When I began this journey of local discovery—admittedly, an inward journey, not a traveling venture, as it chiefly involves standing still and looking, digging down into what is right in front of me, or at least, close by—one of the features most mysterious to me was the tide. My almost complete lack of awareness of its coming and going, its timetable of rise and fall barely registered in my day-to-day life. Olympia sits at the bottom of Puget Sound, a body of salt water connected to the mighty Pacific Ocean threaded through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. But by the time the last bit of sea-water reaches our shores there is not much ocean-nature left in it to stir the imagination. No foamy breakers hurl themselves against sea stacks or log-strewn beaches as they do on the wilder edge of the “real” coast off the Olympic Peninsula. Still, we do have tides.

And this week, we had “King Tides.” King Tides are not just very high tides but special “astronomical events” which involve the dance of alignment of sun and moon and earth in such a way as to pile up record amounts of water pulled by gravitational forces acting “just so” during lunar cycles around the Earth. This morning, January 15, at 9:32, the tide was predicted to rise the highest of this cycle for this season.

A good place to view this occurrence is along the boardwalk that borders a marina in the central downtown area that faces north into Puget Sound from the bay that shelters the city. The water was indeed very high, lapping against the underside of a bridge that normally is well above the water surface, and stealing up the shoreline almost to a road that circles that side of the bay. There were no waves other than the gentle “push” against the shoreline; all was very quiet. The heavy gray sky reached down to the gray water without much of a line separating too watery elements.

As I stood and gazed over the water, I began to sense a feeling of swelling, of the water gathering itself, holding itself up, a kind of power and a force larger than the usual body of water that filled the bay. Though there was no discernible movement there was something “more” there. A stirring underneath the surface. A drum roll without any sound.

I stood there just silently watching, absorbed by the depth and darkness of the water. I had a feeling that if I stayed long enough I would hear a kind of sigh as the tide eventually relented and released itself from the pull of the moon and turned, slipping back up the Sound to the ocean. I wanted to witness the relaxation of the tension holding the water so high above its usual mark, but it was a cold day and I suddenly felt replete with waiting and watching.

I had felt the deep connection with the water of the Pacific, fingering its way all the miles down the gouged-out trough the retreating glaciers had made so long ago to reach these shores here. On King Tide days the ocean floods in, announcing its power of ancient water over the land, its primal nature tied to the cosmos, reminding us how easily it could once again rise and rise.

A good place to learn more about the science behind King tides is the website of the University of Washington College of the Environment “Washington King Tides Program.” See:  https://wsg.washington.edu/community-outreach/hazard-resilience-and-climate-adaptation/king-tides/program/

This is the last day of the year, 2019, and here it is raining hard enough to wash away any trace of unfinished business we may have left waiting for a better day. Time to turn the page and begin anew. Yet it hardly feels new; it is still dark and Winter has barely dug in for a spell. Why is the New Year celebrated at this time of year?

Not long ago, merely hundreds of years, in the fifteenth century or so, most of Europe considered mid-March the beginning of the new year, when Spring brought a sense of renewal and burgeoning growth. But for complicated cultural reasons, a movement developed then to dig even further back into past history, to Roman times, and by the next century it was accepted that the first of January be designated as the New Year. The namesake of the month, the god Janus, had the special property of having two faces, one looking backwards into the past and one looking forward to the future. Janus acts as a hinge, the god of doorways and beginnings.

Certainly our practice of making resolutions fits well with the nature of this month: assessing where we have been and making plans for improvement and growth. Occurring soon after the Solstice, we are given a little extra boost of daylight that by the advent of the new year we can actually notice the difference and feel a surge of optimism. And, unbeknown at the time of changing the calendar style, it happens that the Earth is the closest to the sun just now as it travels on its orbit; this is called Earth’s perihelion. That’s something to celebrate!

On a recent walk—on a less rainy day—I discovered other signs of renewal that gave me hope. As a friend and I tramped through some woods she pointed out fresh buds on a beaked hazelnut bush and more buds swelling on the Indian plum bushes. These are some of the earliest blooming bushes in the Northwest; we plan to return frequently and watch their progress. The whole forest was glistening and radiant; the evergreen understory and mosses were a riot of greens to delight anyone needing a break from Winter’s grays. The trees agreed, it was a new year.

