One of the best places to see large mature trees is in cemeteries where the trees are allowed to stretch out and achieve their full magnificence. On the pioneer edge of Olympia the Masons and other community groups set aside an ample place for burials away from the bustle of the port and business section of town; it remains a peaceful and contemplative destination for tree gazing and historic grave visiting. Many of Margaret’s family are resting in peace there.*

My friend and I went there recently to see a particular chestnut tree. It is well over a century old and its large bulk dominates that part of the grounds. Its muscular looking trunk has pushed aside some too-closely placed headstones and embraced others in amongst its protruding root system. Its many branches create a world joining sky and ground. This tree has both presence and grace. Standing in its shadow we felt its quiet power, its age, and wondered at all it had experienced over time. We wished it well and many ages to come.

The tree was engaged in releasing this year’s bounty of seeds. The chestnuts grow encased in very prickly shaggy coverings. No squirrel could tackle such a bristly defense but now the cases were splitting and peeling back to release the seed at last. The ground was thick with spent cases and rich with chestnuts littering the grass. We searched and picked up chestnuts to examine them more closely. They were so different from other chestnuts I had seen! They were small and thinner-skinned, almost flimsy compared to the stone-like “conkers” I was familiar with. We were puzzled….was this a result of this summer’s heat wave and drought?

As we pondered, a young man came bounding up, also intent on chestnut hunting. He too was an enthusiast but one with more knowledge. He was excited to tell us that this was no ordinary chestnut tree but a survivor of the terrible blight that destroyed almost every chestnut in the east in the early 1900s. It was discovered that a fungus was spreading like wildfire through the majestic groves and despite a frantic program of removing diseased trees up and down the country, the air-born fungus spread and spread and devastated trees everywhere. It was one of the first documented tree epidemics, but alas, not the last. Dutch Elm disease and others to come also played havoc with beloved trees and changed American canopies forever.

But this tree, perhaps planted by an early settler, had survived in its isolation. We marveled to think of its singularity and our luck at its discovery. The young man was an east-coaster now planted in the west; he assured us there was a scattering of others in the area. We felt an even deeper reverence for this great elder of a tree knowing more of its story and its importance as a survivor. Maybe its offspring could help repopulate a chestnut forest and renew a lost tree heritage? Our hope for the regeneration of the world was renewed!

*Margaret herself was not laid to rest in the family plot but is thought to be scattered as ashes somewhere in a private ceremony. There are several beauty spots in and around Olympia that when I am visiting them I can’t help but wonder….is Margaret “here” and now part of the cycle of life in this place? I don’t know. But just imagining, it places her “everywhere.” Which feels right somehow.

Waking now to darkness and silence: it’ll be awhile before the sun makes any kind of appearance. And when it does it may be bright and cheerful but without the brassy heat of summer. The air has a welcome coolness and at long last we’ve even had rain! My calendar declares this the first day of Fall, the autumn solstice, a marker day in the turning of the Earth.

 The dawn chorus has long quieted to nothing. Birds are now intent on flocking behavior, readying for migration or are laying low, completing their annual molt and growing strong new feathers. The towhees in my garden are looking especially disheveled and secretive. I am reminded to leave some cover plantings for them to hide away in while doing the fall clean up of the garden and to spare flowers going to seed for winter food. Chickadees have discovered the drying sunflowers and are darting in and out of that clump. Their calls are softer, mere chips. There is more stillness. The flurry of mating, territorial displays, feeding the young, and all the bustle of summer is over. I too feel ready for a change.

At times like Solstice I think about Phenology, the science that tracks “firsts.” Wikipedia’s definition from the Greek origin of the word goes to the heart of the matter: “to bring to light, to show, to make appear.” It’s the practice of noticing and recording: the first sighting of a bird in spring, the first buds opening on a tree, or the appearance of a flower in bloom. In Fall, it might be when birds begin to gather on telephone wires before migration or the first crimson leaf on your sweet gum tree or even activities of insects and spiders as they prepare for the next stage in their life cycle. Temperature and light measurements, the first freeze, the timing of dawn and sunset. Whatever is occurring outside that we can observe and note and compare over the years to find patterns….and with climate change, the breaking of patterns.

