The River Landing

If a Tree Falls

The sun had already been up for a couple of hours when I finally ventured out on the morning of July 17^th, coffee in hand, to check on the neighborhood bird life.  But the birds were not so active or vocal.  Even the robins, whose songs usually were the most dominating throughout the day, barely made a few calls.  Of course, the breeding season was winding down, and many bird species were beginning to prepare for fall migrations.  I had barely gotten used to the summer bird community of my new town, having moved to Macomb only in late February, and I now regretted not spending time outside just after sunrise listening to the morning chorus.

          The strange quiet reminded me of a time three years ago, waking up one winter morning to find the hearing in my right ear muffled and down to only about thirty percent capacity.  After a few days with no improvement, I feared permanent hearing loss.  Months thereafter followed, trying every solution in the general practitioner’s tool box, before being referred to a specialist (Dr. Gary Shaw of Graham Hospital in Canton) who suggested that nasal surgery with a tube placed into my eardrum was the only viable option to restore my hearing. 

            I was fully conscious during the tube placement, which involved drilling a hole through my eardrum; the pain was at a scale unlike anything I have ever experienced, and it sounded like ten 747 jet engines screaming at full throttle.  I tried to remain as stoic and still as I could manage; my wife Julie could not watch without crying.  And less than a year later when the tube needed to be reinstalled, she could not be in the same room.  As if that were not bad enough, soon after the initial tube placement I would find myself on a hospital cart saying farewell to Julie (there are certainly cases of patients not waking up from anesthesia), then being wheeled into an operating room full of strangers in masks; I watched the anesthetic flow into my veins, and then…blackness.  My nasal passages would be excavated and widened using surgical tools inserted through the nostril.  Recovery took weeks; and in the end, my hearing returned and I could breathe better.  I felt thankful for the expertise and knowledge of Dr. Shaw, the many years he spent learning his craft, and to live at a time and in a country where such a complex surgery could be available, attainable, and successfully completed; because it was not so long ago that a simple ailment such as a toothache might have meant an agonizing, prolonged death from infection.  So I looked forward to the following spring, when I would fully hear bird songs again, and appreciate those songs as never before. 

          And yet, it still was not long before I once again began to slip back into the old pattern of taking life’s simple pleasures and comforts for granted.  To ease my conscience, I decided that such a state of mind must be a natural tendency and necessary for a relaxed life.  Is the better alternative to live as if each moment were the last, as if everything familiar and loved could vanish without warning in mere seconds, living life always at a high state of anxiety?  And now, the COVID-19 pandemic has descended upon the world, being a grim reminder once again, like the 9/11 attacks in 2001, not to take anything for granted, not even something as simple as a reliable supply of bathroom tissue.

          So at the very least, as I lie in bed each morning, hearing the first northern cardinal of the day singing as if it knew that that song would be its last ever, I’ll take a moment to really listen.  For if I did not acknowledge this bird’s efforts, would it then be completely ignored?  I am reminded of the age-old question:  If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound?  Imagine a continuous bird song chorus each morning tracking the sunrise the world over, moving from east to west across the continents, shifting each year between hemispheres;  and, wildlife notwithstanding, much of it not heard by anyone.  But the songs are still there.

 

[Audio extra:  On June 13, 2020, from a canoe I recorded the morning songbird chorus in a flooded forest along the Illinois River at Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge.  To hear the recording, click this link: 

Download Sounds of a flooded forest at Quiver Lake-Chautauqua NWR 13-June-2020 ]

   

 

From a Gathering of Blackbirds

Even though the air temperature was 93 degrees F, where I sat, under the shade of a large cottonwood tree, it was pleasant, especially when the wind gusted off Quiver Lake.  There I could sit for hours watching the white caps roll, with swallows foraging for insects just above the water and turkey vultures soaring beneath billowy clouds.  But it was late in the day, and I needed to return home, an hour away in Macomb, for dinner with my wife, Julie.

 

Quiver Lake, an Illinois River backwater, at the cabin

 

          Just when I was about to slowly stand up, several red-winged blackbirds and common grackles flew across my view, then landed in a silver maple tree just above the water’s edge.  More calling blackbirds then arrived from further up the shoreline toward Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge to join with those perching in the maple tree, but some of the original birds flew onward to other trees down the lakeshore.  This loosely knit flock was the first gathering of blackbirds that I had seen this summer.  The flocks often include brown-headed cowbirds, rusty blackbirds, and European starlings (this species, though, is not in the blackbird family), and they usually begin coalescing every year sometime in the middle of July just after the breeding season is completed.  It is a benchmark in the year, an event that I use to mark the seasonal progression, a moment when I begin to think of the fall and coming winter—though summer’s heat and humidity may be extreme—and what surprises the following year may bring, both good and bad.

          But it’s obviously easier to look backward than attempt to predict what may come to pass.  For example, one year ago, I could not have anticipated how abruptly we would move from our primary residence in the rural countryside of Mason County to the small western Illinois town of Macomb.  Such thoughts were, of course, in our minds as a distinct possibility for several years; but the fact of the move, and that it happened so quickly after the process had begun in October, shocked and transformed our placid lives in a way that has yet to return to an equilibrium.  When we return to Mason County to manage our remaining affairs or to visit the cabin at Quiver Lake, we still cannot help but feel, even after six months, that we are back home.

          Last July we had not yet even talked about taking a trip of a lifetime in the coming November to visit several southeastern states, waters with wild manatees and alligators, and to spend a late afternoon drinking wine and watching hang gliders above northwestern Georgia’s Lookout Mountain.  The thought had never entered my mind at any time in the past, let alone last July, that in recent weeks a black bear from Wisconsin would swim across the Mississippi River twice, into and out of Iowa, before entering western Illinois, all the while traveling quickly in a purposeful southern direction, passing around ten miles west of our new home in town, then swim across the river again to Missouri north of St. Louis, and all the while be tracked by the media and thousands of people concerned about the bear’s welfare (Bruno the bear he would be dubbed); in October, I would discover through an internet search that a good childhood friend, Sigi Bigelis, had been dead from cancer for five years, sadly answering a nagging question in my mind of why we had lost touch; I’m sure that few last year would have predicted the world would soon be in an upheaval from the deadly coronavirus (COVID-19) and plunged into a self-inflicted, deep economic recession from governmental mandates attempting to control the virus’s spread, perhaps permanently changing the way people interact in public, from wearing face masks to social distancing to relegating handshaking as a thing of the past; and I never expected to be witness to widespread civil unrest, racial tensions, and domestic violence at scales and intensities not recalled in my memory since the late 1960s. 

        The prosperity of last summer seems more than a lifetime ago.  But from those good times, well before everything had collapsed amid the virus and social anarchy, NASA—ever optimistic about the future—announced concrete plans to not only return to the Moon by 2024, but to use the new Moon missions to establish a gateway toward sending astronauts to Mars, hopefully still within my lifetime (effects from the COVID-19 pandemic apparently have not significantly altered those plans).

          And so, the next year will unfold as it will, no matter what I do, say, or think, just as the case has always been.  But with so many negative arrows hitting their targets, it’s a struggle to remain upright and positive, even with NASA in my corner, especially with multiple daily reminders of life-threatening dangers ready to strike by merely breathing the air at a supermarket checkout line, while at the same moment attempting and often failing to stay at least six feet away from others, reminding myself not to think of them as walking contagions, and keeping my hands away from my face. 

        Under my cottonwood tree at Quiver Lake with its floodplain forest wilderness along the Illinois River, I feel safe from threats, finding solace in nature as I always have.  Surrounded by such peace, I am always reluctant to leave; but leave I must, in order to live, just as I must confront the world outside and all that it may hurl in my direction.

 

Bird Expectations

At our new home in an older section of Macomb, Illinois, I’ve taken to beginning most days sitting quietly with a cup of coffee just outside our back door, listening and watching for birds. I fully expected there to be differences in the breeding bird communities between our new urban location and our former home in rural Mason County along the Illinois River valley. In the more manicured setting of Macomb, with less habitat diversity than the country, I knew there would be less species, but I also expected some overlap. Species such as the house sparrow, European starling, northern cardinal, and American robin are simply a given for any Illinois town. So I could not help from mentally making lists of those species seen and those that I eventually expected. 

        But now that the spring migration was over, where almost any species is at least possible, I was not exactly sure which species I definitely should not expect to see. By the middle of June, I had still not logged a rose-breasted grosbeak or a Baltimore oriole, which I found surprising. So I started thinking more about habitats. I would not, of course, expect true grassland species, such as a Henslow’s sparrow or dickcissel, in town, nor would I expect wetland species like a black-necked stilt. On the other hand, Killjordan Creek, less than a block from my home, could be a wild card. I had already seen, for example, a great blue heron flying high overhead apparently following the creek through town. With that thought, a belted kingfisher is high on my list of expectations. When a flash of yellow in a nearby spruce tree caught my attention, I immediately knew it as an American goldfinch, but the deep yellow made me think of the prothonotary warbler. That was certainly a bird I would not expect in my neat little neighborhood, because if any bird can be considered the quintessential floodplain forest songbird, that species is it. I should also not expect forest songbirds that require large expanses of unbroken mature forest, such as the cerulean warbler or veery. But what about shrubland species? I had already checked off the brown thrasher, gray catbird, and eastern towhee; so more shrubland birds might be expected. Blue grosebeak? Common yellowthroat? Not yet.

        From a bird’s perspective, the in-town environment must seem like a simplified type of savanna: large scattered trees within a mosaic of grasses, shrubs, and large open areas. If that is, indeed, the case, then I should be looking for birds that can also be found in savannas and habitat edges. The key word, however, is “simplified”: much of the open area is pavement; the short-clipped lawns and trimmed shrubbery in town are a far cry from a prairie grass-forb mixture with hazelnut thickets; and the standing dead timber found in natural areas, so useful to species such as the red-headed woodpecker, does not last long in an urban environment, especially when a fall would likely be over a house, road, or overhead wires.

 

Do birds perceieve this environment as a simplified savanna?

 

        Birding in town is a challenge not just because there are less bird habitats than in the country, but because one cannot simply roam around at will pointing a pair of powerful binoculars toward wherever an interesting bird might be. I can just imagine the reaction if a not-quite-recognizable bird song made its way over from the smokebush across the street, which also happens to be in front of a neighbor’s living room window. “Officer…seriously, you’ve never heard of a white-eyed vireo?” So I’ll continue to adjust my expectations to town life, and perhaps have a nice surprise once in a while near the back door—like the hermit thrush during migration or the Cooper’s hawk that I had a glimpse of for about two seconds.

Landmarks and Trail Markers

By Thomas V. Lerczak

For nearly thirty years, my sense of orientation on the landscape has been tied to the Illinois River valley, especially that area around Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge. Even though the river and its valley were not always in view, I knew where the river was in relation to where I happened to be at any time. Before that, when I lived in the Chicago area, Lake Michigan filled a similar landmark role, even though I had traveled to its shores only a few times a year; I could almost feel the big lake’s presence as the sun rose over its endless horizon. On the east side of the lake in Michigan, though, I felt disoriented, and sometimes briefly traveled the opposite direction from my destination, until I remembered Lake Michigan was on the west, not the east.
        But now I find myself living in the small western Illinois town of Macomb, amidst a landscape of table-top flat farm fields and gently rolling hills with widely spaced ravine systems. Among the level agricultural fields, there are few trees, and the view may be unobstructed for miles. What feature could I use here, far from the Illinois River, to navigate? For a time, I felt unmoored. And then one day, heading home and still over five miles from town, I noticed a distant water tower barely discernable, just above where a faraway tree line met the sky. I recognized this tower: it stands on East Walker Street, only a few short blocks from my new home, on a high spot in town. Thereafter I could associate home with the water tower, almost like a big, white signpost rising above the entire town.

 

    The East Walker Street water tower, Macomb, Illinois

 

                Looking out the author's back door.

        On such a landscape, I cannot help but think of the old trail marker trees set up by Native Americans at strategic locations to help guide their journeys at a time, long ago, when much of west-central Illinois was a mosaic of savanna and large expanses of treeless tallgrass prairies. They created the trail markers by, perhaps, bending a sapling oak into an arc, then keeping it staked in that orientation until the tree accepted its new form and continued to maintain the shape. One such white oak I recall seeing near Athens, Illinois, apparently pointed, for over three hundred years, to a good crossing on the Sangamon River miles away to the northwest. Other trail marker trees pointed to springs of clear, fresh water; villages; or important trails, such as the Chicago Portage, the shortest distance for travelers between the Des Plaines River—flowing toward the Illinois River and then the Mississippi—and The Great Lakes Basin.

