Category Archives: Field Notes

For centuries amateur naturalists have kept field notebooks. These are excerpts from my own nature journal–a hodge-podge of observations, bits of natural history, questions to ponder, insights and experiences.

Field Notes, Photography, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

Real Naturalists

Shrewd Naturalists

It was still morning twilight, before the blue hour when we started laying the trap. I was part of John Marzluff’s class on ravens in Yellowstone, and we hoped to capture one to band and fit with a transmitter as part of his study.

As we were scattering the bait, two coyotes began yipping and howling just beyond us in the woods, though it was still too dark for us to see them. A third joined in behind us and we paused to listen as the morning conversation went on for several minutes. Then…the very different howl of a wolf from across the valley and the coyotes instantly were silenced.

Getting out the spotting scopes we set them up in the direction of the howls, though the sky was just beginning to lighten. When it was finally bright enough we focused in a pack of wolves on the nearby ridge. Some were lying down, some wrestling and playing and it was clear they had just feasted on a kill and were in a state of postprandial lassitude. Searching the hillside further, we found the large red stain in the snow where the ravens were gathered and a coyote was cautiously approaching. This was the kind of viewing opportunity hoards of visitors seek and for awhile we had it all to ourselves.

Eventually the guided vans appeared and disgorged the long lensers (photographers) and people crowded around the spotting scopes. I have always assiduously avoided these kinds of wolf jams–it feels like being in a zoo to me. There is a real difference between being shown something and discovering something on your own.

As a couple of us turned away from the spotting scopes, we saw a tiny creature scamper from beneath the bus and scurry across the road. One of the men in the group ran after it and managed to capture it, letting it crawl up the arm of his jacket. Abandoning the scopes and the growing crowd, we all came over to view the little shrew until it jumped and headed off for the safety of a nearby tree. The group followed, taking photos of the little creature and watching its behavior. The wolf people thought we were certainly crazy, but…

“Naturalist have been known to measure their experiences by comparing their wildlife encounters with other naturalists of similar interests. When speaking of the Rockies, they often joust their encounters with such animals as Mountain Lions and Grizzly Bears to validate their experience. A true measure of a naturalist’s character, however, may not lie with such sightings as these, but instead with appreciating the under-appreciated. (A shrew) is so rarely seen that any naturalist who does come across it can count him-or herself exceptionally lucky.” From Mammals of the Rocky Mountains

Field Notes, Reading Nature, Wanderlusting, Yellowstone book project

Kinship and Ravens

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In January I spent two weeks in Yellowstone, taking classes from Yellowstone Forever, exploring the park, and skiing around photographing , in spite of the worrying paucity of snow. The first week’s workshop was on Kinship where we explored the ideas of Robin Wall Kimmerer in Braiding Sweetgrass, and the rich and varied essays found in the collection Kinship: Belonging In A World of Relations. Changing our relationship with the more than human world and our place in it is a transformative process, and one that is vital if we are to confront our current situation.

Yellowstone is a perfect place to study the many different ways of knowing that have shaped cultures throughout history. From indigenous perspectives, to the western settler’s influence, to the birth of the national park idea and the beginnings of the conservation movement, up to the practice of rewilding and the current crisis of climate change.

Kinship is a process. It is working to repair our severed ties with all our relations in the more- than- human world. It is reconnecting with our bodies, minds and spirits to the interdependent community we are all a part of. It isn’t easy changing a world view. But I see great hope as we recognize our disconnection and look to the wisdom of cultures who have not severed their ties.

“Without knowing our place in nature, we are bound to tamper with nature’s design in a manner that might not always be in its best interest. The objective is to create a deeper understanding within us to help us realize our place in nature, so that instead of tampering, we complement its design by applying our imagination, intuition, and intellect for mutual benefit.” Sunil Chauhan from the Kinship Series/ vol. 5: Practice.

I didn’t leave with any answers, but I think I’m beginning to ask the right questions. And I realize that the place to start on this journey toward kinship is through listening–not to the pundits or policy makers, but to the land itself. It has a great deal to teach us if only we will have the humility to listen.

The second week I spent with John and Colleen Marzluff, preeminent raven researchers. This course was a wonderful compliment to the course I took several years ago on raven and coyote mythology. Ravens are birds who have had a relationship with humans for millennia. And we got an opportunity to study their behaviors and life stories in the field. Whether you think of them as a conspiracy, a storytelling or an unkindness of ravens, they have a great deal to teach us about how we view another creature and they offer us crucial lessons on adaptation and finding your place within an ecosystem.