When I returned home and did a turn around my sodden garden, there too I found small signs of growth and the promise of Spring. Even on a dark day like today, the Earth is moving steadily toward more light, more hope, a chance to begin afresh—and maybe improve and seek opportunities for change we missed out on last year. With a new calendar, we are given a new Now. It’s right under our feet.

The day before Christmas, in 1922, two intrepid friends ventured out to count birds for the Annual Audubon Christmas Bird Count. They reported that it was a stormy day with a “strong south gale and driving rain…continuing all day, except for a brief interval in the afternoon.” It wasn’t, however, bitterly cold, but rose to as much as 50 degrees and hovered most of the day at 45 degrees. They headed first for the waterfront in Olympia and then drove outside of town to alternately drive and walk, covering a radius of sixteen miles of woods and prairies. They stayed out all day until the light began to fail. They saw a remarkable number of birds, a total of twenty-seven species and estimated more than a thousand individual birds.

It was Margaret’s first recorded participation in the Christmas count. She went with her friend and close neighbor, John Wilson. Other Audubon members and supportive bird lovers fanned out from their various locations across the country as well as from several places in Canada to count birds and create a snapshot of numbers and species to be found. Some had been doing this for two decades already.

You might well wonder why birders would do this census work in December. Wouldn’t many birds be absent, having migrated out of the regions for the winter months? That would be true but beside the point. To understand why this seasonal count took place—as it still does—at what seems like an un-seasonal time of year, it helps to know a little history.

It was once a Christmas tradition for the males of the family to head out to nearby fields and woods to shoot as many birds and animals as possible in a competition known as a “Side Hunt.” In this contest the “side” that amassed the largest pile of dead game was the winner.

Troubled by the slaughter and concerned about the threat to wildlife posed by such wanton killing, New York City’s American Museum of Natural History ornithologist Frank Chapman proposed an alternative activity that still involved tramping about the countryside in good company but involved counting birds rather than shooting them. Different groups from all over the country could then tally their finds and compare results. Not quite a competition but still featured bragging rights and a contest of skill.

The first Christmas Bird Count took place on Christmas Day, 1900, and was considered a great success. Twenty-five different groups participated from all over the country and Canada. Most of the New England states saw counts as well as the Atlantic states and Mid-West, but Colorado, Missouri, Louisiana, and far-away California also fielded counts. A protocol for uniform reporting was instituted and results were published in the Audubon journal.

The tradition caught fire and has been carried out ever since, with more and more participants and growing enthusiastic support. It is one of the longest standing citizen science projects ever undertaken. The data is used to gauge bird populations and distribution—an ever more critical tool in these times of climate challenge—and guide conservation efforts.

Margaret and John Wilson reported a very successful day despite the bad weather:

Western Grebe, 1; Horned Grebe, 18; Glaucous-winged Gulls, 200 (est.); Western Gull, 50 (est.); Herring Gull, 100 (est.); California Gull, 50 (est.); Red-breasted Merganser, 2; American Scaup Ducks, 1000 (est.); American Golden-eye Duck, 200 (est.); American Coot, 5; California Quail, 10; Chinese Pheasant, 7; Ruffled Grouse, 1; Large Hawk, 1; Sparrow Hawk, 1; Red-shafted Flicker, 8; Stellar Jay, 2; Northwestern Crow and Fish Crow, 50; Shufeldt’s Junco, 3; Rusty Song Sparrow, 13; Seattle Wren, 5 (singing); Western Winter Wren, 16; Oregon Chickadee, 9;  Chestnut-backed Chickadee, 11; Golden-crowned Kinglet, 13; Ruby-crowned Kinglet, 9; Varied Thrush, 2.

All duly reported in the January–February, 1923 edition of Bird-Lore: An Illustrated Bi-Monthly Magazine Devoted to the Study and Protection of Birds, the organ of the Audubon Societies, edited by Frank Chapman and Mabel Osgood Wright.

The Christmas bird counts continue to this day. To learn more about the Christmas count, see your local Audubon Society’s webpage; the Olympia area count is described here: https://blackhills-audubon.org/2019-christmas-bird-count-2/

A Pacific wren, photo courtesy of Audubon: Guide to North American Birds website

Margaret and John Wilson recorded seeing 5 “Seattle wrens,” all singing! Indeed, this bird is easier to hear than see, and if they sing long enough you can eventually find them half-hidden in nearby bushes. There are several native wrens in lower Puget Sound but none are now called Seattle wrens. Ornithologists change bird names as new knowledge about range and other habits inform descriptions and influence identifications. The Pacific wren may once have been the Seattle wren!

