Alexandersmap

    Category: Nature

    • Sunrise and Mosquitoes

      Seal Bay, Maine. 04:30 and a brightening sky. There’s a strong probability of magic in the air. To get up or to linger awhile in the finally-comfortable position I’d found? The answer is obvious by now—up and at ‘em.

      Moving slowly as not to awaken the crew (who inevitably were awakening anyway), I slid open the hatch with an unwelcome bang that turned my intentions upside down. “Sorry,” I mumbled quietly. There’s just no sneaking around on a sailboat.

      Outside, the sky began to glow, as a light breeze carried wispy clouds of fog across the cove. Sitting a few beats, I heard the familiar song of a mosquito buzzing nearby. Damn. Soon another. We take the good with the bad in this world, and reconcile it as best we can. I celebrated a pristine, quiet cove distracted by a hungry swarm of fast flyers. “Such is the way,” whispered an understated sunrise rising above it all. And so it was.

    • A Swim in the Broth

      “Consider the ordinary barnacle, the rock barnacle. Inside every one of those millions of hard white cones on the rocks—the kind that bruises your heel as you bruise its head—is of course a creature as alive as you or I. Its business in life is this: when a wave washes over it, it sticks out twelve feathery feeding appendages and filters the plankton for food. As it grows, it sheds its skin like a lobster, enlarges its shell, and reproduces itself without end. The larvae “hatch into the sea in milky clouds.” The barnacles encrusting a single half mile of shore can leak into the water a million million larvae. How many is that to a human mouthful? In sea water they grow, molt, change shape wildly, and eventually, after several months, settle on the rocks, turn into adults, and build shells. Inside the shells they have to shed their skins… My point about rock barnacles is those million million larvae “in milky clouds” and those shed flecks of skin. Sea water seems suddenly to be but a broth of barnacle bits.” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

      I confess to briefly recalling this tidbit from Dillard while reacquainting myself with Buzzards Bay, but mostly I considered the front paws of my canine swimming partner enthusiastically paddling in my direction, and equally pressing, the rumble of morning thunder close enough to keep the swim brief. We don’t think about barnacle bits when we swim in salt water any more than we think about the vapor particles we breathe in in a crowded room (at least until the pandemic). These are simply part of the deal. We embrace the universe as it snuggles in close or we curl up in terror under the covers.

      The point is, we’re meant to be out there living in the world. So dip a toe in the broth, or better yet, plunge right in. For we are very much a part of the stew of life and ought to celebrate our brief moment together. But appreciate that outdoor shower afterwards just a little more.

    • Something Different This Way Comes

      Living on a quiet wooded street near a stream for 23 years, you see all kinds of wildlife passing through. The usual animals range from turkey, rabbits, snapping turtles and deer to those a notch up on the food chain, like bobcat, coyote, fox and bear. You get to a point where you feel like you know the place and have seen it all. And then nature surprises you with something different.

      Taking a walk on the cul-du-sac on a humid night after a day of rain, the sky began a light show of soft orange and yellow moving to deeper orange, pinks and reds. The street had long since dried out and most of the focus was on what was happening in the sky. But then something caught our eye. Some form of critter moving deliberately down the street in our direction. First thought was some kind of bug, but it was almost the length of a chipmunk. On further inspection, it was what I believe to be a rusty crayfish (Orconectes rusticus).

      This thing had black eyes that saw us coming from twenty feet away, and it immediately curled into a defensive position. Debating what to do with it, I decided to remove it from the potential danger (the middle of the street) and move it towards the stream. A bucket and brush did the trick, and this oddity was safely off the street and probably walking through deep grass to the water by the time we finished our walk.

      It was only later when researching this crayfish that I realized it was an invasive species, introduced to waterways as bait or dumped from aquariums. I cursed myself for helping it thrive in an unnatural environment, but you don’t always know what you’re working with until it’s too late. I wasn’t inclined to make jambalaya out of it, and until the moment I found out it was invasive I felt it had earned another day on this planet walking down the middle of a long street between wherever it was to where it was clearly going.

      Humans deliberately and inadvertently help invasive species move into new environments. After years of the expected, this was a first in my particular environment. Maybe shellfish walking down the street is common in your neck of the woods but not so much in Southern New Hampshire. It does make me wonder, what the heck will I see walking down the street next?

      Hey—you’re not from around here?!

    • Become a Holy Fire

      “And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves. Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, “When you walk across the fields with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their soul come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

      Walking about the garden upon a return from two weeks in Europe, seeing the progress of some plants and the decline of others from neglect, it’s easy to become lost in self-forgetfulness. Minor tasks become meditative when we focus on the work. So it is with hiking in solitude, where every step matters and the mind is forced to quiet itself that you may land properly to take the next one.