Untangling all that I learned and experienced last month will take a lot of thought and study. But I have some fascinating, intertwined tracks to follow to see where they might lead me.

Wolf, coyote and raven tracks.
Book Arts, Field Notes, Haiku, Photography, Reading Nature

READING NATURE

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Three months since I last posted! So much for keeping me accountable. And yet, I have been working on my book nonetheless, in between all the fall chores and the resumption of opportunities and events that the autumn brings. I have been busy researching for the book and thinking more and more deeply about the idea of listening to the landscape, which is alive with stories if only we take the time to read them.

“Books , like landscapes, leave their marks in us. (…) Certain books, though, like certain landscapes, stay with us even when we left them, changing not just our weathers but our climates.”
― Robert Macfarlane, Landmarks

Reading Nature

written on blank page

story driven by hunger

fear of winged shadow

an ancient forest

pressed between pages of rock

memory preserved

beneath flaking bark

pine beetle grafitti tags

the tree they killed

bark inscribed by claw marks

in the imagination

sector of a bear

from winter brown grass

written with a brush of wind

nature’s own kanji

forgotten summer

an unexpected flower

blooms in frozen pond

Field Notes, The Backwoods

Hatching a New Year

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As the pandemic kept me close to home last year I had to forgo my usual distractions and activities.  Not having my day broken up with meetings, errands, classes or socializing with friends opened up the day to sustained opportunities to read some of the dozens of unopened books that have piled up.  And I made a very disturbing discovery.  I couldn’t sit and read anything but the most page-turning mystery for more than 10 minutes without my mind wandering away from the page.  

My concentration had been hijacked by the internet’s endless click bait.  I realized how much of my time was taken up doom scrolling and “catching  up” on social media.  And that I was being prostituted by the big media companies, selling my personal information—my attention to their advertisers.  For these and many other reasons I decided to delete my social media accounts.

It has had the benefit of shielding me from a lot of the ugliness, anger, despair and just plain silliness that went on during the election.  But it also meant that I wasn’t able to get a daily dose of news from my friends and family.

Instead, it pushed me to be much more present in my own immediate world.  And to get to know, on a daily basis what my avian neighbors were up to.  I watched the snow geese on their migration through the spring.  I kept up with what was happening in the heron rookery.  I watched the drama of the osprey who returned only to find their nest occupied by Canadian Geese squatters who would not be evicted.  Eventually the goslings fledged and the osprey managed to bring a single chick to adulthood.  I frequently caught a glimpse of the sandhill cranes that nested in the field across the river parading  around with a string of chicks trailing behind them.  And I monitored two different red tail hawk nests, learning where the line was, when crossed, would send them into a protective screeching swoop.  

But my favorite was the common Robin who nested in the aspen tree just outside my window.  Every morning I could watch as she wove the nest into the branches twig by twig, then sat vigil for weeks, leaving only briefly to snatch a worm from my garden and return.  

Then one morning she was gone and the nest quivered with a faint mewling and four tiny gold beaks gaped just above the lip. The mother robin’s weeks of sitting still, patiently waiting had abruptly ended with the hatching and she was back and forth, dozens of times a day trying to keep up with the plaintive cries from her chicks who soon crowded the small nest, jostling and pushing until it seemed they would burst it with their size.

Then one by one they fledged, first hopping from the nest edge to a nearby branch, fluffed their wings and glided/flopped to the ground where they made stuttering attempts at take-offs.  The last one to leave the nest had to be coaxed by the mother who scolded from the branches relentlessly as the chick teetered on the edge, tentatively at last, taking that fateful leap into its new life.

I feel as if, through the long year past, I too have been sitting on my nest, waiting for some new way of life to hatch.  I can feel the stirrings beneath me, ideas are chipping away at their shells, ready to break out into the world.   When they do, will I have the stamina and determination to feed them and nurture them until they are ready to fly?  We will have to see.  This has been a strange and tragic year.  But it has also given us the space and time for reflection and the chance to respond thoughtfully, rather than just react to how we want to live our “one wild and precious life.” 

Field Notes, Reading Nature, The Exploritorium

a sequester project

“Plants were here first and have had a long time to figure things out.  They live both above and below ground and hold the earth in place.  Plants know how to make food from light and water.  Not only do they feed themselves, but they make enough to sustain the lives of all the rest of us.  Plants are providers for the rest of the community, and exemplify the virtues of generosity, always offering food.  What if Western scientists saw plants as their teachers rather than their subjects?  What if they told stories with that lens?” Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerman

Last December, before Covid, I applied for theartist-in-residence program at Glacier National Park.  I had hoped to create an artist’s book using some of the herbarium specimens (a collection of dried and pressed plants and is a cumulative resource for botanical and historical information) that V.V. Shay collected in the Belly River during the 1980’s.  I wanted to present them as cyanotypes and include information on the habitats and plant communities where these plants live, as well as traditional Native American, specifically Blackfeet, uses.

