We had a dog when we lived at Van Damme Beach State Park. I think she just showed up and no one came to claim her. Curly Locks was an Irish Water Spaniel with tightly curled brown hair and a hairless tail. She had been well-trained as a birding dog, although we didn’t use her for that, and was a great pet for us. My mother told me that when Curly Locks walked past a roast resting on the oven door she would turn her head away from it so she wouldn’t be tempted. The year before we left Van Damme she had nine puppies. Our parents knew we were moving and they wanted Curly Locks to be happy so they gave or sold her to someone who wanted a bird dog. The puppies were sold except for one that we were going to keep as a pet. About that time park employees were told they couldn’t have dogs but we could keep him since we had him before that rule went into effect. The little fellow ate some salmon down by the creek and died from it. There were some very sad children.

And then, of course, there was Blondy, the cow. This was during the WWII and everyone was encouraged to be as self sufficient as possible. Plus a lot of food was rationed and families had ration stamps to use when they made purchases. My eldest brother was paid what they would have to have paid a milkman to deliver milk. He was in charge of taking care of her and of milking her. He likes to tell the story of how one time she tried to run away  with him hanging onto the rope and yelling for our dad. Blondy’s calf had been weaned not long before and she could hear it bawling. That was probably the reason she took off dragging my brother. We drank the milk and our mother made butter and cheese.

My mother had a big vegetable garden at that park and there was a goose that would wander in now and then looking for something good to eat. She named him Garlic.

When we lived at Calaveras Big Trees State Park some boys whose family was camped at the park threw rocks at a flying squirrel and injured its leg. We took care of the little squirrel until it was healed and turned it loose.

At Castle Crags there was a spotted skunk that lived in our attic. I’d forgotten about Charlie but one of my brothers reminded me. He said that when we got a new stereo (that had a good bass) at Christmas, and cranked up the volume, Charlie would stamp his feet on the ceiling. Not a good thing to have a spotted skunk doing in your house since they do this as a warning before they spray!

Once I cared for a young grosbeak that had fallen out of its nest. It slept under my bed on a newspaper and early every morning woke me up by chirping. I fed it something mixed with peanut butter. Eventually it was able to fly and I turned the young bird loose out in the backyard where it appeared to be harassed by some of the others for a while.

We raised, or tried to raise, two different fawns at Castle Crags. The first one was a little spotted doe, only a few days old, that we named Heidi. I think I was probably 13 then. Her mother had been hit by a car and the Fish and Game Department said we could raise her. Our mother got up every three hours during the night for awhile and fed her by using a straw that she would fill with milk, holding her thumb at the top as suction, then sticking it in the fawn’s mouth and releasing her thumb. In a few days we were able to use a bottle. My younger brother and I would take her for walks, sometimes together, sometimes individually. Except for Curly Locks, this was the first pet I’d ever had that could return affection. I remember a car carrying park visitors stopping and the driver asking whether he could take a picture. I had a favorite hat at the time, a kind of Tyrolian hat of green felt with a large feather sticking out of it and liked to wear it when I was walking with Heidi. I told him firmly that he could take a picture of the fawn but not of me. Seems funny now. One day, when I wanted to ride to the post office with my mother I tied Heidi up to a willow branch where she would have shade on that warm summer day. I went to check on her just before we left and found that, in trying to follow me, she’d yanked too hard and the collar (formed from a belt) had slipped. Heartbroken. (Photo is of Heidi)

A couple of years later we received another little fawn, this one a buck, that we called Guy. He was totally different. While Heidi wanted to follow us around and was very affectionate, Guy was very independent. He also showed affection (They both would suck on you ear lobe!) but he wanted to explore. My father bought a tiny dog harness for him so that no accidents would happen. He managed to pull out of it once and the harness made a slit in his ear. This turned out to be somewhat of a blessing because, as he got older, we could distinguish him from other little bucks.

A large, folded wool sock provided padding to make the harness tight enough until he grew into it. He went from drinking from a bottle to drinking from a bowl. First one of us would put our hand in a thick, black rubber glove and submerge the glove into the milk. He would suck on the fingers. Then he learned to drink, butting his head against the side of the bowl. We added cereal to the mixture to give him enough food to last a little while.

