Category Archives: nature

Going Nowhere

Posted on October 24, 2013 | Leave a comment

Months of hosing off the deck or walkways or wherever the duck waddled, months of dashing outside mop or broom in hand to protect small, defenseless children, I was “done with duck raising.” Time for releasing our assailant.  Quackers, clearly, outgrew our domain; one-half acre was insufficient territory. He needed a more expansive spread, say the entire pond at the bottom of our hill, that extended up a ravine, and then into pastures.  The hills beyond our house were nearly limitless—expanding into 1500 acres of wilderness, a regional park. Quackers could roam forever!

I gathered the family and discussed the plan. We would “release” Quackers at our neighborhood pond, and figured that time of release was now. Our neighborhood pond usually harbored a few “drop-in” ducks, which during the summer migrated to other pastures and ponds. In fall, when the pond dried up, it became home to white egrets and blue herons, who feasted on local fish and frog “jerky” or the few remaining pond inhabitants. During winter and spring, flocks of migratory birds, e.g. Canadian geese and mallards visited. But, in summer, only kids with fishing poles and occasional, solitary, wayward birds idled by the pond, both hoping for a nibble. Since pond visitors were sparse from June to August, Quackers could nestle in his new home; establish his new territory before the onslaught of other visiting ducks and geese in September. What a plan!

We found a large orange crate in which Quackers could sit, and then with smiles among tears, we marched down the hill, carefully carting the quacking duck. Each little girl sniffled her goodbyes, sure, that he would miss her and she would miss him. Dale brought the camera for prosperity. We would have pictures, if the memories faded.  We reached the edge of the pond where Dale softly, tenderly placed the box with Quackers.  The five of us plus duck stood our places at the lip of the pond. I focused the camera, ready for action. Nothing happened. We waited—no flapping of wings, no quacking. Silence and no movement. The duck remained in the box, and he was not going anywhere. Quackers looked at Dale, with pleading in his eyes, and he turned his head from side to side to make sure Dale saw both eyes (prey, of course, has eyes on the sides of their head). He waited for his master, Dale, to do something. Dale reached down and removed Quackers from the carton. The duck moved as close as possible to Dale’s size 14 boot, which Quackers knew well, but was actually a safer bet than the unknown but beautiful pond, nearly three times the size of our swimming pool, and 20 times larger than Quackers’s pool. So, we stood—duck, Dale, me, Meg, Allie, and Sam for the longest time. No one moved.

After a few minutes, Dale, with soft and gentle hands that Quackers had never experienced before, picked up the duck. Dale lovingly stroked Quackers’s long white feathers, spoke kind words, and said, “Goodbye. Be strong. Be a duck.” Then, he tossed him as a quarterback would heave a football to a receiver on the far end of a football field. Quackers instinctively flapped, which, of course was useless. He landed with a giant splash in the middle of the pool, because he was such a large bird, and sprinted out of the water as though chased by a hungry predator. Now, he was quacking, loudly, furiously, and shaking. He ran to his master’s side and Dale tried again. In fact, Dale tried to get rid of Quackers at least five times. Each heave matched with a quacking duck, exiting the water faster than before—nearly taking off as a seaplane. After an hour of unsuccessful attempts of introducing Quackers to our pond, we gave up. He was going home. To our house. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