But while I am interested in the practice and discipline of Phenology I recognize that I am too scattershot in my attention. And too uncertain of my own observations: Is this really the first? How long has that tree looked like that? What am I missing? Keeping that kind of record will probably remain an aspiration! But I’m sure there are ways to find such records and use them as prompts for exploration. That might be just as useful….there is so much to learn!

Meanwhile, the trees are holding the moment, tentatively turning a leaf here and there but not yet rushing into glorious reds and golds. The leaves scattered on the ground are more a statement about this summer’s drought than the new season. I’ll try to keep watch this time, maybe pick just one tree and pay attention to its cycle.

And tune into a presentation I found on the Aldo Leopold Foundation website:

Phenology and YOU: Bringing Leopold into Our Time, a lecture hosted by Professor Emeritus and Wisconsin Conservation Hall-of-Famer Dr. Stan Temple 

October 5, 5:00-6:00 PDT.

Registration required (it’s free): https://my.demio.com/ref/25eGcmpj0pvgXsYt?mc_cid=0fd09eb5ec&mc_eid=887ba62def

Of course, there is a word for this feeling of connection, this utter peace and calm that fills me and settles me anytime I find myself on a forest path or standing under big old trees looking up into their branches: dendrophile.  A word for people like me who love trees and forests. Who just feel so much better in their presence. And, as follows, who want to protect them and just let them live out their very long lives. We dendrophiles know we need trees in our lives and to know they were there before we were born and will, with grace, outlast us by generations; they will stand sentinel for our children and grandchildren. Trees give us perspective and a larger sense of time and place. They literally ground us.

So, after a time of reading too many bad-news stories, of worrying about the world and whether humans would ever evolve, anxious about pandemics and drought and conversely sea level rise and other calamities, we went for a forest walk.

After about three steps into the woods, into the oxygen-laden air breathed out by the trees, into the dappled light touching every shade of green and brown and patchy gray and unnumbered unnameable colors, all the cares began to drop away like last year’s leaves. (They don’t disappear but become new soil for the next season of life; part of the solution if we could only see them that way.)

I remembered what I had learned from two Forest Bathing experiences, practices derived from the Japanese teachings called shinrin-yoku and decided to make this walk into another immersion. I slowed my breathing and my steps to tune into this different pace, this world of standing still and yet fluid with cloud and sky and lap of water in the nearby pond. Small birds floated through upper branches, calling in high-pitched whistles and busy murmurs—likely chickadees and bushtits. I paused to listen without needing to follow their movements, to just be present.

As I opened to the moment, the many layers of the forest revealed themselves: from root systems hinting of all that lies beneath and is the real beating heart of the forest, to sturdy trunks branching off to find sunlight and guide raindrops down to thirsty roots. Late-summer leaves looked a little tattered and care-worn, their work almost done for the year. Moss and lichen furred the surfaces of trunk and branch while ferns and tangled undergrowth huddled and competed for space and light. Some places where the canopy had closed in were dry-shod and brown with duff; a few steps later where a tree had fallen inviting sun to pour in or where water trickled, devil’s club, berry vines, Indian plum and other bushes flourished. There was a place for everything. I tried to feel the dryness and then the more saturated areas through my own skin, to be a part of each without favoring one over another.

Where the terrain lifted up, ranks of trees aimed for the sky. Where a stream had carved its course, light danced on water-washed pebbles. Come fall, salmon would thrash out redds to hold their eggs for safe-keeping until the next generation were ready to emerge. The forest held still in anticipation. I tried to absorb that patient sense of waiting, waiting for rain, waiting for the salmon. But for now, letting the heat of the day warm me.

We came to places along the trail where trees had broken and fallen, crashing down on other trees and changing the landscape. Those kinds of upsets would be catastrophic for human life but in the forest were part of long cycles of growth and decay. The fallen trees, if left in place, send their bodies back into the soil, nurturing the next generation of life. How shall we live to become the nurse trees of our communities and families to come?

Eventually we passed along the shore of the beaver-made pond that sported bulrushes and a thick mat of water lilies sunburned by the long summer sunshine. The forest lined the water which lay open to the light, making a contrast of dark green and bright blue. Other than ephemeral birdsong the forest had been quiet and still but the pond sparkled and rippled with a slight breeze. A small gathering of ducks paddled here and there noisily feasting on water plants and gossiping among themselves. We were back in the world but relaxed and lightened by our walk.