Eventually we turned him loose and would call him at feeding time. He would come bounding down out of the woods. Guy grew spikes and we saw less and less of him as he matured. The last time we saw him he had little forked antlers and came down to my younger brother and wanted to play, putting an antler on each side of his leg. With both of these fawns we tried to keep them away from the public so that they could remain as wild as possible.

And then there was Oscar. Oscar was a very small river turtle that a camper gave to my younger brother. He kept him/her in a galvanized tub outside, with water and with rocks to climb out on. My brother fed Oscar slugs and earthworms and a little lettuce. That winter Oscar somehow got out and disappeared, showing up in the same general area the next summer.

My next oldest brother brought back a chipmunk from one of his fishing/backpacking trips. He had trapped it in his creel using a chocolate bar for bait. Our parents made him take it back on his next trip though, worrying about the possibility of bubonic plague.

One night, when I was taking out the garbage after dinner, I heard what sounded like a baby crying from up the Gully. My father grabbed a flashlight and went to investigate. It was Clawdette, a tiny bear whose mother was shot in an apple tree as she was tossing down apples for her cub. My father had turned a large galvanized barrel on its side and placed it on a wooden platform, low to the ground. This was to be the little bear’s home up the Gulley. Her crying came because she had tangled the chain, attached to her collar, around a tree. Our father wore very heavy motorcycle gloves when he tended her. Over a few months Clawdette dug a moat in the dirt around her den.  Perhaps she felt safer that way. No one tried to make a pet out of the young bear. The aim was to keep her as wild as possible. In the summer she was taken someplace away from people  but where food was likely available and turned loose.

When you live in one place for a long time, particularly during your growing up years, the place becomes a part of your being, a part of your soul, almost a part of your skin.

My three brothers and I were fortunate to live in places of great beauty during our childhood. And, from a morning’s first light slipping down a mountainside to evening’s softening the edges of a forest with shadows cast by the setting sun, certain sounds, sights and smells can instantly bring back a memory.

Along with impressions of the senses are names of places used over the years. Often names that evolved over time. We didn’t find our way so much by signposts as by the names of places that were established through living with the land.

Drive through a subdivision today and you may see Walnut Avenue, where a walnut tree has never grown. Or Meadowview but the subdivision has been built on what used to be a meadow. There were no street intersections (11th and Chambers) or big box stores (Macy’s and Sears) to be used as landmarks.

Those that were manmade, such as buildings or roads, usually had a name that had meaning. We used real “land” marks as do most rural dwellers. And behind many names were stories. Our landmarks were unique, one of a kind, never to be replicated. Not any where. Not any time.

Castle Crags State Park/Family Place Names

Photos by Mary Twight–left is meadow, Kettlebelly Ridge & Crags; right is our backyard– under the oaks a bird feeder.

Kettlebelly Road: A road that went past our house and up Kettlebelly Ridge. A portion of it was part of the old California-Oregon Toll Road used by settlers on their way west. The road terminates after a mile at a turnaround with a view of Mt. Shasta to the north. It was also where one parked to hike the trail to Castle Crags or Root Creek. Kettlebelly, I’ve learned, is the name of a type of soil found in this very northern part of California in Shasta, Siskiyou, Trinity and Modoc Counties as well as in Western Oregon and Washington. The soils drain well but also hold water. They are formed mostly from material weathered from basic rocks and most have a forest vegetation. I’d truly hoped that it was named after someone’s big belly!

Silverslipper Campground: This campground was already named when we moved there, fewer than 20 campsites perched along a small stream that wound down a hill. When I was in elementary school in Castella the school picnics were held there and I remember swinging on grapevines along the slope on the far side of the creek.

Bob’s Hat: A turnaround area that had a round patch of brush growing in the center. For years Bob Coon was the much loved and respected district superintendent for our area and always wore a Tam ‘o Shanter. About 10 years ago, when I went to Bob’s Hat, the center of his hat was sporting tall trees.

The Water Source: My father built a small dam across Indian Creek. A pipeline was put in there leading down the hill to two large concrete water tanks that supplied the campgrounds and houses with clean, reliable water. Access to The Water Source was via a dirt service road.

