Recently, my mother visited the farm, and we agreed we would spread my father’s ashes. We hoped to talk about him and share what we remembered and maybe even share some stories about times we spent with my dad (her first husband).
Clarence Denman Jones or C.D., as we called him, died when I was a sophomore in college. The circumstances around his death were gray. He died – possibly of heart failure —in a hotel in Florida, and his body was not discovered until the next day by the maid.
After my dad was cremated, the urn was mailed to me at mother’s home on Garret Street in Vienna, Virginia, and she gave me the box when I visited during school break.
Fast forward thirty five years, many moves for me from Maryland, to New Orleans, Oregon, Alaska, and back to Oregon. Two husbands. Several more dogs and cats, a parrot, two donkeys, and many pigeons. The box accompanied me everywhere and through all the various phases of my life. I never opened the box or spread the ashes, because I never found the right place or the suitable time.
C. D. and I took a trip before he died to Graves Mountain Lodge in the Shenandoah Mountains Virginia. We enjoyed sitting in the rocking chairs on the lodge’s long porch, and we hiked each day in the Virginia woods. One of our hikes took us up so high, and we sat on a ledge overlooking a valley. C.D. loved this view; the lodge, the relaxing, and the time spent together. I always remembered that place, and so one day I realized it was time to spread my father’s ashes on my own farm— way up high, and it was only right to do this with my mother by my side. So we planned to drive with the four-wheeler up to one of the the highest places on the farm overlooking the wide prairie valley.
We did this, and we told stories, and laughed, and thought back on ole nine-fingered Cash Deposit (as he was affectionally called). And, then I slit the weathered tape on the box and took out a round copper urn- that looked a lot like a can of paint. I pried open the lid with the sharp end of a hay hook. Inside we saw ground up bones and gravel.
The plan was I would drop out half the can, and mother would let go the remaining ashes.
I saw a small envelop accompanying the urn, so I opened it and read: I hereby certify that this urn contains the ashes of Ethel E. Frederickson. Died October 3, 1982. I said, “My God, you’re not going to believe this.”
“ I can’t believe it – these are not C.D.’s ashes. I’ve been carrying this box around for thirty-five years, and it’s Ethel, not C.D.”
We were startled, and I felt a temporary swelling of keen disappointment. Had I been cheated? Of course it was funny too. And we wondered who got C.D. those many years ago, and mom comforted herself by hoping it really was C.D.’s ashes, and the information inside the envelope was incorrect.
But, In the end, we did a beautiful job of blowing Ethel’s ashes across the yellow-dry grasses during early autumn at Mule Springs Farm.
We thought about C.D., and we wondered about Ethel, who she was, what life she lived, and who her people were. C.D. and Ethel were both released that day, and now that a week has passed; it all seems okay; I’m glad we held the ceremony and we spoke about my dad and mom and I had some time to reflect what he meant to us in our lives.
And if Ethel was really there too – she was welcome.
Bruce and some of our musician friends from Alaska left around 6 a.m. to reach the point of totality, so they could have the full 2017 Eclipse experience. I was mostly interested in what the eclipse would be like at the farm, and whether or not the animals would show any difference in behavior. So, I stayed here and hiked up to the top of our property on Razorback Ridge. The dogs, Skookum and Gypsy, and the donkeys, Chippo and Ziggy, accompanied me.
Here are the notes and a few pictures from my Eclipse experience.
845 a.m. almost to the top of Razorback Ridge. Should I go on up to the highest point of our property? The eclipse will only last 45-60 seconds here, so if I want to be higher, I won’t have time to move. If a huge dark shadow moves across the landscape, I want to see that.
A jet and a large military helicopter flies by overhead. I hear American robins, goldfinch, Western Meadowlark, black-capped chickadee, and California jays calling.
Richard, my neighbor should be on the ridge directly across from me in 40 minutes. Another military helicopter… a small plane flies overhead.