      If the aim is to become more open to the spirit of the world around us, surely we must quiet the chatter in our own heads. Be still, learn to listen, observe and receive the energy that might otherwise bounce off our closed mind to find a more willing recipient. What do we lose in our closed-minded self-conversation but our chance to be one with the universe?

      The thing is, most of our self-talk is useless at best and detrimental to our progress at worst. Our Lizard Brain, as Seth Godin calls it, is our worst enemy, making us feel like we aren’t measuring up, that we should have done things differently, that we don’t deserve the moment we’re in now. It’s all crap, and not what we’d expect in a close friend. But who is closer to us than ourselves?

      This Hasidic concept of receptiveness is one way to push aside the self. If we are to become a holy fire today—and in our stack of days, we must tune our receiver and accept the positive fuel that stokes our furnace. We must throw aside the wet blanket of self and accept the world as it offers itself to us.

    • A Visit to the Pristine Königssee

      I’d had this day circled for months, anticipating a spectacular day on the gorgeous Bavarian lake known as Königssee. I’d gotten a peek at the northernmost tip of the lake high atop Eagle’s Nest the day before, and it seemed finally real. And on a warm summer day when seemingly everyone was swimming in the lake and brilliant blue skies contrasted with the mountains, the experience exceeded expectations.

      The logistics of getting there seemed straightforward—it was a short drive from the hotel and the parking lot was plenty big. But that parking lot proved a stumbling block. Most of the pay machines only accept coins, and the change machines weren’t working. There are some credit card readers which also weren’t functional. Signage said to go to the information center for change, but it didn’t open until 09:00. That left several people scrambling for change. Fortunately an acquaintance happened to park nearby and had the app on his phone to pay. Hurdle cleared.

      Königssee, at almost five miles long, and its beautiful little lake sister Obersee, sit within Berchtesgaden National Park. Like Zion National Park in the United States, the towering rock faces seemed a cathedral surrounding you in a hug. You feel inclined to return that affection. There are plenty of options to feel the spirit of the place walking the paths, hiking, sitting in the biergarten or on Königssee itself. Of course, you may feel inclined to do all of those things.

      The famous electric boats leave from Schönau am Königssee, with stops in St. Bartholomä and Salet. To make the most of your visit to Königssee you really should go to Salet. The longer trip brings you past the beautiful Schrainbach Wasserfall as it plunges into the lake. Salet itself offers dining services, but also access to Lake Obersee and the spectacular Röthbachfall as it plunges over 400 meters down a sheer rock cliff. As a bonus there’s another waterfall to the left that likely feels resentful at its bigger sibling getting all the attention. The hike itself is easy and offers some incredible vistas along the way.

      As an American with the tiniest grasp of the German language I was left in the dark when our boat guide rapidly rattled off historical facts and one-liners that had the passengers in stitches, but managed to pick up just enough to follow along. What transcends language barriers is music, and the highlight of the boat ride was our guide playing his trumpet accompanied by its echo on the mountain walls surrounding us. It was magical. So too is Königssee.

    • Here It Comes! A Visit to Krimml Waterfall

      Live water heals memories. I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays. You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or with longing, “This is it.” But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, “Here it comes!” —Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

      I’m told that Krimml Wasserfall, or Krimmler Waterfall if you prefer, is the tallest waterfall in Europe. The cascades are broken up into distinct falls and the landscape makes it impossible to see the entire waterfall when you’re standing near it. Instead you hike up and discover the falls a bit at a time. With an hour to see them, this presented a slight problem—we simply couldn’t see the entire waterfall on this trip. But seeing half was quite impressive.

      It’s quite easy for your spirit to fill when you feel the spray swirl around you and hear the roar of frigid whitewater meeting stubborn rock. Maybe this is why we seek out big waterfalls, but small plunges offer their own lift. A giant like Krimml amplifies that spirit lift with awe. A visit locks in new memories.

    • Coming to Our Senses

      “Slow down and taste and smell and hear, and let your senses come alive. If you want a royal road to mysticism, sit down quietly and listen to all the sounds around you. You do not focus on any one sound; you try to hear them all. Oh, you’ll see the miracles that happen to you when your senses come unclogged.” — Anthony de Mello, Awareness

      The world wants us to focus on it. It calls to us constantly. Sure, those notifications on our phones and smart watches and other electronics are designed to capture our attention. Our to-do lists grow relentlessly longer. The demand for our attention has never been greater.

      There’s nothing wrong with letting it all drift away.

      Unclogging our senses brings us to them. Focus intently on a task at hand, or nothing at all. Recognize what matters when we get out and listen to nature, or our own voice. Walking is the great sifter of souls, shaking the nagging little things away. Why don’t we walk more?

      We think we’re too busy.

