Stormy Weather

I was not prepared for what this spring has brought in terms of weather. Last year we were spoiled by essentially having no winter. This year is the winter that will not leave. Compounding the unseasonably cold temperatures and blustery winds is the fact that we are still getting precious little precipitation here in Colorado Springs. While the drought continues, it is the impact on my psyche that has been hardest to deal with.

You would think that I, having spent the first twenty-seven years of my life in Portland, Oregon, where seeing the sun is a near miraculous event, that I would be hardened to overcast, dreary days. Apparently not. Indeed, I have most recently spent a decade in climates of “extreme sun” counting Tucson, Arizona and here on the Front Range in Colorado. I think I have been trying to make up for those 27 years of drizzle.

It occurred to me while riding the bus on a particularly ugly day in Cincinnati what I find intolerable about “gray” days: The sky has no contour. You look up and it is like you are under a great silver dome. It feels like you are still indoors. This, to me, is the overriding feature that must be at the root of SAD (“Seasonal Affective Disorder”).

At least here in Colorado you can’t usually say the clouds themselves are depressing. Eerie, yes, and sometimes menacing, but not depressing. This is the only place I’ve been where the clouds remind me of being in a coffee mug and God is stirring cream into it. Short of a tornado, this is the closest one can come to the feeling that the sky really is falling.

Lately, however, the days have been far too reminiscent of Oregon. The worst is when the mountains disappear. The foothills and Pikes Peak are near constants in the landscape here, and when you cannot see them it becomes both disorienting and claustrophobic. The world literally seems to be closing in around you.

Lastly, the duration of cold, and periodic light snow, has taken its toll on me mentally. I guess you would call it “cabin fever,” but whatever the name it robs your mood of the highs that normally come at this time of year with blooming flowers, singing birds, the hum of bees. I find myself disturbingly unmotivated, disinterested, and even angry when I have no reason to be.

Weather cannot alone be blamed for our own personal miseries (excepting tornados, hurricanes, and floods I suppose), but no longer will I readily dismiss anyone who says that rainy days and gray skies get them down. We all have a hard time with things we cannot control. Rising above the austerity of climate at this time of year is challenging to be sure.

Timberline

Hemlock tops
Boughed in prayer
To the Sun God,
To the Snow God.
Winter Water weight gain
Shed with the thaw,
Hemlock heads
Bending like Narcissus
To admire their own beauty.

Eric R. Eaton, circa 1989

Art

The palette knife of Nature
Paints impressionist reflections
In shards of ice.
Mountains merge with sky
On upside down horizon.
Pigments thicker here,
Absent there,
And rough edges everywhere.
Leroy Neiman's landscape,
Stucco patterns in a plaster world.

Eric R. Eaton, circa 1989

Treats

Berries encased in ice,
Frozen delights on a stick
That children lick,
But without synthetic spice

Berries embedded in ice,
Frozen delights on a stick
That birds can't pick,
But other seeds will suffice

Springtime in Pima Canyon

The Southeast Arizona Butterfly Association had a field trip to Pima Canyon last Saturday, April 3, and I was privileged to be invited to go along. I wish to thank Fred Heath for furnishing transportation. Our small group was looking mostly for butterflies, of course, and we collectively saw twenty-one species, but it was the incredible variety of wildflowers that got our attention most of the time.

Fred is very knowledgeable regarding the flora of the Santa Catalina Mountains, where Pima Canyon is located, and he was able to name most of the flowers, and find cryptic ones. I passed right by this larkspur (Delphinium), for example, assuming it was “just another lupine.”

Most of the time, this canyon runs dry, but the winter rains and snowmelt this year have the water cascading down the stream in abundance. The extra moisture meant that we saw flowering plants typical of more moist riparian zones. Take this common monkeyflower, Mimulus guttatus, for example.

The flowers, in turn, did offer nectar for many of the butterflies we observed.

This Texan crescent, Phyciodes texana, was flitting from blossom to blossom on the common fiddleneck (Amsinckia menziesii) that is so abundant right now.

