IIII ) lll (14Feb13)
1058
Sspopiikimi - We're just a few sleeps into Piitaiki'somm, the Eagle-Moon, and I
feel like it's time I get back into my phenology studies. Not that I've been
'out' of them, per say. Hardly a week has passed in several years when I didn't
commit myself to some hours of learning in the coulees. But during
Misamssootaa, the Long-Rains of last summer, I suddenly stopped writing
fieldnotes. Part of the reason for this, I attribute to a sort-of depression.
There were very few successful waterfowl nests at Sspopiikimi last season - one
goose, two mallards, and zero teals, redheads, or coots. Neither the owls, nor
the hawks, raised broods here either. Though there certainly was no shortage of
life to engage with at the pond, I felt the absence of these familiars, and it
bothered me... so much so that a lot of the joy and spirit of inquiry I'm
accustomed to experiencing simply wasn't here. I kept voice-recorded notes of
the visits I've made weekly or so since, but hardly have I felt compelled to
even begin writing them up
Today,
that changes. Enough dragging around feeling sorry for myself and this place,
for any events that could have been, but weren't. Maybe last summer was an
invitation for me to enhance my familiarity with the lives of some of the other
residents, or to discover communities I've here-to-fore overlooked. Who knows
what opportunities I've missed by fixating on the missing instead of the
present. Or maybe I just needed a break from the routine of fieldnote writing.
In which case, I've had my breather. Best to get on
It's
warm today, probably ten degrees. We've had an extremely easy winter. The
nights are still freezing, of course, and as a result the surface of the pond
remains iced-over, though I wouldn't trust it to walk on
I
can hear geese out at the river as I begin my walk along the west cutbank. A
family of four pass overhead, on their way to join the others. I'm expecting
any time now to see the geese returning to the pond, to begin staking their claims
to the limited number of islands, prepping for the nests they'll begin sitting
almost as soon as the water thaws
Already
there are a few open holes along this cutbank, though I don't know whether they
result from melt, or the conscious actions of beavers. Certainly the latter
have been feeding at these stations, as they always do in late winter. I can
see the evidence, even from a distance - many green pieces of lower bulrush
stem, each about six inches in length, floating on the water's surface. From above,
it's also evident that each of these openings in the ice is also the
destination of underwater trenches, built and maintained by the ksisskstaki. I
would not be surprised to learn that they somehow produce the conditions that
result in the ice thawing at these positions. At the moment, I have no
explanation for the phenomenon at all, whether nature-fact or beaver-produced
1116
A raven soars past, giving a single throaty call, as I inspect one of the
ksisskstaki feeding stations up close. It's connected by underwater canal to
what appears to be another open spot on the edge of the reeds in the
wet-meadows. As I climb a little ways back up the cutbank to try to photograph
what I'm observing, the ground suddenly collapses beneath me, and I find myself
sitting in a large burrow. I am near the end of this tunnel, and by flashlight
I can see down to where it terminates at the waterline. Here, there are more of
the green pieces of freshly cut bulrush stem, and by the size of this burrow it
could only have been dug by the ksisskstakiiksi
This
is clearly another piece of the overall feeding-station puzzle. Could the
presence of this large burrow in the cutbank explain why the ice thaws against
the shoreline here? Which came first, the feeding station or the burrow?
Certainly I could understand how handy it would be for the beavers to have such
architecture here. This feeding site is a long distance from their lodge. What
if they swam all the way out here and found the surface still completely
iced-over? Obviously it would be to their benefit to have a spot where they can
climb out of the water regardless, and take a breather
1129
A little further along the cutbank, I come across two other ksisskstaki feeding
stations. These ones must have been established some years ago, because in each
case the earthen ceiling of a corresponding burrow had sunken in. I suspect
they had been re-dug, given that the ice is still melting at the shoreline, and
that both sites are still in active use as feeding stations (based on bulrush
evidence). Now that I see the correlation between these small open pools and
the sunken tunnels, I can't believe I never noticed it before. I've wondered at
these feeding stations every winter for several years, but I had to actually
fall into a burrow in order to take notice of them. And I still don't
understand the physics of how they function to assist in melting the ice
Above
this cutbank, out on the exposed golf greens, there are perhaps hundreds of
geese. They've been taking off in groups toward the river as I inspected the
beaver works. Where I am now, directly across the pond from me is the
ksisskstakioyis. There are open water pools at its primary entrances as well
1141
Also on the golf greens, in some conifer trees to the south, is a pair of
mamia'tsikimiiksi. These same trees house a nest that I know of, and the one
bird I can see from my position is perching on a high, exposed branch, flicking
his tail straight up in display, and giving a flirtatious call to his mate. I
sit down to watch, hoping I'll witness some magpie love. But this couple isn't
interested in being subjects of my surveillance. They wing off to land again
high up on the coulee rim
Walking
back off the greens, I pass under a cottonwood tree where a downy woodpecker is
busy tapping for grubs. Out on the wide south pool of the pond, there's a
family of four aapsspini. These are the first I've seen in these waters since
the ice-over, and their presence here is exactly what I expect to witness
during this moon
1158
The currant and bulberry brush above the peninsula are quiet today. None of the
tiny passerines who can often be found here are about. But as soon as I drop
into the owl wood, life awaits. Given where I'm at, my eyes naturally scan the
forest canopy, and in one of the very first trees there is a yearling
porcupine. He's extremely cute and gold of hair, quite possibly the progeny of
Peekaboo and The Blonde. One tree over from him, a furious chatter erupts, and
I look over to see a female downy woodpecker. No doubt she is the one who lives
nearby, beside the male owl's usual perch, which is surprisingly empty today.