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The Duck Grows Up

Posted on October 23, 2013 | Leave a comment

One morning, Allie and Samantha went into the backyard to release Quackers, our family duck, from his nightly penning. Quackers was as hefty and as unwieldy as a squirming two-year child, despite the fact that he was only two months old. He wiggled in Allie’s arms, futilely flapped his nearly full-grown wings, and gave his best efforts at flight, landing him bill-down between the cage and the stack of hay. With his bottom upside down and my girls screaming for help, I ran outside, but it was too late, the damage was done. When we pulled up Quackers, he sustained bird brain damage as a small trickle of blood ran from his bill. Since I was not going to pay staggering emergency vet bills, I consoled my children, and then set Quackers free to stagger about the yard, hopeful that he would not die in front of us. He did not, but he staggered for several days and his behavior became increasingly odd. He no longer walked straight up as a duck should, instead his head turned sideways as though he sustained a sprained neck. Since I was not going to pay for a duck neck brace, we watched and waited. He ate and drank normally, and when in his swimming pool (our kids’ old wading pool), he straightened up and swam straight—in circles. Perhaps this was a muscular trauma; perhaps time would heal the sustained whiplash, until I realized his side-ways waddle was because he could only see out of one eye. Quackers waddled, leading with his “good” or “seeing” eye, which made for a twisted duck. My original diagnosis was undoubtedly correct and I called our neighbor-pediatrician to come up for a brief consult. Dr. B laughed, “This has to be one of the weirdest house-calls in my practice. You know, I usually don’t see ducks.” However, Dr. B. concurred with my diagnosis. A week later,  bird brain healed, Quackers regained his lost eyesight, and began turning his head from side to side as though testing out his recovered vision.

At three months, Quackers was developing into a well-fed Pekin, ready for a banquet. He flourished from the exercise and endless supply of food. The exercise came from chasing perceived predators and from herding his “flock” of small children who ran about the yard. At this point, because of Quackers’s animalistic dominance, we became convinced he was a male, although neither my husband nor I was going to “sex” Quackers to be certain. Nevertheless, it was very evident that Quackers was the Alpha-male of the backyard—a near ½ acre with a pool in the middle. Children planned their strategies to reach the swing set at the far corner of the yard. I grabbed a mop to keep Quackers at bay, while the children made a “run for it.” The duck would be stuck, only shortly, as he watched the children run in two opposite directions around the pool. As bird brains go, Quackers had a decision to make—which direction and which innocent victim to attack. Not that he would eat any of them, but countless children from the neighborhood sustained tiny red welts from his bill-bites, as he latched on the thinnest piece of skin and held tight. I was the nurse for many. Once safely atop the play structure, the children were stranded by  Quackers, who circled the area, quacked loudly, and waited to strike unaware children who swung too low, or dropped from the rope, or slid down the slide, or jumped off the monkey bars. He was there. Waiting. Quacking. Again, I rescued children, with mop in hand, and defended against possible attack-duck.

Quackers generally challenged anyone who entered our yard, be it dog, cat, raccoon, possum, skunk, turkey, kid, or adult, as though they were intruders into his personal territory.  He reigned over his domain of three little girls and their posse, their mother and her friends. My husband, a man of 6 feet 4 inches and 230 pounds of pure, muscular strength, was one of the few creatures that Quackers respected.  Perhaps this was because Dale showed Quackers his size 14 boot, gently nudging the duck, always safely in the chest, just like a kicker sends flying a football 50 yards into the field goal. After a few “flying” lessons, the duck learned. He tentatively approached Dale, quacking softly and bowing to him, as though heaping praises, “Oh, Master, may I please come near?” If Dale moved an inch or two, Quackers quickly retreated, proving the established “pecking order” of our household—Dale, then the duck, then me, then all the little girls, and finally, all their friends and visitors.

On hot, summer days when our kids swam in the pool, Quackers patrolled back and forth along the pool fence, blocked from entry, and, of course, quacking loudly without abandon. Such a cruel fate Quackers was given—wings to swim but not to fly, and our pool, small by human standards, was far superior and bigger than his five-foot plastic version. Pekin ducks, such as Quackers, are not bred for flight, so the children were secure, albeit briefly, from brutal duck-attacks, as he could not muster the strength to span the six-foot fence.  These hefty birds, bred for more for meat than anything, are perfect for a Thanksgiving or Christmas meal, and that was not that far away.

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Year of the Duck

Posted on October 22, 2013 | Leave a comment

Samantha skipped home from kindergarten, as do most kinders, but this day was especially delightful because she brought home a duck. Like many elementary classes, children celebrate birthdays with cupcakes, candy, and punch; unlike most, Sammy’s class celebrated with ducklings—from the newly hatched eggs of the classroom incubator the children watched for weeks—far more valuable in her eyes than a cupcake. This handful of feathers, hatched on Sammy’s birthday, earned her the gift of a duck. I approved, without much forethought or serious consideration, and thus began the Year of the Duck.

