others, it also effectively disperses resources throughout the habitat, contributing to its long-term ecological health and stability.

The woodpecker’s simple, visual example tells us to “find your niche and fill it to the best of your ability.”

No one asks to be born.

No one knows everything.

No one is perfect.

Yet here you are poised at the start of something really big.

Age doesn’t matter. The past is immaterial. Your journey begins new every moment.

Ability isn’t important. The present matters only in the choices you now make.

Culture, heritage, and socio-economic issues are of no consequence. Your future is lived only as you create it.

So leave all such baggage behind: trails are for traveling, after all—not for lodging.

You need only one piece of equipment: a Great Attitude (the kind with the filter that strains out all the negative stuff). Strap it on.

Now go. Your trails await!

Starting things

2011-09-23T18:00:00.005-04:00

Full disclosure: I never went to kindergarten. It didn’t exist in my rural township in those dark, early days soon after the ice sheet had receded from North America.

And so I never learned all those things that people learn in kindergarten: Things like… like…

Hmm. Maybe that’s the problem right there.

In the late 1950s, educational progress in our locale consolidated a dozen one-room schoolhouses into a “modern” elementary building. So a few days after I turned six years old, I started First Grade. My teacher, Mrs. Sham, wore what used to be called “coke-bottle glasses” (because the lenses were so thick), and what I called “teacher’s perfume.” (I have never met anyone else so distinctively scented in my life.)

I was an impressionable kid, and I learned many life lessons from Mrs. Sham: How to Raise Your Hand; How To Carry a Chair; How To Set Down Your Glasses (even though not a single first-grader wore them); When to Hang Up Your Wraps (poor Cindy E. didn’t know she was a girl on the first day of school because she hung up her jacket during the boys’ turn. She flunked that year.); How Not To Run Out To Recess Riding On Donald L’s Back While He Whinnies Like a Horse; How To Stay In For Recess For A Week, and so on…

But the most lasting and profound lesson Mrs. Sham taught me was When You Start Something, Finish It. It speaks of the invaluable trait of persistence, which, when practiced, pulls you through the quicksand pits, muck-filled troughs, and inevitable round-about detours of life. Although we may not always be consistent, it is with persistence that we reach our goals.

I once witnessed a yearling black bear cub—a first-grader, you might say—with her heart and appetite set on a well-stocked birdfeeder, practice both persistence and ingenuity as she literally clung to her dream pursuing it. Because the feeder was suspended by ropes between trees, she quickly discovered that her goal was unreachable if she did not leave her comfort zone in one of the trees. Attempting and failing to step across tightrope-style, she also tried: hanging by her front claws; dangling upside-down sloth-style; failing and falling repeatedly; reaching and missing and stretching and grasping; and awkwardly holding and swaying and inching along a bouncing and dancing rope until she achieved what she had so persistently aimed for.

This post marks a new beginning for Scene & Herd. In my previous posts, I’ve commented as a naturalist on my personal interactions with nature, wildlife, and other fascinating moments in the vast, tumbling cycle of life. In this new start, paralleling the launch of my new column, Leadership Living, as well as a deeper venture into professional speaking, I will be interpreting proven concepts of personal, corporate, nonprofit, and community leadership for both the aspiring and the seasoned professional. In it I will offer principles and parables—drawn from the worlds of nature, culture, business, and everyday living—for personal and professional growth, along with “MasterPoints” of essential concepts to master and maximize your leadership impact. Welcome to this new beginning! I invite you to join this blog as a follower, and join me in the journey!

MasterPoint: Never stop learning, never stop striving: practicing persistence pays off!

Beachcombing at Møns Klint

2011-08-14T13:09:00.004-04:00

This is the Danish word for island: ø. Denmark has 406 of them.

At the eastern end of Møn—one of those islands—stands a scenic stretch of magnificent chalk cliffs called Møns Klint towering 470 feet above the Baltic Sea. It was created after countless millions of shellfish laid down their lives (and calcium) in a very thick seabed layer that was subsequently compacted into hills by Ice Age glaciers. And ever since the climate warmed and the ice receded, the sea has been eroding the chalk deposits in a grand reclamation of its mineral resources.

As the surf, wind, rain, and frost perform their work, large chunks flake off the cliffs and tumble into the sea. The soft chalk dissolves and dissipates in the currents, while its embedded dark bands of harder flintstone crumble and litter the beach.

The view from the top is magnificent, but the trip to the bottom of the cliffs is worth descending (and later ascending!) the several hundred wooden steps traversing the steep coastal terrain. Beachcombing there can result in fossil finds of sea urchins, mussels, and cuttlefish; as well as the petrified resin known as “northern gold,” amber, which washes up with seaweed and other flotsam from the Danish archipelago.

Curious crayfish!

2011-07-14T21:04:00.005-04:00

I was profoundly confused.

In the summer along our country road, I sometimes find roadkilled crayfish. And that’s just what befuddled me for a while. Just why?—and how?—and what?—were they doing out of the water?

About the only explanation I could conjure up is that they must’ve been dropped by a marauding raccoon, and subsequently run over. But that many? Raccoons aren’t known to be that inept!

And so I pondered until one warm summer eve while I was working in my garage, when in walks a crayfish, big as you please! (Well, it was only life-size, really, at about six inches.)

Now crayfish are very common in the streams around here, but definitely not on the land, and especially not strolling up my driveway, some 75 feet from the creek. Their usual haunts are under submerged rocks or logs. But creeping its way northward with its four pairs of walking legs, this particular aquatic beast seemed perfectly at home on the concrete floor of my garage, despite the fact that its special set of legs to bail water over its gills had nothing at all to do!

As Alice cried on the other side of the looking glass: “Curiouser and curiouser!”

I wound up calling an astacologist (one who studies crayfish) at Penn State University to confirm that I wasn’t just making this up—and that it really does happen. Crayfish sometimes do leave the water to migrate, he confirmed. Why, he added, no one has a clue!

Mob rules

2011-06-20T19:14:00.002-04:00

It’s tough being the top of the food chain: All your food gives you problems.

I was working back at the shed on Saturday when I heard the ongoing kuk-kuk-kuk of a distressed pileated woodpecker and the skree-ahs of a red-tailed hawk. Seems the hawk and its youngster had chosen to perch atop a tall oak in the tree line near the woodpecker’s nest. And she, being rather perturbed about it, fearlessly circled them quite noisily. After a few minutes of that kind of special attention, the hawks decided to beat it, and the woodpecker took a victory lap; one kuk per wingbeat.

The poor red-headed mama isn’t the only one who reacts to danger by crying all the louder about it.

It’s not uncommon to see a blue jay chasing an owl, or swallows ganging up on a hawk, or a red-winged blackbird routing a much larger snail kite.

Such overt discrimination is called mobbing and is practiced by many smaller birds against the very ones who could easily turn tail and snatch a couple of them up. Why, then, do they do it?

Mobbing tends to occur most frequently on breeding grounds where, despite the danger to individual birds, the “keep-moving” order to the predator safeguards many more helpless and hapless hatchlings and fledglings. And while it may simply divert the bad news away, such profiling also educates the younger members of the population to recognize the enemy.

I witnessed one memorable, but misdirected, display the day I had placed a mounted raccoon at the base of a tree where I would be leading classes of elementary kids along the trail. I had intended it as a quiet test of their observational skills, but it didn’t really work out that way. A single, sharp-eyed crow discovered the egg bandit posed stiffly on the ground, and had appointed itself the raucous alarm, yelling at that stuffed animal from the top of that tree all day long!

Particular in pink

2011-05-21T20:29:00.003-04:00

A singular beauty of the springtime woods, pink lady’s slipper is an unusually selective wildflower.

The distinctive silhouette of the rare woodland orchid presents a slender flower stalk centered in two leaves, topped with a deep pink, three-inch, slipper-shaped flower.

