Alexandersmap

    Category: Nature

    • Blueberry Thieves

      It’s easy to see motion in the garden when the motion is coming from a six foot tall mess of stakes, chicken wire and plastic netting. The chicken wire was a 2021 addition after the plastic netting proved insufficient to keep the birds and chipmunks off of the blueberry bushes. Know what my blueberry harvest was in 2020? Take a look at that last number in the year.

      So this year brought new resolve and a commitment to reaching the finish line with at least one bowlful of blueberries. And then I saw motion inside the cage. Sure enough a gray catbird had somehow gotten inside but couldn’t figure out how to get out. I offered some advice, filtered here for the protection of the innocent. And the catbird found a way out with my encouragement.

      An hour later, more motion from the cage. Looking over, a chipmunk was inside, stretched to its limits in the act of attempting to steal a ripening blueberry. I threw the head of a hoe at the cage, terrifying the chipster and emptying the cage once again. Clearly this cage isn’t working out as planned.

      A quick online search for how to scare away critters brought the usual assortment of scarecrows, pinwheels and shiny tape. But it also brought up one I hadn’t considered – plastic snakes. It seems the forest creatures find plastic snakes unnerving enough that they stay away from the blueberries.

      Which makes me wonder, what am I doing growing blueberries anyway? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to just buy some at the market? When I’ve reached a point where I’m buying toy snakes as garden accessories, has the very act robbed me of the joie de jardiner? Am I adding whimsy or tackiness? I crossed that threshold when I put up a chicken wire cage in my garden.

      I pride myself on coexisting with most of the critters in the neighborhood. Until they start messing with my garden anyway. Last year featured epic battles with the groundhog. This year it’s been rabbits, birds and chipmunks. Am I willing to concede the blueberries to fate, or is a small crop of fruit worth an investment in a scary-looking toy? Will there even be fruit to protect by the time I obtain a snake?

      The things I do for a garden…. While there are blueberries to fight for this battle isn’t over, and neither is the story. Stay tuned.

    • The Great Bunny Escape

      I’m not one to think a lot about bunnies. And I can assure you this post will be a rarity in the relentlessly eclectic world of Alexandersmap. But there’s a story that must be told.

      It seems there are people in this world who buy bunnies as pets around Easter. They seem to believe this is a good thing, sharing cuteness and such with children or lovers or maybe just a self-indulgence – who knows, really? Personally, I’m more inclined to dark chocolate, but some people choose to acquire living creatures as pets. And they love them for all their cuteness. Until they grow bigger and become adult bunnies. And then what?

      Well, they drive through some wooded street far from their own home and abandon that bunny on the side of the road like an old mattress or refrigerator they don’t want to pay to have removed. Classy. And a winning strategy for teaching the next generation how to be responsible adults. I bet these bastards don’t even recycle.

      I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I hope if there’s an afterlife there’s a special place in hell reserved for bunny and mattress dumpers. I imagine, in my darkest moments, it involves lying forever on that dirty old mattress surrounded by millions of abandoned bunnies, each with that wrinkly nose munching vibe that bunnies have, staring with those crazy genetically-engineered pink eyes, while the dumpers slowly spirals into insanity.

      What? Won’t concede me this version of Dante’s Inferno? Could they at least have nightmares about abandoned bunnies scratching at the walls trying to get back in?

      Flight of fancy aside, my work day was interrupted by an animal control officer ringing my door bell to inform me that there was a white bunny in my backyard. I’d heard about this bunny, for it’s been roaming the neighborhood since some A-hole dumped it on the side of the road. Apparently the longer bunnies are alive out in the wild the more they like their newfound freedom. Honestly, I don’t blame the bunny – I’d rather deal with wild predators in unfamiliar woods than that crappy family that bought me like some edible arrangement that could be tossed aside when the only thing left was melon slices.

      Apparently the bunny was spotted in the neighbor’s backyard. For those keeping track, this is the same neighbor’s backyard that featured a goat hiding from a killer bear last fall, so the word was out amongst the domesticated animal crowd that this was the halfway house in town. So the neighbors have animal control on speed dial and they had a reunion in the driveway, spooking the bunny into my own backyard, which brings us back to the doorbell ringing.