As a child I found a touch of wilderness in a straggly line of trees edging a field. A nearby trickle of water was full of frog life, insects, and the mysterious rustlings of bulrushes and unseen possibilities. Birds twitted overhead, busy and preoccupied with their own societies. One summer a weasel family took up residence and if I sat very still, would slip into view for magical moments and then melt away. It was a small paradise within calling distance of my home.

I recall this special place to remind myself that the natural world is often close by. To my delight I can observe downy woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees and Bush tits busy at my feeder outside my kitchen window as I wash dishes at the sink. Flickers come and dangle off the feeders as these outsized birds pretend that their contortions are just as dainty as the smaller birds. Juncos and Spotted Towhees work the ground beneath the feeder for all the spilled bounty. The thick bushes give cover for foraging and shelter. The scene is cozy and convivial with a lot of good-natured fluttering and turn-taking.

But yesterday, a different kind of wildness showed up. A very large hawk appeared in the spreading maple tree that fills one side of the front lawn next door. It sat very erect and attentive, partially screened by twiggy branches. It was a dark shape that exuded a silent menace, a threat to the smaller birds. Its long barred tail, scatterings of brown flecks and chest blotches suggested a Cooper’s hawk but it could also have been a Northern Goshawk that also displays a barred tail—the feature most clearly seen through the branches. Both hawks inhabit this corner of the country but Cooper’s are more often seen in neighborhoods near feeders, according to my bird guides. There was nothing convivial about its presence!

It stayed for several long minutes and then silently drifted away. I caught a glimpse of it being harassed out of the neighborhood by a flock of crows. As its huge straight-winged shape disappeared from sight I felt a shiver pass through me. A touch of the wild: more wild than my friendly chickadees, untamed, inscrutable, the hawk existed truly outside my human frame of reference. It was a thrill to see it! It gave me a jolt of adrenaline.

I thought of the weasels that led their secret lives so near by my childhood woodsy spot. They were unmistakably sharp-toothed, fierce and fearless, carnivorous to the core. I remembered how they thrilled me then, just as this hawk brushed me with its danger and mystery now. We crave the wild, we need the “other” to wake up our senses and remind us the world still has its sharp edges and is not made for our convenience and comfort alone. The wide gray sky that had held the imprint of the hawk’s flight was now impassive and empty but my day was transformed from the ordinary to the sensational.

Happy Thanksgiving! Let me say I am so grateful for you, my readers who join me here in pondering the nature of Nature, sharing our experiences of discovery, wonder and appreciation, and stepping with me outside just to see what might be there. And in finding inspiration in the life and work of Margaret McKenny.

Thoughts of Thanksgiving….in short order, lead to thoughts about turkeys, historical and the kind running around today, or available in our grocery stores. One interesting fact I just learned was that turkeys were, of course, native to the Americas and first domesticated by the Mayans of southern Mexico, where they came to the attention of the conquering Spaniards who exported the delicious birds back to Spain. This new kind of large fowl quickly spread all over Europe—and this was the fascinating part—may have been brought back to the “new world” by the Pilgrims. The traditional telling of the story of the first Thanksgiving has been generally debunked but it may, just maybe, have been true that turkey could have been on the menu.

What is not controversial is the ubiquitousness of turkey, on groaning feast tables now and in practically every corner of the nation. And not just in meat markets but flourishing in woodlands and fields, shrub-lands and suburbs. The natural terrain for wild turkeys is highly variable; they eat everything from insects, seeds, fruit, snails, grain and your garden plants. There are three main sub-species found in Washington State, Merriam’s, Rio Grande, and eastern, with some cross-breeding to keep things interesting; some prefer a dry climate while some do better in more temperate conditions, but on the whole these are highly adaptable birds who have spread widely and successfully.

I remember vividly the first wild turkeys I ever saw. We were driving on an uncrowded highway in upstate New York when one or two burst onto the road from the wayside and flew across our path. They were gone in a flash but the impression of great size and speed stayed with me. Since then we have seen them more closely in Walla Walla, strutting through fields, pecking and gobbling, confident in their numbers and strength, and also in the Methow Valley, equally at home, and accompanied by small crowds of brown fluffy chicks pecking at anything moving, just like their parents. They dominate any field or roadside as they pass through an area; they appear fearless and unconcerned with lesser beings such as ourselves.