Unlike most flowers that are openly inviting for the purposes of pollination, the slipper’s pouch is tightly closed, except for one tiny aperture that allows only the strong and virile to penetrate. Bees and other large insects, detecting the sweet internal fragrance and the promise of nectar, push inside to discover a literal trap. With no nectar and no way to back out, the bee must force its way past a pollen-laden stamen to squeeze its exit to freedom.

Should the bee be waylaid again by another alluring temptress, a little pollen of the first is delivered to the second, new reproductive grains are loaded for the next transfer, and the act of pollination is complete. Without the bees’ help, the moccasin flower could not produce seeds. The bee, however, is jilted in this relationship, because unlike in other symbiotic floral arrangements, it earns no food in this encounter.

But the lady’s slipper is sitting pretty, with fertilized ovaries and a new lease on life.

This type of relationship, in which only one partner benefits, is called commensalism, and the lady’s slipper is a master practitioner.

The finicky flower grows only under the towering influences of pines, oaks, red maple, and sweet gum trees, which ensure the unique habitat it requires, yet the trees gain nothing from its presence.

Additionally, the lady’s seeds develop without an internal food reserve to power-up the new growth once it reaches suitable fertile ground. In order to spread and flourish, pretty-in-pink requires a certain low-life to help it grow. Only when the threads of a specific ground-dwelling fungus break open the seed and attach themselves to it, does the fungus dispatch the necessary nutrients to jump-start the seed, which then grows very slowly into a new stately scion of the forest. Only in its death does the plant finally offer something of itself: consumption of its tuber by the fungus.

Unfortunately, many people try to collect these showy orchids from their wild havens to keep for themselves, in their own version of commensalism. Yet because of their slow-growing, discriminating natures, and their dependence on the fungus, most transplants simply die.

I’m happy to report sighting more than a dozen thriving specimens atop South Mountain in south central Pennsylvania in their natural setting—where they remain particular in pink.

Super cool!

2011-04-18T18:50:00.005-04:00

Frazil ice is a frozen slurry of suspended ice crystals in a supercooled turbulent stream flow.

And the prime season and place to witness it is on the Yosemite Creek bed in Yosemite National Park in March and April. Although it has the surficial appearance of snow, the slushy crust advances like lava—and with a force that literally moves mountains. Surging along until it builds its own ice dams, blocking its own forward motion, the creek then swells below the crystalline surface until it finds another outlet, reversing and changing course on its chaotic downstream dash.

Look, but don’t touch! (In fact, keep a safe distance!) While its stationary snowy surface seems static enough, one misstep can quickly plunge you out of your depth in roiling ice water.

The park has produced an excellent video showing the fascinating phenomenon.

Covert amphibious base

2011-03-23T12:41:00.007-04:00

It can’t be done. I’ve tried it.

For over thirty years I‘ve been trying to capture a singing spring peeper. No matter how slowly or quietly I approach, they always know and shut up.

In recent days they’ve been peeping from my pond. And from a distance of about 75 feet, I can see all their surface-rippling exercises. But creep within 25 feet, and the operation abruptly shuts down: all is calm, none in sight.

Ah, well. That’s as they should be: wary of terrestrial pursuers and air attacks.

But I am fortunate enough in my foray this time to spy some other amphibious maneuvers. Quite a few red-spotted newts have infiltrated the cool depths of my pond, and, to my advantage, don’t possess the capacity to detect my looming presence.

The olive-green salamanders swim with a side-thrusting motion of their tails, similar to the much larger and fiercer alligators. (These aquatic adults were more noticeable as juveniles back when they stalked the moist woods. Emerging after rains and showing their strikingly-colored red-orange bodies flanked with dark red spots, they then operated under the moniker of Red Efts.)

But now they have permeated my pond, and are attacking newly deposited gelatinous masses of green frog eggs: thousands cluster on submerged twigs and other vegetation, and the slithering salamanders feast. They sidle up to the edge, bite an egg, and spin their whole bodies (also like alligators!) to tear it off from the cluster. They swallow, serpentine back into position, and repeat.

I fire off a few clandestine shots with my Nikon and stealthily withdraw from the pond, whereupon the peepers’ throat-sac chorus resumes its nocturne drill.

Real on tap

2011-02-12T13:21:00.004-05:00

No, kid, it’s imaginary!

When I used to do nature programs in elementary schools, the most common question I received from the eager upturned faces was: “Is it real?”

(What? You thought I brought fake nature?)

Despite how I may have liked to respond, the kids’ interest—and their question—was real, which reveals two important things.

First: there’s an innate need to connect to our beautiful, resourceful, sustaining, real world.

Here in February, despite its seemingly lifeless state, there’s something magical in connecting with a stately old maple just as it revives for another growing season.

The crows’ cries herald the coming of spring—though the calendar may yet deny it—as frosty nights and mild days signal the start of the sugaring season. Rising external temperatures increase internal pressures in the tree, drawing the sap upward to jumpstart new growth at the twigs’ ends until this season’s leaves begin food production. Riding that flow is a reserve of last year’s leftover—yet still potent—sugar food. Although comprising less than five percent of the sap, it is the trees’ only internal link to a sustainable future.

And yet, despite that seemingly tenuous link, there’s life enough to share.

Tapping a hearty maple, hanging a bucket, and collecting its clear sap this time of year not only uniquely bonds us to Nature in all its realness, but also romances and refreshes our spirits. Especially as we distill its inner sweetness over a crackling fire into genuine maple syrup.

Now that’s real.

And real good!

And whenever I introduce the history, lore, and the how-to behind this sweet treat to others, the result is always a better connection to our real world and its life-sustaining resources.

And that’s good for us.

Because here is the second important thing: that connection is increasingly strained, ignored, and broken.

Perhaps it’s to be expected from a generation that has always known a “virtual reality.” Or maybe it’s surprising in a society that boasts a digital “app” connecting nearly everyone to everything else. But that such a doubting question as “is it real?” is asked in the first place may well be the gasping canary of our societal coalmine.

According to accumulating research, time spent in green outdoor spaces by children fosters creative play and relieves attention deficit disorders. Among adults, the rejuvenation derived from such outdoor pursuits as trailing a tiny ball through the byways of a golf course—or the hours teasing trout with an artificial fly—are well known. Aerobic activities of jogging, walking, and swimming contribute directly to our physical health. But perhaps surprisingly, studies show the amazing therapeutic benefit of the outdoors extends even to those with a mere view of green plants and vistas—who experience less frustration and stress.

No “virtual” substitute is truly viable for first-person knowledge and experience in our real world. Our food doesn’t come from a supermarket. Our water originates from other than the faucet. Our wildlife depends on clean resources and habitats, just like we do. The manmade—or made up—can never replace the real thing.

Get out! Go see!

There’s reality on tap.

Simultaneously posted on Storey Publishers InsideStorey blog

Tobyhanna Ice Harvest

2011-01-15T18:00:00.006-05:00

The natural ice industry was an important trade in the Poconos a hundred years ago. Before the days of electric refrigerators, the Poconos’ frozen assets were regularly delivered by the iceman to chill household iceboxes as far away as Philadelphia and New York City.

We dressed extra-warmly for this morning’s ice-capades on Tobyhanna Millpond #1, which was originally dammed for the logging industry in the mid-nineteenth century. In 1895, the Pocono Mountain Ice Company leased the lake and built its first icehouse. Double walls of thick hemlock boards filled with sawdust kept the ice, covered with straw, insulated all summer long.

Although commercial ice operations at Tobyhanna ceased long ago, today’s smaller-scale efforts continue the tradition of harvesting the abundant natural resource.