The Meadow: A large, sloping meadow at the park’s entrance. Sometimes during the winter we would make a toboggan run down the steepest part. My eldest brother has told me that in the old days, before becoming part of the park, this meadow (and others in the area) was used for growing strawberries. He says that pipes with small sprinklers were dug up during some construction along the edge of the meadow. We hunted Easter eggs much l longer than most children and the upper end of the meadow was a great place for hiding them. Our mother even climbed small pine trees to make the hunt more challenging.

Sevenman Campground: This was a new set of campsites designed and laid out by my father and named after Dr. Sevenman who owned an old two-story house across Highway 99 (Now Interstate 5) where he would often stay during the summer months. Dr. Sevenman, who lived in the San Mateo area, looked like a jovial Santa Clause and one of his favorite sayings was “maaaagNIFicent!” Sevenman Campground was above The Meadow.

The Gully: A small stream ran from near the top of the meadow down past our house and the park office, under the highway, and eventually to the Sacramento River. The Gully was filled with riparian vegetation including blackberries, which we picked every year so that our mother could make quarts and quarts of jam and jelly. We considered the entire length of this stream up to the road at the top of the meadow to be The Gully.

The Hairpin Turn: A sharp turn in Kettlebelly Road where my brothers killed a rattlesnake (see previous story about rattlesnakes) and tourists held their breath as they negotiated it.

The Dump Road: A dirt road leading to what for a few years was the park garbage dump. My younger brother remembers it as the Quarry Road because there was a decomposed-granite quarry there.

The View: Where Kettlebelly Road ends at a parking lot with a view of Mt. Shasta.

The Ditch: A water ditch that ran from Indian Creek around the hill and supplied water to the park as well as to some Castella residents. Sometimes in the winter it would freeze and the rangers would take axes up to chop out the ice. Sometimes the downhill side would break or be damaged by a falling tree and everyone would be suddenly without water, a situation calling for immediate repairs. My younger brother remembers dipping buckets of water out of The Gully to use in the house when either of these events occurred. To walk along the ditch in the summer was very pleasant with the shade of the trees and the smell of wild mint underfoot. Five-finger ferns and tiger lilies grew here.

Broken Toe Springs: Along the dirt road to The Water Source was a small bog sporting carnivorous pitcher plants and blossoming azaleas. I remember spending time there with our mother on a warm spring day watching a male Anna’s hummingbird soaring up almost out of sight and then diving down in a big arc to impress his potential mate. There was a wooden sign here saying Broken Toe Springs. I’m sure there’s a story behind that.

The House: Our house (see previous story) was the only house in the park on the west side of the river until a new ranger residence was built up the hill from us. Before that second house was built we used to climb in the apple trees of a small orchard there.

The Orchard:  We’d perch on the rail fence next to The Orchard to watch trains going on the track between the highway and the river. These old trees were riddled with hoIes made by sapsuckers. I can still immerse myself in that profusion of fragrant apple blossoms and hear the honey bees, sun warm on my shoulders.

The Shop: A brown building with partially rock walls located above The Gully and used for repairing whatever needed working on in the park. There was a slanted rack there to put garbage cans on for cleaning with pinesol and a strong spray of water from a nozzle. Here too, where the parking area was black-topped, was a basketball hoop for us to shoot baskets.

The Office: The office for the park was a room in our house for the first few years (see previous story) but then later a separate building nearby, a real office.

The Woods: A short distance up Kettlebelly Road the woods began and, to my mind, extended forever to the north and west. The trees were mostly second or third-growth ponderosa pines and Douglas fir.

And then there were trails: The Crags Trail, Root Creek Trail, The River Trail, Indian Springs Trail (a 1/2 mile trail leading from the Crags Trail to a big granite outcropping with water flowing out of cracks and crannies, decorated with moss and ferns, the source of The Water Source). The Footbridge was a wooden footbridge across the Sacramento River reached by walking a short distance up the highway and going under the railroad tracks to the river. This provided access to The Picnic Area, The Sulphur Springs, and The River Trail.