A gaggling passel of American crow bunched up and gossiping fly up Three Mile Canyon. Skookum has found a huge cow bone, and he’s parading up the steep trail with the bone in his mouth. He sets it down to pee, and Gypsy snakes in and snatches the bone. We finally reach the top where an old stagecoach road intersects the path. I can see down Three Mile to the Columbia River, and up the canyon to the the tip of Mount Hood jutting above Dutch Flats. More chortling-cavorting crows fly by.
My neighbor just texted ; they made it to totality. Bruce just texted; he made it to totality, and he and the other musicians are just setting up to entertain the crowd. Both groups are parked along the highway. Cows at Abbas’ farm are mooing.
I’m at the top settled under a white oak and listening to the melodic tones of meadowlarks as the birds sweep from tree to tree. Usually, I see those birds in the prairie below and not so much in the ridge country. A Cooper’s hawk perches silently in the next oak. Statuesque it seems uninterested in the songbirds passing closely by even though they form a large part of this bird’s diet. The donkeys are coming up slowly from the lower trail. I hope they get closer, so I can observe them when the event happens.
9:08 a.m. Donkeys and dogs are close by my tree. I can hear Chippo’s rumbling gut sounds. Skookum’s butt is on my shoe. Gypsy crunches her bone. A small plane passes by. Dead Still. A Downy woodpecker chases another Downy woodpecker. 9:28 slight breeze and feels slightly cooler. Two small planes flying in tandem fly over my head. 9:48 I think I hear crickets. Is that what I hear?
In ten minutes Fred Meyer’s in downtown The Dalles will close its doors from 10 – 10:45 a.m. to allow its employees in The Dalles to experience the 2017 Eclipse.
I’m watching the shadows made by the tree I’m sitting under. They’ve moved and expanded, but still I think it’s just a result of the sun rising higher in the sky. Perhaps ….
9:45 a.m. and another small plane passes overhead; they must be charters to the eclipse. Two Common ravens fly twenty feet above me. A lot of bird activity today! Both donkeys have moved off, and are thirty or so feet away. They have paused grazing and raise their heads. It is cooler. Another small plane passes overhead. 9:59 a.m. and Lorie’s dogs are barking on the next farm. Donkeys are too far away now for me to see what they are doing. 10:08 another small plane. Light is more flat. 10:10 birds continue singing as normal, but the light is flat and odd. I’m standing along the barbed wire fence line – the highest point of Mule Springs Farm. The dogs are beside me. It’s cool enough now to slip my bandana over my ears. Where is my fleece? Sepulcher light now —flat—despondent— and sluggish. My shadow is long and Skookum’s shadow makes him look like he’s on stilts. The eclipse is definitely happening now. But still birds act as normal. I think all this activity is normal.… Oh this strange dull, insipid light. I could be entering a portal to another universe. It’s suddenly late, late afternoon and the light is plain eccentric. Cool too —so weird. Through the Eclipse glasses I can see the sun is 98 % obscured. I just heard a white- breasted nuthatch. A midnight blue Steller’s jay streaks in. Gypsy begins a long low growl. The donkeys look up with mouthfuls of dry grass, and begin moving toward me. They come right to the place where the dogs and I are standing. 10:22 a.m. The five of us huddle. Chippo tries to eat my Eclipse glasses. Well past weird to indescribable, and then the subtlest , slightest change, and just so barely more light begins to replace the tomb-like atmosphere of the ridge. And just like that — it’s already getting lighter. A burden has been lifted. The dogs go under the fence and explore another farmer’s land, and the donkeys move off and begin grazing again.
10:31 small planes begin returning, one by one overhead as we hike back down the ridge to the homestead. No racing enormous shadow moving across my world. The birds didn’t go silent. The crickets didn’t chirp, or did they? The end of the world as we know it didn’t come. But, everybody wanted to be together for those few seconds when the sun went dark, and we lost, if only for 45 – 65 seconds our sustaining light. Just remember if we really lost our light, we would all die.