Pima Canyon is just a short drive outside of Tucson, and a very popular spot for hikers, so it can be a bit crowded on weekends. Just the same, I encourage visitors to southern Arizona to consider this scenic canyon as a potential day trip. It takes a bit of time to get into the heart of the canyon, but once there the shade afforded by the cliffs, cottonwoods and other trees is a welcome relief from the heat. You can always cool your heals in the creek, too, provided it is running, of course.

Catalina State Park

My friend Margarethe Brummermann was kind enough to invite me to join her for a hike in Catalina State Park last Tuesday, March 30. I had never visited this park in spring before, and this year is so spectacular that I couldn’t pass up the chance to see what the landscape looked like.

Catalina State Park actually lies within the Coronado National Forest, and is known for the nearly 5,000 saguaro cacti within its boundaries. Indeed, there are some truly magnificent specimens of this giant to be found there.

The park was slated to become a housing development in the early 1970s, known as “Rancho Romero.” However, a petition to re-zone the land for this purpose met with stiff public resistance. State Representative Charles King of Tucson then requested a feasibility study to assess the options for protecting the scenic and historical area. Though it was found the acreage met the criteria for a state park, a vote by the Arizona Parks Board on December 10, 1973 was against that idea.

Subsequent grassroots efforts and coalitions of non-profit groups ultimately led to King submitting House Bill 2280 to the 1974 session of the state legislature. It passed, and was signed into law by then-Governor Jack Williams on May 1, 1974.

The park’s master plan was crafted by many players, including students at the University of Arizona. It was approved on December 9, 1977. Still, the park’s current status was not fully achieved until April 22, 1991 when the last land exchanges became final.

Today, park visitors can enjoy all manner of passive recreation, from hiking to horseback riding, camping and picnicking. A day at the park costs $7 per vehicle, or $3 for an individual on foot or bicycle. Thankfully, despite closure of most state parks in Arizona due to a government budget crisis, Catalina State Park remains open, at least for now.

What can you expect to see in the park, besides saguaros? Well, how about some of the more than 150 species of birds that have been seen there? I can also attest to lizards, butterflies, and a seemingly endless variety of wildflowers that call the place home. You can see a few of them over at my Flickr photostream.

Thanks again to Margarethe for the great company, and sharing her own knowledge of flora and fauna.

Sonoran Desert Spring

John Alcock’s book by that name is a truly delightful literary introduction to this season in southern Arizona. This particular year is made even more dramatic, however, by the atypically regular series of rains we have had over the last three months or so. The extra precipitation has resulted in a truly lush and colorful landscape.

A trip to the Sabino Canyon Recreation Area on March 19, and to Esperero Canyon on March 27 revealed both creeks running full and fast. Both canyons are in the Santa Catalina Mountains just north of Tucson. The dam in Sabino Canyon was positively roaring with the cascading flow. Esperero Canyon is normally bone dry at this time of year, but the pools and riffles are a welcome sight there, too.

Elsewhere, the rain has soaked into the dusty soil and wildflowers have sprouted in an abundance not seen for decades in some locations. I usually lament missing the show, since the legendary floral exhibitions are usually a fair car ride away and I don’t drive. Imagine my delight in finding a wonderland only a short walk west from downtown Tucson.

Sentinel Peak Park is a city park that includes a butte of that name (known as “A” Mountain to locals, owing to an enormous concrete “A” on its eastern slope, painted in the red, white and blue colors of the University of Arizona), but the area immediately behind (west of) that promontory offers a more spectacular view right now. I discovered that a trail across the “saddle” between two other buttes took me through a glorious field of poppies, lupine, and other wildflowers.

Here is a true “magic carpet” of fleeting duration, transporting one to a fantasyland of natural wonder. Where one would normally find only the gray-green of mesquites and cacti, here now are great swaths of yellow-orange, punctuated by spears of violet-blue lupines and white lyreleaf jewelflowers.

The floral fireworks may be just beginning. I see that the pink (and vermillion) globemallows have just begun to bloom, and soon creosote bush will be coming on strong, along with the palo verde trees.

I feel truly privileged to be a spectator of the season, especially this year. One of the other hikers I met in the park said that friends of hers who had been living in Tucson for decades hadn’t seen anything like this since about 1983. Indeed, a show like this is as rare as a comet in these parts.