Aha, there was the small Capitol Land Trust sign and our friend waving us into a narrow driveway off a road busy with traffic pelting town-ward, heedless of the forested land that stood silent and seemingly patient with the scurrying humans racing to their errands. Within moments of turning in we were in the deep quiet of the woods. The trees closed protectively around us as we first breathed in the scented peace and rested our eyes on shades of green and earthy browns. This was conservation land, saved and set aside from the scrum of road traffic and relentless onslaught of sprawling development that we had traversed to arrive here. But my first impression was that we were the ones being saved by the forest.

Our guide told us the story—ongoing—of how the land had been purchased, two parcels, one a pioneer farm and adjoining it an old tree farm and logging operation, and that now it was being transformed into a place local school children could explore. There, they could experience a recovering mix of forested lands with scattered patches of clearings dotted with native tree plantings, small bushes and grasses, and some wetland and salt marsh areas, and follow paths that led down to the Henderson Inlet shoreline. The 108 acres was a sampler of lower Puget Sound habitat, something of everything.  Many local groups are helping restore the land, including schoolchildren, with the thought that their hands-on contributions will form a lasting bond with their native place. Its mission was evident in its new name: Inspiring Kids Preserve. For kids, expressly, and for the kid alive and rediscovered in us all.

Taking the first steps along the path leading us into the property was already working its magic on me. Just gazing into the trees was loosening something tight; a sense of calm and wonder seeped into the opening space in my chest. It was a warm day but the intense heat we’ve recently experienced was abating. The sunlight was friendly instead of fierce and the air full of evocative smells: grasses, blackberries ripening, wet patches and leaf mold. It was very quiet without feeling empty. Birds were present but not visible; there were signs of life and movement but just on the edges of sight. I imagined being there at dusk or dawn, sitting somewhere just off under cover to see who might pass by or emerge from the bushes. One of the most promising spots was the lip of a pond where beavers are known to slip in and out for night foraging. Just to know that they were there somewhere in the dense growth was exciting; a webcam has captured their movements for us to witness:  https://youtu.be/nO8FDa40-9g

Further down that trail we emerged onto the shoreline. A saltwater beach looped and curved around a small inlet; a whole precious mile has been preserved here. Geese lifted from the water and circled as we watched.  The beach was speckled with shells and rocks, no doubt sheltering some small creatures waiting for the tide to turn. We continued to explore the paths leading back up to other features and types of habitat. Some areas are fenced to allow young trees a good start and promote native plant growth. Other areas are more established and exhibiting the various stages of rebirth, maturity and decay, all part of the natural cycle. Owl nest boxes were posted in likely spots to encourage new families to roost and add to the diversity of wildlife. Other animals find their own resting spots; deer had many places to bed down in and some unidentified creature was enjoying the abundant fruit crop and leaving a sticky trail for us to note. We saw two small snakes wriggling through the grass. There was a feeling of being in the midst of myriad secret lives holding silent as we passed by.

We headed back into the forest, stepped carefully through a wetland area, saw the remnants of old orchards and emerged onto a different beach area. There was so much variety and points of interest to explore. It’s a place I would like to return to in different seasons and times. But for this time I was grateful to have discovered its presence and know it was being cared for and preserved and shared with local children and teachers. A new generation can root itself in this land and find a connection with trees, birds, wetland plants and animals, the timeless action of tides and the passing of clouds and sunshine. It is a place of renewal and hope. Thank you to our host and to Capitol Land Trust for this remarkable gift and vision.

This was a guided tour. Please respect the work of the Trust and enquire about your own possibilities for a tour: https://capitollandtrust.org/conserved-lands/visit-a-preserve/  This site is still a work in progress but will open for the public when it is made ready. If you are interested in making a donation or joining a work party to further this project or any of the Trust’s work, contact Capitol Land Trust here: https://capitollandtrust.org/get-involved/  You can also find stunning photographs of this site on the website as well as a charming video presentation of the program at Inspiring Kids Preserve: https://capitollandtrust.org/conserved-lands/conservation-areas/budd-henderson-inlets/inspiring-kids-preserve/

You’ll be inspired!