      Walking outside, I’m confronted with four animal control professionals with a distinct smell of skunk in the air (they’ve been busy elsewhere on this day). Each had a large net on poles, like a fishing net on steroids. They had the bunny surrounded in the shrubbery and were discussing how to get it out of there when I showed up. The bunny answered for them and shot out of the holly and sprinted towards the deck.

      What I noticed in this moment, if we were to put it in slow motion like a Hollywood movie, is four capable adults with nets watching the bunny makes its move. The nets never descended on the bunny. Which makes me wonder – why carry a net at all? Returning to normal speed, the white bunny was moving at a high rate of speed, impossibly fast for the reaction time of an animal control officer bent over to peer under a holly bush. It seems it’s not as simple as bending sideways to dodge a flying bullet like a superhero.

      The bunny went under the deck and the animal control officers each shrugged their shoulders and packed up to leave. Leaving me wondering what they hell I was going to do with a rogue domesticated bunny in my yard. Come on folks, what ever happened to “Try, try again”?! And sure enough, just as I was thinking this the bunny sprinted out from the deck and around to the front of the yard. I shouted to the animal control officers and the chase was on once again!

      You might be thinking this is where they catch the bunny. No, the bunny ran away again, and the animal control officers once again took their big nets, got in their cars and drove away saying they’d be back when the bunny was back. Back? The bunny is still here, just fifty feet from where it left you! But I knew the truth in this statement, the bunny was here as long as it felt like being here or became a bobcat dinner. They just weren’t going to invest any more time chasing it.

      Sure enough, later in the afternoon I walked out to tend the garden and there was the white bunny, quietly munching on my lawn. Next to it was a wild rabbit doing the same. Each assessed me while chewing the flora, knowing there wasn’t much I could do to stop them. I’m not a bunny killer, they could see it in my eyes. And just maybe, they saw a future together, wild and domestic, living together in bliss. I suppose it’s better than the house of horrors the bunny came from.

    • The Magical Hours

      Water patterns reflect on the tree trunks, illuminating the bark and lichen in a dance of morning light. The wave patterns slowly fade as my bathing suit air dries in the early warmth. Birds and chipmunks fill the air with a soundtrack of their greatest hits. It’s going to be a scorcher today, they seemed to agree.

      The house wren that moved into the bluebird house dominates the conversation, but the chipmunks have a lot to say too. Until I stand up and abruptly reset the agenda from banter to assessing the new guy. In the sudden hush I catch the sound of a woodpecker, unseen, seeking a meal in a tree somewhere in the woods. The bass tone indicates deep work.

      It’s such a short time, these magical hours spent in outdoor spaces when everything in the world just seems perfect. No bugs, no pollen, no shoes, no problems. That these days exist at all is a blessing. I imagine this is why people live in Southern California, where every day is this kind of perfect. Here we take what we can get while it’s here, and boy do we love it when it’s here.

      Early mornings are reserved for the knowing few. I catch a glimpse of a neighbor out watering potted plants as I do the same with my own. We nod a greeting to each other and return to the work at hand.

      The garden isn’t the same as Mother Nature. Magic doesn’t just happen in a garden, you’ve got to put the work in. These are the days when you’re rewarded (or punished) for the work invested in a yard and garden. Harvest is still weeks or months away for the vegetables, but we’re entering peak season for the flowers.

      How do you know when you’ve reached a peak? When the world aligns in moments of wonder? When everything just seems to click for you? Or do you have to wait until you’ve declined from your peak, when things aren’t going as well and you see, maybe for the first time, just how good that moment was?

      I’m past peak when it comes to athletic performance, but haven’t yet peaked in my learning. If fitness is the flowers in your garden, learning and mental development is the fruits and vegetables, often taking until the very end of the season to fully develop. Like flowers your fitness level doesn’t have to stop midway through your season, and like vegetables you can find enlightenment well before the end of your season.

      There are no hard and fast rules in life or gardening, but there are seasons to honor and work to do in each. In each day there are moments available to appreciate the blessings that have come your way. Those magical hours that seem to fly by so quickly when life seems just about perfect in every way.