My spontaneity has always been my downfall; I have a serious problem with saying, “No.” Impromptu events are more exciting to me than anything planned, and so it goes. I knew little about birds, despite my countless biology courses at UCSD, but I was about to learn. All my college biology courses involved studies in microscopic organisms or things that swim in some sort of molecular soup, while the duck experience was the perfect opportunity to study “real” biology. We live in a rural area, surrounded by farms and ranches, and our children belonged to the local 4H club. We could handle a duck.

Our three girls and their elementary friends renamed Quackers multiple times. Naming a duck is vitally important—just as with any offspring—it determines the future demeanor, the future successes or failures in life. Since we could only guess the gender of our duck, the children chose a uni-sex name and which sounded like him. Those first few weeks, the duckling never walked on land. Every little girl in the neighborhood held this thing, snuggling, rocking her collective baby. Passed from little girl to little girl, Quackers slept tucked in the palm of each little girl, waking periodically to nibble at the wild birdseed in the hand, then drifted back to sleep. We had no shortage of little girls (and little boys) from the neighborhood that was willing to caress him/her; Quackers had no shortage of warm hands in which to sleep. At night, an old mouse cage lined with baby blankets served as temporary home, until morning when the parade of small children came to hold. Those precious days, just as with any baby, did not last long.

In the wild, mother ducks fold their ducklings under their maternal wings, instinctively rubbing their protective oils to prepare them for swimming. We didn’t know about this part, but we knew ducks swim, right? Three days after hatching, surviving, and seemingly thriving in our family, Quackers went swimming in his personal swimming hole—the bathroom sink. He seemed a happy duckling and his tiny webbed feet performed perfectly; our clean towels warmed and dried him. Knowing what I do now, I am amazed this duck survived, as we did everything wrong, i.e. Quackers should not have entered the water for a full month. A search on “how to raise a duck” explained that ducks could drown if they enter the water too early. I decided after, I should do more research before.

Within a month, Quackers outgrew the mouse cage and needed more space to accommodate his copious poop and messy eating. I got a duck feeder from the local feed supply store and Dale built a cage out of chicken wire and surrounded it by hay on all sides. The hay served the dual purpose of warm bedding at night and protection from the numerous predators that roamed our neighborhood. By now, Quackers was no longer the pristine yellow duckling. A complete adolescent, Quackers was cloaked in brown, white, and yellow feathers in varying lengths from floaty down to long, greasy bird feathers, much like the gangly kid in junior high whose clothes don’t fit. Quacker’s neck was too long for his tiny body—did we get a goose or a swan? His legs were too long, his webbed feet too large, but the kids loved him, nonetheless, and he loved them. Our cat did not, however, and all day long, someone had to stand duck-duty, as Ginger our cat, stalked him wherever he waddled. We protected Quackers—either totally caged or with a bodyguard— at all times. Within two months, though, Quackers surpassed Ginger in both height and girth, and both duck and cat quacked and meowed, respectively, at the back door begging to enter our house. Disgusting duck poop splattered over the deck, no way was I going to let this duck in our house. The cat, maybe, but she did not leave the same trail. Of course, kids being kids snuck in the duck. I knew. Not hard to figure out. I added one more job to my growing list of chores, that of deck (duck?) maintenance by hosing off his giant droppings into our garden.

Meanwhile, Quackers roamed our yard consuming bountiful amounts of grass and seeds and snails and slugs—anything he could find. Soon enough, we stopped buying duck feed because Quackers found an abundance of savory meals as he “finished off” the snails and slugs. One of the few benefits—no slugs, no snails, yet thriving roses from the fertilizer. For at least two months, we tolerated the duck and saw potential advantages to this family addition. The next month things changed…

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Year of the Pig

Posted on October 18, 2013 | Leave a comment

When our thirteen-year-old daughter, Meg, decided for her 4H project she would spend her summer building a pigpen and raising a pig, we celebrated.  We were teenagers once, we teach them, and so we know them. Teenagers do drugs, have sex, cause trouble, talk loudly, swear randomly, steal stuff, and generally, protest everything, so when our teenage daughter chose to raise a pig, we celebrated. My husband, Dale,  and I have taught high school for over 30 years, so we have some experience with this age-group, and go figure, we like them.  Therefore, when Meg wanted a pig, we celebrated.  We knew she would be busy all summer long and we would have less teenage angst (read—no trouble).