Unfortunately, due to the pandemic, Ted and I will not be able to return to the park this year as volunteers.  Hopefully, the following summer we will again be in the Belly River and I will be able to work on my project.

But I didn’t want to let go of the idea for an artist’s book created from an herbarium and so, for the spring luncheon (virtual) fundraiser for the Montana Natural History Center, I decided to create a mini-version of my original project using the University of Montana Herbarium and the plants chosen in a poll conducted in March by The Montana Native Plant Society as Montana’s favorite wildflowers.

Using photographs of the 16 specimens, I made digital negatives and then printed them in cyanotype. Cyanotype was invented in 1842 and was the first photographic process that, like plants, uses nothing but UV light, minerals and water, to produce an image.  

The prints reveal the flower’s biomorphology and echo back to Anna Atkins work—one of the earliest female photographers.  She created the first photographic book in 1843.  Using the cyanotype process, she documented her vast collection of seaweeds, successfully combining “botanical accuracy and formal beauty in a harmony of delicacy and boldness.” Like Japanese sumi paintings, these cyanotype prints result in an impressionistic image where the spirit of the plant is fully expressed.

I pressed some of our early spring wildflowers (lupine and paintbrush) and displayed them under the plexiglass book cover.  I included the flower’s unique story and made an accordion style book. It was a fun project and really showcases the beauty of these specimens—some collected a hundred years ago.  

Field Notes, The Commonplace Book, Wayfinding

Between a rock and a hard place

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Danger! Beware of the Rocks!  One of the most obvious rules of boating.  Especially the rocks near the shore, barely visible above the water or just beneath the surface—unseen until you are right up on the them.  But there are times when, despite your best navigational efforts, a sudden fierce gust of wind hits your small vessel and sends it smashing into those very rocks.  A crack in the side of your boat, or worse yet, a bent propeller that leaves you stranded.  

We have been blown up onto the rocks by this pandemic.  They have not only broken our society wide open, we find ourselves hopelessly grounded.  It’s easy to let the fear drown us, despite all our efforts to bale ourselves out.  This is not time to focus on whether or not someone should have seen this coming, should have been paying better attention. We are stuck in this crisis.  The water is rushing in faster than we can bale.

What to do?  This morning I read a really thoughtful response by one of my favorite photographers, David duChemin.  He began with a quote from JFK:  “When written in Chinese the word crisis is composed of two characters.  One represents danger, and the other represents opportunity.”  This made me really stop and think.  Perhaps if we quit mudding the waters with our frantic baling and arguing over who is responsible for this mess we find ourselves in and pause long enough for the water to settle and clear—if we settle ourselves into the quiet and let go of our fear—stop scrolling the newsfeed, and listening to every pundit trying to figure out how to get us back to the way things were, we might be able to see, between the hard, dark rocks that iridescent glimmer of light—the opportunities that this crisis opens up for us individually and as a society. 

The greatest lesson I have learned in my studies of Buddhism is detachment.  Practicing it during past personal crises has helped me to calm the roiling waters of my mind and see with clarity the light of opportunity shining between the rock and the hard place.

So I’m going to stop my frantic attempts to bale—stop the fretting and worrying over all the things I have no control over anyway and step out of the boat.  I’m going to wade ashore and sit quietly, looking out at the lake.  Figure out where I am and where I really want to be.   No longer to go with the flow or to try to get back in the current that has so often swept me away, but to calm my mind, detach, be still long enough that I can see the light playing between the rocks. 

DuChemin finishes by saying: “More than any of the things above, this is an opportunity to give more and to be more: more attentive, more creative, more generous, more wide awake. It’s an opportunity to rise to the daily challenge of the new normal, and to fight to make that normal better and kinder for all. . .We might be in this for a while and I don’t want to look back once we emerge from it and wonder why I wasted weeks or months of time and focus I’ve never had before.”

Field Notes, The Backwoods

The Best laid plans

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A wind storm ripped through the valley a few days ago and sometime between the midnight howling of the coyotes and the early morning trill and thrum of redwing blackbirds I heard the crack and whoosh of falling trees. The next day I found, stretched through the middle of the heron rookery a newly wind- felled cottonwood and there on the ground, the huge tangly branched nest with broken eggs, the blue shells still spattered with yellow yolk.