    • A Moment of Wonder

      Yesterday morning I chanced upon an Oriole in the garden. He looked at me and I at him and we both had our moment of interspecies connection before he decided to fly off to join his mate (who was no doubt pissed at him for his boldness). The bright orange and dark black are still locked in my mind a day later.

      That night in the very same spot I stood while the fireflies made their debut in the yard. More likely, it was the first performance I could attend. They lit up the darkness at the edge of the woods, just as the brilliant moon was rising through the trees. I expect fireflies know more about illumination than I do, but I was beaming just the same at their shared performance. That big, bold moon and the small, sparkling fireflies dancing quietly in the dark to an audience of one.

      What do we make of the moon this week? Called the Super Flower Blood Moon because it’s a combination of the May full moon and a timely lunar eclipse. This kind of thing stirs the collective imagination of the press, the talking heads who eagerly point out the big event. As a sky geek I’m aware of it, and appreciate the need of a news celebrity to talk about something besides a mass shooting or some other tragedy happening somewhere, right now, that may impact me next. Those masters of string pulling and I can agree that this moon is something special, and special things should be seen.

      But just because something should be seen doesn’t mean that it can be. As is usually the case when there’s something of note happening in the sky, it was overcast in my part of New Hampshire in the early morning hours. The lunar eclipse, like so much in this universe, wasn’t meant to be shared with me today.

      But the universe giveth even as it taketh away. Yesterday it offered those encounters with a bold Oriole and dancing fireflies, and each changed me in our moment together. I should think a moment of wonder is all we can really ask for from the universe. Just remember to say thank you.

    • The Air is Thick

      I’ve surrounded myself with friends who treat me kindly for forty-eight weeks of the year and then abuse me for four. They were here first, they tell me amidst their relentless attack. Who are you but our guest? I nod in reluctant acceptance of my fate.

      There are two times of year that are especially difficult to be a home owner surrounded by the forest. The first wave comes in the spring with pollen, catacombs and maple seed helicopters assaulting you from all sides. It’s pollinating season for the trees. This lasts for about two weeks. The second wave is the autumn return to earth of millions of leaves and acorns, seemingly all contained in my yard. Let’s call that another two weeks (I’m overly generous in my time estimates).

      The trees deserve their spring fun, and then earn their winter slumber. Who am I to complain? Shut your mouth and clean out the pool seven times a day like a good homeowner. Why am I whining about the puke yellow pollen coating everything when I knew what I was moving in to? I’m the keeper of the trees, the one who protects them for another generation. Despite the mess.

      The funny thing about being a New Englander is waiting all winter for the beautiful weather to arrive and then, just as it does, stay inside because of the pollen and black flies. It’s a waiting game, really, and each will subside over the next week. The trees will soon be settling into their most productive days, and we shall coexist peacefully for the rest of summer.

      You can place the timing of this blog by the moment I write about the trees again. Sure enough, it’s springtime again in New England. A time of celebration and massive, ongoing cleanup effort. Oh Joy! Oh Rapture!

      The air is thick with tree pollen and it’s raining debris. This is no time to relax poolside with a cool drink, for there’s work to be done. But this too shall pass. And it’s still way better than having no trees.

    • From Fenway Park to Barred Owls in the Night

      Yesterday afternoon I changed up the routine and watched the Boston Red Sox play the Detroit Tigers at Fenway Park. Day games are a different vibe than night games, and all games are a different vibe during a pandemic. But we’re slowly coming out of it, and going to a baseball game on a beautiful day felt pretty cool.

      It’s been decades since I’d seen that many empty seats at Fenway Park. Social distancing requirements demand low capacity, and we were among the lucky few to get in to see the game. Honestly the game was a mess of bad pitching and horrific defense for both teams, with 21 total runs scored. But being back inside the park after a couple of years, and especially the last year, made it special.

      The entire experience, like everything else nowadays, occurs with appropriate precautions. They zip tie the seats you’re not supposed to sit in, and have some ushers walking around asking you to put your mask on if you aren’t eating or drinking. I saw plenty of people breaking this rule, but people are spaced so far apart that it didn’t matter much. The group I was part of is fully vaccinated and more comfortable than we might have been otherwise. No food vendors walking up and down the stairs pitching hot dogs and popcorn, and there were limited options below. But we were still at Fenway Park and loving the afternoon vibe.

