Some kids get a bedtime story. Our kid takes hers in the morning.
It’s the green season. Most buds and blossoms have done their work and we now walk in the presence of ferns (along with towering devil’s club, salmonberry, sugar scoop, twisted stalk, river violet, deer heart, red elderberry, and all kinds of micro-greenery). The ferns–I think most are woodferns– tell Cedar all kinds of smell-stories each walk. Yesterday she smelled the deer before we saw it high tail down the trail. Today she consulted the ferns to smell the story of who had left such a redolent gift right in the middle of our path and where they went–likely relieved–after such a generous deposit.
My “Picture This” app tells me that “the orderly arranged woodfern really soothes obsessive-compulsive disorders.” (I’m a bit skeptical there, but I’ll admit that as Cedar smells the stories, I see no sign of her obsessing over fetching.) In any case, no matter how we spin or smell or need our narratives, we’re both lucky to be graced by June’s feathery fern beauty.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
- Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"
Thirty one geese land.
We each imagine our north.
Sweet cottonwood air
Language lessons this week have included “deer” and “geese.” Hope we don’t have to get to this one.
I’ve alluded elsewhere in this blog to Frost’s “Reluctance” and in particular the lines, “When was it ever less than a treason / to go with the drift of things / and bow and accept / the end of a love or a season?”
Today, at seeing the beautiful moment of guarded red-pink in the unfurling devil’s club leaves, I have an answer for the old New England codgers (Frost and the one in me): Right now.
The devil’s club transformation is a lovely and powerful mini-season in our woods, following the varied thrush, the skunk cabbage emergence, the pacific wren (and elswewhere the kingfisher), woodpecker, grouse, the early blueberry-pinkwhite-blossom-extravaganza, and fiddleheads. Next up: twisted stalk. In this moment–right now–as its leaves just begin to unfurl, the devil’s club offers the most amazing hue of red-pink, a flash of human-lip-like tenderness, before it unwraps to the sun-greedy summer green of the dominant forest floor foliage. Unfurling is the name of the game right now for the other big source of green at our level–ferns.
The other night some friends circled up to show some love. I’ve been having trouble sleeping and am coping with some change in life which in turn, I think, opened me up to the past decades of… stuff. (Never good at timing, I seem to be a little late for a mid-life crisis.) But Tim B., one of my favorite optimists, opined, “No one is unscathed in this life.” We sat quietly on his beautiful observation deck, overlooking the Mendenhall Wetlands, and I think each in our own way found connection to one another through this simple end-of-day yield.
In the lead-up to the deck gathering, Merry was distracted by the possibility of losing dog Elsa, her 12-year companion to a tumor. When I stopped by to borrow some skis, I could smell the acrid aftermath of her forgetting her cast iron pan on heat. Later, we walked together and talked about the challenges of acceptance.
Our little backyard woods lessons are suggesting to me that it may be “less than a treason,” Robert, when we take the opposite tack of reluctance, and try to hold our hearts open to the speed of seasonal change in the north. We don’t so much “bow and accept” as hold on (or let go!) for dear life when we attend to the many mini-seasons that make up spring, grief, love, connection. I’m never ready for the speed of spring. Nor am I ever ready for a love to end, if that’s what actually happens. But somehow tuning into the micro-seasons makes acceptance more active for me, with lots of places to try and fail, and try again, at least. Ready or not, the red-pink will explode into green, the twisted stalk will untwist and yield perfect translucent berries.
When I circled back to ask Merry about Elsa, the news was good. The vet thinks he excised all of the cancer. About her pan, she replied, “I think we need to season and season for a few seasons.”
There is news in the neighborhood. Spring again. Early blueberry is blossoming. Skunk cabbage is poking up for a peek. It won’t be long before devil’s club blossoms unfold their guarded pink. I’m trying to get my heart and spirits to rise to the occasion. That is never a problem for the heroine of our little lack of a story here.
(Above…climbing gear in the geocache tree [left], and our intrepid climber [right].)
The first part of the news was a little bit funny. A neighbor, Michelle, discovered climbing gear set in the trunk of Tim’s geocache tree… maybe the largest of the trees on our trail route. Kurt, who keeps the trail passable for all of us with chainsaw and endless energy, set up a game cam to try to identify the “climber.” The image he got was of an older man with a beer belly, gray hair, and stubble — a doctor known to many in town. He was chastened by the neighborly concern and removed the gear voluntarily, but not before Michelle reached out to Richard Cartsensen, local genius, and Landmark Tree project coordinator.
Carstensen sent some communication suggesting that a stand of trees (based on LDIR imagery, whatever that is) up the hill from the Big Tree Trail may in fact be the most massive in Southeast Alaska. What this means for the safety or notoriety of our little center of the universe remains to be seen.
Note the “extraordinarily dense stand of spruces more than 200′ high (in red).” (Carstensen.)