        View of Macomb from the northwest side of town.

 

        Countryside about five miles southeast of Macomb.

 

        And what of life’s journey when critical circumstances converge and choices are required, possibly changing the trajectory of one’s life toward a new pathway? There was the moment I simply knew the woman sitting across from me would one day be my wife or the day I began to seize control of my life, instead of letting it float rudderless over the falls.
In hindsight, after four decades, I clearly see the trail-marker moment (names in the following reminiscence have been changed to preserve anonymity):

        Twenty years old, and going nowhere, right in the midst of Jimmy Carter’s Misery Index recession. To me, it actually did seem as if America’s best days were behind. So I felt lucky to have a job at all, and a union job no less.
        The Morgan Paper Company in a near Chicago suburb should not have been such a bad place to work for a little while, until something better came up. But in the warehouse, running the paper cutters and packing shipments, they didn’t need to hire the best caliber of people: no skills to offer, little or no education, prone to vices, bad grammar and profanity. I couldn’t believe that this was my lot in life, but sometimes it’s easier to stay than to go, especially when going meant stepping off into the unknown without a paddle.
        In fact, I helped my friend Cliff get a job at Morgan when the recession was at its worst. I think he was grateful; it was a job after all. So every day, Cliff would walk over to my paper cutting machine to visit for a few minutes before starting work. He liked routine, and I could count on these leisurely morning visits like clockwork.
        But this day, his demeanor was anything but relaxed. I saw Cliff quickly walking down the dirty warehouse aisle between stacks of wooden pallets filled with paper, and he looked nervous and agitated.
        “I hate that old man!” said Cliff.
        “What happened?” I asked.
        “I ask him for the keys to the forklift; he looks at me, spits on the floor, and walks away. And I’m standin’ there lookin’ down at a mass of mucus and spit!”
        “Yeah, he’s an ass, I’ll give you that,” I replied. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you never ask Oliver for anything?” At that, Cliff just threw his arms into the air and stalked off, shouting obscenities.
        Before starting up the paper cutter, I thought another cup of coffee was in order. And for some reason on that particular day, I noticed that the wall and floor around the coffee maker were looking pretty bad. And that’s because before filling up with fresh coffee, certain people would empty whatever coffee was left in their cups onto the floor or against the wall. This really was barbaric. But I must admit that it was learned behavior, and I sometimes did it too. It gave a little sense of freedom and power over The Man. Could it be that these guys I worked with were rubbing off on me?
        As I took my first sip of coffee, I saw out the corner of my eye that my helper, Howard, had finally decided to show up for work, a few minutes late as usual. Howard was a little slow, not quite all there, as we used to say. But he was a hard worker; and, as far as I could tell, he didn’t show up drunk or high like some of the other workers. So most of us in the shop tried to cut him some slack—all except Oliver, of course...the jerk.
        “Guess what I got here,” Howard said as he held out his rolled up fist.
        Oh man, I thought, this has got to be disgusting. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. No, I was sure I didn’t want to know.
        “We better get started, Howard,” I said. “Lots to do today.”
        At which point he began laughing manically, like the lunatic I knew him to be. Howard was probably ten years older than I was, and I think he thought of me as a naïve kid. But because I was his boss, he usually did what I told him to do.
        So I flipped the toggle switch that turned on the cutting machine; and as it came to life, I remember asking myself: Whatever happened to that smart grade school kid who was always at the head of his class and on all the honor rolls? How did he end up in here with this crowd? Then I recalled the feeling of freedom experienced on a recent motorcycle trip to the Mississippi River, which made the idea of leaving suddenly seem easier than staying. And it wasn’t too long before I did just that: off to college and I never looked back.

 

        And so, at that intersection, I took a different road, and life deposited me on the Illinois River bluffs for a time, and now Macomb. I expect it will be some time yet before I fully adjust to my new surroundings, still feeling tied to the Illinois River valley as a center of gravity. But one day recently, with heavy rain pounding down everything in sight, I sat dry in my new home, recalling the previous owners’ comments about slight seepage in the basement and maybe a leak on the sun porch roof, when I thought about little Killjordan Creek, just down the hill at Compton Park, wondering how it might handle all the extra water. Much of its headwaters are small ditches within the city of Macomb. So when the rain stopped, I took a little hike. And true to expectations, Killjordan Creek flowed high and mighty. There was a lot of water running off the land. To where? And then I recalled that this creek flows into another small stream called Troublesome Creek, which itself connects with the La Moine River about fourteen miles to the southwest. The La Moine River then empties into the Illinois River about thirty-three miles to the southeast.

 

        Killjordan Creek at Compton Park, Macomb.

        I suspect that for most visitors to Compton Park, Killjordan Creek is simply an aesthetic highlight within an attractive, manicured urban park setting, the Walker Street water tower barely in view through the treetops. For me, however, the creek provides a necessary and important link to the Illinois River valley, with its wildlife, wilderness, and yearly flood cycles. Since the sights and sounds of town now dominate day-to-day life, I would struggle a bit without such a connection.

 

References

Krohe, J., Jr. 2005. The La Moine River Basin: an inventory of the region’s resources. Illinois Department of Natural Resources, Springfield, Illinois.

McClain, W.E. 2006. Mysteries of the trail-marker trees. The Illinois Steward 15 (2): 19-22

The Page Turning

Looking back along the road I've traveled, the miles can tell a million tales. – from Starlight on the Rails by Utah Phillips

August 2019

Across Quiver Lake, an Illinois River backwater, near the top of a large dead tree, is an active bald eagle nest that I’ve kept track of since late February. I’ve enjoyed watching the nestling grow, but I worry on windy days when the tree seems to sway a bit much. It wasn’t so long ago that bald eagle nests were highly scarce in Illinois. So the recovery of this species to a healthy population is cause for optimism, quite appropriate for the spring season…especially spring 2019.
        For last summer I entered that phase of life known as “retirement.” The word evokes many emotions and expectations, undoubtedly different for every individual. For me, it is a time for rest and reflection, for pursuing new adventures with my wife, and for tried and true personal interests unhindered by work-a-day demands (no timekeeping).
        This is the first spring that I’ve had the time and wherewithal to observe seasonal changes in minute detail, from the shortest days of winter, buried in cold and ice. As the calendar advanced, I looked for those changes along the home trails, but sometimes beyond. The spring bird migration, for instance, is heralded in my mind with the first red-winged blackbird song, this year on February 19th. The first turkey vulture of the year is another sign (February 28th). But I’ve followed such changes in bird communities for many years. And even on my busiest of working days, I always took the time to glance around and listen for birds, though it might have only been moments while walking from the office to my parked vehicle.
        Changes in plant growth from day to day are much more subtle. In central Illinois, one might not think to search for the first spring flowering in February; but with a mild winter, that is when I’ll start closely looking at hazelnut shrubs. This year, I was able to watch their buds swell just slightly more each day, but with plenty of cold weather setbacks. Then as February passed, I became anxious; until on March 14th, several tiny, fully formed petals finally emerged. A similar story I could tell for all of the other plants along the home trails. Of course, I’ve watched all of these developments for many years, but never before with enough time.

                                            * * *
Always remember: The longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody-well die. – from Isn’t it Grand Boys - Traditional Irish Folk Song

It has been said that life in general occurs in four phases, and at age 61, I’ve found that concept to resonate. The following is simply my interpretation. The first phase, of course, begins at infancy and continues to young adulthood, when everything is new, learning is effortless and swift, and time passes the slowest, with the future open ended. The transition to the second life phase is rather abrupt, at the arbitrary age of eighteen. Thereafter we are considered adults; from this point onward, life inevitably becomes more complicated. Time still plods along, and sometimes progress is slow. But it’s a time for fearlessness, adventure and taking risks, blending new experiences with old and new knowledge; taking wrongs paths, making mistakes; backing up and correcting course while hopefully making progress.
        As the second phase begins to show wear and adolescent ideas of fun begin to be not so amusing, one gradually enters the third and perhaps longest phase of life, middle and late-middle adulthood: a time of serious dedication, accomplishment, increasing responsibility, and means. Time begins to move noticeably faster, and this shocking reality is frequently a topic of conversation among contemporaries; ten years no longer seems to be such a long time. One may begin to look backward, hopefully with satisfaction, as much as forward, still with much anticipation.
        So when does the fourth phase begin? In my view, the fourth phase begins as abruptly as adulthood: with retirement from the working, wage-earning world. But that point does not necessarily equate with being elderly, especially for those retiring well before the usual age of sixty-five. An elderly individual, however, certainly is within the final life phase, working or not. Knowing it is the final phase, some attempt to delay entry, but time eventually wins out, and drags everyone through. The fourth life phase is for taking stock; one tends to look backward more often simply because there are more years behind than in front. Time gallops along, and that is usually a source of sadness. One likely has acquired a certain degree of wisdom and skills, such as playing a musical instrument, that can sweeten these years, even though younger generations will probably be dismissive—just as it has always been. Living in the moment provides security; the future is contemplated with an optimism that comes with being in control, but it is also viewed with increasing trepidation.
        It is in this frame of mind that I opened our three-season Quiver Lake cabin in early April. But where I once unlocked the cabin with open-armed enthusiasm as soon as winter weather was barely over, I have begun to approach the event with a certain degree of apprehension. Why? There was the year when turning on the water pump blew out the connectors on the old toilet; the year water pressure in the old toilet pulled the tank’s worn rubber stopper into its drain, and allowed water to run continuously (we purchased a new toilet); the year I delayed shutting down the cabin for the winter, so the pipes froze and all had to be replaced; the year the water pump malfunctioned and had to be replaced; the year we finally discovered the leaking roof, but not before dripping water ruined a piece of artwork (we re-roofed the cabin); the year the kitchen faucet leaked from a crack created by a tiny residue of water not drained in the fall; the year the new roof began leaking (“That’s not possible!”); the year of the carpenter ant invasion; and the year the new siding let rain in through the wall at every nail, as if the siding were not even there. What will it be this year, I thought, just before I flipped the power switch to the water pump? At first, air in the pipes caused an uneven flow of water, which gave me a scare. So I shut everything down, and then re-started the system. After a little coughing, it worked! But then I saw the leaking kitchen sink sprayer. Again, a small residue of water left behind over the winter had frozen and cracked the housing. But that was easily replaced without calling a plumber. And with good health so far, I let my guard down and was ready to enjoy a new season at the cabin.
        As my wife and I plan ahead for the coming years, there are days when anything seems possible: European trips, Alaska, northern Canada, New England, driving a rented RV across the country, Florida manatees, a new home in a culturally diverse university town, gardening, beekeeping, a published novel.
        Are we running out of time? Of course, but the passage of time is not constant, as life and Einstein have shown; time can be slowed. By watching plants grow, tracking cloud formations across the sky as they imperceptibly change shape, listening to wind in the trees, watching hawks soar on rising air thermals, and taking afternoon naps, time can be seized and then slowed down. At the Quiver Lake cabin, I will give this idea further thought, perhaps while watching a pair of bald eagles raise the next generation. In the end, time will remain the master, but not without at least some opposition.