And of course there were mountains: To the south of us, the dramatic view from the front window was of jagged Grayrock Mountain, and of Flume Creek Ridge, a more rounded ridge running east and west. Girard Ridge was to the east and Kettlebelly Ridge and the crags to our west.

As I write this I can once again see the old orchard with its bee-filled blossoms; smell the pine needles where we roamed the woods; see the red, pebbled dirt along part of the Crags trail and where it turned to the granite of the upper reaches; see the large leaves of Indian Rhubarb in Root Creek and the Sacramento River; taste the pungent sulphur spring; smell azaleas blooming in the bogs where translucent pitcher plants grew; and hear the sounds of water trickling from the rock outcropping at Indian Springs, so welcome on a hot summer day. These places are not only in my memory but are an important part of who I have become.

Decorating the tree was a big deal when I was growing up. When we were tall enough, we children did most of the placing of ornaments with the help of our mother. She also was chief in charge of gluing things together that had broken and of telling the story behind some of the decorations. For instance, the blue glass beads had been her grandmother’s.

She was also creative with finding decorations in the woods. We had tiny clusters of alder cones painted gold or silver and walnut shells, emptied of the nuts and glued back together, painted silver. I still have a couple of redwood cones, one painted gold and one silver, that came from the giant redwoods of the Sierras, Sequoiadendron giganteum. These would have been gathered when we lived at Calaveras Big Trees State Park. Each of the four of us chose one of the glass birds as “ours”. Today I don’t remember which was mine but I do remember the red one was my brother Peter’s and gave it to him a few years ago for  his tree.  Our father put the star at the top.

But before the decorating there was the finding and cutting. I was usually not a part of those excursions but my older brothers were. The few times that I did go I remember we hiked until we reached an elevation that supported the growth of white fir. After the tree was decorated we’d gather around and, accompanied by our father on his accordion, we’d all sing Christmas carols.

When I had a family of my own we used some of the old decorations but mostly ones I had accumulated and then those that our children had made in school. I remember one winter when I had been sick and my mother-in-law came to put the decorations away, throwing out all those that had been cut from some kind of play-dough/salt mixture and brought home from school. She thought they were cooky dough and would spoil. Cranberries were good for stringing and using for just one year. Usually the trees came from hiking in an area where there were white firs. Douglas fir branches were too droopy and the trees not bushy enough. On one memorable trip a good friend and I hiked through the woods in a tree-permit area in Trinity County near the Granite Peak trailhead. After cutting our respective trees we dragged them across the snow with ropes, stumbling and falling and laughing so hard that tears were rolling down our cheeks.

When I first moved to Eugene my new husband brought home a tree from a corner parking lot that made me weep. I was already homesick and to me a Christmas tree had to be a particular size and shape–big and bushy! He was very sweet about it and took the tree back to be exchanged. Now we usually go to a Christmas tree farm a few miles up the road and wander about till we find one to our liking although the last two years he has gone when I haven’t been home and chosen perfect ones.

I inherited the family decorations and take great pleasure in putting them on our tree every year: my great-grandmother’s blue beads, the fragile glass birds, the sequoia cones, swedish decorations that I purchased when my children were young, my grandmother’s alligator with springs for legs. Most bring fond memories from the past. And when my grandchildren come by I try to tell them about some of the history. If I want any of the stories to continue I’ll probably have to write it down for them to read about when they are adults.

When it’s time for the tree to be removed each memory is carefully wrapped  and packed away for another year.

West Eugene Wetlands

Pouring rain when I got up this morning so I put on rain pants and rain jacket and put my poncho in my little daypack. Once a month the Willamette Resources and Educational Network (WREN) sponsors a slow wander through some part of the wetlands. Today the destination was Golden Gardens Pond, several large gravel extraction areas that have become part of the wetlands.

We were a small group of six adults and two young children. Before we stepped from the street to the trail I noticed a garter snake lying next to the curb on top of wet leaves. Our leader picked it up and the children were really excited to be able to touch a live snake. After viewing, stroking and photos the snake was placed safely away from the road under some trees.