Thanks for coming along on my 2017 Eclipse trip.
And below are some pictures that Bruce took at totality. What did you do for the Eclipse—where were you?
Some images, thoughts, and observations from a 4.5 hour walk I took today with the donkeys and Skookum.A couple— mallards winging with the brisk wind fly past my head – flying so low they thread the pines — like a deadly weaving Cooper’s Hawk hot on the chase.
Predator and prey pass the same way.
April’s roaring sharp wind penetrates like the red-tailed hawk’s scream.
The fuzzy new lupine—so many small hands reach toward the sun —emerged from the gnarled, gray decay of last year’s expression.
Why is this so beautiful?
How does one live fearlessly?
The beauty of a Bumbleburr is to be able to change plans. We didn’t spend much time on the ridge. The fierce cold wind drove me off, and the donkeys found their favorite grass scarce up there. They cantered down the ridge path and waited for me at the crossroad.
Please select the audio link below to hear an audio version of “Four Days.”
Four days—me recovering– from surgery, and my spouse
taking care of the animals.
The silent donkeys stare when he delivers their hay.
Skookum shuns him and the dog walk and skirts back to the house. Asking at the side door until I come drunkenly to let him in. Gingerly he hops onto the bed and falls heavily –pressed against me.
Rumbling cat curls my stomach. The three of us float in no-time.
The donkeys trudge through deep snow and sub-freezing temperatures to the farmhouse. Arriving at the side door long ears point the door handle and as patiently wait for me to come and push snow with them.
Hope expired they turn away and go out to clip branches and pluck shriveled rose hips above the snowy mantle.
Chippo wheezes and squeaks when Bruce enters the stall bringing food. I learn later “something must be wrong with that donkey.”
But, no, I know
what has really happened is the man has earned his gift–a greeting in donkey-talk.
Face mask, hat, gloves, and a bulky down coat I venture outside to feed my pigeons. My throat is so sore, I cannot ring “woo-hoo” as I always do. The birds look sideways: fluff their feathers: shift foot to foot. Plink, splat, and kerplunk whole corn, peas, and seeds.
Still, even the tame bronze beauty doesn’t know me; none of the pigeons will come.
Feeling a little sad by what’s so quickly lost, I shut the loft door and climb into the Ranger, start the roar, eager for home and my bed
Please select the audio link below to hear an audio version of “Dream the Rooster.”
I hear my far neighbor’s rooster crowing when I tramp out to feed the birds in the morning. On a day like today when it’s icy and snow layers the ground, the cock’s crow carries like a siren over the prairie and sounds so close, the big boy could be strutting underfoot and weaving around me.
I’ve been listening to this rooster each morning and off and on throughout the day for about a year. I have never seen the bird, and I can only guess which farm he lives on.
I want a rooster too; I wish to hear my own bird marking his time, and to see my dandy strutting and hurrying the hens as males so well do.
On any given day a rooster passes through my mind. Recently I conjured a rather small fellow sporting black and white feather-leggings and a mop hat covering his comb. Some varieties of chickens do resemble this delightful two-tone fop! Not all roosters have the striking red comb that stands high on their head. My imagined paramour is probably better at parading, posturing, and displaying than actually mating though.
Another rooster I daydream about is a living sunset that never goes down. A great red comb and wattles herald his rich mellifluous voice spreading golden light across the farm. His feathers are graduated in varying tones of orange and brown, and he has a glossy black tail. He’s bold and utterly bewitching, and probably the one who– when he reaches adulthood– will have to have his head cut off because he has become too aggressive.
But, the sage whispers, isn’t it enough, my friend, to hear your neighbor’s cock’s crow? To hear its charming accord again and again as the sound reminds you of tall grasses thrusting above deep snow. The cock’s crow and the land. Remember last week when you took your walk; you heard the cock-a-doodle-doo in the distance, and you looked down to see wild turkey tracks in ice. The turkeys were on their way to stands of white oaks, where their dinosaur-feet would swipe back snow and wet leaves so the odd-shaped birds could search for fallen acorns. The rooster crowed again, and you noticed an elk track traversing the turkey prints back and forth, back and forth– braiding the turkeys’ trail.