 

                                              * * *
Oh, I don’t know how I got this old, how the winter got so cold, now the morning’s turning gold, and I should stop my dreaming. – from Mind to Think, by John Gorka

Although the middle of July might seem early to expect the start of the fall bird migration, indicators abound, even in the unyielding summer heat and humidity. The pattern repeats yearly; it is something to be counted upon. So when I looked down the country road west of home, I was gladdened to see a small group of bank swallows perching on the telephone wires. They had left their breeding colonies along some stream or hillside and were beginning to stage for their upcoming flights to South American overwintering territories. At the same time, it was a slightly bittersweet moment, because the sight of those swallows also meant the first year of my retirement was over.
        One year before, I stood at the same location, viewing the same scene with swallows on the wires, pondering how the rest of my life might unfold, still somewhat in shock at having arrived at that point. In this phase of life, the discovery of one more year passing provides little comfort. But my attention was quickly diverted from a path toward darker thoughts by a singing blue grosbeak and calling dickcissels; from the timber I heard a yellow-billed cuckoo, two excited red-headed woodpeckers, and an eastern towhee. It was still the middle of summer after all; I had just walked through the backyard prairie, where blooming partridge pea, gray-headed coneflower, and Monarda dominated the view. And this scene anticipated the next stage in the seasonal progression: tall prairie grasses with showy panicles, blue asters, and yellow goldenrods brightly shining in the late summer sunlight. But I would not think about those coming days too much, as doing so tends to rush the season, and rushing through the year is what I least wish to do, just as I prefer to take my time reading a good book.
        Life, in fact, has been compared to a book—each day, month, year, or season like turning a page—with a definite beginning, middle, and final end. Life also has been compared to a river like the Mississippi, with narrow, energetic, swift-moving headwaters; a long, drawn-out middle section that forms the majority of the river’s length; and the aged, languorous, massive final segment before its end, emptying into the Gulf of Mexico. Either over worn analogy has merit. But I think life is more like a cloud: it forms out of nowhere, grows, changes unpredictably until it no longer resembles what it once was, and finally dissipates back into nothingness once again.
        Productive thoughts or pointless day dreaming? Before deciding, my attention was again diverted by a bird. This time a soaring turkey vulture. The mid-day sun created strong rising air thermals, so the vulture gradually circled higher and higher with no obvious effort except subtly adjusting its wings or tail one way or another to maintain stability or to change direction or altitude. The bird flew against a backdrop of blue sky and changing cloud patterns, reminding me of when I first saw a turkey vulture forty-one years earlier along the upper Mississippi River bluffs.
        The vulture, of course, is a bird of death, feeding on dead, decaying animals. Its message is the mortality of all life. Yet I find this not a depressing thought. For the bird causes me to recall many beautiful locations where I have watched soaring turkey vultures, from Arizona to Maryland, and what a joy it must be to sail effortlessly upon the winds, among the clouds.
        When I looked again at the telephone wires along the road, the bank swallows were gone. Perhaps they were bound for the nearby Illinois River and its backwaters, which undoubtedly offer a richer invertebrate life—fuel for their travels southward—than the insecticide-sprayed corn and soybean fields in the vicinity of my home. They might even share the same air space for a time with the young eagle at Quiver Lake that I am confident fledged only a few weeks before. So I turned back toward the house and prairie, which seemed more of an oasis than ever, and left my mind blank for a while.

 

[Music extra:  Listen to my version of the song Starlight on the Rails:  

Download Starlight on the Rails mix.]

 

Accordion Boy

 

By Thomas V. Lerczak

 

[Author's preface:  I first began making notes for this essay over twelve years ago in preparation for being interviewed at Dickson Mounds Museum, Lewistown, Illinois, as part of a series of programs the museum planned on American roots music (e.g., folk, mountain, blues, zydeco).  Up to that point, I had never thought that playing the accordion was much out of the ordinary or that anyone other than my mother would be interested in reading about it; but after seeing the videotape of the interview, which was part of the Smithsonian’s “New Harmonies: Celebrating American Roots Music” traveling exhibit, I realized that placing my accordion experiences into the larger context of history and personal growth could result in a unique and interesting story.  I hope that I have been successful in accomplishing that.  The following essay, first published in Sobatka Literary Magazine (Issue #8), is the result.]

    

The steady breeze that blew in from the west did little to relieve the afternoon’s heat and humidity. And so only one week into my retirement at age 60, I remained inside our air-conditioned bluff top cabin, playing one song after another on my guitar, gazing out across the backwaters and forests of the three-mile-wide Illinois River valley. The songs came easily from deep within as my right hand hammered out rhythms and tunes, and with only a small effort I recalled each song’s lyrics and their meanings while simultaneously thinking about the past, the idyllic scene in view, and what the future might hold. At times like this I have found it to be absolutely true that while playing a musical instrument, the mind enters a highly enhanced state of functioning and awareness on many levels. When I finished Martha Scanlan’s song “Little Bird of Heaven” with its final line “There’s a little bird of heaven right here in your hand,” I paused for a moment: Yes, there is, I thought, and how fortunate I have been to have music as such an integral part of my life, listening as well as playing.
        My maternal grandfather was the musician in our family. And his instrument of choice was the button accordion, a highly ornate, old-time instrument in the shape of a box that looked like it came straight out of the Middle Ages. There were sets of keys or buttons for the left and right hands to press with bellows in between. Moving the bellows in and out forced air through internal reeds which created the sounds. I don’t recall that my grandfather could read music; in fact, I believe that he played strictly “by ear,” meaning that the tunes were in his head, and he simply “knew” which buttons to press at the proper times. The right hand played the melody, while the left played the rhythm or bass which sounded like “oom pah pah, oom pah pah” for ¾ walzes, and “oom pah, oom pah” in 4/4 time. As a small boy, I thought he was a genius, and I longed for the day when I would be old enough to play a musical instrument.

 

Author's grandfather Vincent Zelizko on the button accordion, mid-1960s.

        Riding a great wave of European immigration to the United States following World War I, both my maternal grandparents came to the United States in 1922 from a part of Czechoslovakia called Bohemia. They brought along few material possessions from the “Old Country,” as they referred to Europe, but in their minds they carried the cultural richness of the home country in the form of secret food recipes, language, stories, and music. Like other European immigrants, my grandparents sought out folks like themselves who spoke their native language, much like anyone would do if transported to a strange foreign land. And with so many immigrants from different countries doing the same, major parts of large cities, like Chicago where they eventually settled, became composed of neighborhoods defined by ethnic origin or race. In these neighborhoods, the home cultures survived in reality, not just memory. In “Little Bohemia,” not surprisingly, the button accordion was king.
        Finally in 1966, at eight years of age, I was deemed old enough for music lessons. The Chicago Park District’s Lawndale Park offered lessons for several types of instruments, but my parents never really thought seriously about anything other than the accordion. I, however, was more open-minded. With The Beatles at the top of the music charts, I remember thinking that maybe guitar lessons were the way to go; my grandfather, though, scoffed at that idea; and the sad fact was that all of the guitar classes were full. But the accordion class had plenty of room for more students, and, besides this, I was assured by my grandfather that “The accordion player always gets the girls.” Of course, I was embarrassed by the idea of “getting girls,” but I thought if this instrument could influence females, maybe there was something to it, something even The Beatles were missing. In fact, who were George, Paul, John, and Ringo anyway compared to an accordion? So accordion lessons it was…for the next ten years.

 

The author in 1966.

Playing before a school assembly, 1966.

        Progress was a bit slow at first, though, probably because I was only a few steps behind my music teacher at the park, who could barely play. My grandfather occasionally tried to offer a little guidance, but I was learning on the more modern piano accordion (with keys for the right hand similar to a piano), which he could not play. And at my lessons I was being taught to play from written music, and discouraged from playing by ear, as this was thought to be undisciplined and merely made-up music. So my grandfather and I never really teamed up, although he did teach me the tunes of several Czech folk songs, which I continued to play without written music. Those songs, in particular, made my 67-year-old grandmother smile, even while she may also have been thinking of the times when she carried my 20-pound accordion a half mile to my school for “Show and Tell.”
        By the summer of 1967, I could read simple music and had shown at least a rudimentary ability. And so I was encouraged to enter Lawndale Park’s annual talent contest, where I would be in competition with other children who were taking music or dance lessons at the park. It was stiff competition, indeed, especially the little girl in a ballerina costume and one boy whose parents had purchased a professional accordion system for him called a Cordovox. I thought they probably spent many thousands of dollars on that equipment, which consisted of an electronic piano accordion with four suitcase-sized amplifiers that could sound like an organ. Where did he come from? I wondered. I didn’t remember seeing him at any of the accordion lessons. There was no way I would win.
        On the evening of the talent show, the park district’s auditorium was packed. The audience’s size, by my conservative estimate through the fog of 50 years, must have been at least 200. And the park district staff were highly excited by the turnout, which added to the anticipation and my anxiety of playing before a large crowd. As I stood backstage and peeked through the curtains, I could see several of my neighborhood friends, including the girl who lived across the street from me, sitting in the front row; she would soon be impressed, I thought, and be putty in my hands, although I had no idea what to do if that actually happened.
        Soon the show began. I was too nervous to pay much attention to the first several acts which quickly passed, and then it was my turn. I plugged my small accordion into the amplifier system, and with an anxious stomach waited for my introduction. After the curtain abruptly opened, I stood there ready to puke. The stage lights blinded me to all but the first few rows of the audience. In the sidelines I saw my music teacher nodding to me: Play! And so I began a song called “Juke Box Rock,” with my left hand pounding out the bass rhythm, “oom pah, oom pah, oom pah, oom pah,” which I could feel through the floor. I played with no mistakes, this song I had practiced maybe 100 times (my poor family), but it was quickly over. The audience cheered and clapped. I stood there in shock, probably with my mouth hanging open, and the curtain closed.
        A few more acts followed and then a short break ensued so the Cordovox system could be set up for the last act. When the curtains opened, it was as if we were engulfed by no less than the mighty Heavens; the kid was a deity and his Cordovox was magical; it looked like an accordion, but it sounded like a mixture of smooth organ-like sounds, deep bass notes, and haunting violins, a triumphant combination of talent and electronics. After this performance, I think there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who would win first place.
        Finally, all of the participants were called to the stage to stand together as the judges announced the winners. The kid with the Cordovox , of course, took the first place trophy. I have no recollection who won second place, but then as the third place winner was announced, everyone began looking at me, and I realized that it was my name being called. The door had opened to accordion stardom.
        But the next year saw only minor progress in my playing. I learned many new songs, but I was not learning proper technique or increasingly complex music. My music teacher admitted that he had done all he could with me, given his own limited abilities, and suggested I pursue private lessons with a professional accordion player. And so, I became a student of Tommy Kosatka in Cicero, with one-on-one meetings once per week. I played scales over and over, and learned proper fingering techniques, chords, how to play songs in different keys, and how to improvise, which to me seemed very similar to playing by ear. I learned how to read and play more complex music and how to add a personal touch to an arrangement. Mr. Kosatka challenged me to do better and not be afraid of any music, no matter how complicated; I would simply learn pages and pages of music one measure at a time over a period of weeks. I learned rock, jazz, pop, crooner ballads, and, of course, polkas. Many polkas. These lessons provided a firm foundation in musical theory with the precision of mathematics.

 

[Listen to the author playing "Night Train" on a recording made in the early 1970s 

Download Night Train TVL early 1970s.]