First thing, we had to do was build a pen. My husband built the room addition to our house, which means he knows construction and since we lack in sons (not that this should EVER matter), our daughters learned how to build.  Our girls built everything with their dad—tree houses and room additions and now the pigpen. Meg and Dale leveled the plot, dug the holes, poured the concrete, set the posts, and attached the animal corral. They made the pig feeder out of wide PFC pipe, drilled holes for the spigot, anchored the straps, and attached it to the corral. They ran the water line from the well to the feeder. They even painted the sides of the pigpen to make this like a home. All in a weekend to be ready for the homecoming of the pig.

Our 4H leader met us at the pig farm, where we scouted the squirming, squealing, and smelling spring piglets. We had no idea what made for a good-looking pig, only those in agriculture know this. We “went” with pretty. Ag people look for nice lines, good hocks, strong legs, and wide shoulders.  We looked at the piglets and chose for cuteness, of course. Meg picked out an American Landrace, a special variety of pig, the color of Babe, not quite as amazing as Wilbur, and named him Rufus. The morning Rufus arrived at his new home, my husband wrestled the 102-pound squealing piggy out of the pickup truck and muscled him into his new pen. That was the first time that Dale wrenched his back, and except for this minor mishap, the pig project seemed easy enough.

Our 4H leader, Carolyn H., said we did not have to exercise our piggy for two weeks. Well, shoot, if this pig was going to be Grade A meat by fair time (in three months), he needed a workout. Dale and Meg took Rufus for a “walk” hours after his move and nearly lost him, as Rufus raced back down the dirt road trying to find his old home. That was the second time Dale wrenched his back.

Two weeks later, we tried walking Rufus again. With the help of the “co-pig leader,” Rick W., a 280+ lb. firefighter and former football lineman, we learned to “walk” Rufus. I use “walk” loosely.  Initially, the pig does not enjoy “walking” anywhere, and the pig-owner must push, pull, shove, or drag the animal down a path. Pigs are intelligently designed and they know they do not need to work for their food. Pigs train their owners in no time to bring food and water twice daily. Why walk?

After weeks of practice, though, pigs begin to tolerate, even enjoy their walks. Rufus would sprint down the path, barking the entire way, and leave all of us in the dust. His favorite part of the walk was finding rocks and river silt to munch on—a sort of sandy smorgasbord. That was how we got our exercise that summer and how Rufus grew to 242 pounds by fair time.

Everyone took part in the fair. Allie cleaned the stall and took orders at the 4H snack bar, of course, not on the same shift. Meg washed and groomed Rufus until he glistened. Sam showed Rufus in peewee showmanship, while Dale and I helped in the 4H food booth, serving tri-tip. Rufus made Group I Market Hog and Meg earned $6.75 per pound.

It was a great experience, though sad at the end. He was a nice pet—wrong attitude. Pigs raised by 4Hrs are not pets, but that first year, that first pig, was our pet. My girls and I cried at the end of the fair, until that check was deposited, and plans were made for the next year’s fair.

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Caught in the Net

Posted on October 11, 2013 | Leave a comment

This time of year, I watch the spouts of the gray whales passing by the coast and I recall my stint of research in Alaska.  Although it has been years, my memories are as vivid as the icy spray that stings my face or the tingling of my toes in the Monterey Bay.  Not grays that we studied, but humpbacks, and the mist wisping above white caps on the ocean reminds me.