Meanwhile, though, the conversation has reinforced how precious our backyard forest is to many of us. And so, I’m inspired by this special place to reopen the blog for occasional offloading of words and thoughts and hopes, I guess. Cedar sighs a big “whatever” and begins to settle in until the next walk.
I began posting to this blog just over two years ago. Most of my early impetus was to share photos and videos of pup-chaos with family and friends. Over time, as Cedar insisted on taking ME for far more walks than I ever would have taken myself, she helped kindle my growing love affair with the patch of land just behind the house, what I’ve come to call the Big Tree Trail.
Ever since I read Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, I’ve imagined some day living in place long enough to have twelve separate journals… one for each month… to impel me to pay better attention to seasonal change in a home place.
Two years into this experiment, I don’t think I’ve done much of value to posterity, but I have to say that I’m grateful to Cedar’s often annoyingly unquenchable dedication to getting out and reading/sniffing the “news” of our little forest neighborhood—occasional rambles which I have sort of organized by month. I may return to the “categories” of monthly observations (See, for example, October) as I move on to a new writing project of some kind, but for now, I’ve decided to give this project the break it’s been calling for.
Thanks to those of you who have actually stopped by and given it a read or a view.
One great thing about having a dog is the companionship she provides. Even better, though, is the companionship she brings in the form of you, fellow dog people.
When I first heard a woman shout “On by!” to her dog on the ski trail, I had to stop her to ask what she had just said. That’s musher for “Pass on by, or pass by the distraction.” Since then, Cedar has come to respond well to the command, most notably in one of our more intense bear meet-ups.
On this beautiful late October Juneau day, we’ll head “on by,” and leave you with a few parting shots of Cedar doing what she loves best: moving and exploring in our moody and challenging and beautiful home place.
When I was agonizing over whether to get a pup, my brother Dave, a fellow Lab owner, gave me some pros and cons. As an afterthought, he added, “Plus, they make you laugh.”
Yesterday we set out down the Big Tree Trail and she went into bear mode, barking, hackles up, charging into the woods and then retreating. It was dramatic enough that we turned around quickly. I had no interest in seeing “the bear” up close. When she began acting similarly today, I got suspicious and pressed on. The clip below is poorly recorded, but the two scenes take place within about a minute of each other.
Cedar had a tough walk today.
When we left the “bear tree,” we took about 20 steps or so and she darted into the woods on the edge of the neighbor’s lawn, disappearing completely. In a matter of seconds, she came hightailing out of those woods with an animal chasing her. I was sure it was going to be “the bear.”
Well, Cedar, you may not have an abundance of courage, but you earned your keep today. And tomorrow’s another day, another opportunity to find courage on the perilous frontier of suburbia.
I always marvel at Cedar’s ready-to-go-ness each morning, and her incredible intuition about my emotions. This morning, again, she found me in bed and backed into me with a full on back-spoon, along with a satisfying little growl.
It’s been a summer of “celebrations of life.” I risk writing about them here in a dog blog because each deserves its own space for tribute and celebration, and yes, mourning. But there’s something about pet ownership, and maybe a bit about this pet’s ownership, that brings them together for me. I think about this in disordered ways, like the confused blooming and dying and growing and molding I’m seeing each day on the Big Tree Trail.
Last blooms of summer.Weird blue moldDeer heartTom heart?Two blossoms, three months late…
First there was a beautiful celebration of Chris, an absolutely dedicated father who’s daughter created a slide set of heart-rending tenderness, set in part to the tune, “Always Be Humble and Kind.” This man’s best friend gave a rousing ad-libbed speech about how Chris had the ability to “Show ‘em” rather than talk about it, when it came to giving love to others. Somehow, tragically, the humble and kind father lost his ability to keep showing them. (Brain chemistry can be so resilient and then so fragile.) I’m thinking about his family’s love in marking his passing with celebration, and how that love will endure and guide what they show to themselves and their loved ones.
Then there was Dave, my former boss, who in all honesty wasn’t really considered to be great at his job. We gathered on a sunny day at a beachside shelter, told funny stories about versions of his innocent love for the water and boating. To a person, the testimony showed that he was fantastic at his job, when you realized he interpreted his highest duty as showing kindness.
Dave’s friend, Al, speaks to Dave’s kindness. Maybe Dave is still mentoring me.
There was Cayman, 17, who died doing his favorite thing in the world—taking risks and jumping off high things. His sister revealed that he died the way he wanted to, that he hadn’t really believed he’d be old some day. His brother told the story of his determination to find the strength of his own will. One day when they were boat cruising, young Cayman walked right off a dock in his pajamas. When they fished him out, he revealed he was trying to find out how straight he could walk with his eyes closed, and how long he could do it.