The frantic bird days of spring and early summer are over. All the courting and territorial posturing contests, the nest building and protecting, the flurry of stuffing the gaping mouths of the mewing newly hatched babies—all the annual round of keeping the species viable—now pauses. There is still the wonderful fluster of young bushtits arriving at the feeder in a cloud soft gray and then as quickly disappearing back into the tangle of leaves. They know just how small and vulnerable they are. Likewise the disheveled looking new chickadees who dash in for a quick sunflower seed and zip away to safety. Mostly it’s quiet.

No one, however, can miss the noise of raucous young scrub jays or the pesky starlings that arrive with such a screeching and clatter. A more melodious—some say monotonous—sound emanates from mourning doves as they gather in twos along the telephone wires to exchange the news. (It’s always the same stories.)

Ah, mid summer! We can settle comfortably into the season.

But recently I was treated to a new bird sound, a striking call that whistled and vibrated through the tops of the trees, electric and compelling. I had to travel across the continent to experience it; we don’t have these birds in the west. For me it was a quest to “make real” a bird that existed only on Christmas cards and gift-wrap, almost a cartoon of a bird. Are Cardinals really that red? Yes.

But they are still difficult to spot. I caught some glimpses as one would flash through the bushes or perch on some high branch or telephone wire backlit against the evening sky. Hard to see and harder to capture in a photo, but my, their call is clarion, bell-like, nothing like I had ever heard before. Not to be taken for granted if you are lucky enough to live in their eastern territory. I know on future visits east I will be looking and listening for this fire-engine red blaze of a bird.

I was never quick enough to record their song but luckily the Cornell Lab website has an excellent presentation of this familiar and not-familiar bird for you to experience. I highly recommend it: Search for the post “Built to Sing: The Syrinx of the Northern Cardinal” at http://www.birds.cornell.edu/home/

The longest day of the year has come and stretches out the daylight hours that remind us of our childhoods when summer seemed to spread out like a glorious “forever”picnic. The sun beams down—some North-westerners would say relentlessly—in a quest to ripen tomatoes and induce afternoon naps whatever our morning plan had been. The only sound beside my neighbor’s soothing wind chimes is a persistent buzzing: how fitting that the first day of summer also brings us National Pollinator Week.

From my reading chair on my porch I can see several dancing white—are they moths or butterflies—alighting and flitting merrily among the flowers. The nearby hanging hummingbird feeder attracts a new pair of hummers who zip and dive and sip and zoom away to explore the fuchsias and honeysuckle vines. And before I can capture it with a camera, a beautiful yellow and black-striped butterfly sailed by and disappeared. I am sorry to say I don’t know the names of any of these lovely insect creatures. I once attended a fascinating Black Hills Audubon chapter program about our local bees; there were an astonishing number of species, some so tiny we could hardly see them and some large and bumbling like striped teddy bears. All earnestly doing their important work of gathering nectar and spreading pollen and so propagating plants wherever they went. We couldn’t live without them.

And yet…we don’t seem to know that, or connect the dots that when we indiscriminately spray poisons to rid ourselves of “bugs,” or grow only big spreads of mono-culture grass, or plant exotics that don’t match up with the needs of native insects, that we doom not just these essential beings, but all the birds and other creatures that depend on them, as well as ourselves. Our food and forage crops absolutely depend on pollinators to grow our foods. Plants are the foundation for everything. With pollinators as their partners, plants can’t do without them–and neither can we.

But for now, this week, begin with noticing birds and insects wherever they appear; get to know who visits your garden, what attracts them and nourishes them. Delight in their colors, their dances, their busyness. Let yourself feel connected to the great chain of being and swell with gratitude for how it all works to feed everyone. Plant more flowers, put out small dishes of fresh water, and leave some areas a little wild as places of shelter. Welcome summer!

To further explore the integral relationship between native plants and a vibrant insect pollinator population, read Bringing Nature Home by Douglas Tallamy.

To learn more about National Pollinator Week, see: https://www.pollinator.org

To learn more about what products to avoid using and other ways to support pollinator health, see the Rachel Carson Council website “Take Action: alert:

To read an inspiring essay on this topic, one of my favorite writers, Margaret Renkl, has an essay published in The New York Times here: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/06/21/opinion/butterflies-bees-pollination.html

I happened to be tidying up our side garden when I heard a peculiar sound, not exactly cheeping, more like cheeping with a lisp. I stopped and stood very still while also attempting to look around in the dense rhododendron bush from where the sound was emanating. There was a disheveled looking chickadee fluttering its tiny wings, mouth wide open and yes, sure enough, begging for food. Within moments a parent chickadee obliged with some suet from the nearby feeder. I could have stayed there all day listening and watching, soaking up the moment, but the pair flew off, no doubt to repeat the sequence soon somewhere else.