Turkeys, however, are prized by hunters. That was the other thing I learned that surprised me. Turkeys did not spread across the land without concerted effort by humans. Originally, their range was more restricted, however adaptable they have proven to be. But because so many found them to be challenging to hunt and then tasty to eat, Game departments in state after state introduced turkeys everywhere they could, experimenting until they found the right sub-species for every environment in the country, except Alaska where the cold winters defeated introductory efforts. Even Hawaii.

Hawaii! Don’t they have enough issues there with introduced species creating problems no one foresaw? Are turkeys like very large starlings? All kinds of questions arise in the mind about “native vs. introduced and invasive species.”

What do we think of this success story?

Some neighborhoods rue the day turkeys arrive to settle in gardens, tree copses and open areas. Turkeys have been reported shredding lawns and flower gardens, roosting noisily on rooftops and patios, terrorizing and chasing small children and pets, leaving droppings littering every surface, and even attacking cars. Apparently they are attracted to shiny metal surfaces and have been known to vigorously peck and dent the doors out of curiosity. As their numbers grow and their boldness increases, wild turkeys become not sources of wonder but objects of vilification and fear. These are very large and aggressive birds.

Ben Franklin thought they should be nominated our national bird. It might be time to have a national conversation about turkeys again, beyond “white meat or dark.” Should we really be actively encouraging and facilitating the spread of this species for reasons of recreation without much thought about the other consequences? We can all pull up to the table and discuss such knotty issues as, “What is natural? What is good stewardship? Where do turkeys belong? Who decides?” Pass the gravy!  And thanks!

It was a dark and wet typical November weekend but the salal shone with a green intensity that celebrated the weeks of rain, the lichen decorating rocks and branches was plush with moisture, and the mushrooms—the mushrooms were holding their own gala event. In preparation for attending our first mushroom extravaganza, aptly named, we walked slowly, heads down, scanning the ground. Into the trees, slightly off the path, meandering into mossy dells and leaf-strewn hollows. And there they were, popping up, well, like mushrooms. Small delicate brown ones, startling white knobby ones, gingery-orange ones, fluted, gilled, spindly or sturdy, one at a time or in rashes of eruption. It was a treasure hunt.

We didn’t, just then, try to name them or classify them in any way. My copy of David Arora’s excellent guidebook, All That the Rain Promises, and More, was still tucked in my suitcase and my copy of Margaret’s The Savory Wild Mushroom is too fragile for field outings on such a rainy day. It didn’t matter. Our only purpose was to wander and wonder.

Later that day, when the exhibition hall opened, the mushroom hunters filled the tables with mushrooms as big as cabbages and tiny as jewels, of every color and shape imaginable and a good many beyond imagination. The experts paused, studied, sometimes conferred, and then scribbled the Latin names and common names by each specimen. Some tables featured edibles while others displayed mushrooms not suitable for the forager’s pot. Listening in, I learned that there is a not a firm line between the two groups and some risky nibbling was confessed, for the sake of scientific discovery, or boundary pushing, or anthropological experimentation. Everyone could agree and marvel at the abundant haul of one day’s search. The Earth was richly generous with mycological gifts for all who knew where to look.

The chaga tea* flowed, camaraderie filled the place with good feeling and shared curiosity, amateurs were encouraged, experts and adepts respected and admired. The talks by the guest specialists were informative and yet accessible even to rank beginners such as ourselves. We left feeling encouraged and motivated to learn more about mushrooms, these amazing life forms that are anything but ordinary.

Warming up in a nearby café, we fell into conversation with a neighbor. She talked about how mushroom hunting benefited her in another way; she said looking for mushrooms brought her peace and calm. It didn’t take many steps into a mushroom walk to slow down and free her mind of nagging thoughts, her said that her gaze cleared and became focused, and the mushrooms appeared. For her, such a walk was a form of meditation, a centering exercise, and spiritually refreshing just to see them.

November is considered cheerless and dark by many, but now it has assumed a bright new dimension: a month of celebration of mushrooms! A chance to experience the quiet pleasure of looking down—and inwards—to discover one of the wonders of the world, the fruiting of the mysterious mycelia that binds the underworld of Nature in a vast living web.

*Chaga tea is made from a Siberian mushroom and is considered by some as an immune booster and general tonic.  

