July 20: Tired

A long, draining work day ended just over an hour ago, and it was calming to step out of the office into the cool evening air and watch a family of geese--the young indistinguishable now from the adults--drifting on the river. I was about to type "quietly drifting," but actually one goose was honking rather loudly, at a nearby swimmer, I believe. But honking aside, it was a soothing scene. I felt like jumping in to join them in the warm water. But then it probably wouldn't have been so calm.

Afloat together:
family of geese waiting
for evening to fall.

July 19: Wild Kingdom

I bet if you polled a group of nature lovers / conservation professionals about my age or older, you'd find that the majority of them watched "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" as a kid. Marlin Perkins and his trusty sidekick Jim were always tracking down wily wild animals on the savannah of Africa, shooting them with tranquilizer guns, and in the process, somehow doing something beneficial for science and nature. My grandmother semi-jokingly referred to it as the "torture torture show." I was simply happy to see cool wild animals up close on the screen.

The thing about watching nature shows like that is that you get the impression wild animals are lurking around every corner, just waiting to be chased and tranquilized, or at least observed through binoculars. When you get out into the woods on your own, however, you realize that most days seeing a red squirrel or the hind end of a deer might be about as exciting as it gets.

Today my director and I were walking a property with some donors--one of those situations when you want a place to be at its best. While we weren't so lucky as to have a bull moose walk through the field or a bald eagle soar past, Mother Nature didn't completely let us down. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead, then called dramatically. At our feet, we found two ruddy turkey feathers. Further along the trail, we came across turkey tracks in what was once mud, and then, the crescents of deer prints. And to crown the moment, a hermit thrush's lilting song rose from the trees. Nothing extraordinary, but the value of the place as wildlife habitat was validated. The donors were delighted; the animals had done their jobs well, even though the hawk was the only one we actually saw.

Deer tracks in the mud
and two feathers, patterned fans
telling wild stories.

July 18: Summer Songs

My husband and I went for a long hike today on Mount Megunticook in Camden Hills State Park. We wanted to get outside together on this beautiful day, get some exercise, and enjoy the views from on high, but we were surprised by how many birds were singing in the shady mixed forest through which winds the Ridge and Jack Williams Trails. We started off at the Maiden's Cliff trailhead, and as we began the climb up to the ridge line, heard what I thought was a scarlet tanager. Because he wasn't singing his full song, it wasn't till we had completed the entire hike and returned miles later to that same place when we confirmed that it was indeed a tanager (he finally gave his characteristic "chick burr" call) and then we were even able to find the vivid red bird gleaning bugs among the oak leaves overhead.

My favorite birdsong in these summer woods is that of the hermit thrush: angelic notes tumbling down from the trees, clear and haunting in the lush forest air. We passed several singing thrushes, to our delight, as well as another Maine forest favorite, a winter wren, whose lovely, complex song goes on and on, seemingly rising out of the trees themselves.

Although we expected to hear black-throated green warblers, which seem to sing all summer, we were surprised to hear several black-throated blue warblers and a Blackburnian warbler. When I commented on how unusual that seemed, my husband suggested that that's what I should write about for today's haiku. Ever the dutiful wife, I did so:

On the mountainside,
height of day, height of summer:
warbler still singing.

July 17: First Swim

This afternoon I attended my 25th high school reunion (Camden-Rockport High School, Class of '85!) at rustic Beaver Lodge on the shores of Alford Lake in Hope. On this hot summer day, the venue encouraged swimming. Fortunately several of us were armed and ready with bathing suits. We always were a fun-loving bunch.

You would think that given how hot the summer has been that I'd have been swimming many times by now, but I'm not a big swimmer. I'm kind of squirrelly about getting water in my ears, and I'm not a strong swimmer, strictly breast stroke. But peer pressure usually works well on me, and when a group of my former classmates decided to hike down to the beach, I put on my suit and joined them.

Even then I might have been content to simply stand in the water for a while to cool off. My friends Shannon, who competes in master swimming races and triathlons, and Sarah, who was on our high school swim team, headed across the lake with strong speedy strokes. I slowly waded in up to my waist, that crucial point at which you pretty much have to fully immerse, and then gave myself over to the lake's embrace.

The water was comfortable and clear, no pond weeds dragging at my ankles or submerged rocks to worry about. I picked a buoy not far away as my goal and headed for it with my slow and steady breast stroke. And then I treaded water for awhile, to take in the landscape. I had been so distracted with the busy-ness of the roped off little beach with children splashing around my legs that I hadn't paid attention to the vista visible from the lake shore. Across the lake on one side rose Hatchet Mountain, and on the other, the distinct, lumpy ridgeline of Ragged Mountain. The hills wore their hazy green shawls of mid-July, and the opposite shore of the lake below them wasn't marred by too many camps or docks. My heart lifted at the sight. Ah, to be alive on such a summer day in the company of fun and decent people I grew up with, living a good life that I never could have imagined 25 years ago in a place of great beauty--my home.