There’s a road that’s more of a trail around these large ponds and work is still being done to make the surrounding vegetation more in keeping with pre-gravel extraction habitat. Near a small bridge there was a flock of cedar waxwings in the trees and we spotted a kestrel in the top of another tree. Out on the pond was a row of cormorants on a log. Later we would see some of them stretching their wings straight out, like totem pole figures. Two pied billed grebes floated about. The small boys took full advantage of numerous puddles for splashing about in their rubber boots. About half-way through the trip the youngest one had enough so they and their mother returned to their car.

On one of the smaller ponds were numerous coots and a couple of gadwall. We heard a kingfisher and finally spotted its bright blue colors perched on a branch a few feet above the water. I found a narrow pathway leading from the trail down through a tunnel of grass to this pond, probably made by frequent travels of a nutria. Some blackberry bushes on this side sheltered several gold-crowned sparrows. During our two hours of wandering cackling geese flew overhead in large flocks agains the gray clouds. Cacklers are similar to the Canada Geese but smaller and have a higher pitched call.

I have trouble walking slowly enough on these wanders so sometimes meander off the trail to see what else we might be missing. On one of these brief excursions, about 20 feet from the trail, I found a small, wet, furry body, which was identified as a shrew once we could see the long, pointed snout. Also on this portion of the hike, a great blue heron was startled by our appearance into its peaceful domain and took flight.

Still later, just as we were completing the loop, I nearly passed by what looked like a white piece of plastic but turned out to be the skull of a nutria, its two upper front teeth bright orange. At the beginning of the trail, once again, we found the cedar waxwings had been joined by a small flock of robins in the alder trees. The alders have spring catkins now, hanging right next to their small cones. We were lucky and had no rain.

Being will be available on Amazon.com in 5-7 Business Days.

Rattlesnakes

From the Diary
June 13, 1952: I was walking up below the shop in back of where Peter’s cabin used to be when I heard a noise in the bushes. I looked and saw a rattlesnake’s tail disappear in the leaves. I knew that someone was at the shop and yelled for Ben. Ben, Bill, Red, and Peter cam running. They hunted through the brush and finally, just as they were about to give up, it struck at Bill’s shovel. It didn’t rattle even once. I cut the rattles off with my pocket knife. It had seven rattles and was about two feet long.

With their triangular-shaped heads, buzzing rattles and venomous, hollow fangs, it’s understandable that people fear them. Rattlesnakes locate prey by a heat-sensitive organ located between the eye and the nostril. All rattlesnakes give birth to their young, rather than depositing eggs. A rattle is formed each time the snake sheds its skin (generally once a year) but in the early years they may shed several times and, over time, some rattles may get damaged and fall off. So counting the rattles isn’t a reliable way to judge the age of the snake.

When our family was living at Calaveras Big Trees State Park and learned we’d be moving to Castle Crags we knew we’d be moving to where there were rattlesnakes. Shortly after we made the move my two older brothers and I took a hike up Kettlebelly Road, the road that leads to the trail to the Crags. On a sharp hairpin turn Peter took a shortcut across the bend through dry leaves and disturbed a rattlesnake. The boys made me sit in the middle of the road (I was in 3rd grade) while they took care of it. We transported the dead snake back down to the house where they proudly showed off their catch to our mother and younger brother.

Our mother actually felt more secure about our abilities to cope with rattlesnakes after that and the whole family got used to them being around. We learned to walk with a lot of noise if it seemed a likely spot for a snake, to look over a log before stepping over it, and to just be aware. We even played beckon (like hide-and-go-seek except its played at night and you use flashlights for signals) racing wildly through the dark and falling over rocks and shrubs. No self-respecting rattlesnake would have remained anywhere near us!

We were told to always bury the head because otherwise yellow jackets might feed on the head and ingest venom and that this could be transferred to you if you were stung. I have no idea whether this is true but I always buried the heads.