Much like in our great-grandfathers’ days, ice plows and handsaws are used for cutting the ice into cakes about two feet square, which are pulled with a pike through a channel cut in the pond to the base of a conveyor. Four cakes (each about 14 inches thick in today’s harvest) are lined up at the bottom of the ramp; an ice hook, bit into the last cake, connects to a stout rope leading up the wooden ramp, around two pulleys, to a one-horsepower enabler at the other end. I watch, amazed, at how easily the great draft horse pulls the thousand pounds of ice up the conveyor to the roof of the icehouse; there men with pikes tip the blocks down another ramp into its cold interior. Others shove and stack them into place until the place is filled bottom to top, with about 50 tons of prime Poconos ice.

From sap to syrup

2011-01-01T09:00:00.003-05:00

In northeastern North America thrives a tree unrivaled in beauty, form, and function. Its stout trunk and graceful branches produce fine close-grained wood that is perfect for tools, furniture, and firewood. Its spreading crown, thickly draped in hand-shaped leaves, offers a vivid palette of changing colors to the sky and a sheltering security to numerous woodland creatures. And from its very depth issues a sweet sap that forms the sole ingredient of one of the world’s most appealing natural delicacies.

Which tree is this? Why, the magnificent maple! The choice sweetness of a maple is revealed in the intricate relationship of the tree’s living systems. This is a sliver of its mystery: that an awesomely complex living network of woody beings and basic elements, swirling in the eternal cycle of growth and stasis, offers up such a tasty and tangible product of its majestic spirit.

I am pleased to announce the publication of my newest book, Maple Sugar, published by Storey Publishing, and soon to be released – just in time for this season’s harvest! The book's page on Storey's website.

I invite you to discover more of the remarkable qualities and special gifts of this family of trees. Follow the footsteps of both bygone and present practitioners — and discover the easy step-by-step process — as you learn the lore, tap the trees, secure the sap, separate the sugar, and taste the treat. This is one book with which you can truly enjoy the fruits of your labor. Now that’s a sweet deal!

Dormitory Mistletoe for Love & Profit

2010-12-10T18:24:00.002-05:00

To be honest, flowers and plants didn’t interest me that much while I was a boy growing up. But there was one unlikely scrub of a bush that did capture my young man’s interest—albeit for a more earthy reason.

One Thanksgiving break during my college years in central Pennsylvania, I had the opportunity to visit my good friend Gipper at his dorm in Tulsa. Eager as we were for Christmas to arrive—and with it the extended break from the drudgery of classes, papers and exams—we hit on a plan to liven up both its anticipation and campus life in the meantime.

Scavenging a couple cardboard boxes from the trash, we schlepped them out to the nearby riverbottom where the unchecked growth of scrubby trees and shrubs offered a great wilderness resource for our purposes. In our entrepreneurial zeal, we literally tore through messes of thickets (and our clothes!) and scrabbled up a mess of trees in the miserable, cold drizzle to fill our boxes with a truly captivating, even mesmerizing harvest.

Back at the guys’ dorm we promptly opened shop selling our freshly harvested sprigs of mistletoe for just a couple of cheap bucks each: “Guaranteed for Inciting Passion, Curing Cold Shoulders & Other Relational Ills!”

I guess I could say that that was the start of a beautiful relationship.

Scenic splendors

2010-11-19T21:12:00.006-05:00

Carol and I were pleased to hike about a bit at the Natural Bridge near Lexington, Virginia on our recent trip south.

As we descended the steps to the Cedar Creek Trail, we admired the ridged remains of what once was the largest arborvitae tree in the world. It died in 1980 at an age of some 1500 years old.

Down in the valley, a great blue heron patiently fished the shallow waters some 30 feet from us. Witch hazel’s scraggly yellow flowers and holly’s red drupes brightly speckled the browning hillsides.

Above, the deep blue November sky formed a perfect backdrop for the scenic splendor of the natural bridge itself. Eons ago, the great span stood its ground while the surrounding cavern collapsed about it.

Ahead, in the pool below Lace Falls, a river otter interrupted its busy-ness to raise its head and exchange stares with us for a brief moment, before diving and disappearing.

And all around, creation’s magnificence and vitality delighted and enthralled our senses.

Stalking Scenes

2010-10-15T18:57:00.006-04:00

On a recent awesome autumn afternoon, I spent a little time gradually approaching the hanging backyard birdfeeder with my camera. Do it too fast, you see, and not only do the birds scatter to hide in the branches, but the little black-capped chickadees scold you all the while.

Just this morning, I watched our outdoor cat employ the same successful method while stalking a young gray squirrel on the ground. His technique reminded me very much of the old yard game, Red Light, Green Light, we used to play as kids. While the squirrel’s back was turned, Rusty took a few quick, crouched, baby steps; only to freeze his low profile whenever the squirrel’s head was raised. Patience wins this kind of game. Remember? The one who tries to rush is always the one who gets caught moving and is immediately “out.” Now, in this morning’s game, Rusty expertly sneaked up on the little bushy-tail from about 25 feet out, and actually caught the little nipper—briefly! The squirrel dashed up the old apple tree and out as far as the twigs could support it, with Rusty in hot pursuit. After a few scrabblings up and down, and being countered at each maneuver by the cat, it took a flying leap from about 10 feet high to the ground, hit it running, and made its narrow escape.

(By the way, Rusty rarely bothers with the feeder birds. He is fascinated by them, of course, right up until he falls asleep.)

A small flock of apparently all female purple finches, not normally seen at my feeder, helped themselves to generous servings of black oil sunflower seeds that afternoon, and I managed a few good shots of them in the treetop. It was from there they cautiously stalked the feeder on each approach.

Now, if only I could catch the darn woodpecker creating holes in my wooden-louvered weather instrument shelter!

"It's ridiculous, it's so beautiful!"

2010-09-09T20:49:00.003-04:00

That’s what a fellow admirer standing next to me declared, anyway. The incredibly scenic rocky coast of Mount Desert Island, in cahoots with a clear blue sky and a rollicking ocean, couldn’t have been any more visually captivating.

Some 4,500 islands dot the ragged coast of Maine, and Carol and I were recently fortunate to spend several days exploring the enchanting coastline and enticing trails of Acadia National Park, in which nearly every turn offered another remarkable vista.

Atop one impressively tall granite cliff, we spotted a huge osprey’s nest. Like eagles, ospreys build large nests of sticks with a commanding view of the surrounding territory, and return to them year after year. According to the Park Ranger, that particular one’s been in use for the past 70 years. Ospreys mate for life, but their loyalty is apparently stronger for the nest than each other: the current couple with the great oceanfront property wintered separately last year—he in Florida, and she in Haiti.

Just off the coast of another nearby island, we spotted a gray seal nosing about in the waves, while a harbor seal swam a few feet away. A gray-white harbor seal pup watched from its plopped perch on the rocky beach. As always, the nosy and noisy herring gulls kept tabs on all the shoreline proceedings. At low tide, we watched them air-lift clams to about 25 feet high before releasing them to smash on the rocks below, and swooping after them with whetted appetites.

And the beautiful doesn’t end with the daylight. After twilight on a moonless night, the entire sky glows with the glorious expanse of The Milky Way and over 2,000 stars visible to the naked eye. We thrilled to the spectacular (and spectacularly short!) show of several shooting stars, and even a glinting transit of the International Space Station, until it cruised into the earth’s shadow, some 250 miles distant.

Duckpin reflections

2010-08-17T20:39:00.002-04:00

Some peaceful early evening waterfowl-watching along the Brodhead Creek last night:

A small flock of mallards are calmly cruising upstream and down, dabbling for water-borne chow. A cluster of three or four paddle together, heads bobbing and dunking in rhythm for a while, until they reach some preset, invisible boundary; then all about-face, and continue the serene ballet downstream.

Overhead, centered on the creek, a red-tailed hawk silently serpentines southward.

Skimming with only its head above water, a banded water snake sneaks up the middle of a small tributary.

It’s quiet.

Visual reflections of the mallards on the slow-moving current prompt a few mental reflections on the need to slow life’s pace now and then. Yeah. Sometimes, it’s about refreshment and peace, not hustle and achievement.