This particular expedition was in Southeast Alaska, around Admiralty Island, Baranov, Sitka, and Ketchikan, where we followed humpback whales, and recorded their songs and photographed their flukes. The purpose was to determine which whales traveled the Trans-Pacific, or down the Pacific coast, or across to Hawaii. The National Geographic Society photographed, while we documented everything else, entering all into an international cataloging system. It had long been observed that some humpbacks were “tagged” as far down under as Australia and as far north as Alaska, but some humpbacks followed a smaller migratory pattern of Alaska to Hawaii, while others wandered Mexico to Alaska, just as cruise ships follow different passages. Our task was merely to document—, which humpbacks traveled where.

The early days on board our vessel met with light rain, some wind, and swells—lots from different directions. This kind of weather often sends landlubbers down below deck, which is the worst possible place to be, while old “salts” face the elements, getting wind-whipped and wet, but not seasick. I remained above, rocking and rolling, acquiring my “sea-legs” and an appetite. In fact, I usually return from sea voyages ravenous and ready for a beer.  On this crisp morning, I dressed in my layers of long underwear with two pair of pants, covered by t-shirt, then flannel shirt and warm fleece jacket and hat, topped with wind jacket, and finally the Coast Guard approved PFC. We tracked two mothers and two calves as they tracked the krill. The mother whales lumbered along in a direct line, strictly business, mowing a straight lawn through the euphausids, small shrimp that is their choice of food. The babies, on the other hand, acted like any juvenile animals, never traveled in a straight line, but spy-hopped, breached, rolled, loped, sped up, then slowed down, in circles or in triangles, and often too far from their mothers.

This was the initial pod of whales to trail, and since I was one of few sea-worthy researchers, I had the first opportunity to board the Boston Whaler, the type of boat usually seen on the news—with recreational divers headed to a shipwreck or Greenpeace activists taking on something much bigger than they are. The four of us cautiously climbed aboard the small boat, timing our entries between swells. Meanwhile, perhaps a half-mile ahead, the two mother humpbacks pursued their meals with their calves alternating from side to side.  I secured my camera around my neck, ready to switch my lens to the telephoto, as my partners prepared the acoustic recording instruments. Ahead, the whales launched their bubble net. We cut the motor and drifted.

Directly in front our boat, perhaps 30 feet at most, the first of the bubbles surfaced. The whales submerged to feed cooperatively, releasing bubbles in a synchronous dance to trap the krill, just as bubbles pop from an uncorked champagne bottle. Only these bubbles are the size of giant balloons that pop to the surface in a boiling mass. One bubble then the next, then the next continuing in perfect circle, and once that circle is complete, the next circle fills inside the last, and then the same, ending with three perfect circles of bubbles. Finally, the whales emerge through the column of bubbles engulfing their trapped shrimp.

Sure to be the best shot ever, we were in the perfect position for capturing feeding behavior and sounds of the pod—being certain to maintain the required distance both for safety of us and for the natural behavior of those we were observing.  This picture would surely net me some cash, I imagined. National Geographic staff sat retching on the main ship, yet I was the lucky one to be on this voyage, while they were over a mile away.

However, as with any adventure in the wild, things never work out as planned. The surfacing bubbles did not form the concentric circles in front of the boat, but rather turned to go around us. We were directly atop the bubble net, and we watched in horror as one bubble slowly, methodically, every second made its way to the surface. One round of bubbles completed in thirty seconds, with just two more to go. We zipped our life vests, radioed the main ship, shouting our dilemma. Turning on the outboard motor was certain death as any serious disturbance, such as a motor directly above the whales, could result in breaching of the whales and tossing us into the 32-degree salty water, and it would be minutes before the main ship could rescue us. We said little in the next few minutes, waiting perilously, for what would happen next.

Nothing we could do. Just wait.

I zipped up my camera bag—not that it mattered.

I tucked in my flannel shirt, recalling simple life saving measures, but uncertain how I could move in the frigid waters.

No one talked.

We just waited.

And waited.

I thought about the life I had not yet experienced—children and unexplored places and things I wanted to know about.

I thought of goodbyes—to my sweet husband, to my family, to my friends, even to my first husband.

I thought of my life that at 30, I was still young—much too young to die.

I thought it was over.