        While all of this was happening, though, my musical tastes were changing as I became older, especially after I entered high school. Like most kids, I listened to music on the top 40 AM pop stations in the 1960s. None of this included accordion music, except maybe as a background instrument. So I did not listen to accordion music for enjoyment or inspiration. The Lawrence Welk Show, of course, had accordion music. But Lawrence Welk was…well…Lawrence Welk. Squaresville. None of my friends watched this program; their parents did, of course. But how could parents know anything about what was good? Polkas were from the Old Country. I had entered the rebellious teenage phase of rejecting the older generation and their music.
        And while I continued to take accordion lessons, by the early 1970s I became drawn to music that had deeper meanings or stories in the lyrics. Creedence Clearwater Revival sang about the riverboat “Proud Mary” and leaving a job in the city, “working for the man every night and day.” In “Me and Bobby McGee,” Janis Joplin sang about being free, owning little, and drifting around the country, where “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.” I was drawn to singers like Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, and Tom T. Hall who sang about working and living hard, and the challenges faced in everyday living. Bob Dylan’s sardonic lyrics, commentaries on society’s ills, struck many nerves. And during this time period, the world was literally about to blow up. The Cold War and thermonuclear threat were raging, with the Soviet leader shouting that his country would bury us. There was the Vietnam War, the maniacal Cultural Revolution in China, war in the Middle East, starvation in Bangladesh and Africa, the 60s assassinations, civil rights protests and riots in our cities including my hometown Chicago, air and water pollution getting worse, hippies and free love, and we were putting men on the Moon.
        Through all of this, I played the accordion, diligently learning the music Mr. Kosatka placed in front of me. But it was not long before he could tell that something was missing, and I felt that too. I was competently learning to play the notes, some very complicated songs, but I now know that what was lacking was the heart, a connection to the inner soul and life experience. Just playing the notes as written is not enough; true emotion must be a part of the playing, and that must be real, not something to be produced on demand. When I listened to recordings of my accordion playing, I could hear that something was missing, which was not so apparent when I was actually playing the music. One day when it became clear that I was unprepared for my lesson, Mr. Kosatka finally asked me: “What kind of music do you listen to? What do you want to play?” He rightly knew that the songs I listened to on my record player and on the radio were the ones I should be playing on the accordion; these songs, he hoped, would make that important personal connection to the music and put the heart into my playing. So I bought song books by Kris Kristofferson, Bob Dylan, Creedence, and others, plus assorted sheet music of songs I heard on the radio. I played “Proud Mary” and “Me and Bobby McGee” on the accordion. It kind of worked for a while, providing some new inspiration, but there was still something missing. While I played the tunes, I would hear the lyrics in my head; I needed something more than the accordion could offer, especially since in the end, they all still sounded like polkas from the Old Country. Now, a polka may be a fine piece of music, but the fact is that certain types of instruments sound best for certain types of music; one would not attempt “Stairway to Heaven,” for example, on the tuba, although the results might be amusing. I did not wish to be amusing.
        After I graduated from high school, I stopped the accordion lessons, mainly because for a couple of years, I was no longer advancing, and both the teacher and student seemed to be out of ideas. I think Mr. Kosatka knew this too, but he was not about to suggest that a paying student discontinue; if I stayed under his tutelage for the rest of my life, I think he would have been fine with that.
        In the late 1960s and 1970s a part of Chicago’s north side was at the epicenter of a folk music renaissance that produced such icons as John Prine and the late Steve Goodman, as well as the renowned Old Town School of Folk Music. As it turned out, I was able to experience the tail end of this musically rich period, especially at the same time that disco was taking over the airwaves and popular night spots; and this resulted in my musical tastes moving further from accordion music. A key factor was that in 1976, the year I turned 19, the state of Illinois, in its wisdom, lowered the drinking age for beer and wine from 21 to 19; I’m not sure of their rationale, but after only a few years, and probably a lot of DUIs, it was back again to 21. But this brief period opened up a great opportunity, and I wasted no time gathering up a few friends for some serious bar hopping. And not being familiar with any bars, I first looked at the entertainment section of the local newspaper for a place to try out my new drinking privileges. One item stood out: The Bitter Creek Newgrass Band at the Clearwater Saloon on Chicago’s Lincoln Avenue.
        From the outside the Clearwater Saloon looked a bit dingy. From the inside it appeared authentically rustic from years of hard use and benign neglect, rather than from the creative mind of a degreed interior designer; it was a comfortable atmosphere that smelled of wood and long-ago spilled beer. My kind of place. As the only customers early on a Friday evening, we had our choice of tables; so we awkwardly chose one, ordered our first pitcher of Beck’s dark beer, looked around, and waited for something to happen. Gradually over the next hour, more patrons entered along with the band, who began setting up equipment, tuning instruments, and initiating their own night of drinking. Judging from the appeal of bluegrass music in those years, I kind of expected a much older, rather conservatively dressed crowd, maybe even a family-like atmosphere, as bluegrass music tends to have a strong gospel component. But this was “newgrass,” whatever that was. By ten o’clock, the bar had a full crowd with every table occupied, and they were mostly younger folks, probably with an average age of between 25 and 30. The band itself was composed of five unpretentious long-haired characters in faded denim that looked right at home at what might be called a “dirt bar.”

 

The Clearwater Saloon, late 1970s or early 80s.

        As we moved into our third pitcher of beer, the band—with banjo, bass, two acoustic guitars, and mandolin—finally launched into its first song. When they finished, the place erupted in an explosion of applause, yelling, stomping, and whooping. I had never seen a bluegrass audience react in such a way. By the middle of the first set, folks were dancing between the tables with a couple of blue jean-clad young ladies, with long flowing hair, dancing on top of the bar between glasses and bottles. The band played more traditional bluegrass songs plus bluegrass versions of songs by Creedence, The Grateful Dead, and other contemporary country and rock artists (i.e., newgrass). I felt at home and more connected to this music than any I had ever played on the accordion, and I was reluctant to leave even as the midnight hour had long passed.

 

[Listen to a scratchy live recording made at the Clearwater Saloon in 1977 of the Bitter Creek Newgrass Band playing Creedence Clearwater Revival's song "Lodi." Download Bitter Creek at Clearwater Saloon 1977]

 
        My friends and I returned often to the Clearwater Saloon. But its heyday continued only for another two or three years, when it seemed the main customer base settled elsewhere and the somewhat rickety building itself seemed to be about played out. In a few years, its doors would close for the last time.
        I have never experienced another establishment quite like the Clearwater Saloon, where the audience was truly in sync with the live music. I think those years may have been an example of a short-lived, unique convergence of social and cultural trends that can never be deliberately duplicated. Were it not for the brief change in the legal drinking age, I may have missed it completely. It was great fun, but also educational as it opened my mind to new styles of playing familiar tunes as my musical tastes continued to evolve. Even so, throughout all of this, I was faithful in maintaining my accordion-playing skills, but less and less as the years went by. I eventually attended a university in southern Illinois, and I took my accordion with me. And it was with me still when I later moved near the Illinois River and began working as a natural resources manager.
        One day, a friend down the road, at his home along the river bluffs, held a yard party. Several of his friends played guitar and one was very good on the harmonica. With the river valley as a backdrop, they sang as the sun set beyond the western river bluffs, then under starry skies, and well into the early morning. Their songs included many of my favorites from Dylan and Creedence. I could not help being reminded of certain rowdy evenings at the Clearwater Saloon, nearly two decades in the past. Their playing was straightforward and loose, the kind of playing one learned by ear or made up on the spot with a few lyrics and simple chords. They had fun, and I had fun listening. And I thought, yes, I could do this too. The next day, I unpacked a guitar which I had acquired a decade before but never learned to play. Determined not to give up, I would play the guitar at least as well as I could play the accordion, maybe even better.
        At first I was a bit daunted. Holding down strings with my left hand to make the chords was a painful process until my fingertips toughened up. And I discovered that a stringed instrument requires a gentler touch and more subtle movements than an accordion’s keys, buttons, and bellows. The slightest shift in position or touch on the strings in one direction or another can produce vastly different sounds and effects. And while music theory is the same for any instrument, as in the order of notes and chord patterns, the relationship between player and instrument could not be more different. I also had never sung before and did not even feel that I had a decent singing voice, let alone learning a song’s lyrics and meshing those lyrics with a tune and timing the guitar’s rhythms. But then singers such as Dylan, Kristofferson, and John Prine showed that having a melodious singing voice was not necessarily a requirement. (Of course, it is possible to sing along with an accordion, but I decided not to go there.)
        Quality of voice notwithstanding, singing was one of the missing pieces, because the lyrics were important; with the lyrics came the stories and the emotions tied to those stories. To memorize a set of lyrics, I had to think about what they meant, and those with personal meanings were the easiest to learn. For most songs, I may not have lived the stories, but by relating them to my life in a realistic way, I could make the words flow without much effort, each verse logically following another as the stories unfolded. Unlike playing the accordion, it was not necessary to imagine the lyrics. With the guitar, all of the pieces were there, the physical act of playing and the emotional or intellectual part, the meaning and deep truth behind the songs; as when I’m singing Woody Guthrie’s songs of the dust bowl era in the 1930s, I imagine walking down a dirt road in Oklahoma among grassland covered hills, billowy clouds overhead, dry winds blowing through my hair. Each song is its own journey.
        For the last twenty years, then, the guitar has become my instrument of choice. And so, what has become of the accordion boy? After a few years of exclusively playing the guitar, I actually started to miss the keyboard. So I obtained an electronic keyboard that can duplicate the sounds of many musical instruments including drums; in fact, it can put the old 1960s Cordovox to shame. I usually play it in the grand piano mode, where my accordion skills easily transfer. The accordion, I rarely unpack. But as it turns out, my wife has always loved the accordion and polkas. Soon after we met, both in our 40s, she became overjoyed to learn that I was an accordion player. I think it even helped solidify our relationship. So only for her, the girl that I finally “got,” I will, on occasion, play the “Baby Doll Polka,” written in 1954 by Eddie Korosa, a button accordion player personally known to my grandfather. And to my surprise, so many years after I had first learned the tune, I discovered that the simple lyrics actually do resonate as a deep, yet simple, truth.

        You are my Baby Doll

        You are my Baby Doll

        You are my Baby Doll

        You’re my darling now.

        Don’t leave me Baby Doll

        Don’t leave me Baby Doll

        Don’t leave me Baby Doll

        You’re my sweetheart now.

 

[Listen to the author's rendition of "Little Bird of Heaven."

Download Little Bird of Heaven mix]

 

[Download a PDF file of "Accordion Boy" here:  Download Accordion Boy for Kindle.]

 

 

 

 

The Shrinking Comfort Zone

 

I’m longing to ride on a freight trail, and be a good old American guest. – from Good Old American Guest by Merle Haggard

 

On a late afternoon in mid-September, I sat at the timber’s edge, watching our two highly active honey bee hives: so many bees every few seconds flying out of the hives, out over the prairie and beyond; and just as many returning. Except for gusty winds blowing through the tree canopy, all was quiet, with not much else going on. I was well within the comfort zone, and there was no reason to upset the apple cart, as the old saying goes. And yet, something gently pulled at me, a vague notion that I was missing an opportunity; the pull was not strong like it was when I was young, but it was definitely there.
        Despite occasionally feeling that I should be doing something else, I remained sitting for a long while. And with my wife running errands, I then spent the rest of the afternoon reading, playing the guitar, and walking the home trails. I was at peace, enjoying my surroundings, feeling calm and secure. In the outside world, there were many potentially harmful unknowns; but not here. So at sixty-one and retired, I may have finally understood some of what my seventy-six-year-old grandmother may have felt so many decades ago: Frustrated with a mere week’s worth of vacation from work each year, I once approached her and asked, “Since you’ve got the time, why don’t you travel?” “Not for me,” she answered. For her, whose first language was still Czech after being a U.S. citizen for over half a century, the increasingly complex environment beyond her small brick bungalow must have seemed overwhelmingly daunting, full of dangerous risks. The outside world may have been pulling at her, but she was strong willed and quite firmly rooted.
        Throughout life, the comfort zone develops for a reason; of course, there is a fear of the unknown involved, but I think the boundaries develop more as a result of experience, finding out what works and what doesn’t as a reflection of one’s unique personality, abilities, desires, and knowledge. At some point, what is “not for me” becomes clear. At the same time, it is important to test or redefine the boundaries, gently pushing the envelope with an open heart and mind. If I had not done so, I may never have taken that first trip to Isle Royale National Park in Lake Superior, ridden a motorcycle across the northern Great Plains, taken a solo canoe-camping trip on Missouri’s Current River, sung and played my guitar before a large gathering, left a good job to pursue a degree, given a lecture on ecology to a room full of college students, or felt comfortable with a smartphone. While safe at home, the outside world pulling at me is a prompt to ask, What else am I capable of?
        Whenever I’m at our Quiver Lake cabin, I’ll always take at least a few minutes to simply sit and look out across the 3.5-mile-wide Illinois River valley to the distant bluffs of Fulton County. It’s a beautiful view of forests, bluffs, wetlands, and open water that I can never have enough of. But it also makes me want to grab my canoe, cross the lake, and head to the Illinois River beyond, just to see what is there that is different from the last trip. Most of the time, just thinking about it is enough, and I’ll go back to reading my book. But then there is the rare occasion when a seed has been planted, and I may begin thinking of longer trips. Most of them never happen, but for those that do, the actual planning, especially with my wife, can be like a shot of adrenalin and my enthusiasm soars. A few weeks later, after going over numerous maps and reading a stack of background materials, I sometimes feel as if I’ve experienced a journey weeks before even leaving the driveway.