Isn’t it enough to dream the rooster?
(Captions for each photo will be revealed when you roll cursor over image.)
Areas under white oaks where wild turkey have removed snow and leaves.
Disturbed area under the white oaks where they turkeys have searched for acorns.
The first ice storm of the season brings an inch or two of cold glass wrapping around every exposed surface making road travel and walking conditions treacherous to impossible. And the birds have a hard time reaching food as they struggle to remove seeds encased in ice.
At first light I strap on my Alaskan ice cleats, spin the lids on the birdseed bins, plunge the plastic scoop into the dry, slippery bits, and pour millet, nyjer, peanuts, and sunflower chips onto four platform feeders hanging in the Elderberry shrub. The Stellar’s Jays are first to arrive. I presume it’s the same pair that visits every day shortly after daybreak. They take as much seed as they can hold in their gular pouch, and then fly off, and I won’t see them again until the next morning.
Though ice-fog surrounds the farmhouse creating poor visibility, festive activity springs from the shrub outside the kitchen window as over one hundred songbirds pounce on the feed covering the platforms and on the ground.
But, it’s an Anna’s Hummingbird’s arrival that truly makes the show for me. This bird comes every morning after it has stirred from its torpor (a strategy hummingbirds use to slow their body processes by 95% to survive cold nights), and it drinks some warm nectar in a red feeder I’ve hung from a branch. The Anna’s stays around the feeder for thirty minutes and then zooms off, and I don’t see it again until just before dark when it returns and takes several long sips to fortify itself before the long-cold hours ahead.
I was worried that by keeping nectar available I might be preventing the hummer from migrating, but this is not the case according to the Seattle Audubon Society. The Anna’s Hummingbird in the Pacific Northwest often does not migrate, but chooses instead to overwinter. It survives by lapsing into torpor and also by having a diverse diet. Anna’s eat insects and spiders in addition to flower nectar. According to Gregory Green a wildlife ecologist who writes for BirdWatching Magazine, these wintering hummingbirds seize flying insects from the air, “steal captured insects from spider webs, and pluck trapped insects from tree sap.” Wow, they are quite clever, so it’s no wonder a smile rises when I see an Anna’s busily drinking nectar from my feeder, because I know this tiny creature has just survived another night where the temperature dropped below 30 degrees.
I bring my hummingbird feeder inside at night, and then put it back outside just after dawn. I found a link on the Seattle Audubon Society’s website for heated hummingbird feeders — here is the link, if you are interested. Hummers Heated Delight
Which cleats should you get? It depends on what type of shoes or boots you will ear them with and also what you will be doing. if you are just going to the grocery store, then you may be able to make do with light duty cleats that pull on over loafers. But, if you are working around the yard , barn , or even walking to the mailbox, and it super icy– you need the orange or black cleats that you pull on or strap onto boots. The orange cleats are probably best for most unless you work outside a lot like I do, and you want to hike in icy, snowy conditions.
The land sings of deep drought—the stress is on. Crispy, parched melody –leaves of the white oak are brown and withering like it’s Fall—but it’s too early.
Songbirds pant and teeter in the wind on the telephone wire. The finch peer, seemingly with longing, at the prairie pond, but I am down there with three bird-dogs.
As soon as we begin departure, our fourteen feet flittering fine dust into a rising cloud that pins the dogs’ claws and gnaws its way between their toes and my toes inside nylon-rubber sandals.
The flash of departing dusty pink Capris pants, and the finch descend in a group — swoop to stand along the crusty demarcation line between liquid and earth. In unison the heavy beaks dip for one long sip.
He says, “It’s been in this jar for days, and we can see it getting smaller, but now I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You can’t release it here,” she says.
I say, “I’ll take it.”
