Alone

We got along well, and could talk easy. She was pretty and slim, and wanted to go out dancing. I thought about asking her for a date, but it seems I moved to slow.

Did I lose, or did I gain? Hard to say. But as I sit here, with my back against a boulder, surrounded by bark and lichen-covered rock, logs and trunks of vanilla-smelling pine, I know I have no complaints.

How could a craving for freedom and beauty and the solitude of these hills be anything but a good thing?

That's what it is, with my dogs up here, only the call of the flicker and the music of the stream to be heard.

There will be other women, who also love to dance.

Backcountry

Its cloudy and cool this morning. All I hear are the sound of the flickers calling, and the fluid music of the stream in the canyon bottom. It seems like it might storm today. I am going to give myself a few minutes of relaxing and enjoying this beautiful campsite before I pack up and head on.

This will be the fifth season these dogs have been backpacking with me. They are getting close to moving from young to middle age. The friendship we have is one of the best things in my life. When I get to the trailhead and shoulder my pack, there are no creatures on this earth more free than Ben and Maggie and me, disappearing into the hills, climbing some unknown draw, setting up camp on a hidden ridge.

My mother asked what I do when I am up there alone. I tried to explain - that I just wander, and look at things. I told her I have a great time up there, because of my love for nature. She has trouble understanding.

On this trip I found a foot-wide stream draining in the main stream. I followed it back into the hills, knowing it could be my water source. A ways in I happened to notice some very well defined animal trails descending from the South. I turned up that way, and eventually found a great campsite, on a flat top ridge with boulders stacked around the perimeter. There was no evidence that anyone had ever camped here, or that people even come up that way much.

So picture my tent set up there, next to a Ponderosa Pine, with the stacks of rocks in three directions - north, south, and west. My ridge was open to the east, where it blended to a slope up to higher country. After I retrieved two five gallon buckets of water from the stream, me and Maggie climbed explored the country around our new home, eventually climbing the mountain to the east. A campsite is just a spot until you spend some time getting to know the surroundings. Then it becomes a treasured place, that will bring fond memories as long as you live.

Not far up the slope I noticed my dog's passionate interest in the ground near a boulder, and went over to investigate. I found piles of mountain lion scat of various ages, from moist and very recent to ancient. I stood back and tried to figure what it is about this spot that the lion liked so much.
A gentle slope angled down the hill from the rock, then swept out to a flat topped ridge, where I had set up my camp. A very obvious and indented animal path lead across the ridge, used by deer and elk to drop down to a tiny one foot-wide stream 300 yards to the north. They could go to the rivulet and satisfy their thirst without having to descend all the way to the valley bottom. I had followed the same path for the same reason soon after I set up camp, returning with two five gallon buckets of water.

From its hiding place by the rock a lion could see all the comings and goings of animals on their way to the stream. I imagined it waiting until a deer just passed, then silently gliding down the hill and leaping fifteen ahead to land on the deer's back, sinking its claws into the shoulders and biting down on the deers neck with the tremendous force of its jaws. Occasionally it may reach around to crush the deer's jugular. In either case the lion is quick and efficient, and death comes easily for the deer.

Lions are masters at stealth and getting a kill, bringing down their prey three out of every four attacks. Compare that to wolves who make a kill only about one out of four attempts.

In her curiosity Little Maggie demonstrated where the lion would peer downhill from its hiding spot behind the boulder. It would be a lucky day for a deer or elk if she came running down the hill instead of a hungry lion.

The presence of these cats that can exceed 200 pounds is part of the mystery and danger of the woods I backpack in, and for me, adds to their appeal.

You know they are there, like ghosts, and may come by to watch the tent at night while me and the dogs sleep inside.

Hidden Rock

While backpacking last weekend Ben and Maggie's interst in the groun near a boulder drew me over ot investigate. I found piles of mountain lion scat of various ages, from moist and very recent to ancient. I stook back and tried to figure what it is about this spot that the lion liked so much.

A gentle slope angled down the hill from the rock, then swept out to a flat topped ridge, where I had set my camp. On the way up I had found some indented animal trails, used by deer and elk to drop from the ridge to the foot-wide stream that was 300 yards to the north. They could go to the rivlet and satisfy their thirst without having to descend all the way to the valley bottom. I had followed the same path for the same reason soon after I set up camp, returning with two five gallon buckets of water.

From its hiding place by the rock a lion could see all the comings and goings of animals on their way to the stream. I imagined it waiting until a deer just passed, then silently gliding down the hill and leaping fifteen ahead to land to land on the deer's back, sinking its claws into the shoulders and biting down on the deers neck with the tremendous force of its jaws. Occasionally it may reach around to crush the deer's jugular. In either case the lion is quick and efficient, and death comes easily for the deer.