                                               * * *
For most of her life, my grandmother was never really much of a traveler, although she did sail across the Atlantic Ocean in rough seas and pass through New York’s Ellis Island at age 22 to begin her new life in the United States at the beginning of the Roaring Twenties. And she did return twice, as I recall, to her native Czechoslovakia with my grandfather, where he, in fact, died on their last trip in 1973. Upon returning to Chicago alone in a 747 jet, with her cremated husband in an urn, she never traveled again. (I now realize that I was insensitive when asking her about why she no longer traveled, by not taking that experience into account.)
        But I suppose a shrinking comfort zone is a natural tendency with advanced age, even without any great tragedies (for example, these days I would never consider traveling cross country on a motorcycle). It may not be possible to stop this gradual process, especially if health issues become a complication. But I am convinced that it can and must be resisted, lest one becomes too constrained and maybe even immobilized in an inescapable and perhaps uncomfortable safely net. 

 

                                Grandmother with Miska, 1980s

 

Music Extra:  To hear my version of Good Old American Guest on my six-string guitar, click on this link:

Download Good Ole American Guest

 

Sandpiper at Twenty-three Degrees

 

"The Earth from here [the Moon] is a grand oasis in the big vastness of space." – Jim Lovell, Apollo 8 Astronaut

 

Following months of flooding, the Illinois River was finally approaching what might be termed its normal, low-water level for the summer. The sandy beach and seeps at Quiver Lake were once again exposed. Great egrets, great blue herons, and killdeer could now find appropriate foraging areas in the shallows. And Caspian terns and ring-billed gulls gathered on exposed mud flats further from shore. I sat on the bluff side just above the beach and tried to avoid thinking about the daunting task before me: clearing the beach of the massive tangles of twigs, branches, and large logs left behind from the floodwaters.
        Then a slight movement at the water’s edge caught my attention: a lone shorebird called a pectoral sandpiper, walking along in the wet sand and occasionally grabbing minute food items from the ground. It was early August, and the fall shorebird migration had begun; many other species would follow and perhaps thousands of individuals. I stood still and thought about this small bird, traveling from its high Arctic nesting area to South American overwintering habitats, stopping briefly at this particular location in Illinois to gather enough food energy to continue its journey. It’s easy to feel insignificant when faced with a small bird capable of such a great feat, recognizing no international boundaries, local authorities, or governments. An authentic being of the world that illustrates how truly connected and one this world really is.
        And yet my thoughts immediately veered in the opposite direction. And I was struck by the fact that although the earth may be an interconnected whole from a sandpiper’s perspective, from the standpoint of geopolitics, it may never have been more fragmented…and, of course, dangerous. I feel safe at my home and lakeside cabin in a quiet rural atmosphere far from any major city, and most of the time, life is relatively carefree. But it is really the privilege of living in the United States that allows this life, just one result of all who have sacrificed and fought for such a country to exist. The daily news helps keep me in touch with the rest of the world, but most of it is not good, reminding me of murderous ideologies, corruption, oppression, and, what seem to be, insurmountable obstacles to progress. I want to know what is happening; but the newspaper is not an inducement for international travel.
        Unlike me, though, the sandpipers that I watch along the beach have no choice. They must make the yearly journeys across the globe to complete breeding cycles and survive to the next season, immersed in their own world of continual danger; high alertness and wariness are quite obvious as the sandpipers frequently check surroundings for predators, who are themselves highly attuned to any gap in the sandpipers’ defense strategies. To these creatures, danger is ever present as an accepted fact of life.
        In any case, it is the long summer days on the northern tundra combined with a superabundance of insect life make the migration worth the risk and effort. At the other extreme of each year are nights equally as long as the summer daylight hours but with brutal, freezing weather. And, of course, it is these extreme seasonal changes that shaped bird migration in the beginning, a direct result of the Earth’s axial tilt of 23.5 degrees relative to the ecliptic plane, defined as a baseline by the Earth’s elliptical orbit around the Sun. What if the tilt angle were zero? Then equal hours of daylight and night time would occur on each day at all latitudes, not just on the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, which would no longer exist. It’s the tilt, in fact, that causes the seasons—during summer, the Earth’s axis is tilted toward the Sun; and during winter, the tilt is away from the Sun—so with zero tilt, there would be no seasons. In that situation, for example, what is now Arctic tundra in northern Canada would probably be a perpetual winter. Without pronounced seasonal cycles, how differently evolved would be the planet’s biological communities (tundra, boreal forest, tropical rain forest, desert, grassland, etc.) and how would they be distributed across the globe? What would bird migration patterns be like?
        An interesting aspect of this thought experiment is that there is nothing special about 23.5 degrees. Billions of years ago, a chance collision of the Earth with a planet-sized object is thought to have caused the tilt (i.e., pushed the Earth over), which happened to settle out at 23.5 degrees, plus or minus a certain amount of variation on a 40,000-year cycle. (Although I write this in a rather matter-of-fact manner, the unimaginable violence of such an event has not escaped me.) Other planets in the Solar System have different axial tilts; for example, Jupiter is only 3 degrees, while Uranus is at 98 degrees (so Uranus, in effect, rolls around the Sun on its side).

 

Photo from Apollo 8, downloaded from NASA.

        Following such thoughts, the images meandering through my mind are far removed from the Illinois River backwaters and pectoral sandpipers. Then as my consciousness returns closer to home, I recall the iconic image of Earth from 1968, captured by the crew of Apollo 8, the first manned spacecraft to orbit the Moon. In that photograph, the Earth appears as an interconnected whole. The sandpiper’s perspective! But, with its thin wisp of an atmosphere, our one and only home planet, shining against the dead blackness of space, also seems fragile, vulnerable, and…quite improbable.

 

References

Kutter, G.S. 1987. The universe and life. Jones and Bartlett Publishers, Inc. Boston/Portola Valley.

All About Birds. www.allaboutbirds.org referenced 14 August 2019.

National Aeronautics and Space Administration. www.nasa.gov referenced 14 August 2019.

Universe Today. www.universetoday.com referenced 14 August 2019.

 

Fireflies of an Evening

Because the daytime buffalo gnats (blackflies) have been so bad here in central Illinois, I have lately been taking my slow walks on the home trails during late evening, just after sunset. With clear skies, there is just enough light to find the way. Over the vegetable garden and one-acre prairie, the sky opens up from the surrounding timber, and sometimes a bat flies overhead. Owls and nighthawks may occasionally call, but not every evening. Then as darkness gradually takes over, flashes of light from numerous fireflies grab my attention.

        The fireflies have a curious effect: that of transporting me back to the mid-1960s to a little neighborhood on Chicago’s west side. It was my childhood home. Large shade trees lined the city blocks of closely packed modest homes, separated from each other by gangways, with small back yards and even smaller front lawns. Unless it was raining, my brother Bob and I spent most summer evenings outside. For amusement, we caught fireflies in our hands and held them until they flashed. Sometimes we would play tag with two or three neighbor kids, running as fast as possible over the sidewalks and across front lawns. At that point, it was not unusual to hear, from inside an adjacent home, an old person yelling, “Get off the grass!” But my recollection is that many neighbors spent at least part of the evening on their front porches; so in this way, certain individuals became familiar by sight, if not name. In my mind’s eye, I see my grandmother watering her garden; and with her keeping watch, I was smart enough to stay off our own grass.

        A special part of each evening was when the ice cream truck arrived. The truck played a string of bell-like melodies from a loudspeaker to announce its presence, which we heard from blocks away. When it finally arrived near our home, scores of children of all ages would somehow materialize from every shadow and converge at the truck’s side window for a few precious moments to place an order in a very serious, business-like manner. There was definitely a fear that if the order was not placed with the proper respect, it would be rejected, followed by public humiliation.

        During those formative years, my world consisted of only a few city blocks that included home, school, and a park. I knew every crack in the sidewalk on my block. We walked or rode our bicycles nearly everywhere; ran errands on Saturday evenings to a nearby newsstand for the Times and Tribune newspapers; and collected discarded soda bottles from all over the neighborhood, bringing them to the corner mom-and-pop grocery store to exchange for candy or caps for our toy guns.

 

                                            * * *
        Since becoming a serious birder over thirty-five years ago, I have been highly attuned to the natural world. So I often wonder what birds were around in my old Chicago neighborhood, birds that I missed completely, simply from having my attention diverted elsewhere. My grandmother pointed out European starlings, house sparrows, American robins, and once a downy woodpecker that nested in a tree cavity outside the kitchen window. All of the other species were unnoticed. Yet certainly there must have been abundant nighthawks on those warm summer evenings, as this species is very common in city landscapes where it nests on flat rooftops. Chimney swifts must also have been highly numerous. Blue jays, black-capped chickadees, white-breasted nuthatches, and mourning doves must have been part of the local bird community. Of course, these days I could travel to that very neighborhood at any time to see what birds are there, but that would reveal little about what might have been there fifty years ago; there would be no certainty, only conjecture.

        I regret not paying more attention to the natural world when I was young. But as an urban child, there were many influences pulling me in different directions, not the least of which was television, which brought the outside world daily intruding upon, what seemed to me, our peaceful little neighborhood. Most vividly, I recall news footage from the Vietnam War and discussions of Soviet nuclear missiles. I was often reminded of this at school during air raid drills, when all of the students would be directed to calmly file into the hallways, then quietly stand against the wall to await the bombs that never came. In 1968, on the day of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, the skies over Chicago were black with smoke from race riots. Soon our television screen brought us scenes of the National Guard being deployed, with nightly curfews. The hippy counterculture was simply bizarre. So the adult world at that time appeared as a scary place, on the verge of self-destruction. However, news of manned space flight, though difficult to relate to on a personal level, suggested otherwise.

        To a child today, the world must seem equally unhinged, with politicians daily contradicting each other wielding alternative facts and trading coarse insults, threats from a nuclear-armed North Korea with Iran not far behind, exported terrorism from the Middle East, growing numbers of refugees clamoring for entry into western nations, school shootings, out-of-control drug trafficking, flash mobs organized through social media, virtual reality on tablets and smart phones, the hypocrisy and fear-mongering of doomsayers, and the confusion of non-judgementalism and political correctness placing society’s moral compass on a soggy foundation without a reliable true north. It must be even harder for today’s urban youth to notice nature than it was for me.

 

                                             * * *
        Flashes of light from the fireflies are like a game added to a summer evening’s walk, trying to predict where and when the next flash might occur. And this sometimes fills my thoughts with memories, triggered by the same game I played as a child; at this phase of life, with over six decades behind, there are few observations that do not remind me of something out of the past. Yet I prefer to focus on the present and the future. So maybe it is time to learn more about the fireflies. How many species are there? What causes the flash of light? What messages, if any, are being communicated? What roles do fireflies play in the ecosystem?

 

In the Flight Path

The honey flow is in full development. For weeks now, numerous trees, shrubs, and herbaceous plants have been in a succession of blooming. And while nectar and pollen are available in such great quantities, the thousands of honey bees from our two hives have entered a period of heightened activity. Every second several bees leave the hive on purposeful flights while others return from the hinterlands, perhaps a mile or more from the hive.
        When the bees are this active, I’ll always take the time on daily walks along the home trails to stop and stand directly in their flight paths, about twenty feet in front of the hives. At that location, outgoing bees have gained a certain amount of speed, and their ascending altitude is about even with my ears. So I can track individuals as they leave the hive entrance, zig zag in flight for orientation, and then put on the power as they zoom past, often mere inches from my ears. At first I was a bit anxious about doing this until realizing that the bees did not see me as a threat, just an obstacle to avoid. Returning bees—many with full pollen sacs and nectar or water stored internally—I hear more than see, as they quickly dart past and join the fray at the hive entrance.

 

Viburnum with honey bee, 13 May 2019.

        Early morning on a clear day, the rising sun greets the east-facing hives as a beacon and signal for action. At this time, I’ll stand behind the hives, also facing the sun. From this viewpoint, each bee seems like a tiny fast-moving bundle of bright light, rapidly gaining speed and altitude until disappearing into the blue sky, beyond the ability of my eyes to detect. Some may be in a random search for rich patches of flowering plants; others may know exactly where they are heading based on information provided by previous foragers or scouts: X-number of feet away from the hive at an angle of Y degrees relative to the sun; the bees know the values of X and Y, where Y is continuously recalibrated due to the rotating earth and the sun's changing position. They also know that the available nectar and pollen are worth the trip.