But now! Into this tranquil scene bursts a merganser in a great hurry, its reddish crest raised and frazzled. Just as the downstream and the upstream mallards meet, the crazed flyer bowls into the duckpin lineup seemingly looking for a strike. But no sooner has the stranger splashed down; that it abruptly turns tail and hurriedly takes off in the same direction it had come.

The mallards, wetter but no worse, pay the intruder no mind, and continue their calm feeding. You know, water off a duck’s back and all…

Right...

So…

When worries careen into my calming brain to score a strike, do I scatter in alarm? Do I embrace them and flounder? Do I wrestle them for dominance? Or may I, in the future, calmly discern first if they are, in fact, real threats? Perhaps, as many worries prove in the end, they’re merely flighty distractions.

Pennsylvania wild elk

2010-07-13T19:33:00.002-04:00

I was recently able to join officers of the PA Game Commission in one of the most scenic and remote regions of Penn’s Woods (which also boasts the largest swath of publicly-owned land east of the Mississippi) to stalk some wild elk and gauge the condition of the herd.

Elk had once roamed the entire state, but habitat loss through human settlements, and exploitation through unregulated hunting, completely wiped them out by 1867.

In one of the first successful wildlife management programs, the Game Commission introduced Rocky Mountain Elk into the state from 1913 through 1926. A total of 177 elk were trapped in Yellowstone National Park and transferred to prime habitat in the north central part of the state, in an area called the Pennsylvania Wilds. Their healthy descendants now number a vigorous 800 and comprise the largest herd of free-roaming elk east of the Rockies.

Most calves are born in early June, so we set out to tag a few for research and herd-monitoring purposes; but, as what commonly happens when dealing with wild animals, things didn’t go quite as planned. We located a set of twins, but who appeared to be a couple of weeks old, rather than newborns. Not only that, these two were cavorting in the company of about 8 or so adults, including a couple of bulls. We decided not to insert ourselves into that domestically wild scene.

However, I did manage to get some good images of elk doing what they do best: grazing. But my luckiest shot was of this bull in velvet busy browsing some branches. Just as I had come around a bend, putting us into view of each other, he turned and gazed at me, while continuing to chew with his mouth open.

Sparky 1960-1972

2010-06-14T19:12:00.000-04:00

Meaning no disrespect to Old Glory, in my house, Flag Day is also known as Sparky Day in honor of the Best Dog in the World.

Sparky was a collie-shepherd mix born 50 years ago who became my best friend while we were both still young pups on the farm. We grew up together roaming the surrounding woods and fields. As co-adventurers, we discovered a cottontail den full of baby bunnies, found a dead cow, chased a white-tailed deer along the wood’s edge, argued with a groundhog at his burrow, picked potatoes at a neighboring farm, and repeatedly sledded down the great hill in the field, among many other adventures.

One cold winter’s morning he appeared at the back door with his lower lip pulled away from his jawbone. The vet couldn’t stitch it back to the bone, and ever after it hung down, giving a mean-dog appearance.

But he was anything but. Gentle, attentive, faithful, and protective, he lived a long and full life, and died on Flag Day.

Above: Brian, Sparky, Timmie, August 1960. Below left: Sparky and Timmie, January 20, 1961. Below right: Sparky, Brian, Timmie, October 1962.

Springtime goosiness

2010-05-28T19:24:00.002-04:00

Rolling up the driveway to Camelback Mountain this morning for a breakfast meeting, I enjoyed the familiar spring sight of a young famished Canada goose family ravishing a grassy knoll near the road. When suddenly, the father attacked my vehicle…

My first encounter years ago with springtime goosiness introduced me to the Supreme Gander Protector, who zealously guards his family from all comers who step too close for his comfort.

Trouble was, I had just rowed myself to a small island in a pond that was essentially bare—except for some trefoil ground cover, and a recording rain gauge whose chart I was there to change.

Without warning, I was under full frontal attack as a hissing gander charged me, all tongue out and mouth open: no trespassers! No excuses! With nowhere to hide—and very little to run—I ran. And so the chase began!

There’s practically no stopping such an agitated gander. He may not have teeth in that mouth, but his bite can leave an ugly bruise. And though he may weigh only 12 pounds, there’s enough oomph there to break a man’s arm!

My unlikely salvation on that deserted isle that day had arrived some time earlier—in the form of a dead sapling floating near the coast. Aha! With a seven-foot stick in my hand, I could finally fend off my attacker.

Still, it was hard trying to row home while aiming a tree at a hissing, honking, circling menace!

Caught in a web of flies

2010-04-14T20:48:00.005-04:00

At the Greenways Leadership Forum held at East Stroudsburg University’s Stony Acres campus in the Poconos last week, a break in the educational sessions during lunch allowed some quality interaction with the outdoors. Along the burbling outflow from the lake, federally licensed birdbander Darryl Speicher of the Pocono Avian Research Center stretched twenty feet of a virtually invisible “mist net” to gently capture songbirds for banding. Before long, the beautiful specimen of a male northern cardinal involuntarily submitted himself for research in a brief tangle with the net. With a trained and gentle touch, Darryl quickly freed the bird from the net, attached a tiny numbered metal band to his right leg, recorded a few details, and released him back on his hurried way.

The tiny aluminum band has no adverse effect on the bird, allowing him to behave normally with all others in his population. If our cardinal is ever recaptured in the future, the number on the band, location, and other identifying characteristics will be entered into a national database. Such hands-on research simply and directly furthers our knowledge of the breeding, wintering, and migratory ecology of the native birds of northeast Pennsylvania.

Photo courtesy of Susan Koomar.

Spring eve

2010-03-19T19:35:00.000-04:00

A bluebird inspects a prime nest site. A house wren flits along the tree line. Daffodil tips stretch and reach. In the slumbering garden, juncos peck at insignificant specks. Overhead, geese arrow northward as pussy willow buds blink open. From the field, a single peeper calls.

Perspective

2010-02-13T13:11:00.003-05:00

A pretty special place, our Midatlantic home: Spellbindingly beautiful, unendingly fascinating, dramatically powerful, and yes, even dangerous; yet home to countless millions of lives who not only survive, but thrive there.

This is a snapshot portrait on February 7, when “Snowpocalypse” dropped several feet of snow on the coastal plain, piedmont, and Appalachian Mountains. Another storm, nicknamed “Snowmageddon” revisited the scene just three days later, spreading more of its woes northward. The impact of nature’s simple mixing of a steady source of moisture with cold air produced substantial snowfall and blizzard conditions disrupting millions of people and costing millions of dollars to remedy.

(That over 230,000 people died in Haiti’s recent devastating 7.0 magnitude earthquake reminds us that the planet’s natural systems, benign though they may seem, retain a tremendously dominating and overwhelming force over all living things.)

Yet from this perspective, the storms of life don’t seem quite so fierce amid the tremendous resources of our marvelous and fascinating home and the ingenuity and adaptability of its residents.

We can’t avoid problems and struggles. They’re a part of life and living. But when they occur—from the momentary and personal distraction to the horrendous and global catastrophe—we cannot allow them to overwhelm. It’s then that it’s helpful to take a step back, and look at things from a broader perspective. It may not help us understand things any better, but it can ease our mental stress, and perhaps even suggest a solution.

A phrase from Bette Midler’s hit song From a Distance speaks to this:
From a distance, there is harmony, and it echoes through the land.
It’s the voice of hope, it’s the voice of peace, it’s the voice of every man.

It’s that “voice of hope” we find in a broader perspective that’s crucial.

From a Distance words and music by Julie Gold. © Wing and Wheel Music & Julie Gold Music. NASA image courtesy MODIS Rapid Response Team at NASA GSFC.