Still in the jar, I transport it home in my car and place the container on an outside shelf near the front door for the night. In the early morning before the sun has risen over the ridge, I ride side by side with the jar along the gravel way. Hair blowing; four-wheeler roaring; I consider where I’m going to release this animal.
So, I carry the creature through the main gate– leaving the farm.
I set it atop a wooden post to photograph the scorpion in a jar.
Thru the prism of Ball brand glass, backlit by sun, the scorpion’s pincers wave and stretch toward the ceiling of its cell.
I look about—where and how shall I release it. Will it swing and sting or rush and pinch me? Scorpions have such a scary reputation, but its true nature is unknown to me, so I have no idea how it will react when I let it go.
I lay the jar on its side across the lichen spotted boulder. The precise, minuscule second the lid comes off the scorpion scuttles quickly forward and pops out of the jar and crosses the rock and descends into a dark crevasse beyond me. Freedom it knows.
I wasn’t of any interest. How silly to think that I would matter.
Ouzel trots down to the barn after finishing her morning meal, which she eats from a stainless steel bowl outside our front door. It’s the sixth day she has gone visiting our visitor who is staying in the barn apartment. But, this time she won’t find her old friend Heidi, because Heidi has flown back to Alaska.
A Few Highlights from Heidi’s Visit
Heidi’s silver rental car creeps down our long gravel driveway toward the farmhouse. I rush outside and give her a hug as soon as she gets out of the car; it’s so good to have her here. Leaving this friendship behind me when I moved from Southeast Alaska to Oregon, three years ago, was not easy.
As soon as Heidi walks into the mudroom, Gypsy engulfs her with a flood of full-body wagging. She even lifts up her lips and shows her glowing white teeth – Gypsy grins big and Heidi laughs. But, it’s Ouzel, our old griffon, and Skookum my male griffon who Heidi greets with familiarity, because these dogs she’s spent years around when we lived in Southeast Alaska. Ouzel, Skookum, Heidi, her dog Jade, and I have traipsed through wet Southeastern rainforests and picked our way through spongy muskeg since Ouzel was a pup.
Bruce comes in through the swinging gate and hugs Heidi too, and the three of us stand in the mudroom and talk about dogs.
“How’s Jade, Heidi; is she staying with Bob?”
“Ouzel’s had a great hunting season; She’s eleven now and despite having had surgery two years ago to remove part of her jaw- she’s amazing. Hunts with a passion; picks up dummies (when she can), loves to train, and in Bruce’s words Ouzel is still the best dog ever born.”
Laughter- we’ve all heard that line before—“The Great and Powerful Oz–the best dog ever born.” Ouzel’s almost super-natural gift for field and retrieving skills has earned her a variety of hunt test titles.
“Yeah, we had Skookum neutered (finally), and the breeder said he might show interest in females up to six months after the procedure, but Gypsy just finished her first heat, and Skookum never even sniffed the air.”
“Did you hear Rod won another retriever title with Harper?”
Heidi went on to tell us a bit about her dog-walking group that she participates in with Jade, and she mentions another mutual friend who she hikes with on occasion, and I wonder how Jade gets along with that friend’s high-strung husky.
“Keta is getting older now, and not much of a problem to keep up with anymore. “
This is so familiar- the three of us standing in a mudroom talking about our dogs. It’s just what we did many times in Southeast Alaska after a retriever or bird dog training session in the muskeg, after a long hike in the rainforest or a Sunday afternoon romp on the beach.
Heidi is here for five days. We will bird-watch, hike with the donkeys and dogs, train the donkeys on this month’s agility course down at the pole barn, and discuss whether we want to go on a bird survey trip to Cuba in 2016.
Deschutes River State Park
We’ve taken a short excursion away from the farm to one of Bruce’s favorite rivers for steelhead and trout fishing. The Deschutes is also known as a wonderful wild and scenic river for rafting II and III class rapids.