Two bubbles shy of the last circle and the whales would be up. By now, I was silently reciting every prayer I could recall from twelve years of Catholic schools, and there were quite a few, but in such situations, which ones to say?  One bubble left, and the boat began to rock, rhythmically at first, increasing from every direction, as though whales were coming up on all sides. I braced myself against the front seat and there she was. So close, that the spout sprayed me with the most delightful mist. I captured the picture of that lovely blowhole. Mom or baby figured out something was directly above, abandoned the net, and moved off to one side, my lucky side of the boat.

One month later, after that bucket-list experience in Alaska, I was pregnant with my first child and celebrating life.

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Researching Yellowstone

Posted on October 7, 2013 | Leave a comment

This trip was unlike any we had as a family. Most summers, we camped in state or national parks, as do many families of teachers—public servants using the public parks.  We visited nearly every California State Park, our particular favorites including Calaveras, Donner, Grover, Big Basin, and Big Sur. We camped in national forests when we could not get the spot we wanted in a national park, e.g. Yosemite or Grand Canyon or Sequoia. We traveled and camped from June through September, when we started back to school.

Our children began their camping adventures when they were merely weeks old. Dale’s down jacket served as a sleeping bag for a 6 week old and nursing was a snap in the middle of the night. No bottles to boil, no formula to mix—made for an easy vacation. By the time our girls were in high school, they could put up a tent in record time, which was often serious family competition. Cooking on the Coleman stove was a creative art, which we mastered. Therefore, this particular summer, while I was studying, testing, and recording, my family was fishing, swimming, and relaxing by the Yellowstone River.

University of Montana offered this field study. As with any graduate level course, required reading was assigned ahead of time. I ordered the requisite texts, and weeks out, began the reading assignments.  At the start of class was a preliminary test, so I plunged into the mandatory reading while we drove to Yellowstone. This geology course covered scientific testing of some of 10,000 hot spots, such as geysers, fumaroles, and mud pots.  By casting a fishing line, attached with a thermometer or water-collecting instruments, into geyser basins, researchers gathered data without endangering lives.  Every season, occasional tourists and random pets fall prey to geysers or fumaroles by straying too far from the boarded walkways and falling into the boiling waters—despite the posted warnings, newspaper accounts, and cautionary words of rangers. Some locals keep mortality rates on visitors searching for that perfect picture, or unleashed, wandering dogs that lose their lives to the hot springs, or bison who pummel them.

For our research, we were nowhere near the boarded walkways or civilization. We collected data in the Norris Basin, the most seismically active area of the park, and therefore the most dangerous. We brought along biological testing kits and medical supplies and a park ranger, who carried his walkie-talkie, our only link to the outside world and help, should we need it. Recording data all day long in the hot summer sun, while dodging flies the size of small bats and mosquitoes the size of small birds, yet this was my idea of an exciting vacation. I love outdoor biology—my true calling—and I felt in my element as I crouched in the dust and dirt, inhaling fumes of sulfur, and batting away at the constant attack by insects.  And, I was ready to pack up and move to Yellowstone permanently.

One particular trek skirted a blackened sulfur pool, a tar-y-blackness that I had seen before, but always in a lab and never in nature. The pool was blacker than the blackest charcoal I ever made in many a science lab, pouring sulfuric acid over sugar, watching as the bubbling mass oozed out of the beaker, while students ooh’d and aah’d and held their noses.  Here, we stopped to run the spectrophotometer and assess the compounds present in nearby streams and fumaroles. We ran tests to measure biologic variations, to assess seismic changes in the basin—to determine the rapid or slow but constant evolution that Yellowstone is famous for. The dramatic variations in color are due to the differences in pH and temperature and we tested nearly every color in the spectrum.

On the last day of our vacation, my exhausted family bedded down at nightfall, while I studied by flashlight for my final exam.  Sammy saw a bear, the one animal she had searched for, and which earned her Yellowstone National Park Junior Ranger patch, while I earned my one-graduate unit that moved me to the farthest column on the pay scale.