Over the last two weeks the herons have been returning to the rookery and are busy building and repairing nests, the old established couples reuniting and reclaiming their places, the young males hopefully proffering a particularly fine twig to perspective females. There is much flying about, loud grumblings and neck stretching threats when rivals fly too close to an already claimed nest space. One or another flies out to hunt the nearby field for emerging ground squirrels or fish from the ice cleared river. Meanwhile, back at the rookery long necks stretch and contort to preen feathers into place. Then a sudden cacophony as a red tail hawk flies through on a recon mission, razor sharp heron beaks clacking warnings at the interloper.

As the sun sinks lower more hunters return. A male settles onto a branch above a nest. The female stands and stretches her neck up to clack beaks. Loud gurgles and harsh cooing intensifies, wings flap and the male hovers over the female. The mating is quick, then both smooth their ruffled feathers, settle side by side into the nest and watch the darkening night sky.

The windstorm of the coronavirus pandemic has blown through our world, toppling all our well laid plans and breaking open our day to day lives. In other crises–fire, hurricane, earthquake or flood, even 9/11, we have rushed headlong into getting things “back to the way they were.” But this time we may not be able to get “back to the way things were.” And perhaps we shouldn’t even try., This crisis has really put the flaws in the way things are into sharp relief. I’m hoping, given the time we have now for reflection, that we can, as individuals, businesses and a country, use this hiatus to really do some soul searching and re-imagine different priorities and a different lifestyle. My mother talked about the depression and how that changed everything–made people more self-sufficient, more frugal, put the emphasis back on relationships and community and being more generous and empathetic to others, even when people had so little to share. She was horrified to see how our society changed in the prosperity that followed the war–how we became, not citizens, but consumers. How we stopped making do and being grateful for what we had, but became unhappy and dissatisfied always wanting more and more. And she was so disheartened when, on 9/11 the rallying cry was to go out and go shopping. I never really took her complaints seriously until now. I can see how so much of my life is consumed with consuming, and how, my generation feels so entitled.

The tree has fallen, our nest lies shattered on the ground. Let’s look to a different, stronger tree in which to rebuild and lay out our priorities.

Field Notes

Feeding Frenzy

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There is nothing left of the carcass.  The bones have sunk down into the muddy weeds or have been scattered about the field and the tawny hair of the deer blends so perfectly with the winter dried grasses that it is invisible.  It took but three days for the road killed doe to be reduced to a memory.  But for those three days it was a scene of endless drama.  I glimpsed the lump of her body first in the early morning.  By the time I drove past a few hours later the magpies had found her and it looked as if the field were aflutter with giant iridescent blue and white butterflies.  Next came the ravens and I watched as a hierarchy of corvids established themselves—a few feeding while the others stood apart awaiting their turn.  Meanwhile the magpies snuck in, snatching pieces of red meat while avoiding the snapping black beaks of the ravens who chased them off.  Cars rushed past on their way to town oblivious of the drama playing out in the field. 

By evening a bald eagle had arrived, his white head I first mistook as a patch of leftover snow.  The eagle asserted his primacy on the carcass and now the ravens were the ones who had to try to sneak a morsel.  The magpies flew overhead circling, but giving up on getting any closer.  The eagle, though white headed, still sported a few streaks of brown on the back of his neck, so he was young.  

Then the gang of immature eagles arrived, still in their brown plumage, four in all and they surrounded the carcass, pushing the solitary older eagle off, then taking turns feeding on the dwindling meat.  For the rest of the second day, and part of the third, the young eagles dominated, the white headed elder picking at a bone some distance away and the ravens and magpies trying an occasional end run around a feeding raptor.  By that evening, the ravens and magpies were finishing off whatever remained.

Watching all this I was acutely aware of the program I had just seen the week before at the Montana Natural History Center.  The eagle researcher from the MPG ranch, which lies just south of here, described their studies of migration patterns and their capture and banding of the eagles who frequent the ranch.  I peered through my binoculars trying to see if any of these eagle were tagged, but none appeared to be.  I was also acutely aware of what the researcher had said about the alarming amount of lead they found in so many of the eagle’s blood.

With climate change and facing the next great extinction, it is easy to feel helpless in the face of these global problems.  But here was a one small contribution toward preservation that anyone who hunts can take.  While this particular deer had been hit by a car and not shot, the quick and efficient way the birds had eliminated the dead doe was a clear illustration of how these scavengers, feeding on carcasses and gut piles left by hunters using lead ammunition can be poisoned.  A simple switch to copper bullets could make a huge difference in the lead contamination in the environment and seems a no-brainer for anyone who cares about the future.