Heidi and I walk a path that snakes along the river just outside the campground. The desert hills flanking the water are dotted with sagebrush, clumps of native grasses, and rocks. It’s really late in the afternoon and the thermals are just beginning to recede. Turkey vultures circle above us, and their v-like wing shapes remind me of huge bats. I thought we might see more in the way of bird-life, but so far the main characters are the vultures and a few Common Merganser floating on the river.
The light begins to fade, and we decide to watch the final rounds of turkey vulture.
Heidi says, “Watching them soar, especially through the binoculars, hypnotizes.”
We had planned to camp out while Heidi was here. My first choice for a campsite was across Kickin’ Mule Creek, under a huge white oak where we’d feel far from people. Like we were in Alaska when out on adventures. But, the weather has been cool and rainy all week – much like weather in Southeast Alaska. So, our second choice is bunking on army cots beneath the tin roof of the pole barn. But, it turns out we had a long day. I took Heidi to visit my friend’s goat farm, and we took a long hike with the donkeys, and it’s almost cold. The idea of sleeping outside is no longer so appealing. We decide instead to sit out in the red Adirondack chairs at dusk in back of the greenhouse and take in the coming of night.
Listening for the night symphony, and the first player begins.
Hoo-hoo. … Hoo-hoo. …
“The Great Horned Owl.”
“I think that’s the pit-pit alert of a California Quail; it might be because of the owl, but might be another reason,” I say in a whisper as bats flit and swoop just over our heads.
Silence. We’re both wrapped in a fleece and slouched down in our plastic chairs. Silence stretches, trails, and meanders for quite some time.
Oh how good these no words feel.
It’s the rim of day when daylight fades and darkness gathers and day gives sway –when everything ordinary transforms.
Suddenly a great sound explodes from Razorback Ridge. A cow bellows again and again in rapid succession.
We don’t have cows on Mule Springs Farm. Sometimes they graze at the top of the ridge along our property line. This cry is so loud, hollow, and insistent; then it’s gone for a few seconds before another sound follows.
“What was that?” Heidi asks.
“I don’t know, but if a cougar screams, it would sound like that.”
We’ve both sat up a little straighter in our chairs, and we are listening hard for what might come next. But, nothing comes next but more stillness of no wind.
Eventually in the distance the sound of an engine starts up. Hum fills Three-Mile canyon. It’s the farm workers taking advantage of the stillness to spray fertilizer or pesticide throughout the cherry orchards. This will continue all night, so we pick up our fleece wrapped bodies and move toward the barn.
And now Heidi’s version….
A Trip to Mule Springs — The Accommodations:
The loft room in the barn probably isn’t suited for every visitor. The outhouse is spidery-webby, though surprisingly odor free (Sher says Bruce valiantly mucks it out). You shower in the greenhouse from the hose that looks like a wriggling snake. Before stripping in the greenhouse for the shower you check to make sure no farm workers or Bruce are working in the meadow. But in mid-shower you have a beautiful view through the greenhouse windows of the meadow, the thick trees of the creek bed and the big ridge across the way.
And my favorite – on my first day Sher instructs me to check for frogs under the greenhouse shower drain screen before turning on the water. I do, and herd one little guy the size of my thumbnail out of danger of hot water and soap.
My rating: Five stars.
Forget Horse Whispering, Sher has perfected Donkey Bellering. I will try, but cannot describe it, and we couldn’t have scripted it. You just have to watch the video that I hope we can post here. We walk the upper field to the south of the house, the donkeys are a ways behind us and Sher starts calling them to bring them along. Donkey calling them. In their own language. And they come! I have the presence of mind to find my phone, the video starts pointed down to the field at my feet, complete with Eastern Oregon wind whiffling past, then swings up to Sher. “Do it again” I whisper to Sher. And she does. With her bird list and binoculars in hand, she brays like a donkey! She honks a few times and brays again. Honks a few EE-HOO’s. Some screechingly monstrous EE-HOOO’s! She points — “Look at Ziggy, he’s running, he’s galloping! It’s Black Beauty! There he is…..”