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On the Road to Yellowstone

Posted on October 3, 2013 | Leave a comment

Sometime around the last government shutdown, I transferred school districts and needed a one-unit course to move to the farthest column on the pay scale. Figuring this was an ideal opportunity for travel, (I generally use any excuse for that); I searched for places to take our family. Europe? Africa? Asia? Terrific travel destinations but costly for a family of five’s vacation and one’s education, especially on a teacher’s salary, and even with my new raise.  An exhaustive internet search led me to the precise seminar that met all my requirements in course level, length, price, and destination—at Yellowstone National Park. The University of Montana offered a one-unit graduate level course covering “Geysers, Mud pots, and Hot Springs Research.” Let the family escape begin!

After three days on the road, with stops at Uncle Steve’s in Nevada for horse wrangling, then Uncle Carl’s for fly-fishing, we drove towards our final target of Yellowstone. Our three daughters were camping veterans, who had experienced nearly every summer in state or national parks, since that is what families of teachers often do. The girls knew that the next few weeknights would be sleeping in down bags and under the stars (by my terms, luxurious), bathing in solar-powered showers (translation, just above freezing), dining on camp gruel (edible, by any bear standards), but according to our teenage and tweenage daughters—not so much.  So, to make this a “real family vacation,” I conceded and made a one-night reservation at a local hotel in American Falls, Idaho near enough to our final destination, requesting two rooms with four beds, so adults could have privacy and quiet. “No problem,” the clerk responded and we replied that we would arrive by early evening.

The recently remodeled hotel sat on the corner of the American Falls with balconies over leaning the rushing waters—magnificent and thunderous. I handed the clerk my credit card and explained that I called earlier. He seemed perplexed, and then left to find the manager of the hotel. At this point, we were hungry, tired from travelling, and cranky from family time. “Please don’t tell me there are no rooms,” I was thinking and mentally preparing my next move, when the manager approached. “No problem” (I had heard that before) as he handed me a key. He explained, “We had a slight mix-up with the rooms, but I am certain your family will enjoy this room much better. It is the same price.”

I accepted the key and thanked him. We grabbed our backpacks and headed to room 2106. The elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor, a smallish floor compared with the others, on the other hand, we were on the top floor. We got out and found 2104 and 2108. No 2106. No odd numbers either, which was strange. The only room between 2104 and 2106 had a sign—“Penthouse.” Ha! Like that would happen. My husband glanced around to see if anyone was watching us, all of us feeling slightly sheepish as though we did not quite belong, but the doors opened. Viola! We were going to experience how 1% of the wealthiest lived!

With wrap-around balconies directly over the deafening falls and spray wafting up all twenty floors, none of us could believe the good fortune this trip had afforded. The beds—all queen or king size–were soft yet firm, with downy comforters over satin sheets; amenities at every elbow, including a walk-in shower and a bathtub large enough for a party, velvety towels galore, and, of course, a fancy bidet, of which my kids were clueless. We savored the moments in that hotel and I doubt if any of us slept that night—too stunned at our windfall. Checkout time was 11:00 the next morning; we returned the key at 10:59—then headed to another miracle of sorts, Yellowstone Valley—but that is another story.

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Removal of Memories is Wrong

Posted on September 29, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every decade or so, my husband performs a thorough purging, almost purifying, of our garage. We are not hoarders, but we are not OCD people either—somewhere in between the extremes. Most things we keep are because parting represents a removal of memories, some too dear to be recycled. This year, we reminisced over Meghan’s box of bones, stored in a broken cardboard box strewn with spider webs and dust, sweet reminders of 4H children and county fairs, of raised animals and silly adventures.

Meghan, during her second year (a veteran) of 4H, decided for her county fair project to display the bones she acquired through countless hikes and ravine roaming. A random deer skull here, a tibia there, a jawbone found in the bushes, a vertebrae recovered from the gully—all collectables that would stand up against the best of other 4H exhibits. Usual displays included perfectly boxed match cars, Ken and Barbie and Polly Pockets (not a family that I know) and their accessories, horse-cow-pig-goat-or-other-animal ribbons, and the ubiquitous baseball card collections, but our Meghan was a budding scientist, and her collection reflected her scientific inclinations. Each bone within this box had its tale, along with its date found, location, and identification.