Jump into the lake,
into mountains reflected--
reflecting on home.

July 16: Into the Wild Blue Yonder

You know when you're driving, and the topography is such that it looks like at the top of the hill before you there's nothing but blue sky ahead? Have you ever had the feeling that it would be kind of cool to just launch your car into the air like a plane when you reached the top? I don't mean a tragic Thelma and Louise kind of thing, I mean more like a flying car...

Back road, driving fast.
At the top of the hill: sky.
I fly into it.

July 15: Chipmunk

Another sultry summer day. Yet instead of lounging on a breezy beach in my bikini (ha!), I was at my desk all day. Our office is not air-conditioned, so our only cooling comes from personal fans at our desks and an open front door if there's a slight breeze. This morning something caught my eye out my office door, and I turned to spy a chipmunk making its way over the threshold. Alert to every movement, it almost ran out when I turned, but then decided I was apparently harmless and came further inside.

We had to deal with getting a squirrel out of the office basement this spring, and I've witnessed firsthand the chaos that ensues when a cat brings a live chipmunk into the house. So I shooed it out for the first of what became many times today.

This afternoon someone arrived for a meeting as the chipmunk was attempting another foray inside. I pointed it out, and she described how her husband was trapping chipmunks in their barn, where the little guys were stuffing their cheeks with the food they put out for their barn cat. Instead of chasing the rodents, the cat seemed intimidated by them. Her husband sprayed each chipmunk with green paint before releasing it a few miles away. He has now caught 21 chipmunks with no repeats!

I'm not sure what the attraction of our office was for this chipmunk. Maybe it smelled the bag of birdseed I keep just inside the door, or maybe it liked the feeling of the cool linoleum on its feet. Or maybe it was interested in land conservation. In any case, our cute, perky little visitor was a diversion on a busy day.

Hot day. Open door
tempts a chipmunk to visit.
The outside comes in.

July 14: Tastes Like Summer

I had the good fortune to be chosen for a focus group to critique some new menu choices and the overall service experience of Natalie's, the fine restaurant that is part of the Camden Harbour Inn. Ten of us sat down for lunch today, and three-and-a-half hours later, we got up from the table, replete.

Here's what I ate, in order:

• A Pemaquid oyster covered with lemon air, a sort of creamy foam
• Perfectly charred pieces of squid with Aleppo chilis, fat fava beans, a coil of fettuccine-like pasta, and olive oil
• Haricot vert (green bean) and Boston lettuce salad with basil and red wine vinegar and creme fraiche dressing
• Chilled lobster gazpacho with pieces of heirloom squash and a Parmesan cracker on top
• Tender chunk of halibut in artichoke barigoule (a broth) on top of a big flat ravioli with tomato
• Three mouth-watering pieces of rare lamb loin in a natural jus
• For dessert, fresh peaches three ways: blistered, crepe, and sorbet (served on a block of slate)

When I ate my first mouthful of the haricot vert salad, I whispered to the woman next to me that it tasted like summer, it was so fresh, green, and garden-y. After the next course, the gazpacho, a woman at the other end of the table declared that it tasted like summer. In reality, the whole meal tasted like summer, if just because the ingredients were seasonal, fresh, and beautifully presented in a simple but somehow luxurious way. Everything was exquisite. And there we all were on a steamy July afternoon, enjoying the best food around, talking about food and what we like in a restaurant while behind us Camden Harbor and Mount Battie emerged from the fog. For a few hours I felt like I was on a mini summer vacation from work, from my every day life. It was sweet (and savory). (And the service was excellent, as always.) 

And five hours later I'm home eating a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats for supper. 

Mouthful of summer:

green beans, lettuce, and basil,

with a harbor view. 

July 13: Summer Fog

This afternoon from the summit of Beech Hill you wouldn't have known there was a panoramic ocean view. Inland, you could enjoy the beauty of the Camden Hills just fine, but the bay was completely hidden behind a thick bank of fog. The southeast-facing fields rolled into woods which faded into a wall of white. I felt sorry for people from away who were missing out on what I consider one of the best bay views in the area. On the other hand, fog has a way of making a landscape more intimate by highlighting the foreground and hiding the distraction of what surrounds it. The wildflower-spangled sod roof of Beech Nut, the historic hut that crowns Beech Hill, was highly visible in all its midsummer glory, for example, as were the damp stones of its walls.