Finally, last night, I watched the Mass and slide show from the celebration of life for Marge, Katrina’s mom. (Why I wasn’t there is its own little tragedy.) The priest in his homily ran with Katrina’s reference to Marge’s love for St. Francis, saying words attributed to him, and giving tribute to the way Marge lived her life and made others feel. “Preach the gospel at all times, and if necessary, use words.” In Katrina’s take, Marge always gave everyone in her home a “felt sense of belonging.” When you act like that, the priest remarked, “People notice. They take heart.”
And so these celebrations of life allow us to “take heart” —to learn from the examples of others’ hearts. I’m learning this summer that I have a long way to go to “show ‘em” and that I too often land in St. Francis’ “if necessary” end of the spectrum, needing words to fill in the gaps.
One reason posts have been so sparse this summer, is that I had the rare treat of traveling the West of Ireland for seven days with Katie. I thought about her mom, who I would meet just a few days after my last trip to Ireland, the whole time Katie and I traveled together. We still don’t have a convincing cause of death for Ali other than “enlarged heart”; I think it’s entirely feasible she died of broken heart syndrome. In other words, she loved too hard. Maybe she broke herself on St. Francis’ altar. Maybe she kept her eyes closed like Cayman, or lost her heart’s resilience after trying just a little too hard to do it all.
A couple of McDingleberriesSearching out Galway haunts together with my old journal as guide.
I don’t necessarily believe in unconditional love for loves beyond family love. Our relationships require conditions to contain them and to help us sustain ourselves and our love. We can love too little or break ourselves by loving too hard, or at the wrong times. But I do believe in kindness.
In both kindness and unconditional love, in heartbreak and in a daily celebration of life, I’m thankful for my tail-wagging, spooning companion. She helps me take heart every single day.
Dog Days bright and clear Indicate a happy year; But when accompanied by rain, For better times, our hopes are vain.
The Farmer’s Almanac, “The Dog Days of Summer”
Well then. I can tell already that my first blog post in … I don’t know… a few natural disasters… is not going to be, as a local music performer billed himself, tinged by hope. According to The Farmer’s Almanac, The Dog Days of Summer (from early July to mid-August) “coincide with the rising at sunrise of the Dog Star, Sirius, as well as with hot and sultry weather.”
Dog Days have come and gone this summer. In America (as in pretty much all of you who are not us in Alaska), dog days are those hot, lazy days, when Sirius the Dog Star is warning the Egyptians of drought and everyone else of the dangers of Bud Light and sun poisoning.
Cedar’s dog days… the heart of summer…were apparently good ones. I’ve been gone a lot this summer, and she’s had plenty of love, from Katie, from return house sitter and all-star human, Tenley, from Aaron and family at Shelter Island. But if we’re to believe the Farmer’s Almanac, what’s to come may not be so “sultry.”
While America hid from fires and skin cancer, we’ve had quite a freak show here, too— a jökulhlaup, a rare thunderstorm, an atmospheric river, and for whatever reasons, a massive blog post drought.
A jökul-what, you ask? Like “atmospheric river” this term was non-existent to all but specialists until a few years ago. It is not, in fact, an Icelandic heavy metal band. (I don’t think.) Instead, it refers to a sub-glacial release of water. In Juneau, we have a basin — basically a huge, icy lake—that releases each summer, flooding the Mendenhall Lake, then the river which courses through Juneau suburbia.
For many in recent years the jökulhaup has been a bit of a party. Pull up the lawn chairs and watch what floats by in the silty glacial river. But this year the lawn chairs went to higher ground. The graphs showing the expected peaks and the receding water levels were erased and modified on an hourly basis (which began to seem like eternities). It wasn’t long before many were up Shit’s Creek without a yard or a foundation. Trees gave up their hundreds of year holds, and houses 50 yards back from the river began to plunge in.
Friend Betsy posted on social media, “It’s been quite a show. Things that cruised by this evening – massive trees, a refrigerator, pillows, couch cushions, a roof, part of a bathroom, a wall, all kinds of insulation, wiring The river is making a roaring sound as it sweeps by.” A friend posted, “My house just fell into the river. Let me know if you find my stuff.” My neighbor found a box on a beach 10 miles from his place. The police found his Glock pistol floating in the busy harbor may miles downstream. Still missing: a cat and backpack full of cash.
A day later, a rare thunderstorm and torrential rain. A week later, an atmospheric river rain event. Then another, much smaller, jökulhlaup. No one near the river has returned to normal.
None of this is news from Cedar’s point of view, as far as I can tell. What is news is some doggy love (her Shelter Island summer fling, Libby) and a bit of cousin dog (who nearly lost her own yard) chill time, too.
They’re kind of all Dog Days around here. Still, maybe it’s worth acknowledging that I’m breaking the drought of the dog blog, with no help needed from the watery world in which she snores comforting sounds to soften vain hopes.
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