Meghan, age 10, approached the stern directors of the collections exhibits at the Monterey County Fair, Exhibit Hall “A.” She carefully placed her meticulously itemized and organized bones on the table and smiled, and Meghan looked perfect in her uniform. The two gray-haired, experienced veterans of “supreme collections” smiled in return. 4H children in their crisp, white shirts adorned with green hats and scarves, are the embodiment of perfect children—wholesome, spunky, yet respectful, and most importantly, sparkling clean.  The elderly women nodded as they took Meghan’s box and handed her the receipt for retrieval at the end of the fair. We would know the results of the judging by Friday.

The box included one three-foot vertebral column from a steer, complete with beef jerky between each vertebrae. Meghan dragged that still moist and meaty spine for over a mile to our house. I said, “I am not taking that home,” and she said, “Fine, I will,” and then she proceeded to heave it all the way. I was sure it would be dropped somewhere between our house and the backwoods we hiked, but my daughter proved me wrong, pulling that thing all the way home.  Five random deer skulls also in the box showed the insatiable appetite of our local mountain lion. The mountain lion snaps off the deer snout with brute force, suffocating in a quick swoop. Finally, the box contained numerous other bones, such as jaws or humerus—mostly remnants of deer who once roamed our neighborhood.

Friday morning, after feeding their county pig, Meghan and her sisters ran to the Exhibit Hall. There, in the glass case between the sewing projects and scrapbooks, rested Meghan’s display of bones. Carefully placed just as Meghan would have done herself, the “Ladies of the Hall” found a way to display a child’s precious memories—moments of learning, moments with family, moments of fun. And, best of all, was the Best of Show ribbon, the purple ribbon that carried a check for $13.98. How can I possibly get rid of this?

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Posted in 4H, Childhood Memories, Humor, nature

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Close Encounter of the Wild Kind

Posted on September 24, 2013 | Leave a comment

In the fall, deer freely graze on roses at our front door; mother turkey protectively hovers over her tiny poults in our bushes, and our local mountain lion stealthily roams our neighborhood. It was not long ago that I ran into him, almost literally, and this time of year, running reminds me.

On a cloudless autumn day, the hills were a deep indigo, so I decided to run to the top of the hill, near our water tower. The grade is steep—over 10% at least—so running is a term I use loosely. Mostly, I employ a bounce with a slight forward motion, barely detectable at times, especially up hill. At this point, I was a few miles into my jog and near the tower when I heard rustling in the bushes off my left.  Some days, especially at dusk, I run free—without ear buds and my iPod—to enjoy the birdsongs and wind. Thankfully, this was one of those days.

I paused to listen further because chaparral on a quiet afternoon is nearly soundless, and just as I stopped, out bounded a herd of six deer. The deer gave me a fleeting glance as they sprang down the path and up the hill. I thought this was a bit unusual; in fact, in that split second of realization that deer generally run away from humans and not towards them, it was nearly too late. I saw him—all 6 feet, 250 pounds of blonde feathery fur, with golden eyes and gigantic paws, and a gaping mouth full of long, shiny teeth.  He stared at me. I stared at him. Not sure how long this stare-down lasted, but long enough for me to comprehend he was close enough to pet and I was close enough to devour.

My response, according to the Fish and Game, saved me, i.e. the baring of my teeth. My family often tease me about the largish size of my canines and incisors and of their whiteness, but this time, my teeth paid off. I should say I did not intentionally bare my teeth, rather, I was laughing. “Oh, you’re the reason; that’s why the deer are sprinting,” I think I even muttered this aloud. Normally, I do not laugh in the face of danger.

On his second glance, I understood I needed to exit first, so slowly and steadily I backed down the hill, studying him as I went. Had I turned to run, I would not be writing this. This magnificent cat was merely a larger version of our domesticated kitty, the one who purrs on my lap at night or who attacks my leg as I walk past. Our local mountain lion was after the big chase, and gratefully I am not a swift runner, so I was not enough of a challenge.

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Posted in animals, nature

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