Spring Peepers

One of the many things I love about Facebook is that my nature-loving friends will note harbingers of the changing seasons. Lately, I have begun reading that some folks are already hearing spring peepers, a type of treefrog. Given the harsh winter this year, a more appropriate reaction might be “It’s about time.”

Spring peepers bear the scientific name Pseudacris crucifer, in reference to the “X,” or cross-like pattern usually evident on the backs of these diminutive amphibians. Mature adults are only two or three centimeters in length, but they make up for their small size with a big voice.

Males broadcast in synchronized choruses from a variety of wetland situations throughout most of North America east of the Mississippi River. The sound can carry up to a quarter of a mile. What you normally hear is the courtship song designed to attract females. The males are quite protective of their small territories, however, and another intruding frog will elicit a short trill of aggression.

Making a racket is risky, though, as you can also attract predators. So, there is something of a ventriloquistic element. Just try finding one in the act of calling, even when it is in close proximity, on the ground or on vegetation.

After mating, females lay clusters of eggs in a gelatinous mass under water, attached to aquatic vegetation or at the bottom of a small pond. In fact, a favored habitat of this species is vernal pools, temporary wetlands in an otherwise forested habitat.

Egg-laying can continue into the summer months, but the tadpoles hatch in 7-10 days, taking from five to eight weeks to metamorphose into tiny versions of the adult. The larvae are highly vulnerable to aquatic predators including turtles, salamander larvae, and even large insects like dragonfly nymphs.

You would think that tiny frogs known as “spring peepers” would be found in….spring. Apparently they are not limited to that season, since Dave Small, Lynn Harper and myself found one in a meadow in the neighborhood of the Quabbin Reservoir on the fourth of October, 2009. Prior to that, my initial encounter with Pseudacris crucifer had been at Dave’s home, where at least one frog sat patiently beneath the mercury vapor light, awaiting any errant insects that were attracted to it.

Here’s wishing that you hear your own springtime serenade any day now.

Garlands

We decorate
Our Christmas trees
And defend such frivolities
As festive.
But it is no accident
That Yuletide cheer
Falls near winter solstice
Each and every year.
Impatient for Spring
We string the lights
Like flowers bright
To guide us through long winter nights.

Color, color,
We need more color.
Break out the holly
And the evergreens
To spruce up the snowy holiday scenes.
Autumn leaves have all dispersed
And flower blooms
Are still far off.
So why pretend?
Why not admit?
We need Nature all year long
To keep our hearts merry
And our spirits strong.

Eric R. Eaton, circa 1988

Winter Mourn

Life huddles on a winter-dead tree.
Birds feather-fluffed crouch low,
Eyes shut to cold onslaught.
Moss uncombed
Drapes over shoulder limb.
A fungus staircase
Up the bumpy trunk
Provides an avenue
For a meandering snail.

Sudden flight
Cracks cloud, leaves branches
Bouncing in good-bye.
Torn shroud of gray
Re-sews itself.
Lonely twigs lace the sky
And mourn the bird-loss
With heavy dew-tears.

But moss still clings,
Fungus holds fast,
And snail still lingers.

Eric R. Eaton
circa 1981

Autumn Scenics

Despite my dislike for fall, you can’t be in New England at this time of year and not go out on a picture-perfect afternoon to admire the foliage. Last Sunday, October 25, was just such a day. I went for a walk in the late afternoon to catch the low sun on the trees and the river, and these images hardly do the landscape justice.

My immediate neighborhood here in South Deerfield, Massachusetts is an odd mix of run-down homes and cul-de-sac spurs with obviously affluent subdivisions. Taking a walk down one such road brought me some spectacular views of North Sugarloaf Mountain, and this estate beneath, complete with a riding arena. There I met Kim, who greeted me on her riding mower as she vacuumed leaves off the steep lawn in front of her family’s house, situated right on the side of the mountain. Her daughter was riding her horse, exercising the equine to help it recover from an injury that kept it out of major shows this year.

Kim is typical of the strangers I’ve met here: Warm and friendly, and eager to share their experiences with the land. By the time we parted I had been invited to their Halloween party this Saturday.