Fog mutes, distorts, and obscures the landscape in disorienting but interesting ways. Driving back to the office, I observed a small island of green rising from a sea of mist and cloud--a peak of Mount Megunticook floating within the fog. Later, in the day's last light, I was driving back from a meeting in Searsport and marveled to see the big rolls of hay wrapped in plastic looming under fog's wet shroud like guardians of the fields or strange, organic monoliths loosely arrayed throughout the mown rows. And even as I drove through patches where it appeared to be clear all around me, a blank, swirling backdrop rose in the distance where rolling green mountains should be.

Mountains disappear.
Hay bales form shadowy ranks
within fog's embrace.

July 12: Blue Jays and Blueberries

This afternoon I was still working in my office when our director left for home. We had the door open so the faint breeze could help dissipate the heat in our non-air-conditioned space, and I could hear him talking to someone outside. It sounded like he was telling them to go away. Curious, I went to the doorway. I expected to see a stray dog, but he was apparently alone, so I asked him whom he had been talking to. "The blue jays," he said. "They're eating our blueberries!" He then proceeded to bang some things together to scare them further off across the parking lot.

I realized then that I had been hearing the racket of blue jays outside for a good part of the afternoon without being consciously aware of what I was hearing. The jays are regular visitors, and this time of year they're always kvetching and caviling around the office in their family groups. I'd grown used to them, I guess, and had blocked the noise while I was working. They were especially excited this afternoon because they'd found an edible treasure trove--the high bush blueberries right outside our office doorway were finally ripening.

Actually, I don't think today was the first day they had discovered the berries. I think they've had their beady black eyes on them all along, just waiting for the peak moment to raid the blueberry patch. Today was the day. Thanks to the commotion, now we knew, too. After they flew off, a co-worker and I went out and picked a bowlful, missing enough berries, I'm sure, to keep the jays happy. After we went back inside, not a minute passed before I heard a jay back in the dogwood next to the berry bushes. These birds are not stupid. They keep an eye on everything.

Blue skies in July,
blue jays in the blueberries--
all as it should be.

July 11: Four Crows

As I started up the road on my run this morning, four crows stood together before me on the pavement. Although I couldn't see anything with my weak human eyes, something was clearly interesting them in the street. One bird was whining, probably a young bird, and I wondered if it was being given some sort of lesson. As I got closer, they hopped over to the sidewalk, still in my path. Twice more they moved just ahead of me before flying off with some complaining into the trees.

I thought of augury, the ancient Roman method of prophecy, and wondered what it meant to be confronted by four crows. The version of the traditional crow counting rhyme that I learned as a kid says, "Three crows a wedding, four a birth." While I know several pregnant young women, none are imminently due. Perhaps those crows represented the birth of a new idea, which I could use right now as I map out my August natural history column for the local paper and try to create something for the Belfast Poetry Festival with my assigned artist partner, the sculptor Beth Henderson.

If you look up the number four in numerology references, it is a positive number. So many things come in fours: four directions, four winds, four seasons, four quarters of the year, etc. Four sides creates a solid square. As I thought about them, I couldn't help but imagine those four crows together in the road as four pips on a playing card. The four of spades, a card denoting action.

Such are the things that go through my head to distract me while I run. My poet side gets the best of me, wants to read a hidden meaning in everything I see. But, to paraphrase Freud, sometimes four crows hanging out are just four crows hanging out. On my return, I passed the place where the black birds had flown into the trees. From within the dense foliage came several caws, alerting the neighborhood that the person who had seemed to chase them up the street before was back. They didn't seem overly alarmed, though. Studies have shown that crows recognize people very well, and I'm sure these crows knew me as harmless. They quieted down again by the time I got to my door.

Four crows in the road
form a square society,
no one else needed.

July 10: Gulls and Clouds

My mother and I went to Belfast this morning to check out the arts and crafts show on the harbor. Rain was forecast for the afternoon, so we figured early would be best. We timed it well, checked out the entire show, watched some kids play on the "beach" near the park, and even did a little shopping in downtown Belfast. While having lunch, I happened to look out the window. Between buildings I could see a wall of dark rain clouds settling over the river and harbor. They looked truly ominous. But where we were, the sun still beat down on the sidewalks and street. Its mid-afternoon rays hit the dozens of gulls that had been stirred off the roof of the old Stinson sardine plant down by the water. As the gulls swirled in the air above the river, with the glowering clouds as backdrop, they shone in the undiminished light. Made tiny by the distance, they almost sparkled, like when you're dizzy and see stars. And then, a few minutes later, the light dimmed and the rain poured down.

Last light before rain
ignites the gulls swirling high,
 each a rising spark.