Throughout those years at the park, whenever we saw a rattlesnake we tried to kill it although now it’s realized that even rattlesnakes are a part of the balance of nature. As an adult, living in Trinity County in Northern California (just a few mountains west of the Crags), I finally opted for the “if it’s close to the house it gets killed, if it’s out in the woods leave it be” approach. In Trinity County we lived during the summer and many weekends in a log cabin on an old homestead four miles from the nearest neighbor. With our three young children playing outdoors I made sure to kill any rattlesnakes that were near the house. Once I heard several different kinds of birds scolding below the house and walked down to see what the fuss was about. The birds didn’t fly at my approach but continued to scold, looking down into some tangled grass and fallen fence posts below the road, almost as if they were trying to show me something. The rattlesnake was so well camouflaged with its scale patterns that it was hard to see but there it was, quite a large one, escaping into the shrubs. I threw some rocks to hurry its departure. The birds grew quiet and and soon disappeared.

For several years we had no indoor toilet at the cabin and it was a big event when the hole for a septic tank was finally dug. Progress was in our future! It was my job to make sure the concrete stayed damp to cure on the hot summer days after it was poured. One day I went to spray the concrete and there, in the bottom of the hole, was a rattlesnake. I was worried that one of the children might look down at it and fall in so I climbed down a ladder, shovel in hand, and whacked its head off. It was a bit claustrophobic being in that steep-sided pit with the buzzing sound of the rattles and the coiled snake, but the urge to protect the children overcame any hesitation. Incidentally rattlesnakes move even after their head is detached. And yes, I cut off the rattles as a trophy.

Here in Eugene two grandsons and I were up on Spencer Butte’s rocky summit a couple of years ago. The eldest boy was sliding down a small rock face and I was concerned that the flat surface at it’s base was too short and he might vault off and down 10-15 feet onto the ground below. He looked over to see what he would land on if this happened and shouted, “A snake, a rattlesnake!” And he was correct. We clambered down off the rocks, as did a couple of other people, to get a closer look. One man poked at the snake with a stick as it fled into a crack in the rocks so we could hear the sound of it rattling. Not a bad thing to be able to recognize.

More from the Diary of 1952–age 13 1/2

At one point during that summer I decided I wanted to live in a tent. So my dad found the old family tent and set it up for me up in The Gully. It was a big canvas tent with a wooden ridge piece, ropes and pegs. The Gully refers to a little creek that ran down the side of a meadow near our house. The banks of the Gully were lined with blackberry bushes, willows and other shrubs. And along the non-meadow side, the side closest to our house, Ponderosa Pine trees and ceanothus were the main foliage. It was among these small pines, about 200 feet from the house, where my temporary bedroom was erected. My bed was a canvas cot.

Ours was the only house and there were no city streets with street lights. At night the only light was from the moon and the stars. When I wrote in my diary from the tent it was while holding a flashlight. I can still see those daddy longlegs quivering upside down from the ridge of the tent above me. I think they were probably harvestmen, which are arachnids but not a true spider. There are many other entries into the diary on these days but I’ve chosen just references to sleeping in the tent.

My father and me with pine trees along the Gully in background.

Sunday July 10, 1952
There have been thunderstorms for the past week or two and we’re having another tonight. Mary (my mother) came with me while I got ready for a bed and we talked a while.
July 11
I am lying on the cot in the tent writing this. The tent is in a small group of pines about 200 feet from the house. If I look closely I can see the light of the house and the car lights as they go by on the highway (old Hwy 99 beyond the house).I can hear the sprinkler going around and the swish on the leaves. It’s peaceful here. The time is 5 minutes to 11.
July 14
Came up by myself tonight (the previous night my mother had walked up there with me). I’m a trifle uneasy but having fun.
July 15
Richard (my younger brother) is sleeping in the sleeping bag tonight about ten feet from the tent. He tied the sleeping bag to a tree so it would stop slipping. I wish he would be quiet and go to sleep but I also hope he has fun.
July 16
Richard woke me up at 15 minutes after 7 this morning but I didn’t mind too much. The only trouble is we only had about 5 hours sleep. B. (my eldest brother) came up last night to see how we were which was very nice of him.
I wish Richard had stayed again tonight because it’s lonesome here and he’s good company.
July 19
Richard helped me bring a mattress up for the cot……I killed two daddy longlegs in the tent.
July 23
I practiced on the accordion up here tonight but the mosquitos were numerous. I killed another daddy longlegs in here tonight.
July 25
There haven’t been any spiders in the tent for two nights now. Knock on wood. It is now 26 minutes to 11 and I had better go to sleep.
July 31
For the first time in several weeks I am in bed and ready to go to sleep by 10 o’clock.
August 3
Practiced accordion. The moon shines on the tent and makes it pretty light in here.
August 5
Mary walked up with me tonight to see how the moonlight looked from inside the tent. She left a few minutes ago. It is 5 minutes after 11.
August 10
20 minutes after 11. Startled a deer in back of the tent tonight; also a small frog by the back steps (on my way to the tent?). Took him in the house and he hopped into Mary’s lap. Turned him loose in the garden.
August 11
Moved back to the house. Watched a porcupine in the locust tree below the house this evening.
August 12

