Waiting for the eclipse

Tomorrow is the big day, the one we've been waiting for here in the path of totality: nearly two minutes of complete darkness as the moon passes over the sun.

It's a surprisingly big deal. We've been warned that traffic will be a mess, gas stations will be swamped, cell towers won't be able to handle the overload, and the internet may go down for awhile. So, it sounds like something between a typical game-day during football season and a catastrophic weather event.

We were invited to go a party taking place even deeper in the totality, but decided that we didn't want to camp out for two nights with a hundred other people. Not when we can walk into the back yard and see it right at home. So here we are, not venturing far at all.

How will the animals react?  There's Reub, whose anxiety has mounted over the past six months to the point where his Prozac prescription had to be jacked up to 60mg a day. What will he make of the world going dark in the middle of the morning?

 My hope is that he will have a perfectly good grip on things. So far the dire warnings have proven to be over-stated. There are a few thousand extra people in town, and all of our neighbors have out-of-town guests, but it is an atmosphere of expectation-- not of conflict or dread.

All eyes on the skies tomorrow.

A winter's gift

We don't get a lot of snow here in western Oregon, but when we do, it is usually a gift. Today, after a recent snow, John and I spent some time with friends on their property north of town. Much of it was about looking at tracks. Who had passed through in the last two days? Cougar and deer.

Bobcat and cougar, crossing the narrow plank bridge over a creek. Given a choice, cats of all sizes daintily avoid stepping in water, don't they?

More than one cougar had been poking around. One big kitty had 5 toes.

That's right: take care not to step on the ferns.

Turkeys.

Cougar hunt deer, and the tracks mingle.

A mouse, wishing to avoid detection, tunnels beneath the snow's surface, then pops up for air.

A mouse above the snow: hopping south on the left, north on the right.  See the tail?

A bobcat, leaving a circle of snow all around her furry foot.

When did the bobcat pass through? There are crystals covering her print, telling us that it wasn't this morning.

At last we left the snowy, tangled woods,

stepped over the icy art on the path, and went into the cabin for soup and a warm fire. All of it a winter's gift.

Victory

There is so much awful spectacle in the wider world right now that I dread looking at the news in the morning. The tiny drama of nearby life is a different matter though.

The littlest things are riveting. Like this handful of dead grass that I imagine is a fallen nest near the front door three days ago.

I walk over to pick it up.

But just when I reach down, a small bird scrambles out.

Chit, chit, chit...this little bird, an Oregon junco, energetically scolds me. There is, after all, no neglected and fallen nest, but a home built on the ground and inhabited, thank you very much. Back off.

For the next 24 hours I try unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of what is inside that nest, but it is always covered by its funny bird-made grass tarp.

And then yesterday, mama left the nest slightly uncovered. Three perfect little speckled eggs.

  All the bad headlines in the world can't destroy my delight.

But quickly I am gripped with fear.

What were they thinking anyway? Are these inexperienced bird parents? Situated on top of shallow green ground cover, this is not the well-disguised nest described in the bird book. It screams NEST NEST NEST to any hungry predator. There is a growing brood of crow babies down the street and I fear that they will soon feast upon junco eggs. My junco eggs. So John puts up a screen, sort of, to allay my fears. He says it is inspired by architect Frank Gehry, and I suppose it is.

This afternoon there is news. And again it is the very best kind of news: three tiny babies. They are little more than naked beating hearts lying in a bed of soft grass and moss. They are the most vulnerable thing I have ever seen. Will they survive? I don't know. But they are now 12 hours old, and in this world that is a victory all by itself.

Mustangs

The day we go in search of wild horses on Steens Mountain is clear and cool, a perfect morning for a hike even if we never come across anything more than hoof prints in the hard, volcanic,  high desert dirt. 

Scanning the hills, at first it looks like it might be a herd of cattle out there: little dots of slowly moving color in the distance.

Some of them are cattle, but mostly it's wild horses. Leaving our dusty car at the side of the gravel road, we walk slowly towards the group.

We pass near a mare with a very young foal. I doubt this baby is more than a day or two old.

The protective father makes sure we come no closer. At the same time he remains very alert to the movement of the herd on the hillside. It's likely that he is a banished young stallion beginning his own family, watchful of everybody. With no one to comb and bathe him, he still shines like copper.

They move near one another, hide their baby in the sage brush,  and decide we are no threat.

Meanwhile the herd on the hillside is aware of us, bands together, and heads away. It is the cattle, recently branded, who seem most fearful. The horses put the cows between us.

This band of mustangs is named after the lead stallion, Atlas. That's Atlas on the far left, with a map-shaped white patch on his side. The other horse in a leadership position is the pinto on the far right, maybe a mare. She probably has a name, but I couldn't locate it on the Facebook pages devoted to the 200-plus horses on Steens Mountain.

They stream over the ridge, Atlas the last to disappear into the 127,000 acres of high country where they roam. They were like a vivid dream, evaporating with time and distance... I won't see them again but can't forget what they were like.

Between parties

Winter solitude-

in a world of one color,

the sound of the wind.

Matsuo Basho

In the Cascade Mountains of Oregon the slippery winter roads are sanded with red volcanic ash. It works pretty well, giving tires the traction they need and causing the snowbanks to melt into strange sculptures this time of year.

Log jams are everywhere, left behind by the high waters of the season.

It's March, and while the daffodils are blooming in the valley, it is still winter's last hurrah in the mountains.

This year we nearly missed winter completely in western Oregon. El Niño brought us rain but no snow in the valley. So I was happy to see the white stuff this past weekend when we spent a few days in the mountains.

It was like being late to a big party. Most people had already left and the  celebration appeared to be completely over.

The major players had all gone home, the skiers and snowmobilers had hung up their gear. Even the ice was melted off the lake.

 Perhaps it was too late for winter's party. Cold and quiet except for rustling branches and the drip-drip of melting snow, it was, however, nice and early for spring's big bash.

Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes...
Matsuo Basho

Thinning

About a year and a half ago some kids dared each other to toss a match into the dry grass on a hillside forest not far from here.

The ensuing flames quickly became a wildfire that nearly devastated the northwest side of town. John and I watched the flames and smoke from our house.

It was a cautionary tale. As you can see from one of my trail cam pics, our backyard adjoins an overgrown plantation that has the giant invisible words FIRE DANGER! written all over it. The neighborhood association had a discussion with the owner of this woods.




And that is why this week has been noisy around here.

I know they had to do it, and I know it will bounce back into something amazing and different, but oh my gosh.

It's so...organized.

An enormous flail mower came through and shredded all of the undergrowth and small trees. Ed and Reub are a little confused. Where did the rabbits go?

I wonder what the bobcat thinks of it.

The deer will love the changes because there will be so much new stuff for them to forage upon. When the loggers have left I'll have to find a safe place to put the trail cam. Maybe this year will bring another set of twins.

Meanwhile the changed landscape looms behind the house, like an old friend that has gone through a devastating, inevitable divorce. It isn't easy now, but it will be better later.