You just never know what a little mushroom study is going to reveal! This discovery on a casual walk in my neighborhood took me down the rabbit hole with Alice and out onto northern tundra with the Sami—and beyond! Hang on.

I was on a stroll admiring the fantastic leaf show we are enjoying this year when I happened to notice these almost-cartoon like mushrooms sprouting in a nearby garden. This is the first time I have found fly amanita outside of a book. This cluster all sported the bright red caps with small whitish bits, stark-white thick stems with knobby bases and the characteristic white gills. It was an exciting find!

In Margaret’s classic text on edible and non-edible mushrooms, The Savory Wild Mushroom, these beauties fall into the do-not-eat category. She writes, “This is the mushroom so often pictured in European fairy tales.” And indeed, I recognized it from a children’s book very popular in this household when fairy stories were the rage. Margaret further explains, “It is called ‘fly amanita’ because it is thought a decoction made from it kills flies. It is definitely dangerous but fortunately, it is quite easy to recognize; the bright red, orange, or yellow cap with its white warts is in itself a conspicuous warning for even the most unwary collector.”

I wasn’t thinking of picking any and certainly not sautéing any for lunch, but I was still curious about the connection with fairy stories. Mushrooms attract all kinds of lore and magical associations, no doubt because some of them do contain substances that induce visions and dreams and other shamanic experiences. A little poking around uncovered just such a link with this red-capped amanita that seemed to come out of the oldest prehistoric days but still plays a role in cultural practices of some Sami, the indigenous people of the sub- and Arctic lands of the Scandinavian countries and parts of Russia.  Sami who still maintain some of their traditional semi-nomadic ways, rely heavily on their herds of reindeer for meat, fur and sledge transportation.

The people and reindeer have evolved together for survival in this rather harsh landscape for thousands of years, foraging for food with an intimate knowledge of their environment. The large feet of the deer allow them better purchase in the snow and enable them to dig under it in winter for their sustenance. And one of their favorite foods is—surprise—the fly amanita. They absolutely relish the fruited form of this fungi and it appears to do them no harm. Shamans seem to have taken a cue from the reindeer and also partook of this delicacy, which was said to induce visions that felt like flying while in trances. I’m not sure what to think of the free associations of the online sources that coupled red clad magical figures pulled by flying reindeer who may, or may not, have had red noses from imbibing hallucinogenic substances.

[See, for instance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkCS9ePWuLU ]

But, well, where do stories of the North Pole, sleighs full of toys, and midnight rides that can magically circle the globe in one long night originate? The bright red mushroom with the bits of white “fur” trim, though definitely not for eating, is a storied fruit! If you should see it, you’ll never forget it.  And now you’ll have even more to wonder.

There is a growing movement to replace Columbus Day with a day—this day—honoring instead the first peoples of the land, their ways of life, wisdom stories, ceremonies, and histories.  Moving away from a celebration of “discovery” of an already well-populated land and its conquest and appropriation, towards an appreciation of the many cultures long embedded on the land, Native—as my Oxford Dictionary has it: “belonging naturally, from the very soil,”—is a shift in consciousness overdue and desperately needed. The dominant culture—the domineering culture—has lost its way. We need a new story, a new way that inspires and informs a way of living with more awareness, more care, more knowledge. This day is an opportunity and a reminder to recognize that there has always been a model of how to live well in this place if we would only pay it some attention.

In search of this wisdom, this better path, I turned to the work of Robin Wall Kimmerer. I have been slowly reading and pondering her book, Braiding Sweetgrass, dipping into its chapters and exploring its stories. I do not want to come to its end. I know I will read this book over and over, finding new messages and sinking her words deep into my heart and mind. This morning I added another dimension to my study of her work when I listened to her address a roomful of conferees at the Geography of Hope conference held in Point Reyes, California in 2015. Her posted message from that day resonates even more urgently today; we have even less time to lose!

I can only begin to tell the power of her message and her invitation to explore the “other intelligences” beyond the human who share this planet with us and to attempt to open myself to the wisdom of the plants and animals as she recommends. One thing she said—among many—that seized my attention was that we “already know” this ancient knowledge that the world is animate. The world is alive and communicating with us, ready to teach us the way. In a flash I understood that yes, we knew this as children. Then the world was enchanted; then we knew the trees and birds and wind and sun are as alive as we were. We can recover that knowledge and rebuild that relationship, reconnect in that vital way and begin again to live as if every being mattered, that there is no “us and them.” No “it” or “other” but as Robin states, all are kin. All.