Sky of scarlet splash and gold

2010-01-13T22:22:00.003-05:00

O sky of scarlet splash and gold—
And fiery embers now increasing;
Deep lilac, rose and mauve, magenta,
Maize and colbalt; copper, crimson:

Fleeting,
Silent,
Rich,
Majestic;

Complex,
Awesome,
Lush,
Dynamic.

Break forth in spectral air and bold—
As Nature’s burnished day, reclining,
Smears heaven’s lofty luster nightward
And splendor reigns while glory soars.

13 January 2010 5:06 pm EST

To a Christmas Tree

2009-12-16T20:27:00.005-05:00

O balsam tree, that lately held
The stars like nesting birds among
Your emerald branches, listen now
To children’s voices sweet with song!

You talker with the wind, and friend
Of fox and fawn and silver mouse,
Bearing your tinsel and your gifts,
Glow softly now within this house,

Bringing your fragrance to our hearts,
Assuring us that wars will cease.
For a Child’s bright birthday shine with faith,
O tree of loveliness and peace!

— Frances Frost

When will I ever learn?

2009-11-14T13:28:00.003-05:00

I have a couple of standing rules, among them: Always take a book along, and keep the camera handy. And every time I break them, I’m sorry.

Case in point: Yesterday I took a quick swing through the park in preparation for my guided walk today. Since I’m familiar with the park, I merely wanted to decide my route and have a fresh look around, when suddenly – there it was – an albino gray squirrel on the tree leaning over the creek. And me without my camera.

So I had to settle for aiming my phone while trying to close in on it through a thick layer of noisy dry leaves. This was my best shot.

Unfortunately, with a couple of noisy kids in my group, today’s walk in the park couldn’t duplicate yesterday’s serendipity.

So for now, I’m left with just the low-res evidence. What a difference a digital SLR with a zoom lens could have made when it was needed. Note to me: keep your camera ready!

Magical toadstool town

2009-10-04T17:11:00.003-04:00

Out for a delightful walk in the early autumn woods, I stumbled across a colorful little community of fly agaric toadstools tucked against a stand of old pines, framed with scarlet virginia creeper and shed pine needles. So pleasantly picturesque in its miniature natural setting, so visually appealing in its arrangement, and so intrigueingly inviting, I had to stop and explore its existence.

Even without ingesting its toxic and hallucinogenic properties (!), it wasn’t hard to imagine the tiny toadstool town as a miniature Brigadoon, complete with fairies, gnomes, and other magical woodland creatures, that appears in our midst only occassionally—but for some very special purpose.

Yet that is, in fact, what it does. Conjuring itself into existence each fall, it works its ancient magic to recycle organic material and render the earth a little more lush, a piece more productive, and a bit more beautiful.

Rocky roosters

2009-09-13T16:09:00.002-04:00

While marveling at the natural beauty of the surf-carved sandstone cliffs of the southern California coast, I noticed a rocky roost populated with brown pelicans, cormorants and gulls. While the tide rose and the sun fell, the gaggle of water birds preened in the fading light of another day of fishing for a living in the sun and surf.

Surf striding

2009-08-10T20:22:00.003-04:00

Our candid camera has caught the strangely elegant white ibis—normally head-down in methodical probing of the substrate—in purposeful mid-stride, exhibiting its lovely pink-orange legs at the Cape Canaveral National Seashore.

A mud-daubed sidetrack

2009-07-05T17:24:00.002-04:00

While on my way to meet my wife shopping in Kohl’s department store, I got sidetracked at the entrance by a pair of swallow nests pasted to the upper corner of the overhang. (And, apparently, a guy staring up at the ceiling with a camera sidetracks others: “What are you looking at? Are those bees’ nests? What is that?” I hung around awhile to watch their comings and goings—which they did very quickly.

This image confirms the users as cliff swallows, as I captured one displaying its distinctive buff-colored rump and squared-off tail just before disappearing into its equally distinctive, mud-daubed, gourd-shaped nest.

Fortunately for me, I hung around long enough that Carol met me outside the shopping door I never had to enter that evening…

A good year for sighting snappers

2009-06-13T19:15:00.003-04:00

An obese snapping turtle greeted me on the road the other day as I fetched the morning paper. Even though snappers cannot pull their head and limbs inside their shells, this one’s flesh bulged at every opportunity, appearing as if it was expanding much faster than its foot-long plastron. As I jacked up my purple umbrella and circled it on the rainy road, the cantankerous creature sidestepped to face me all the way around. We do-si-doed several times.

From my own and other’s observations, there hasn’t been a year in memory to match the casual snapper sightings as this rainy spring. A golf course superintendent reports seeing them every morning; Carol’s co-worker and friends have spotted three in one day; sister-in-law Karen photographed one today traversing her city yard; I’ve even seen an upside-down road-kill at the median barrier of the four-lane Route 33.

Perhaps the season’s extraordinary dampness coinciding with the snappers' breeding season has enticed more widespread ramblings this year as they seek higher, drier land for digging the nest and depositing their eggs.

Fostering a stronger breed

2009-05-18T20:02:00.005-04:00

On a recent great day in mid-May, Philadelphia Zoo officials and the Pennsylvania Game Commission teamed up to foster a zoo-hatched bald eagle into a wild nest already holding two eaglets in Bucks County.

The six-week-old chick, a biologist, and a tower employee rode a basket suspended by a crane to introduce the eaglet to its new family high atop a manmade tower.

Thanks to similar fostering and hacking programs over the past 25 years, the bald eagle population in Pennsylvania has been increasing at about 15 percent annually, and is no longer classified as endangered in the state.

Taking just minutes to cap what has taken years to develop, the eaglet quickly joined its new siblings and its readily accepting foster mother—shown above—in another happy episode to a tremendous conservation success story.

photo: Joe Kosack/PGC

Bear tagging

2009-04-01T07:10:00.006-04:00

I was recently invited by the Pennsylvania Game Commission to accompany the state bear biologist in tagging newborn bears in their winter dens.

With the highest black bear reproduction rate in the country, and a population of over 15,000, the state is a leader in black bear research. The PGC tags cubs to monitor their population and reproduction (age of mother, litter size, sex ratio, den reuse, etc.); and to perform maintenance on the mothers’ radio collars.

Amid a steady snowfall on the mountain (although it was the first day of spring), we opened the first den to find a mother with three cubs. But instead of the cute little eight-week-olds we expected, these husky yearlings weighed 40-50 lbs each, and needed to be sedated along with their mother. As soon as they were darted, however, they bolted—only to fall over somewhere in the woods. So we then had to mount a search to locate them in an area of extremely dense brush and saplings.

With a wildlife veterinarian monitoring their vital signs and recording other data, the cubs each received a pair of metal ear tags and a tattoo on the inside of their upper lips—all before waking up with mom back in the den just an hour later.

Enjoy this unique capture of bear behavior by the USGS:

Anticipation

2009-03-06T18:34:00.004-05:00

An ambling, Friday-afternoon, no-worries walk in the late winter woods does a soul good. The early March sights, sounds, and smells are signaling a good run of true Spring.

Red maple branches broken in last week’s winter-hurrah now run wet with escaping sap.

A lone mallard drake escapes my company from the pond at the wood’s edge.

A red tailed hawk pair, calling and courting in the treetops, choose each other’s company and swoop out of sight.

The kuk-kuk-kuk of a pileated woodpecker calls out from a distance, but I sight fresh wood chips on the ground, betraying its new nest just 30 feet above me.

I spy the abandoned hanging nest of a white-eyed vireo pair, woven from strips of wild grape vine and suspended by its rim from a forked branch. It’s still strapped in place with insect silk and spider webbing. The white-eyeds are summer residents around here—they’ll return.

I crush a spicebush twig and sniff its fragrant essence—in wide-eyed anticipation of Spring’s reinvigorating return.

Chapter Next

2009-02-08T13:38:00.003-05:00

This setting, this blog, one year ago (Misplaced Ambition) told a tale of two trees and a rogue beaver.