      Back at home in New Hampshire and ready to call it an early night, I heard the calls of Barred Owls in the woods behind the house. Loud. Close. And what sounded like three or four owls. We don’t generally have Barred Owls in the neighborhood, mostly because we have Great Horned Owls and they stay clear of each other. But here they were, and the night was filled with the apocalyptic sounds of Barred Owls in the night.

      You can’t just slip away to dreamland when there’s a cacophony of owl calls outside. So I walked outside on the deck and stood listening to them in the dark. High up in the tree canopy, making baby Barred Owls or at least deep in negotiation. I thought about the contrast between Fenway Park and the woods of New Hampshire on this beautiful day in May. I’m not sure what this “new normal” will be, but if this was it, I felt lucky to have been a part of it.

    • The Naming of Cape Cod

      “On the 26th of March, 1602, old style. Captain Bartholomew Gosnold set sail from Falmouth, England, for the North part of Virginia, in a small bark called the Concord… ‘The 15th day,’ writes Gabriel Archer, ‘we had again sight of the land, which made ahead, being as we thought an island, by reason of a large sound that appeared westward between it and the main, for coming to the west end thereof, we did perceive a large opening, we called it Shoal Hope. Near this cape we came to anchor in fifteen fathoms, where we took great store of cod-fish, for which we altered the name and called it Cape Cod.’” – Henry David Thoreau, Cape Cod

      A bit of trivia lost in history is where Cape Cod originally got its name. A lot of people, including Thoreau, point to Gabriel Archer. Archer wrote the entry Thoreau quotes above in 1602. He’d then go on to supposedly name Martha’s Vineyard after his daughter when an abundance of grapes were found there.

      Of course, without the Cod, it might have been named something else. Four hundred years of fishing decimated the Cod population, leading to sharp restrictions on fishing. Pressure from commercial fishing lobbies to raise limits on Cod run counter to the goal of full restoration of the biomass. And then you’ve got those seal population increases. The slow restoration of the Cod population is ongoing, but like so many endangered species it hangs by a thread.

      Archer traded with the local Wampanoag Tribe at what is now Cuttyhunk. He returned to England that same year but would return again in 1607. Archer would butt heads with John Smith in Jamestown and would ultimately die there within a few years. His journal was published after his death and the names Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard were sticky enough to live on well after him. More than his own name, it seems. Life is funny that way.

    • A Walk on Cahoon Hollow Beach

      “The sea-shore is a sort of neutral ground, a most advantageous point from which to contemplate this world. It is even a trivial place. The waves forever rolling to the land are too far-travelled and untamable to be familiar. Creeping along the endless beach amid the sun-squall and the foam, it occurs to us that we, too, are the product of sea-slime.” – Henry David Thoreau, Cape Cod

      Between the massive dunes and the crashing Atlantic Ocean in Wellfleet is a strip of sandy beach bearing the brunt of the relentless assault from wind and sea. The surf in warmer months is a feeding ground for Great White Sharks, who have modified their hunting style to chase grey seals right into the churning shallows that swimming humans like to frolic in during the warmer months. Great Whites don’t hunt humans, but sometimes they mistake humans for seals.

      In April you don’t see many seals bobbing in the surf on Cape Cod. So the sharks move on to other hunting grounds and leave this stretch of wild ocean to the occasional surfer and the beach walkers. A walk on the Cape Cod National Seashore can happen just about anywhere with an access path down the 100-foot dunes. Sand is dangerous stuff that can bury a reckless trespasser in no time at all. Sticking to the access paths preserves the dunes and just might preserve you too. The access paths themselves inform in their soft give. This is not a place for the meek. If you can’t handle the access path don’t walk this beach.

      For an off-season walk, we chose to park at the Beachcomber in Wellfleet and walk a stretch of soft sand known as Cahoon Hollow Beach. The Beachcomber is a trendy cool place at the height of summer. In mid-April it’s a convenient parking spot for easy access to the beach. A sign of the times is a shark warning with a handmade sign added to the bottom sharply suggesting “No kooks, no exceptions”. Wellfleet has had just about enough of the worst representatives of shark tourism.