Arose at 10:30 . Bed is more comfortable than a cot.

Thanks to Groundwaters Publishing for including my story Llama Lunch  and two poems (Orb Spider’s Art and Autumn Leaves) in the Fall 2012 edition of Groundwaters.

Thanks as well to Steven Blue for being inspired to compile a book of poems celebrating the 150th anniversary of the City of Eugene. Blue’s Arrowcloud Publishing and Groundwaters Publishing printed poems by 30 poets that also includes drawings by local artists. The Eugene Public Library sponsored a reading September 29th at the library. Proceeds from the sale of the book, Eugene, 150th Birthday Celebration, will go to the library. I was pleased to be able to share my poem Grounded at this event.

Last weekend we had the opportunity to go out on Monterey Bay,  and slightly beyond the bay, on the good ship Star of Monterey. We were part of an excursion under the leadership of Doug, Gail and Ted Cheeseman who run Cheeseman’s Ecology Safaris. Our Safari was just this one wonderful day but trips are available from the Arctic to Tanzania. Doug and I were seasonal ranger-naturalists at Crater Lake in 1961 and hadn’t seen each other since. What a great place to catch up on 51 years!

Our first sea mammals seen were sea otters, those delightful creatures that spend most of their lives near kelp, and that will sometimes use a rock to crack open a shelled prey. Next were the numerous sea lions sprawled on the rocks with cormorants, large, black, long-necked birds, standing nearby. A Brown Pelican perched on the rail of the dock as we were leaving and was there to welcome us upon our return. The sea was rough so I was glad I’d taken a pill the night before as well as that morning. Best to be prepared.

Other birds seen during the day included two kinds of shearwaters, several kinds of gulls and a pair of albatrosses–they have a wingspread of about six feet and resemble nothing so much as gliders, seldom flapping their wings. An albatross goes to sea as a youngster and may not touch land again until breeding season five years later! Now and then someone would toss small pieces of fish behind our boat and we were followed by an eager flight of gulls and Brown Pelicans  most of the trip. Still other birds seen were auklets, grebes, a loon, a scoter, phalaropes, jaegers,and murres. And probably some that I missed.

At one point the boat speeded up to get to a new area. I stayed outside the whole day to make sure I was focused on the trip and had a brisk breeze in my face–helps keep the stomach calm. During this stretch my fingers were curled tightly around the outside of the rail, my legs dancing in time to the large swells  of the sea, and I was really focused—on maintaining my balance!!!

The submarine Monterey Canyon is 50 miles long and 8,000 fee deep in the deepest areas. ” The Carmel Canyon parallels the coast south of Monterey Canyon.” These areas bring cold, highly oxygenated upwellings that support large quantities of nutrients so sea birds and animals are likely to be found here. We had hoped to see whales but whale sightings have been scarce this month. We did, however, find a large pod of dolphins, at least 100 and were able to follow them for half an hour or more. What a joyous  gathering! Or so it appeared to me. They swam right next to the boat, in front of the boat, a hundred yards from the boat, all the while arching up and diving down sometimes with four  or more in unison. Needless to say, cameras were clicking. When I downloaded mine I discovered that their speed exceeded my click reaction time more often than not.

Being outdoors in the mountains or on the sea doesn’t guarantee that you will see something dramatic. In this case being in the midst of dolphins more than made up for any of the down times. And when nothing exciting is happening you have many people with similar interests to talk to. Usually these conversations were interrupted by “Oh, look over there!” A great trip, from start to finish.