Although the twin oaks survived the beaver’s advances, you can see it’s been a struggle ever since.

The year’s growing season spurted a sheath of shoots around the base of both damaged trunks, as the trees sought a way to recover and regenerate. The nasty notches have darkened with exposure but have not healed.

But the damage is done. In its weakened condition, Left Oak cracked under the additional strain of a January storm, snapping at the beaver’s unkindest cut. For now, its upper reaches have snagged an embrace with other supporters, preventing it as yet from toppling to the stream 20 feet below. Meanwhile, gravity, while relentless, is patient; and Right Oak stands a frozen witness to its own eventual fate.

Winter looks

2009-01-02T15:10:00.005-05:00

Look up. Deciduous trees in winter are objects of stark loveliness: leafless and lean, cold and comely, bare and beautiful.

Look down. Recent winds rattled those trees. My yard’s littered with branches and twigs abandoned to the dual wills of wind and gravity. In the woods, the snow and leaf litter are now liberally seasoned with white ash seeds.

Look out. I joined my grown kids sledding on a grand hill; its icy sheen afforded many slick trips and great wipeouts. We gamely gave face time to the chain link fence at the bottom—resulting in one black eye, one cut nose, and one diced 23-year-old. As for me, I shot sideways off the sled and spun a dozen bouncing barrel rolls before watching the sky continue to spin long after I did. Sledding is all about racking up at the bottom, you know. Becky says: “it helps if you scream.”

Look away. The storm on the 24th forced me to live out a country song: waiting for a tow in the cold rain at a truck stop on Christmas Eve. Oh, baby.

Look in. Winter ushers in a new year with new opportunities; time for reflection, resolutions, and re-creation. May 2009 be your best ever.

All that is

2008-12-16T20:13:00.006-05:00

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colours,
He made their tiny wings.

The purple headed mountains,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky −

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden −
He made them every one

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
We gather every day −
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.

—Cecil F. Alexander

Signs of the tines

2008-11-28T11:35:00.007-05:00

In recent days I’ve observed a number of white-tailed bucks crossing my pathways. While none seemed to be in a hurry in those particular moments, they did share a passion for purpose and destiny: They were males on a mission.

Such are the days. As they grow shorter, darker, colder, and grimmer, the crowned heads of the forest instinctively seek out ways to extend both a future and a legacy.

Every year it's the same thing: time to paw and scratch, mark and scrape, threaten and fight, conquer and mate. And after months of living the good life in the lush greenery of summer, body fat is restored, protein is replenished, the fur coat is replaced, and new antlers are raised.

The real signs of the times are those antlers. Annually shed and re-grown, this year's rack has been growing since spring, triggered by lengthening daylight and nourished under velvet wraps by a network of blood vessels. By autumn however, the blood flow nourishing the bone that builds the antlers dries up, and it's time for the unveiling of a formidable primal weapon. With its main beams and prongs, the antlered crown of the buck is both an excellent offensive and defensive armament.

But first, they take off the gloves, so to speak. The white-tails look to saplings and shrubs to rub off their velvet and leave a scent for those who follow. This year, one has employed a clump of gray birch in my back yard for that purpose!

As testosterone levels increase, so do the bucks’ interests in the does. Aggression between bucks surfaces only if they come too close. Most sparring is usually painless and short-lived.

But with others, it can get ugly. Seemingly reluctant to tangle, two whitetails may circle each other warily, sizing up the opponent. A challenge begins suddenly, and a shoving match ensues. The loser runs off.

The scene repeats throughout the range: The largest and most experienced bucks fend off the challenging ambitions of the younger males and outsiders. The prize: ready and willing does, the passing of the victors’ genes, the establishment of a new generation. The scraps: wounded egos, broken tines, injured bodies, the losers' chance for “next time.”

With the breeding battle won—or lost—the need for the homegrown weapons is past. The rut has diminished the males' health, and they face the future devitalized. Winter arrives, and efforts turn to survival. The noble antlered heads drop their battered crowns to the ground. Discarded to litter the wintertime woods, the remnant relics remind us of the eternal cycle of the seasons, and wild hope for the future.

Of wits, wings, and windowpanes

2008-10-24T21:48:00.002-04:00

I was sitting at this very computer when a bird suddenly mistook my office window for a clear passageway and discovered it wasn’t—the hard way.

I left my seat to search for the little wallbanger and discovered a tiny, feathered ball of a bird clenched to the edge of the outdoor steps. Its bright yellow crest and stripy head proclaimed its gilded name: golden-crowned kinglet.

Stunned by its abrupt encounter with the invisible force field, it sat there glassy-eyed and quiet, and calm enough for me to approach within inches to take its picture. With its head tucked in and its feathers puffed out, it appeared only slightly bigger than a golf ball with tiny talons.

Kinglets are petite birds—only 4 inches in length from the tip of its slender bill to outstretched tail—that tend to travel in mixed company with chickadees, warblers, creepers and other small songbirds. My bewildered tourist may have been southward bound for the winter when my windowpane rudely interrupted its expedition.

Fortunately while it rested—and our cat’s curiosities were engaged elsewhere—it was able to reconnect its wits to its wings, and soon resumed its flight with the songbird squadron.

A foxy accord

2008-09-26T17:37:00.003-04:00

We both noticed the other at the same moment and froze in our tracks: me, walking along the road—and the vixen just a dozen feet away in the tall meadow.

It was a calm acknowledgement of each other’s presence as we stared into each other’s eyes.

Then, with our mutual non-aggression pact settled, she picked up a rodent at her feet, calmly turned and trotted into the woods, with nary a look back.

And I resumed my walk, already refreshed by the brief encounter.

Pleasure Cruisers

2008-08-01T20:16:00.000-04:00

Aboard the Shore Thing off the south Jersey coast, the clear blue sky-dome met the dark blue sea-disk in every direction.

We were out for an afternoon pleasure cruise when we met about a dozen more companions heading Cape May way.

A pod of bottlenose dolphins, traveling in loose groups of twos and fours, seemed to be enjoying the beautiful day as much as we. The synchronous swimmers rode the ocean swells, simultaneously breaching the surface for a quick breath and a roll back under.

An occasional tail lob and display of higher athleticism drew our attention until we also discovered a mother-calf pair keeping the leisurely pace. Avoiding overexertion by swimming right on her flanks, the babe mimicked her every move. Undisturbed by our presence, the pair continued their rhythmic routine as long as we shared the southern horizon—and a sweet sojourn—once upon a time.

At the Back Porch Pub

2008-07-21T21:01:00.000-04:00

They come from miles around to my back porch for a bit of the best natural brewskies.

Two half-bushel baskets of potted petunias market their bright and showy wares to the visually inclined. Among the taproom regulars are two real humdingers.

We usually hear the hyper ruby-throated hummingbird before we see her. Preferring the red label, she sips the high-energy drink for only moments before zooming off to her next floral appointment. (We note she also frequents the Trumpet Vine Saloon over at the outhouse.)

A more relaxed but still quite nimble visitor is the hummingbird moth. With blurring wings and a curlicue tongue (but with a back end reminiscent of a crayfish!) the tiny tanker inserts its thirsty front end in almost every petunia, seemingly careful to take a swig from every tap!