        Around me there are birds calling: eastern kingbird, eastern phoebe, great crested flycatcher, and eastern wood peewee; predators of flying insects, all with hungry nestlings. A honey bee would certainly be a sweet, protein-rich meal. Richard Taylor writes of this in The Joys of Beekeeping: “The kingbirds come around to my home yard, and these are officially described in beekeeping literature as enemies of bees. I suppose they are, in the strictest sense, for they eat them—they drop down and pluck them right from the air, near the hives. But are they not entitled to?…They follow their ancient patterns, as nature prompts them.” I would agree; there are plenty of bees in the hives. Even if these birds forage continuously on bees for days on end, they could not possibly have a measurable effect. On the other hand, taking the queen bee would be catastrophic. But the queen only leaves the hive for mating flights very early in her life of several years, and thereafter she remains in the hive to lay eggs; she is the only egg-laying bee in the hive, and as such is under constant protection and surveillance, as much a captive as an elite hive member.

 

The east-facing hives at 7:30 am.

        By early June, many key plants—such as the maples, black locust, bush honeysuckle, henbit, tulip tree, red bud, viburnum, raspberry brambles—have completed flowering for the season. Even so, the honey flow will continue for a short while yet, sustained by species such as spiderwort, sweet clover, white clover, catalpa, and linden. Soon we will harvest our small share of the spring wildflower honey from the hives. Then by the middle of summer, usually accompanied by a drought in our region, rich sources of nectar and pollen will have dwindled, a period referred to as “the dearth.” Yet throughout all of this, there is unending work for the bees—comb building, hive maintenance, egg laying, rearing of young, honey production, sealing cracks in the hive walls, storing pollen, and caring for the queen—before the goldenrods bloom in late summer for a final yield of resources before the bees enter survival mode for the winter.

 

Showy goldenrod with honey bees and monarchs, 17 September 2018.

        Days of snow and ice, though, are a long way off, and not something I wish to think about when summer has yet to begin. But when winter is inevitably upon me, I will be unable to raise a cup of tea flavored with wildflower honey without thinking of our honey bees and all that went into that drink and where it came from. I will close my eyes and savor the sweet taste and think of warm mornings in the flight path of honey bees, spring thunderstorms, and the fragrance of wildflowers in the air.

 

References

Taylor, R. 1974. The joys of beekeeping. St. Martin’s Press, New York.

Winston, M.L. 1987. The biology of the honey bee. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

 

Audio extra (best with headphones):

Download Sounds at the hive entrance 7-June 2019 at 3 PM

 

 

 

The Wind's Gift

Both the Illinois River and its connected backwater Quiver Lake were at 26.64 feet, near a record high flood level. So it seemed like a good opportunity to canoe over the flooded forests to photograph Quiver Lake’s active bald eagle nest. But while still at home making plans, the wind already blew a bit high, though not high enough to cancel canoeing. Later in the day, it was supposed to top out at about 12 miles per hour, which is not too bad, especially within the protection of the floodplain forest.
        When I arrived at the Quiver Lake cabin about 10:30, the wind seemed much higher than 12 miles per hour. So I climbed down to the flooded sandy beach to assess the situation. Would I even be able to launch through all of the floating logs and other woody debris?
        Launching would be possible, but cumbersome. Then the wind seemed to pick up speed even in the short time since my arrival—no whitecaps yet, but that was only a matter of time. Still, I thought, if I could make it across the lake, the water would be calmer in the lee of the forest. Was it worth the fight, though? The young adventurer in me shouted, Yes, go for it! But the safety monkey on my back said, There will be better opportunities on another day. So I stood there in a mental quagmire, unable to move.
        And then I saw what was clearly the head of a swimming animal moving past about 30 feet away under the lower branches of a silver maple tree. My first thought was: beaver. It was too large for a muskrat. Finally, the animal moved out from beneath the tree and swam into the open water. Then I saw the long tail. This was a river otter!

 

Quiver Lake's flooded beach (Illinois River at 26.64 feet, May 9, 2019)

        The wind blew toward me, so the otter may have been unaware of my presence. Standing perfectly still, I made a “sh sh” sound to attract its attention; the otter’s beady eyes stared straight in my direction, then it immediately climbed onto a floating log for a better view, then a second later slid like a fat snake back into the water, swimming back and forth, over and under floating logs, still not sure what made that strange sound.
        My camera was in the car. So I thought if I quietly and carefully climbed the stairway back up the bluff for the camera, maybe I could get a photograph. But when I returned, the otter was gone. Canoeing plans may have been thwarted by the wind, but what a great compensation I received instead.

 

The Tree Swallow Threshold

By the middle of March here in central Illinois, signs of the transitioning seasons have been apparent for several weeks, although most are easily missed, such as the minor swelling of buds on what otherwise appear to be dormant plants. Changes in bird behavior or the sudden appearance of some species and lack of others are more obvious. But even with the birds, one has to be attentive to subtleties.

        On Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge’s Beer-can Trail, which follows the bluff top for a half-mile before dropping to the shoreline, the cool winds robbed much of the warmth from under my thin jacket. I walked quickly. Abundant lesser scaup and ruddy ducks bobbed within the white-capped waves of the refuge’s north pool; bright black and white male buffleheads occasionally stood out in contrast from the other waterfowl. Bald eagles soared over the refuge as they had all through the winter. Silver maple trees along the Illinois River showed a hint of pink from millions of miniature flower buds nearly ready to open. Though I panned back and forth with binoculars, there was little else to draw my attention. So I rested on a log for a few minutes behind a sheltering bur oak tree, picked out a bald eagle nest on the far side of the refuge, and then, because the lower shoreline return loop was submerged in flood waters, walked back on the same trail.

 

Trail intersection at Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge, Mason Co.

 

        Before heading home, I stopped at our Quiver Lake cabin, still shut down for the winter. Half way down the steps to the sandy beach, I trained my spotting scope on a bald eagle nest, just barely visible above the floodplain forest canopy between Quiver Lake and the Illinois River. An eagle perched on a dead branch above the nest. I looked forward to watching the young eaglets develop in the coming months.

        On the beach, I sat back in a comfortable chair, scanning the water and skies; and within a few minutes, found what I searched for all day (March 17th): the first tree swallows of the year. Several flew over the lake with more over the floodplain forest.

        The tree swallows mark a significant threshold in the spring bird migration. They are aerial insectivores, picking individual insects out of the air without a hitch as they fly up to great heights, dip down to the water level, climb back up to higher altitudes, or sharply turn as if pulled with reins—wherever an insect is detected. Energy is burned and replenished at the same time. Without the insects, the swallows would stay further south. Individuals that I saw were, in fact, the vanguard; if winter briefly returned with Arctic winds and snow, these birds would suffer, or possibly die; if not, they would have the first choice of the best nesting cavities. It’s a gamble. But this is how species adapt to expand their ranges or alter migration timing. Individuals are always testing the edge, pushing the envelope.

        More species will soon follow, now that the trees swallows have led the way. But my notes from previous years show that eastern phoebes, a flycatcher, should have already arrived. In some others years, American hazelnut began blooming in late February; this year it was mid-March. The seasonal transition seems a bit behind schedule. But is it? The timing of events in nature from year to year is an illustration of how variability is an inherent quality of nature, which is more like an ancient grandfather clock with slightly worn gears than a modern, precisely engineered Rolex watch. So taking that into consideration, this particular season seems to be right on track.

First Signs

February 21

Rainy, damp weather has finally left central Illinois; clear skies and the sun have returned. The home trails have become soft and wet with water that has no place to go in the saturated ground. As I followed the trail through last year’s dry prairie grasses, an eastern bluebird sang in the distance, perched on an electrical wire along the roadside. The bird was close to the location where a month earlier my vehicle was bogged down in a deep, heavy snow drift in the middle of the road. On that day, a singing bluebird was not even on the horizon of my thoughts. Compared to when that fourteen-inch snow fell, winter days now are noticeably longer, serving as a reminder to begin searching for signs of spring, although the equinox is still a month away.

 

Home trails with standing pools of water

        Just the other day, I heard the first red-winged blackbird song of the season, although it seemed a rather tentative utterance. For me, that sound initiates the beginning of the spring bird migration, which will continue with a succession of species until late May. But an overwintering rough-legged hawk hovering over a nearby field suggests that it may still be some time before truly warm weather returns. This hawk is at home on a cold landscape; its breeding grounds are on the Arctic tundra of Canada, shared with polar bears, muskox, and snowy owls, among other species of the barren lands. Other northern birds that were at the feeders just a few days ago are further reminders that winter is still here: purple finch, dark-eyed junco, white-crowned sparrow, white-throated sparrow, and fox sparrow. These will all be long gone from Illinois by the time the prairie is in full bloom.

 

Remnants of January's fourteen-inch snowfall among prairie grasses

        While bird life hints of warmer times, plants are still dormant, although in other years, American hazelnut was already producing flowers by February 22nd. It seems like a colder, longer winter this year, with delayed bud development compared to other years. I have become fatigued by the gray days of wintry mix.
        Before heading home, I stopped to watch several thousand snow geese flying high overhead in overlapping “vee” formations, probably looking for resting or foraging areas. They will eventually join the rough-legged hawks at land’s end near the Arctic Ocean. The snow goose is a jittery species; sometimes an entire flock with thousands of individuals rises in flight at the slightest hint of a disturbance. Apparently that is what it takes for them to survive against predation. But to me, it seems wasteful of energy.
        For the next three months, as in other years, I will keep my senses trained on more first sightings and sounds of spring. In terms of timing, there is a great deal of variation from year to year, undoubtedly related to weather; but the overall behavioral patterns hold true.

The Aftermath

Passing of the recent killer Arctic cold front (January 29-31) was immediately followed by two days of solid thawing with temperatures into the upper 40s. To see the aftermath, I wasted little time before venturing onto the home trails. There was still plenty of deep snow, but rapid melting left the exposed ground mushy and wet. After the interstellar-like cold, 45 degrees with calm breezes actually felt warm. But the air was damp, and ground fog hung low over the surrounding farm fields still covered with snow, like smoke slowly drifting over a recently burned prairie.
        I walked among the survivors. The green of the eastern red cedar trees appeared deeper, more alive. Tufted titmice and Carolina wrens sang as if it were a warm day in May. Blue jays emitted curious short musical calls that my scientific mind struggled not to label as “happy.”
        Skies were still gray, but among the gray were hints of deep blue-gray, a sign that lighter times were beyond the grayness. It was as if I had awakened from a fitful sleep, my eyes still not completely focused, throwing off the covers, the smell of fresh brewing coffee in the air, the bright sun seeping through closed blinds.
        Then as I saw my overwintering red-headed woodpecker on its territory within the black locust grove, I felt the warmth of gladness. Storing a cache of mast last fall enabled its survival thus far this winter, but there was much of the cold season in front of us. And more Arctic air screaming down from the Pole would surprise no one. If the woodpecker died from starvation and cold, my only clue to its fate would be not seeing or hearing it for days. And then I would not know for sure whether it perished or simply moved on.
        Before turning back toward the house, I stopped at our honey bee hive and was gladdened once again spotting several active bees around the hive’s entrance. They also made it through the snow drifts, the wind, and the cold! And just at that moment a group of greater white-fronted geese called from above, heading northward, flying close together in a classic “vee” formation. Another good sign.

Arctic D-Day

“Whispers of the north…in the land that tested Eskimos ten thousand years before.” – from Whispers of the North by Gordon Lightfoot

Quite early during this winter season, there was a feeling of being under assault here in central Illinois. The feeling began with an unusually early snow storm on November 9th while also recalling that the last snow from the previous cold season was unusually late on April 9th. Wintry weather seemed to have squeezed out much of the warmer months. Then following a rather benign December, a tentative hope sprang forth for a mild winter.

 

First snow of the season, November 9th (photo by Julie Lerczak)

 

        That hope became effectively dashed when a mass of wintry weather was detected heading toward Illinois from the southwest, bringing heavy, dense snow. For days we dreaded its arrival, and hoped that the weather forecast was inaccurate—on the side of less snow, of course. But in the aftermath, at least fourteen inches lay on the ground; heavy to shovel out of the way and tough to negotiate through, even with a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle. Our metal gazebo collapsed under the snow’s weight. Were it not for a kind neighbor who plowed our driveway with his farm tractor, we would have been snow bound, or at least would have experienced many hours of shoveling.