It was like this last year, come nesting time (this moon) - the kakanottsstooki
couple just disappeared to wherever their new nest location was. I'm assuming
the same departure has occurred, but take a walk along the thick western
treeline just in case, and sure enough I find the male there above the old
raccoon den. His mate is still absent, as she has been all winter here. In
fact, I can't even be sure it is the same male who has lived here so many
years. It could just as easily be one of his sons, as yet a bachelor
1246
Satisfied at having confirmed the presence of the male great horn, I move into
one of the meadows of the Owl Wood to experiment with movement. It is part of
what I've occupied myself with since my slow-down in note-taking began... the
next phase in my overall project of learning to engage with my environment more
fully as a human being. The way I'm looking at it, my progression began with a
few years of gaining familiarity with the other inhabitants here. I then moved
on to exploring the primary relationship all beings have with this place
year-round, the quest for food. Both of these initial aspects of the project
continue today, and I suspect will be lifelong sources of personal development.
And now I have added a third element: movement
Is
it possible for a modern human being to move strong and gracefully through our
natural environments, in a manner becoming of a creature who actually belongs
here? And can we do so not as oblivious recreators, but as highly aware beings,
surveying and responding to the others we encounter? For several months now, I
have been exploring such questions, drawing off traditional martial arts and
parkour for inspiration. How do we navigate rocks, logs, hills, trees? Will I
ever be able to pass quietly along a forest floor that's scattered with dry
leaves?
Today,
I've brought along a chokecherry staff almost my height. In the meadow of the
Owl Wood I practice spinning it, and using it as a weapon, moving the rod
around me, and myself around the rod. It is a basic tool drawn straight from
this environment, but one that is awkward in my hands, save for it's crude use
as a walking cane. This is how pitiful we've become as a species in the
outdoors, that even the able-bodied often seek the assistance of sticks in
order to gain balance
I
experiment in the meadow for about a half hour, before shouldering my pack
again and setting off over the levee, and down to the open spring of
south-pond. Out on the river, I can hear geese squabbling by the high-level
bridge. Already they're fighting over claim to the island-like pillars
1308
It's warm enough now, there must be quite a bit of insect activity going on in
unseen niches, under cover. I decide to move out onto the wet meadows and turn
a few rotten planks from the old boardwalk to confirm this suspicion. Indeed,
the very first one I turn is home to a plethora of wintering critters. There
are at least three kinds of carabid beetle: the sidewalk, badister, and a black
species about the same size as the latter. There are also paederus rove
beetles, two species of spider, saltmarsh moth larvae, meadow slugs, and an
ichneumon wasp. I am surprised that, with how many planks I've turned in this
marshy area over the years, I've never once found an live mouse, nor a tiger
salamander
That
one board had given me enough information about who's stirring at the moment.
Continuing on toward the big bulrush patch, I come across a spot where the
grasses are all matted down, and there's evidence that a deer was taken. The
coyote packs are a force to be reckoned with when hungry enough. All that is
left of the deer are a few partial bones, chewed at their ends, and tufts of
hair. And speaking of coyotes, just as I begin to move away from the site, I'm
treated to a close-contact encounter. I guess I'd been quiet enough, standing
still inspecting the deer kill area, that a coyote hunting for voles in the wet
meadow grass walked right up to me unaware. Only when I began crunching again
with my big, clumbsy feet did she look up, not more than a few meters from me,
and then quickly turned to run
1323
I stay where I am, watching as the coyote runs away from me, stopping every so
often to look back again. Eventually, she disappears into the treeline of the
forest main, and then I move in that direction as well, but a ways south of
where she entered, hoping I might encounter her again
When
I come into the forest, there is a magpie who gives a double call. This is
answered by a companion to the north, and then by another companion to the
south, who flies in and lands near the first bird. Then a fourth magpie flies
overhead from the north and gives a stuccato series as he passes. The other
three take wing and follow him
I
suspect that they are moving with the coyote, that she's already passed through
this forest and is perhaps somewhere nearer the coulee slope. Even if I'm
wrong, the likelihood of seeing her again is faint, because a human presence
has suddenly erupted here. First, a jogger passes. And less than a minute
later, I come across a retired couple walking along the main trail. They're not
familiar with this place, and are wondering whether I've seen any porcupines,
an animal they'd come across elsewhere in the coulee before. I share with them
the location of the yearling in the owl wood, and they depart excited to see it
for themselves
1339
As I reach the far north end of the forest main, a couple clan-sized flocks of
aapsspini land in the wet meadows and mid-pond, just as I expected they would
be by now. Out at the big river island, there are even more geese, hundreds of
them. And the Oldman has considerably more open water than I've ever witnessed
so early in this moon before
1351
Rounding north-pond and making my way back to the Jeep, I make one final stop
off at a small cluster of cottonwoods, with a log where I know there to be deer
mice residents. I retrieve a bag from my pack, and place the contents near the
entrance to mice's den, speaking to my wish that what I'm leaving, all the
trimmings from the last haircuts Mahoney and I had, will be of use to them.
This is a form of aatsimihka'ssin, of balancing things out. We don't own our
bodies, we only borrow them. And what we have no further use for may become very
beneficial for the lives of others