Sanctuary Garage

2008-06-29T16:32:00.000-04:00

Nestled against the insulation atop the rail of my broken garage door opener, an enterprising family of chipping sparrows have built a nest and are now raising a couple of tufty-headed beaks in my garage. Although their eyes are not yet open, their parents attempt to fill their bottomless pits with bits of seeds and bugs in a daily dawn-to-dusk feeding marathon, working to ensure the new brood’s fledging, and their next stage of development…

There if you look for them (and even if you don't)

2008-05-25T14:55:00.000-04:00

A foray off-trail last week revealed several delightful discoveries:

Enormous colonies of mayapples, complete with white blossoms concealed under the parasol leaves…

A pair of white-tails, cautiously crossing our pathway…

Ancient rock-pile walls, once gleaned from the hillside and guarding a pasture, now traversing the forest in silent sentry…

An oak apple gall; a trickling mountain brook; a solitary common morel mushroom…

Pink lady’s slipper, blushing in May’s warmth. The shy, lonesome beauties stand just a foot off the forest floor, but hundreds of feet apart—unlike the gregarious mayapples…

Overhead, a partial 22° halo in the cirrus ‘round the sun…

A four-point antler shed last winter, still resting in the leaf litter…

Several strapping specimens of American Chestnuts, sprouting from hundred-year-old rootstock. Optimistic in their reach for the sky, yet doomed to succumb to the far-reaching blight of last century’s plague, they nonetheless demonstrate the persistence of life in spite of hardship…

All there if you look for them (and even if you don’t)…

Cyclorama

2008-04-20T17:13:00.001-04:00

The passage of seasons allows the continual pick up and discharge of fellow passengers sharing a segment of the journey. Today I met two new travelers joining us for a time in the sun…

The fleshy shoots of horsetail are stalking the springtime woods. But don’t look for them in the wildflower books because they don’t flower: they reproduce instead by spores and creeping rootstock. The tips drop the spores before the green leaves appear.

Another little beauty that doesn’t follow usual wildflower rules is the eerie Indian pipes. The pale “ghost flowers” rising from the leaf litter are devoid of chlorophyll and subsist not by producing their own food like green plants, but gain their sustenance from the decaying roots of other plants.

Speaking of decay, a postscript: I happened to pass by the same spot I visited last fall when I discovered a wild turkey strung up by its neck on a vine. (See November 10, 2007.) Its flesh gone to feed others, its bones now rest on the ground, to go the certain way of the all things in the great cycle of life.

Change and changeability

2008-04-17T20:41:00.002-04:00

A couple of engaging encounters in Florida last week had me considering how our surroundings can influence our actions.

Anoles are little lizards with the remarkable ability to change their coloration to approximate their surroundings. Green anoles can change from a bright spring green to a tan, while the brown anoles can morph from a lighter brown to a darker brown.

While they remain true to their basic natures, the overriding purpose of the changing coloration is to help them blend in with their changing surroundings: Such a strategy simultaneously betters their predatory advantages while reducing their risks as prey.

I watched a green anole amble down a palmetto trunk, where it was plainly visible. But the moment it jumped into the leafy shrub, I could barely find it—so perfectly it matched the foliage. (See if you can find it in the picture above!)

I discovered this male brown anole sporting a dorsal crest. It was a little larger than the average brownie in the bush, which means it’s been successful for a longer time; however, you can see the price it’s paid: a missing tail. I spotted another brown beast flashing its bright orange dewlap: a fascinating territorial behavior to register its annoyance at my presence. (It’s also used as a courtship come-on, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what he was trying to communicate to me!)

While the clever reptilian adaptation works extremely well for little lizards making their ways in the world, the ability to adjust to changing circumstances is a valuable trait for all living things. Yet integrity of character remains paramount; without it, all is vanity.

Moondogs and other sky signs

2008-03-22T15:28:00.000-04:00

On our way home last night, my wife and I stopped the car to admire a wonderfully bright moondog—a red-rimmed bright spot to the left of the full moon. It being Good Friday, I couldn’t help but think of the significance of signs and wonders in the heavens.

The moondog (also known as mock moon, or paraselena) is an effect of the moon’s light refracting through opposing faces of hexagonal ice crystals, which act as tiny prisms to bend and split the light into a colored bright spot about 22° away from the Moon. (The solar equivalent, which is observed more often because of its greater brilliance, is called a sundog, mock sun, or parhelion.)

The full moon figures significantly in the date of Easter each year—the first Sunday after the first full moon on or after the vernal equinox. And this year, Easter arrives about as early as it possibly can: just 3 days after Spring began early Thursday morning.

It is said that the Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity after witnessing a great cross in the sky. While the apparition can be produced by another pattern of light bent and reflected through ice crystals—a vertical sun pillar intersecting a portion of the horizontal parhelic circle—the event is nonetheless impressive and noteworthy.

Mankind has always looked to the heavens for inspiration, signs, and meaning. And in Christ, the central figure of Easter, we find his birth heralded by a star, his life represented by light, and in his resurrection the offer of redemption and eternal life. What could be more significant than that?

For more information on sky phenomena: http://www.kaleidoscopesky.net/ Moondog photo credit: U.S. NOAA.

Great honking chaos

2008-03-03T19:16:00.000-05:00

Tens of thousands of snow geese had chosen last season’s soybean field to stage their morning exercises. Skittish, restless, and flighty, the black wingtips acted and reacted in near-unison with their neighbors, alternately landing and alighting, rippling their indecision throughout the flock.

I approached cautiously, but with nowhere to hide, my presence only added to the confusion. But soon, rallying to a unified purpose, the noisy supergaggle rose, bright-glinting white in the rising sun, overtook the horizon, and met the coming day...

Misplaced ambition

2008-02-01T19:31:00.000-05:00

A tale of two trees: White oaks—brothers, most likely—growing up side by side near the cliff, overlooking the tumbling stream below. About my age, but much taller, stronger—and more stable. Anchored to their birthplace, yet reaching for the sky’s limit, they’ve guarded this bluff and sheltered the lesser creatures for a long time.

A rogue beaver: no family ties, no stability but change, and wanderlust for blood. Concerned only with a full belly, and shelter when necessary—yet an insatiable need for gnawing, felling, pulling, piling. Cut a sapling or a dozen: they’re chock-a-block. Nibble awhile, then stash the carcass—tow it cross-stream and stockpile. Return for more.

But look—twin towers! Oak—hard, and not the preferred taste—but my, what trophies to topple. Gravity will help—won’t it?

The trees’ defense: an un-transportable distance to the stream, hardened cores, massive infrastructures supporting tons of living, growing tissue. Deep roots. Time. Inertia.

And girth. 15 inches thick.

A rogue beaver, with wanderlust for blood, moves on.

The real thing

2008-01-03T17:02:00.000-05:00

No, kid, it’s imaginary!

When I used to do nature programs in elementary schools, the most common question I received from the eager upturned faces was: “Is it real?”

(What? You thought I brought fake nature?)

Despite how I may have liked to respond, the kids’ interest—and their question—was real, which reveals two important things:

There’s an innate need to connect to our beautiful, resourceful, sustaining, real world.

That connection is increasingly strained, ignored, and broken.

Perhaps it’s to be expected from a generation that has always known a “virtual reality.” But that such a question needs asking may well be the gasping canary of our educational coalmine.

No “virtual” substitute is truly viable for first-person knowledge and experience in our real world. Our food doesn’t come from a supermarket. Our water originates from other than the faucet. Our wildlife depends on clean resources and habitats, just like we do.

And real flamingoes stalk the swamps, not front lawns (here encountered in Homosassa Springs, FL). The manmade—or made up—can never replace the real thing. Get out! Go see!

The Nature of Christmastime

2007-12-11T20:43:00.000-05:00

And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, let us remember that He has given us the sun and the moon and the stars, and the Earth with its forests and mountains and oceans and all that lives and moves upon them. He has given us all green things and everything that blossoms and bears fruit and all that we quarrel about and all that we have misused, and to save us from our own foolishness, from all our sins, He came down to Earth and gave us Himself. —Sigrid Undset

Traditionally, many Christmastime symbols and decorations come from nature—mistletoe, poinsettias, boughs of holly, evergreen trees, snowflakes, gold, frankincense, and myrrh—even the Star of Bethlehem itself. Ancient customs of interior decorating with live evergreens during the long cold winter months continue to serve as cheery reminders of life and hope in a cold world, just like Christmas itself. God’s creation has so much to offer beyond food, shelter, and bare necessities that incorporating its blessings into our cultural and religious observances both enriches our hearts and enhances our heritage.