I thought of the mother wood duck we had recently observed, sending out a steady stream of encouraging sounds to her babies who appeared to mind her not at all, but what do I know about mother duck techniques? Perhaps she was say, “All is well! All is well!” Both overheard mother and baby bird conversations were private and full of meaning between the generations. Whatever they were saying it was a language full of inflection and nuance.

I remembered another recent story about baby birds, this one from a friend who had been carefully watching over a nest of bushtits built near a window, handy for close observation from inside the house. I was privileged with regular updates, from nest building to the anxious weeks of keeping the eggs warm and safe from predators, to frantically busy parents relaying morsels to the hatched young. And now… the momentous leaving of the nest! The day came when Heather reported:

The bushtits have left the building. Six fledglings popped out the nest, one after the other, yesterday afternoon, fluffed themselves in the rose bush and jumped across to the hedge. This one (#4) was the wobbliest, which means he/she sat still long enough for Craig to snap a photo. By dinnertime the whole family was flying between our Portugal laurel tree and the spindly hawthorn tree across the street.

The bushtit nest hangs vacant outside our window, like a Christmas stocking emptied of its gifts.

Like a “child” going off to college. How do the parents feel? Tired and relieved? A twinge of “what now?” Or do they take it in stride and get on with recovering from the annual effort to keep the population afloat. Small birds raise their young quickly and get them out into the world. Soon that little chickadee will stop whimpering and get its own lunch. It will use its wings for flying and stop fluttering them in seeming helplessness. I’ll see it zipping from tree to bush and not be able to tell it apart from all the others, busy getting on with life. The way it should be.

The Audubon grapevine had great news in May: There was a report of baby wood ducks seen on the main pond at McLane Nature Trail! My friend emailed that there were three families of this colorful duck with about 20 ducklings among them, plus a mallard duck with thirteen ducklings paddling in her wake! That is a lot of ducks! We made a plan to get out to see them, but one thing or another, it was more than a week later before we could get ourselves over to this DNR woodland and beaver pond site, one of my favorite nearby nature places.

The parking lot was crowded with families and walkers aiming to hit the trails but everyone was spread out and it did not feel too crowded. We are just “coming out” of our strict Covid sheltering, but we and our friends were all vaccinated and felt ready to stretch our wings a little.  We headed for the first pond lookout where a woman was focusing her impressive looking camera at the water. We looked but could see nothing until she called out, “Turtles!” Sure enough, we could see some movement in the dark water and finally made out a shape and then a reptilian head poking its nose up for air, and then another shape making for a tuft of reeds. Wow. That felt like a bonus discovery.

And then, here and there on the water, we began to count ducks. The wood duck mother—we only saw one—was poking about finding bits of food and sending out a steady warble of what might be a duck version of cooing to her babies. She burbled along but otherwise didn’t seem to be paying close attention as the ducklings nibbled, explored, and, while staying in her range of vocalizations, seemed to have their own agenda of discovering what the world may hold for them. It was quiet and peaceful out there on the pond. But try as we might, we could only find four or so ducklings.

That was a lot of attrition.

As we scanned the pond, searching among the lily pads for more ducklings while strolling along the boardwalk, we chanced to look up to see a hawk sailing overhead doing its own recognizance. We were there to witness the sweetness of new life; the hawk had its own reasons. I reminded myself that it too probably had young ones to feed and baby ducklings were no doubt tender and delectable. I “know” everything must eat to live but I confess I didn’t want to be on the spot just then. It’s been a long difficult winter.

We headed for the forest trail and the shelter of the big trees. Looking down from the boardwalk at the wealth of new growth pushing up to the light, we chanced to see one more baby. The pulse of life beats on!