She gives a couple of final quiet EE-HOOS and we watch as Ziggy slows near us and stops to graze again.
This is just a typical walk with Sher.
Sher and the Animals:
Sher has a slow and quiet way about her with her animals. One of my favorite photos of her is from a previous trip to the property when we walked with the donkeys and dogs. All are stopped in mid-step, the donkeys grazing, Sher head down examining a wildflower. Only Skookum has his head raised, paused, wondering when things will get under way again so he can take off at breakneck speed?
Walking with Sher and donkeys — walk a little, stop a little, wait for the donkeys to walk on ahead or catch up. No rush, as if there was nothing more important in the day than to graze, or study the pattern of a wildflower underfoot.
With their fenced acres, the donkeys are free to find their way on their own on a big hike up the ridge. They wander off, wander back, sometimes come and go at a gallop. I recognize a little tree on the narrow ridge trail where I leaped behind it for protection last year when the donkeys came barreling down to catch up with us. I keep an eye out for these “exit” points along the trail. Sher keeps a steady, slow pace and an eye on their whereabouts. Sometimes I worry they’ve wandered away, but Sher is unconcerned and reassuring. They’ll be fine! And they always are. They meander back and come along.
The quarters are tighter in the little tack room where Sher clips on the donkeys’ halters for the day’s walk, or brings hay from the barn, or fills the big water pail. The donkeys are impatient for feeding and dogs are underfoot. Sher lets the dogs in on purpose to get everyone accustomed to each other in close quarters. Skookum has apparently finally been accepted (!) by the donkeys and he wanders underfoot unconcerned. Young Gypsy is still learning some of the boundaries and I see she knows to stay clear of back hooves. She will soon be nonchalantly trotting under the donkeys, too.
In all, Sher moves quiet among her animals, clucking, giving them a scratch behind the ears, a light thump on the rump, a heartfelt “how you doing big boy, hmmm?” A fond, lingering “good boy!” on a dusty afternoon in the barn.
I keep an unorganized list of birds in several pocket notebooks. I grab whichever notebook I can find when I leave for a trip. I’ve got one from the Arctic rafting trip and the Costa Rica birding trip. The one I took with me this time includes listings from Florida 2011 and Gravina Island 2015. And now The Dalles. Flipping through these pages yields an enormous variety and also familiar overlapping images. Just a few from each:
Florida: Pelican, plover, osprey, boat-tailed grackle, royal terns (I love their hairdo!), little and great blue heron, egret, swallow-tailed kite, ibis, sanderling, stingray (oh, scratch that, that’s what I touched in the petting tank at the marine science center.)
Gravina: many scoters, pipit, Bonaparte’s gull, northern harrier, orange-crowned warbler, greater yellowlegs, kingfisher, a Pacific wren so close I could see in the binoculars the orange that was the color inside his mouth as he sang, killdeer, caspian tern, great blue heron.
The Dalles: The song of the meadowlark, red-winged blackbird, kestrel, killdeer, great blue heron, soaring turkey vultures in thermals, osprey, ash-throated flycatcher, western bluebird, mourning dove, California quail, a wild turkey we saw just briefly from a hill looking down on him with his huge and glorious outstretched tail feathers before he banked into the trees by the creek, 53 baby geese picnicking by the Deschutes, red-tailed hawk, baby goats.
Their dirt road in the rear-view mirror reminds me of a red-rock road in Colorado I can picture to this day, a landscape memory, because it is so familiar, traveled and loved, though many years ago.
What best of this trip in the mirror?
I will remember Ouzel coming down every day to take morning coffee with me. I shower, sit with a cup of coffee in the lawn chair in the sun by the barn and pretty soon I hear Ouzel’s bell wandering down from the house. She pokes around and then settles. She gets some pretty good scritches from me. When I’m done with my coffee she escorts me as we walk up the road together to the house for breakfast.