Lions are masters at stealth and getting a kill, bringing down their prey three out of every four attacks. Compare that to wolves who make a kill only about 1 out of four attempts.

In her curiosity Little Maggie demonstrated where the lion would peer downhill from its hiding spot behind the boulder. It would be a lucky day for a deer or elk if she came running down the hill instead of a hungry lion.

The presence of these cats that can exceed 200 pounds is part of the mystery and danger of the woods I backpack in, and for me, adds to their appeal.

You know they are there, like ghosts, and may come by to watch the tent at night while me and the dogs sleep inside.

Unseen

We had a foot and a half of fresh snow on the ground on Monday morning last week. By Thursday it was gone and the peeper frogs were singing in the spring down at the pond. After dark I took my camera and a light and went down there to get a picture of the frogs.

At least thats what I thought. Even though the sound of their singing almost hurt my ears, everytime I would get close to one they would feel my steps and drop down into the leaf duff at the bottom of the pond. The most I saw was a dark object sinking into the organic matter, once. I stayed down there til almost midnight, with no luck in finding a single frog.

They act that way as defense against the great blue herons that wade in the pond, hoping to grab one. Perhaps I should take a lesson from the herons and stand real still and wait for the frogs nearby to start croaking again. That might work. I need to have more patience.

On the way home I went over to the old cottonwood and stood beneath the old cottonwood. I could see the quarter moon up to the west, and the stars shining above through the branches.

I have walked on the path beneath this tree with my young daughters. I have held my puppies up against its trunk when I first brought them home. I have heard the winter wind gust through its top, and seen an eagle rest in its branches. I have been beside it when the goldfinch the peeper frogs announce it is spring again, year after year.

And I feel a spirit there, a mystery, accepting and loving and of God. It cannot be seen but I now it is there, as clear as the chorus of frogs over in the pond.

Sunday Gardening

Sunday was slightly overcast and cool and humid and very comfortable. Me and Ben and Maggie circled down along the river path, where the sound of the water adds to our morning wandering. I like to hear the water rolling down over the sandstone in the river bed. The peace is broken by a Kingfisher chattering at us as he leave his perch above the river and follows the corridor between the trees downstream. I see kingfishers all winter, even in winter. I also see mallards and gadwalls and green-Winged Teal through the cold months, lolling about in the water, sticking their heads under to harvest some aquatic plants off the bottom. The mallards and teals are most attractive late in the day, when the afternoon sun illuminates the greens and blues of their head and wing feathers into a sharp irridescence.

After my walk I went home and worked in the garden some more. I am moving soil to elevate my beds before I plant. I prefer to garden on mounds of loam - with tall flowers on the high part in the middle, and vegetables down the side, lined by dwarf marigolds at the edge. Marigolds are one of those companion plants that tend to keep insects out of the garden.

I don't overexert myself though, it being Sunday and all. After every couple of wheelbarrow loads over to the garden I go over and sit under the trees and pet the dogs, and relax in the haven of my green grass and trees. Each day brings a little more shade to the yard, as the buds are bursting open to ash and oak and apple flower and leaf.

I like working the soil an awful lot - breaking the clods with my fingers, then smoothing it out where I am planting the seeds. I progressed enough to get the south part of the garden ready for planting. This is my new addition this year, next to the lilacs and peach tree. I planted sunflowers and fouroclock and tall nicotina, which is my favorite summer flower. It grows up to 18 inches, and blooms in trumpet-shaped flowers in hues of white, pink, red, and lavender. Nicotina is pollinated by night-flying moths, and release a heavenly fragrance that covers the entire yard from midsummer on.

On Sunday afteroon I went to a special Contra dance, with an out of town band that was supposed to be real good. (Airdance). They were fine musicians, and played some very nice waltzes at the end of the first contra set, and again at the end of the dance. I got caught up in the beautiful fiddle tune during one of the waltzes, and the grace of my partner, and as her spin ended just as the last notes of the violin faded, it felt it would be awful natural to kiss her. That is how the romance of dance and music and the touch of your partner can affect you. It is like medicine for a wounded heart, and you become healed without even realizing it.

I have found the peace of living one's own life, gravitating to things that you know will make you happy. For me it is walking on a trail with my dogs through the river woods, working the soil and sitting in my yard, holding the hands of a sweet lady and waltzing in harmony with her to the hauntingly beautiful notes of an old violin.

Chair in the Yard

A cool spring breeze swept across my face as I sat in my chair with the dogs at my feet, just before nightfall. I reached over and touched a trunk and noticed the ridges and furrows in the bark.

I looked up at the pear, sheltered close to the house, and the century old apples, and the tall oaks and purple ash, and realized how much I love these trees.

I look forward to leafout a month from now, when I will sit beneath green canopies and see the breeze in their leaves. I will hear them whisper it, in words of spring and home, that I will understand, from my chair in the yard.