Last weekend was so warm and sunny here I was able to overcome my “Alberta heritage reluctance” and plant the tomato starts that were bursting out of their little pots yearning for their proper garden sense of spaciousness. Feeling wildly optimistic, I also planted two squash plants and a tiny row of sunflowers. I held my trepidation at bay with the thought that the lilacs had bloomed just fine. You see, the rule of thumb deeply embedded in my psyche was to wait until the Queen’s Birthday before planting. That would be Queen Victoria; her birthday celebration is the second last Monday in May. No cake, just the starting bell for gardening.

You guessed it: it snowed! Not here, thank goodness, but in Edmonton. I was chastened, at least for my dear friend who sent me this discouraging soggy looking image.

It’s turned chilly here again, but not that chilly! The threatening rain will water the garden. We’re in the see-saw of Spring but our oscillations don’t usually swing as far as including the white stuff. I have to remember where I live now. The march of flowers coursing through my front garden keeps up its pace. I am still, after all these years, astounded at the easy abundance of green life that surges in waves beginning in what should be the dead of winter and continuing until the leaves crisp and fall. It’s a marathon, not the sprint of Alberta gardening.

I would have loved to see Margaret’s garden in its prime. She would have planted and tended with confidence based on her deep knowledge of plants and place. Following her, I will keep learning and observing and recording my adventures. This year I am trying my hand with Sweetpeas, one of her favorites. I’ll let you know how they grow! Meanwhile, here’s a tiny bouquet of a poem Margaret wrote in her time:

Sweetpeas

All flowers in my garden are free,

Except the wayward sweetpeas;

And, they,

Out of love and gratitude, 

Have forged tiny green chains,

And chained themselves 

To my lattice

And to my heart.

It’s a bit chilly today, but not cold. Close your eyes for a moment and picture deep, deep ice covering the land, pressing the ground with an indescribable weight, holding everything in its grip for ages….and then, about 13,000 years ago, trickle by trickle, easing and letting go….melting, retreating from whence it came. And finally releasing, the land rebounding and gradually re-greening itself.  Left in its wake were outwash soils—the scrapings and debris of sand and gravel and boulders—in piles and trails ready for colonization by plants, closely followed by browsing animals and people.

The people recognized these glacial prairies, as we call them today, as crucial foraging grounds for tasty and nutritious bulbs, berries, greens, seeds and places opportune for hunting deer and other animals. They learned to tend these places using controlled-burn fires to keep them open and unshaded by forest trees. We colonists are lately learning and adopting these cultural practices to help save these unique landforms. One of the most unusual—world famous among geology aficionados—are the Mima Mounds south of Olympia that feature circular mounded  “pimples” of various sizes—several feet high and by diameter—that dot the area like a bad case of chicken pox.* But don’t think “disease,” think “amazing, curious, full of life and color.” Especially at this time of year. Spring flowers delight your eyes at every step along the trails that thread between the mounds.

We went, especially, to see the blue camas in flower. This is a blue like the sky of a perfect summer day, the blue of a bluebird, or piece of good china. We didn’t see large drifts of the flower as we have in past years, but small clutches of it were everywhere that charmed us as rare discoveries. Mixed with the bright clear yellow of native buttercups, the green of unfurling ferns, the tiny white petals of native strawberries, and the pinks of shooting stars. Splotches of grey-green lichen add to the patchwork. The prize of the day was finding small groups of the chocolate lily, hard to see as they keep their down-facing beauty hidden, but some ardent flower-seekers ahead of us on the path shared their discovery with us. Thank you!

There were mixed groups of families, friends, and solo walkers enjoying the wide-open skies, the fresh breeze, and the tiny treasures along the paths. We saw very few birds; perhaps earlier in the day would have been better for them, but I did see a butterfly that I hoped was something rare, like a Taylor’s checkerspot, but I was unable to match it with any of the ones listed on various websites. It was delightful, in any case. The walk was refreshing, fascinating and uplifting—full of beauty and interest. We were so glad it has been preserved and is being “tended” today to keep it thriving for the tomorrows. Margaret would have been so pleased. She served on the committee in 1966 that helped guide the state to set aside these lands and care for them, and then open them for the public to experience. Special places indeed.

* There is no final agreement about the origin of these mounds. Glacial remains? Or—and this is intriguing—the result of ancient pocket gophers creating their tunnels and nesting areas? Reader boards at the site discuss the theories but leave it to your own imagination to decide. Makes for a lively discussion as you walk the trails!