      We have so much noise in our lives that we don’t hear our own voice. We must sift it all away and find what really speaks to us. What is a better use of our time than listening to our own calling and taking meaningful action towards change? We can’t set our compass if we don’t step out into the world and find out where we are right now.

    • I Saw Tranquility

      “Deep in the forest there is something sacred that exists without a perceptible function. This is the central core, the navel of the world, and I want to return to that place.” — Hayao Miyazaki

      Last month I walked through a forest with several coworkers on a group hike. One of them commented that the naked trees were spooky and reminded him of The Blair Witch Project. I looked around and saw something completely different. And two days later I doubled down on that place and hiked alone in the dark before dawn with a failing headlamp. The things we do for love.

      So much of the world is what we perceive it to be. I may find tranquility in a stand of trees, someone else sees a buildable lot and the trees themselves as a commodity to haul off to the mill. America was built on such vision. Thankfully there are people who saw the land as something timeless and preserved it. Were we to level every forest where would we ever find ourselves?

      The trees are beginning to leaf out in the Northern Hemisphere, transforming the naked landscape. Soon the forest will hide things that are apparent in colder months. Leaves bring deep shade and mystery to the forest. Often what we see appears distinctly different from one person to another. What the forest is really showing us is not itself, but our own nature. My hiking friend that day saw horror in the naked forest. I saw tranquility.

    • Chickadee Advice

      In the golden hour before the dawn the black-capped chickadees talked amongst themselves, adding more and more high-pitched “dee-dee-dee’s” to their song the closer I walk to them. I’m the intruding loner early in the morning and this is their warning to each other. I may live here, but this isn’t my backyard—it’s always belonged to the birds since the time of dinosaurs. I’m just the latest affront to their ritual. Knowing my place, I behave and sit still to take stock of the waking world around me, assessing the frenzied week and contemplating the week ahead. A bit of stillness listening to chickadees is welcome.

      We choose what to pay attention to. Away from the din of urgency and outrage we might hear our own voice. We choose how we’ll react to whatever happens in our days. Each quiet morning offers a sabbatical of sorts. We need a bit of stillness now and then. A measure of calm between our storms to set the sails for what comes next. In stillness we decide what to do and be next.

      In the hushed quiet hour before the sunrise, those dee-dee-dee’s say something entirely different to us humans, if we’ll listen carefully to the call we’ll hear our own voice: Decide what you’ll be, be, be! Go on and see, see, see!

    • Ambient Noise

      After a few nights in New York and New Jersey, I returned to New Hampshire to reflect on the differences. I’d hiked in pristine woodland next to gorgeous streams, the kind of stuff you see regularly in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I’d stayed in a beautiful resort surrounded by hills. I’d eaten at a vineyard next to a lovely river. I’d visited New York City itself, deep in the heart of it. And capped my visit to the city with a trip to Liberty Park in New Jersey with its striking Upper Bay view of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty.

      It was all beautiful. The days and nights were lovely. The people were generous and friendly. You learn to love the spirit and energy and vibrancy of the place and miss it when you’re away from it. And yet I’ve never gotten used to the ambient noise.

      The Metropolitan New York region has a relentless buzz that stays around you all the time. If you live there you likely don’t even know it exists, but when you’re a country mouse coming to the big city regularly you pick right up on it. The automobile traffic, the air brakes on trucks, the train whistles, the sharp roar of planes and helicopters flying overhead, the steady rumble of ships on the Hudson River and the constant beeps and thumps and shouts of close proximity that collectively create a soundtrack of urban living. This soundtrack bleeds for miles up the Hudson River, far out into the Atlantic on Long Island and deep into the hills of New Jersey and Connecticut. It begins with the roar of the city and fades to the sound of sprawl.

      Hiking the amazing Harriman State Park next to a pristine river, you’d think the white noise would drown it all away. But reach a bit of elevation and you hear the traffic informing you that you must go even deeper into the green splashes that surround the map of New York City. Even Harriman, as big a green space as it is, has roads full of commuters cutting through it, like Central Park in the hills of the Hudson River Valley. Those roads surely serve, but they also detract if you let them. Don’t let them.

      For it’s all so very beautiful. Even the ambient noise, that guarantees no escape from the world, fades just enough when you focus on what they’ve protected from the sprawl. This is a place that offers the advantages and disadvantages of one of the greatest cities in the world, the constant beat of progress and growth and rising to the occasion that New York is famous for. But within an hour are these places like Harriman where you might immerse yourself in nature, so long as you accept the soundtrack playing way in the background and focus on the wind in the trees and the water finding its way through ancient boulder fields.

      The farther away you get from the ambient noise of New York the more faint it is. Somewhere along that spectrum of noise we reach a place where we feel the ambiance most vividly. Life isn’t about escaping from the world, but finding our place in it.