As a believer in Christmas and all it represents, and as a student of nature in all its diversity, I find great joy and encouragement in their serendipitous combination at Christmastime. May the fullness of meanings, the love of all good things, and the joys of celebrating be all yours!

Ghost turkey

2007-11-10T13:42:00.000-05:00

Nearing the end of a glorious walk in the Pennsylvania woods yesterday, my eye caught a large white, motionless bird in a nearby thicket. I cautiously approached until I realized the young turkey wasn’t just playing possum.

The bird was hanging from its neck on a strong vine.

How did a partial albino come to dangle in the November woods?

Had it been foraging the thorny vine’s little blue berries? Had it been fleeing something and suddenly snag its unfortunate head?

It hadn’t been dead long; I could see no decay. But neither could I see evidence of struggle. The vine was split, but not broken. The wings were folded, the legs stretched out to one side.

What mystery created this sightless ghost?

Night sounds

2007-09-01T13:20:00.000-04:00

I distinctly remember the scariest night of my life. I was about 5 years old when a screech owl chose to serenade me from just outside my bedroom window. Its eerie wail (and its unimaginably monstrous source!) revealed to me that I could leap from my bed clear across the room, make a U-turn through the doorway, and dive directly into my parents’ bed, without ever touching the floor!

Nowadays, of course, I have quite a bit more appreciation for the soulful singer. Its hauntingly beautiful tune is a pleasure to listen to, as one calls nearby, and another answers from further away. (That is, if they’re not keeping me awake at 3 am!)

Night sounds from the wild ones among us can be an awesome aural adventure. Now, as I lie in bed, I try to identify not only the source of the sound, but the dark scenario that caused it.

Some of the more memorable:
A dad-blamed mockingbird that just couldn’t shut up in the young maple outside our apartment in Bound Brook, NJ—until I shook the tree and returned to bed. (When it recommenced until dawn.)

White-tailed deer snorting in my yard while they scarf down apples and pears... Spring peepers in spring, and the high-decibel treefrogs whenever it rains from March through August... Early morning crow cries: “Caw! Caw! Caw!” translates in my mind to “Fight! Fight! Fight!” as more and more join the ruckus... The whip-poor-will that repeated its monotonous three-note tune 754 times nonstop while I lay in my cot one hot July night at Boy Scout Camp in the Poconos. (No exaggeration here—I counted!)

And perhaps the most intriguing: a distress squall from a fox as it ran from behind the house following the tree line, then striking out diagonally across the field. What mystery of the night caused it to flee in panic?

Tenacities

2007-07-02T13:01:00.000-04:00

The good news of the resurgence of bald eagles in the continental United States was in the headlines as we entered Yellowstone National Park and witnessed the happy scene of a bald eagle on its snag nest.

In just a few more minutes, we also spotted bison, elk, coyote, white pelicans, canada geese, mule deer, pronghorn, badger, and a cinnamon black bear, all going about their wild business.

As the world’s first National Park, Yellowstone is not only known for its incredibly beautiful scenery and abundant wildlife, but as a Biosphere Reserve and World Heritage Site, also serves as a land-use model for many nations.

Magmatic heat from ancient volcanic eruptions still power the park’s geysers, hot springs, fumaroles and mud pots. The appropriately named Grand Prismatic Spring pours almost 500 gallons of hot water a minute into the Firehole River, its famed colors caused by thermophiles—heat-loving microorganisms that thrive in the harsh conditions: a hardy testament to the tenacity and adaptability of Life.

Pool sentry

2007-06-01T12:48:00.000-04:00

The whirling winds of a fierce autumn storm danced with our aged pool cover last year until it shredded it to bits—which allowed all manner of leaves and debris to settle in its stored water. So we knew to expect a larger than normal clean-up job this spring.

What we didn’t expect to find in its algae-thickened water was an unobtrusive pool guest.

Like a little stone sentry, a gray treefrog had assumed possession of the pool’s skimmer and was guarding the sheltered artificial pond.

Though now silent, we had heard him plenty before. The warty little frog with adhesive toe pads and a gray lichen-like pattern on its back has a quite a loud trill, and seemed to like to interrupt our sleep on warm humid nights. Often mistaken for birds calling from the trees, gray treefrogs call and court from April through July.

And sometimes take up residence in a dirty pool.

Sometimes serendipity happens, anyway.

2007-05-01T12:31:00.000-04:00

Carol and I had just arrived on the Cape Canaveral National Seashore in Florida when we were told somebody had just caught a shark a little ways up the beach. So we hastened to the scene.

The fisherman had wrestled with a five-foot lemon shark for about a half-hour before he landed it. Now dead, he noticed that its belly seemed to be quite full. Cutting it open, he discovered, along with the rest of us spectators, four full-term babies.

Motionless at first, they soon wriggled to very active life, so that it took two hands to carry each of the very vigorous, foot-and-a-half-long sharks to return them to the water. While the surf redeposited them on the beach a couple times, they soon acclimated to their new environment and disappeared to the depths.

While the mother shark lost her life, she gave it as food to the fisherman’s family, while he completed her purpose in delivering her spawn to the sea. And we got to witness the scene of several lifetimes.

First day of spring?

2007-03-26T14:43:00.000-04:00

Each phase of nature, while not invisible, is not yet too distinct and obtrusive. It is there to be found when we look for it, but not demanding our attention. — Henry David Thoreau

While the snowy scene may not evoke springtime pleasantries to the winter-weary mind, this is where I spent part of the first day of spring: a trail along the Brodhead Creek in the Poconos of Pennsylvania.

A recent eight-inch snowfall had blanketed the woods, streambank and trail, and it was a clear, bright day: The deep blue of the sky reflected in the creek’s riffles and contrasted strongly with the clean white landscape—a glorious, picturesque scene.

I spotted a first-day-of-spring robin hopping about on the rocks at the water’s edge. Not only did it not greet me, it completely ignored me as it pursued its early errands.

A bit further on, a killdeer demanded my attention with its high, strident piping (teewdew! teewdew! teewdew!) as it flew over the creek and came to a running stop on the far snow-covered shore, staking out new breeding territory.

Yes: still winter, but springtime too, in nature’s unobtrusive, yet promising new phase, there to be found when we look for it.

Seriously slippery

2007-02-19T14:08:00.000-05:00

The other day, just a few days after the Valentine’s Day storm deposited three inches of sleet over three inches of snow, I sauntered out to get a couple of photographs of maple buds before they opened. The extreme cold that followed solidified it all to a wonderfully hard, slippery surface.

(See http://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/Newsroom/NewImages/images.php3?img_id=17562 for a fantastic satellite image of that storm’s results!)

After sliding down a steep bank while standing more or less upright, and landing more or less on my wrist and backside, I found boxelder, silver, sugar and Norway maples. As it warmed, I noticed sap flowing from a horizontal line of freshly-drilled sapsucker holes on the sugar maple: nice choice!

But it was on the big Norway maple that I noticed this somber sentry sizing up my intentions. While I circled the sizeable trunk, and other gray squirrels retreated higher on the bare branches, this one stood his post and locked his gaze on the nut with the camera, just long enough for a perfect midwinter portrait.

Hole punch cloud

2007-01-10T14:31:00.000-05:00

My wife and I were on our way to
church Sunday morning, December 30, when I spotted a unique pattern in the altocumulus above us. Fortunately, I had the camera with me, and we pulled over to take a quick shot.

The distinctive feature is called a “hole punch cloud” and forms in supercooled conditions—when water droplets in the cloud remain liquid even though the temperature is below freezing. When a jet flies through the layer, tiny particles in the exhaust contact the supercooled drops, which freeze instantly. Larger ice crystals then fall out of the cloud deck, creating the holes, while smaller ice crystals remain suspended in its center as newly formed cirrus streaks.

Keep looking up—and always keep your camera handy!