North Sugarloaf is the wilder sister of South Sugarloaf, with a deep “saddle” between the two buttes. The farms that abut the base of both are breathtaking and suggest the quintessential romantic rural life. Blight killed off all the tomatoes this year, and tobacco (yes, tobacco!) was a total loss, too. Life is not as idyllic as it appears on the surface.

South Sugarloaf Mountain is the tourist attraction here. A yet-to-be-released movie starring Mel Gibson had a scene filmed at the top last year, where the observation tower stands. Manicured, clear-cut, and landscaped to offer a panoramic view and picnicking sites, it is decidedly less natural than its northern twin. I find the view looking upslope to be more inspiring than that from the summit, which takes a disappointingly short time to reach, even if you do not drive your car there.

Go around South Sugarloaf and you head downhill to the bridge between South Deerfield and Sunderland, over the mighty Connecticut River. This view looks upstream with Mount Toby in the distance.

The Connecticut is a highly-controlled river, its levels at the mercy of floodgates that this year left the water high most of the time. Only rarely did one see sand bars on the island or any semblance of a shoreline along the heavily-wooded banks. Just beyond the tree-line, however, the land gives way to agriculture. The University of Massachusetts has a large farm devoted to growing turf and sustaining cattle, among other experimental pursuits.

Here is a typical view behind the veil of trees.

The light fades too fast and I find myself wanting to chase the sun. The wind has not yet surrendered, and blows a reminder of wilder ways across the surface of the Connecticut, writing in ripples about seasons yet to come.

Masterpiece

Spider silk connects the dots,
The toothy edges
Of an alder leaf,
Gilding the flamboyant colors
Of aging foliage
In a silvery, oval frame
Hung in the fleeting gallery
Of fall.

Eric R. Eaton
circa 1983

Do you like the odd poem here on this blog? Want more? You can read more over at my poetry blog, Verse-atility.

Autumn

I do not like autumn. I never have. I don’t like watching things die, if even only in the seasonal sense. Fall sends me into mourning for the lost summer, and already pining for spring.

Ironically, in the part of Arizona that I currently call home, the landscape looks dead the majority of the year, perking up only during the summer “monsoon” season. I know that life is merely hiding, though, cryptic in its way of dealing with heat and drought. Meanwhile, I am comfortable for most of the time. Not so here in New England.

Here, the spring and summer are fleeting. Life cycles seem speeded up by several orders of magnitude with insect species at least coming and going so quickly that they are easily missed if one isn’t paying attention, or rainy weather nudges one back indoors like it did this June and much of July. I am not alone in feeling short-changed in the sunshine department. Yesterday morning (Friday, October 16) it even snowed briefly.

The heralded “fall colors” here seem muted even by Massachusetts standards. Ornamental Norway maples are doing their part without much help from native maples. Oaks turn later I am told, and they sure seem to be taking their sweet time. Among the exceptional trees are red maples. They turned fiery red a few weeks ago in the “maple swamps,” truly spectacular in contrast to the blue skies and evergreens.

Here, people flock from elsewhere to see that kind of color. The tourists, some even from eastern Massachusetts, come as a mixed blessing to residents. Traffic picks up dramatically, and crawling along behind the “leaf peepers” seems a nearly intolerable price to pay for whatever revenue is injected into the local economy.

Apples, wool, and pumpkins dominate the mind and drive rural events now. I’m going to the annual pumpkin festival in Keene, New Hampshire later this afternoon in fact, tagging along with my “bus buddies” from the daily workweek commute. Friends and food are powerful motivations to venture out in the absence of insects and other wildlife to watch.

Last weekend I was in the vicinity of Antrim, New Hampshire with my friend Lynn Harper for their “Wool Arts Tour.” The event centered mostly around several farms where sheep, llamas, and alpacas are raised for their wool. I enjoy the pace of life away from the city, and the people here are warm and friendly, but I’d still be finding lots of insects on the desert broom (Baccharis) flowers back in Tucson.

Wet, fallen leaves underfoot, like a bowl of soggy cornflakes, and clouds condensing from one’s own breath. That is life right now.

.

International

Parallel lines
Of paper birches
Fade to plaid
When crossed
With reflections
Of sky and water
In sunset shades
Of red and green,
The Scottish fabric
Of an American grove.

Eric R. Eaton
circa 1988