        Then without delay, winter’s assault continued when the southern wintry air mass was soon followed by a northern high pressure system, lacking snow but with much colder temperatures and strong winds. Wherever the wind was unimpeded by vegetation or structures, the dense snow blew into deep, weighty drifts. In hindsight, I should have stayed home; food had been stocked up several days before; we had all we needed. But when I saw the rural mail truck passing by our home, it seemed a logical conclusion that the roads were clear, though I had not yet seen a snow plow.

        At the driveway entrance, the county road looked fairly clear in either direction. And so I proceeded with confidence. Just to the west of home, snow blew horizontal and unchecked across the farm fields and roads, and after a quarter mile, there was still not much accumulating on the road. Then just as that optimistic thought ended, ahead I noticed a deep drift covering the road. I should have turned around, but instead put my vehicle in four-wheel drive and sped up. If it had been powdery snow, my plan would have worked. The snow, though, was deeper and heavier than it looked. Twenty feet or so into the dense drift, the vehicle began to slow down and slide sideways…and then it stopped. With spinning wheels, I could not go forward or backwards; snow came up to the vehicle’s chassis. I was in the middle of the road without a shovel or cell phone. Fortunately for me and everyone else along the road, a neighbor referred to as J.R., with a plow mounted on his ATV, was trying to keep the road open. Official road crews were focusing on U.S. Highway 136, leaving folks along the back county roads to “eat grass.” J.R. pulled out my vehicle from the drift and cleared the road, even as new drifts continued to form. I, feeling foolish, thanked him profusely and straightaway headed back home like a whipped pup, and stayed there for two days.

 

Photo Source:  Internet

 

        But soon, slightly warmer weather brought light rain, which helped melt some of the snow. However, this slight reprieve was immediately followed by single-digit temperatures, again from the north. And everything was immediately covered in ice. On the positive side, though, the ice crust over remaining snow, of which there was plenty, prevented further drifting.

        Forecasters, though, were already talking about another impending weather assault, this one worse than the last: a severe cold front with strong winds coming down from above the Arctic Circle. This would be serious weather: -20^o F lows at night with wind chills of -40^o F; frozen water pipes; dead car batteries; freak power outages with fatal consequences. It was coming and there was no way to stop it. And Tuesday, January 29 was D-day.

        But I grew up in Chicago in the 1960s and 70s, with its lake-effect snow and frequent fast-moving weather fronts from the Canadian far north known as Alberta Clippers. At that time, average temperatures worldwide had shown a downward trend for over three decades, and many in the media and scientific circles were raising the alarm that the beginning of another ice age was upon us. The near future certainly seemed more than a little foreboding, but I’m glad that I did not take any of it too seriously. At any rate, I had seen all of this before, and I knew ways to fight back. I did not possess an engine block heater, as many do in northern climates, but I planned to start my vehicle as much as necessary to keep it viable. Faucets would be left dripping. The chickens were under a tent of blankets with a heat lamp. And I would venture outside with only my eyes exposed to the elements.

                                            * * *
        Two days later, the water pipes and vehicles are intact and the chickens are in good shape and talking back! Now, as I type this, the temperature outside has finally climbed above zero by one degree. And the slow, steady climb is projected to continue, above freezing tomorrow on February 1st, and into the fifties in three days. After that, who knows? But I do believe that an ice age is off the table.

Mississippi River Full Circle

"In any kind of travel there is a good argument for going back and verifying your impressions."—from Riding the Iron Rooster, by Paul Theroux

It was May 8, 2018, and after nearly 22 years as a natural areas preservation specialist, my last public meeting with the Illinois Nature Preserves Commission (Commission) was behind me. It was a bittersweet moment when my vehicle left the indoor parking lot at the DeSoto House Hotel, the meeting’s location, and with a sense of finality I slowly turned onto Galena’s historic Main Street. With retirement less than two months away, I, of course, eagerly looked forward; but I also thought quite a bit about the decisions and chance occurrences that brought me to that point. And so, ever since I was aware that my last Commission meeting would be in northwestern Illinois, I planned a visit to Mississippi Palisades State Park, along the Mississippi River, a location with deep personal meaning going back four decades.
        I had been out of high school for three years, first knocking around for two years as a stock man at Jack’s Shoe Center in Cicero, moving around, in a never ending stream, thousands of shoe boxes from delivery trucks to shelves, and from one set of shelves to other shelves, as the sales staff gradually moved the shoes out with customers. Not much more can be said about that experience, except that I learned to be diligent and to view time as measured in money and work. When the novelty of that low-paying job wore off (some nights I even dreamed of moving shoe boxes), I found a different job, again requiring few skills, at Sabin Robbins Paper Company running a noisy, dirty paper sheeting machine. And to have accomplished that simple move I felt lucky, because it was the middle of the 1970s, a time seemingly not of great opportunities, but one of high unemployment; recession; Watergate; Vietnam fatigue; good-paying manufacturing jobs on the way out, flipping burgers and frying fries on the way in; gas lines; and the Misery Index of the Jimmy Carter presidency, with his message that America’s best days were behind us.
        So despite having a bit more money in my pocket, I remember being quite depressed; I still lived at home in my parents’ attic and most weekday evenings wasted away my mind on inane television programs, and then returned to work the following day for more dullness, dirt, and noise. The pattern of my life seemed laid out before me in the older middle-aged men working beside me at the paper company: 30-year mortgages for a matchbox-sized home and lot, hearing loss, back pain, job-related injury, retirement. Done. Like young men throughout the ages, I asked myself if there was not more to life. Where was there meaning in this uninspiring routine followed by so many? If there were answers to be found somewhere, I could not find them, but I did know that a new motorcycle would not hurt, and might actually help matters, at least for a while.
        With summer and a one-week vacation from work, I hit the road on my new 750K Honda, carrying along only a small bag of belongings strapped to the back seat, plus a vague notion that the further from Chicago I traveled, the better, less hurried, and less crowded the land would become, and the more wild and pristine everything would be. Distance equaled answers; and I instinctively felt that being in the outdoors surrounded by nature was where I would find contentment.
        And so I chose Mississippi Palisades State Park as my destination because it was at the far northwest corner of the state. I would find out what a palisade was when I got there.
        When I entered the Driftless Area of northwestern Illinois (that is, an area missed by the land-flattening Pleistocene Ice Age glaciers) the hills seemed truly mountainous, and I felt to be very far from home, though it was only about 150 miles. My life experiences so far had been mostly on tabletop flat lands. When the highway suddenly dropped in elevation from the rugged uplands to the flat bottomlands, I saw the upper Mississippi River for the first time: a wide expanse of greenish-gray turbid water, floating leaves of vegetation in the backwaters, forested islands and banks; all wild. But I was later most impressed from the cliff tops of the state park. With a lazy turkey vulture soaring by at eye level and the late afternoon sun in my eyes, the full Mississippi River valley before me, I felt, reality to the contrary, that I was gazing upon a pathless wilderness, with Chicago left far behind in a different world; this was a theme I would return to many times throughout my life of travels, though mostly with disappointment.

 

Mississippi River Valley from Mississippi Palisades State Park, 1978 

        At that moment, I wanted to drop everything and hike those forests, canoe the channels and bays, get lost in the wilderness, and forget completely about living in a Berwyn bungalow and being strangled by my life of no direction. Here was something better than I had ever imagined. I knew, though, that I was unprepared for such journeys, and embarking unprepared on an aimless trek through the “wilderness” would have been folly. So I made a mental note to return one day; it was clear that I first needed to escape the quicksand of the lifestyle I was being pulled down into with each passing year.

                                             * * *
        Given my urban upbringing, my childhood perspective was that everything around me was manmade or put there by someone. Because my little world consisted mostly of buildings, streets, sidewalks, lawns, and neatly planted front yard trees, all carefully placed and domesticated, that view was really not very far from the truth. I can even remember being on the shores of Lake Michigan, with Chicago’s downtown skyscrapers and busy Lake Shore Drive in the background, wondering where all of the sand came from to make the beach. The idea of an area not made by and under the control of mankind was not part of my worldview.
        But on one school field trip, probably in the third or fourth grade, we visited the Little Red Schoolhouse Nature Center in the Cook County Forest Preserves. I remember seeing prairie grass for the first time; it towered over me, and the teacher said that much of Illinois was once covered in prairies of these tall grasses. From my experience, grass was supposed to be all green and no more than about three inches tall; this tall prairie grass seemed out of place in the modern world. About the same time, I recall learning that massive glaciers once scoured the surface of Illinois and flattened the landscape on the very ground on which Chicago was built. And I thought if that ice ever returned, we would be in big trouble. Illinois had clearly once been a very different and wild place, probably quite threatening and unpredictable. The thought was a bit frightening, but there was comfort in the fact that that dangerous past was long dead and gone. There was also some sadness in the thought.
        These early experiences made lasting impressions, which remain vividly clear. Also clear is the recollection of my first encounter with an Illinois Nature Preserve. On one of my increasingly frequent visits to Cook County’s Palos Hills Forest Preserves in the 1980s, I noticed a trail head just off the highway and a large sign that said the area was called Cap Sauers Holding. There was also a small triangle sign with an image of a cardinal perched on an oak leaf which signified that the site was an Illinois Nature Preserve; in fact, it stated that “Everything is Protected by Law.” Clearly there was something special about this site. With everything protected by law, I wondered whether I would be in violation of the law just by entering. I went for my hike, nevertheless, and was relieved not to see a police car waiting for me upon my return.

 

        A few years later, just after I had moved to Edwardsville, Illinois, to attend the university, one of my first priorities was to find local public lands to hike in the woods. One day, driving west of town, I saw one of those triangle Illinois Nature Preserve signs and I quickly pulled off the highway. A larger sign said the site was called the William and Emma Bohm Memorial Nature Preserve (11 acres) and that it protected a remnant old-growth forest. This I wanted to see. I was used to reading about old-growth forests in the Pacific Northwest and Alaska, and I was becoming fascinated by the idea of wilderness from reading books by John Muir and Sigurd Olsen. But in Illinois? The sign also stated that the site was privately owned and permission was necessary to enter. So I drove on, and made a mental note to find out more about these Illinois Nature Preserves.
        What I soon discovered that impressed me the most, and took me back to my first prairie grass encounter, was that Illinois Nature Preserves are, in fact, remnants of the original Illinois landscape. They were not planted; they were in place long before Illinois was settled by Americans of European descent, and they are natural areas (original prairies, virgin forests, wetlands) of what remain from that time. My youthful perception that all of Illinois had long been manipulated and re-worked by someone at some time was wrong. The Illinois Natural Areas Preservation Act of 1963, which established the Illinois Nature Preserve System, refers to such natural lands as “living museums of the native landscape wherein one may envision and experience primeval conditions in a wilderness-like environment.” And it was that aspect, the “wilderness-like environment,” that I was most drawn to.
        In this regard, Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve (1,515 acres), far from any major road in rural Mason County, immediately comes to mind. On my first visit in the early 1990s—several years before I began working for the Commission to protect and manage sites within the Illinois Nature Preserves System—given its name, I was surprised to find such a heavily forested site. In the large prairie that I expected, I would be able to see where I was going, but in a forest without trails, I was a bit intimidated, and so I brought along a compass. Carefully entering the woods on a warm July day, I proceeded westward. The preserve measures one mile from east to west and about two and a half miles from north to south; so I planned to walk about a half mile west and then turn northwest to see what I could find. Very quickly, the small parking lot with my vehicle was obscured by trees; all I could see in any direction were more trees. But a short distance ahead I soon noticed some prairie vegetation; it was a small opening in the woods, with enough light to support a little bluestem-sand lovegrass community. The gnarled blackjack oaks, prickly pear cactus, and open sand gave it a desert-like feel. I earlier read that during the waning days of the last ice age as the climate warmed, the sand now in Mason County had been brought down the Illinois River valley in glacial melt waters and then blown by prevailing winds into upland sand dunes. The quiet was almost overpowering. I continued walking slowly westward while the narrow prairie opening gradually became a bit wider, but then it ended abruptly in a wall of forest. Here I turned to the northwest and soon noticed a larger opening ahead through the trees. I thought this must be the western boundary of the nature preserve and I expected to see boundary signs or a road. But no; this was an even larger prairie opening with large, widely scattered, black oak trees: I was looking at a remnant sand prairie and savanna, one of those rare, hidden pieces of the original Illinois landscape. I climbed about half way up the slope of a small rise, took a seat among the prairie grasses and wildflowers, and remained still. The only sounds were of insects, the gentle breeze, and a singing eastern towhee.