      The National Seashore has a 40 mile stretch of beach that would test the strongest of walkers. When you say you’ll walk just to the bend you soon realize that bend keeps disappearing ahead of you. We walked about a mile, following the curve of the dunes around the forearm of Cape Cod. Walkers tend to gravitate towards the surf line where shells and smooth rocks offer themselves up for consideration. Soon your pockets are full and you recognize the folly of treasure hunting when every receding wave reveals another treasure.

      Thoreau walked the entire length from Chatham to Provincetown in the mid-1850’s and wrote about it for lectures that would end too soon in his abbreviated life. It would be published after his death in 1865 – the same year the Civil War ended. I think often about Thoreau, dying at 45 with so much left to do and see and write about. And here I was following him again, walking the beach between dune and sea, thinking it might just go on forever. Knowing it won’t.

    • A Walk in Dense Fog

      The dense fog presses up against the glass, tapping on the window lightly, wanting to come inside. Or calling me outside. I listen and layer up for a walk to the bay. I know it’s out there, if only from memory. And walk slowly to the water.

      The fog comes
      on little cat feet.
      It sits looking
      over harbor and city
      on silent haunches
      and then moves on.
      Carl Sandburg, Fog

      The birds carry on their morning song, but not so many today. Early still. What does 98% humidity sound like? It sounds like it looks; muted and disorienting. I close my eyes and let my bearings reset. I’m the only human outside this morning. Or possibly one of thousands – who can tell in the gray billowing dance?

      Down by the water, surprising wave action on a still morning. The bay is restless, like a sleeping child with a fever. Fog blurs hard lines. Instead I focus on what it amplifies. The lapping sounds of the waves slapping on the beach. A loon hidden from view out there somewhere calling its kind. Reaching me.

      Walking up from the shore, the sweet smell of dune grass requests a moment of my time. I gladly linger and thank the grass for the invitation. The air feels different as you walk away from the beach. The waves recede, birdsong grows and the world brightens. Dawn is approaching even as the fog asserts its hold on the world.

      Much later, fog lifting, you see the details fill in. I admit I liked the ambiguity of the fog just a bit more. If only for a momentary change in perspective. And, ironically, the clarity it brought. Swirling in the darkness by the bay.

    • Friends with the Sky

      “One of the many ways we have made ourselves lonely without gaining the deeper nourishment and intimacies of true aloneness, is the way we have lost the greater supporting circle of friendship available to us in the created, natural world: to be friends with the sky, the rain, the changing light of a given day and the horizon always leading us beyond the circle we have drawn too readily for ourselves.” – David Whyte, from the forward of Essentials

      I’ve often wondered at loneliness. I’m rarely lonely, but I’m often alone. I think the root of it lies in Whyte’s observation about the greater supporting circle – a connection to the world around you and with your own inner voice. Nothing awakens your relationship with the world like lingering with it on its terms.

      One of the things I miss about having a dog is that forced connection with the outside, no matter the weather. It’s easy to just stay inside when it’s raining sideways or bitter cold. But having a dog forces your hand – they’ve gotta go, and you must connect them with the place they go. Letting them out is a cop-out. You must walk as a true offering to the pet gods.

      This connection to the outdoors doesn’t require a dog, I’ve had similar connection with hiking, rowing and sailing where you’re forced to deal with nature as it comes to you. When you’re a small part of the natural world you tend to see it differently than you might looking at a screen from the comfort of a favorite chair. Nature demands that we meet it with respect and reverence, and in return we awaken something deeper in us.

      I suppose a circle drawn around us feels like a hug or the blankets you pull over yourself on the coldest nights. The problem with a tight circle is that it’s inherently limiting. Getting out under the open sky and feeling the elements, you recognize that you’re alone, yet a part of something bigger than yourself. When you see the world outside that old circle, you’re never quite the same.

      Loneliness is a state of isolation derived from looking inward. Connection is looking outward, and beyond yourself. Stepping outside the circle is a courageous act if you haven’t spent much time there, but it leads to a world that is alive with wonder. A sensory world of conversations in many dimensions. A world where we can become more than whatever it was you were when contained in that circle. That’s where you’ll find larger possibility. You’ll never be lonely outside your comfort zone.