As I’ve written before, I struggle to feel “native to this place” as an immigrant and as a novice to understanding Nature’s gifts in this moist and mossy land. My ancestors are from other far-away places and I can claim no deep roots to this soil. I feel an interloper in this quest. But Robin Kimmerer offers a way to honor this special day: through gratitude. We can begin to repay the debt by paying attention to what is here, the air we breathe, the ground we walk upon. We can plant ourselves here and tend the land. We can be grateful and full of wonder at the cedar trees and salmon and salal, the eagles and hummingbirds, the nuthatches and downy woodpeckers, flickers and tiny bush tits. Even as we partake, we can give back our reverence and regard as one of the family of beings.

You can find Robin’s keynote speech concerning Women and the Land here: https://www.humansandnature.org/videos#sb=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhQKdJHLDcw

Conditions are optimal, cool but not cold, rainy but not soggy-wet. Will this be the Fall I finally go mushroom hunting? I often see mushrooms and marvel at their variety of shapes and colors: pink! Orange! Stark white! From puffballs to morels, they are fascinating and strange. As a kid, I collected bracket fungi, the kind that forms little shelves on trees, but other than appreciating their velvety touch and curious appearance, I didn’t know much about them. Exploring Margaret’s world has opened the door to a greater understanding of fungi.

Margaret’s first published book was an introductory text on mushrooms, written for children and adult novices. Mushrooms of Field and Wood was published in 1929, after years of her own study and joy of hunting mushrooms with friends and fellow adepts. It was then—and to some extent still is—a pursuit tinged with mystery and a hint of danger if the object of desire was culinary in nature. Margaret herself often warned readers in her local newspaper column and other publications that, “Meadow mushrooms [for instance] are good food, and it’s lots of fun to go to the meadows and gather a big basketful, but be very, very careful about gathering them. For the first few times always go with someone who knows about them scientifically.” She did all she could to educate the public through her books, Nature Notes, slide presentations, radio talks, and mushroom exhibits and shows. Her door was famously open to all who had questions about what they had found in those fields and woods.

Margaret is not here to answer knocks on the door these days, but her own book, the second one on the subject, The Savory Wild Mushroom, as well as many good field guides with hundreds of photographs displaying the colorful world of mushrooms are a place to begin. And mushrooms stand still while you flip through the pages, unlike a bird on the wing or one half hidden by bushes. Still, “hundreds” of mushrooms can be daunting. Author Annie Lamont reminds us to learn our birds, “bird by bird” and remember, we already know robins, crows and eagles, and many others. I think I’d know a morel or a chantarelle, but before I head out with a gathering basket, I’ll be tapping someone who knows them “scientifically” to lead the trip. I promise not to tell just where the treasures are to be found!

It’s solidly dark in the mornings here when we get up, and increasingly gray and overcast into the afternoons. Time to dig out the sweaters and umbrellas and woolly socks. Now that we are well beyond any kind of back-to-school schedule at our house, noticing the seasonal change has more to do with light and darkness, the flocking of birds, and watching the trees pause their summer exuberance and slip into Fall colors. I need to get outside and pick the last tomatoes, ready or not.

Putting the garden to bed is now one of my most important Fall rituals. Composting tomato and squash vines, spreading mulch, and snuggling downed leaves around tender plants gets me, as well as the yard, ready and in tune with the new season. I also compulsively pick up bright leaves to press and any good-looking acorns and chestnuts that decorate nearby sidewalks. I can’t resist palming their smooth surfaces and pocketing the best specimens; they fill bowls at home, a reminder of the bounty found everywhere this time of year.

Another Fall ritual I don’t always manage in time, is to go down to the bay and watch the returning salmon swirling in small groups, readying themselves to head upstream for spawning. Arriving from their sojourn in salt waters, they transform themselves for the swim in fresh waters; the change from silver to red being the most visible from my viewing platform above the water. I am always surprised by how big they appear. Although elated to see them again, there is poignancy in witnessing this iconic Northwest passage. They haven’t quite finished their journey, so crucial to the continued survival of this beleaguered species, but the hungry seals are circling in anticipation of a feast. I was anxious to urge them onwards.

Fall is full of contradictions like that: death and rebirth, loss and return, a turning inward and time of reflection. A treasury of harvest, a culmination of growth composting back to earth, a piling up of nutrient riches for another Spring. My favorite season!