 

Sand Prairie-Scrub Oak Nature Preserve, 1992

 

        After I began working for the Commission, my relationship with Illinois Nature Preserves soon became serious, matter of fact, and in certain ways routine. A typical day might have included writing a comprehensive site management plan, talking to a private nature preserve owner worried about an encroaching neighbor, studying scientific research articles, investigating a lead on a prospective new nature preserve, pounding steel posts into the ground and attaching nature preserve boundary signs, answering numerous e-mails and phone messages that arrived while I was in the field, and a surprising amount of time in front of a computer.
        One result from being so wrapped up in day-to-day responsibilities and occasional crises, mesmerized by the computer’s glow, was that I sometimes needed to break through the bureaucratic walls and remind myself of my original inspirations. And in doing so I would eventually recall the 1978 motorcycle trip to the Mississippi River bluffs. At the time, I must have sensed that the pathways through life that I was seeking were somehow directly in front of me; the experience, in fact, allowed me to ponder my situation, something I rarely did in those days. Ready for change, by the fall of that year I was enrolled at the local community college taking night classes, trying to make up for lost time. I remember feeling like a different person than I had been only months before: happier, more focused, more alive, more in control of my life than ever before, working hard every evening and weekend to steer my life in a new direction. And I soon learned that answers would not miraculously appear because one stares out over a river valley.

                                             * * *
        A few weeks before retiring, I was leading a volunteer workday at a protected natural area in Tazewell County, where the crew consisted of ten female inmates from the local prison. It was a pleasant, breezy spring day, with clear skies, billowy white clouds and cool air, the new spring vegetation expressing every shade of green. The nearby creek reflected the forest and sky from its clear waters. Sounds of migrating songbirds filled the air. It was a good day to be outside. Every once in a while I heard one of the women utter the words “sweet freedom,” and several others would agree. It made me realize how special this day was to each of them and how different their lives were from mine.
        Near the creek, I directed the group to spread out over a five-acre area to control invasive plants, pulling garlic mustard and seedling bush honeysuckle by hand and using tree wrenches to pull the larger honeysuckle shrubs right from the ground. Most stayed close together, but several of the women moved off, clearly preferring to work alone. I caught snippets of conversation, and could easily identify the dominant individuals, although everyone seemed to get along, joking, laughing, and cheering when large honeysuckle shrubs were successfully pulled. I told them it was a good way to work off frustrations. So once I was sure everyone knew what to do, I spent some time walking over the area, looking for results of the previous year’s work.
        It was during this time away from the main group that I came upon one of the women further down the creek, looking out over the swiftly flowing water, seemingly in a daydream-like state. She was one of the “leaders,” a hardened, tough, no-nonsense individual, with a serious look. When she saw me, she looked up, and in a soft voice said, “Such beauty, so beautiful.” “Yes it is,” I replied. And then she told me how as a child, she and her friends played in a similar stream near their home on hot summer days. I excitedly pointed to a group of minnows swimming against the current in the clear water over a sand-gravel bottom, the small fish shining in the dappled sunlight. “So beautiful,” she whispered. I left the conversation there and walked away, wishing to intrude no longer. She may have been thinking of her childhood home, but I was pretty sure she was also thinking about the dark hell that she would return to in a short time. And, I wondered, was it too fanciful a notion to think that staring off into a creek for a few moments could provide the inspiration that would set a person’s life on a different trajectory?

 

View from Mississippi Palisades State Park, 2018

 

[To download a pdf file of this essay, click Download Mississippi River Full Circle ]

 

 

A Flurry of Bird Activity

        Today’s forecast called for drizzle and freezing rain. But for the moment, the gray skies produced no precipitation. So after missing yesterday’s morning walk because of rain, I seized the opportunity to be out on the home trails again.
        The woods were initially quiet. I listened for calls of the red-headed woodpecker overwintering toward the northwest and heard nothing. Sometimes winter days are like that; birds are elsewhere or quietly perching, conserving their energy. On this first day of 2019, many cold days and snow are still ahead. And so, a successful behavioral pattern for the season would have evolved to plan for the worst. Being frugal with resources now may come in handy in a month when the ground may be covered beneath a foot of snow with trees encased in ice.
        When I passed the red-headed woodpecker’s territory, I saw a brief flash of the bird flying from one tree to another, busy keeping watch on its cache of mast or looking for dormant insects hidden within the bark of trees. As I approached a nearby stand of eastern red cedar trees, I heard a tufted titmouse; a few seconds later, two black-capped chickadees sounded off; then a white-breasted nuthatch. As I looked up, a downy woodpecker joined the scene with two blue jays following close behind. Soon I noticed a red-bellied woodpecker. I was in the midst of a mixed-species foraging flock.

 

Stand of  red cedar trees near the red-headed woodpecker territory

        Sometimes northern cardinals, brown creepers, golden-crowned kinglets, and a few other species join such a group, traveling through the forest, searching for food. So when I hear one of these species, I always stop in my tracks and patiently wait for others to show up. (Of course, the red-headed woodpeckers stay aloof, because they have a much different winter survival strategy.) Joining a guild of foraging species would seem to be much more efficient than being a loner: more eyes looking out for predators and food concentrations on multiple, simultaneous routes, covering greater areas in less time.
        Then just as the loose flock of foragers seemed to appear out of nothing, in a few moments, they had moved on. I too continued on my way, with an eye toward the open fields to the west, where a low-flying northern harrier is always a good possibility, before heading home. Just a typical winter morning out on the trails, and a good way to begin the new year.

 

The home trail and cedars at the western property line

 

In Defense of Territory

December 10, 2018

        As I stepped outside to begin my morning trail walk, the first sound I heard was a calling red-headed woodpecker.  The call came from a black locust stand at the northwest corner of my 3.7-acre rural property. The last time I had heard such a call, sounding like a short trill or “qrrr,” was ten days before, when I nervously watched a ¼-mile-wide tornado slowly moving northward along the Illinois River valley about seven miles to the west. Over the years, I have learned to interpret the “qrrr” call as either a low level territorial warning or a serious alarm, depending upon its intensity and volume. This call only seemed a bit agitated. So I continued on my walk and forgot about the calling red-headed woodpecker.
        About fifteen minutes later, as I approached the black locust stand, I heard the loud, harsh alarm call of a northern mockingbird. When I looked upward, a barred owl crossed my field of view just below the tree canopy; it flew only a short distance, though, before landing at the top of a black locust tree. The mockingbird was immediately on the owl, calling and jumping from branch to branch. The owl, of course, seemed bored, slowly turned its head and stared directly at me. In a few seconds, two red-headed woodpeckers appeared, excitedly uttering their “qrrr” alarm calls at peak volume; they joined the mockingbird mobbing the owl, but also seemed to be distressed with each other. Over the last few weeks, I was aware of only a single red-headed woodpecker overwintering territory, but I now suspected that the owl was perching in a tree near the boundary of two territories. Red-headed woodpeckers store mast (acorns, for example) for the winter in caches usually placed in standing dead trees; and while mobbing the owl, each was drawn away from protecting its cache, which then would have been vulnerable to plunder by squirrels and other birds such as red-bellied woodpeckers and gangs of blue jays that are never far away.

 

Woodpecker hole in black locust snag, likely with a cache of acorns

        So I was not surprised when several blue jays soon formed an uneasy alliance with the woodpeckers to continue harassing the barred owl, who calmly looked around a bit, but was definitely more interested in keeping its eyes on me. The added attention, though, must have been too much, so the owl flew toward a larger tract of woods on the neighboring property. With the owl gone, all of the mobbing birds rapidly disappeared into the background. A gentle breeze once again became the loudest sound. And I thought back nineteen years to a conversation I had with a conservation-minded friend just after I had purchased this property, who said, “The first thing I would do is cut down all those invasive black locust trees.” I am certainly glad that I did not listen.

 

 

Impermanence and Deep Time

        On a recent visit to Dickson Mounds Museum in Fulton County, Illinois, I spent some time on the rooftop observation deck. Here I found myself picking out distant landmarks along the Illinois River valley, repeating what I had done many times in the twenty-seven years since first traveling to the area for a job interview. With the sun’s direct rays on my face, I tried to imagine what the scene before me might have looked like a thousand years ago.
        Over the last three decades, I have spent considerable time learning about the ecological changes that have occurred over central Illinois since the last Ice Age ended roughly 10,000 years ago: how the climate changed from the Pleistocene cold to a long, warm and dry period (when prairie first became established); then changed to cooling, warming, and cooling again (see page xi in Theler and Boszhardt [2003]); and how plant communities tracked these changes, from tundra to forest to prairie grasslands and savanna. Humans, who had been in Illinois for around 12,000 years, certainly witnessed all of those changes. Their stories are well told in the museum’s exhibits; in fact, a great deal of what is known about prehistoric Native American cultures came from the Illinois River valley. When I view the river valley from the museum’s rooftop, their stories, with only a bit of imagination, come alive.

 

Dickson Mounds Museum and Emiquon National Wildlife Refuge (foreground)

        One landmark barely discernable from the rooftop is probably unknown by most folks viewing the river valley; it is a small, native sand prairie at Henry Allan Gleason Nature Preserve, ten miles to the northeast of the museum, across the river in Mason County. This is the site where Gleason himself, in the early 1900s, conducted foundational research on plant communities and succession. During this recent museum visit, the skies were clear and calm, and so I had little trouble finding the ridge of sand dune with golden brown prairie grasses that stood out against the surrounding forested hills. And I wondered whether Hopewell or Mississippian inhabitants of this area would have gazed toward the distant prairie as I did; or from the other direction, sighted a direct line to the village that once existed where the museum now stands.

 

Henry Allan Gleason Nature Preserve, early 1990s

        I also thought about the influences human-set fires might have had on the wholesale plant community changes of prehistoric times until the prairies became fully established—those same prairies, like the one at H.A. Gleason Nature Preserve, that greeted the first Europeans who entered the Illinois country. We know from historical accounts that Native Americans burned the prairies, and tree ring analyses show evidence of frequent fires sweeping through savannas as well as forests. Today, experience has taught us that Illinois’ grasslands will eventually change to forest in the absence of periodic fire because the current climate—together with all of its variability over hundreds of years—favors forest. When did the practice of burning the landscape begin? Were people during the Archaic Period, roughly 10 to 3 thousand years ago, burning the landscape as the historic Native Americans did? Was this the ultimate factor which ensured that prairie would persist in central Illinois? Viewing the Illinois River valley before me from the H.A. Gleason Nature Preserve or from the Dickson Mounds Museum observation deck, I think that the answers to these questions lie scattered before me in thousand-year-old burial mounds and former village sites; artifacts from a martial, state-like society that vanished well before Europeans ever ventured into Illinois; and by the small, remnant prairies and other natural communities that have survived. Or maybe they more than likely have been scattered by the winds and erosion of too many years.

 

Ogden-Fettie Mound (Havana Hopewell - 300 B.C. to 300 A.D.)

        All of this has given me a thoughtful appreciation of deep time and how the modern era is merely a data point on a long continuum of change, and my lifetime is even less. But some might ask why expend the effort to think of such things when planning for the future is what we should be doing and there are so many pressing issues of the day that demand attention. Concerning that viewpoint, I recall the classic bored high school student’s question about history: Why do we need to know this? I counter with a question: Why does anyone need to know anything? Louis Pasteur once said that Chance favors only the prepared mind. One can never know how a miscellany of facts may combine to produce an insight sufficient to shift a paradigm. Perhaps knowledge of the past may alert us to dangerous pitfalls before it is too late.  Has it really been such a long time between the Clovis point and smartphone?

 

Selected References

Berkson, A. and Wiant, M.D., editors. 2001. Discovering Illinois archaeology. Illinois Association for the Advancement of Archaeology and the Illinois Archaeological Survey.

Gleason, H.A. 1926. The individualistic concept of the plant association. Bulletin of the Torrey Botanical Club 53:1-20.

Pielou, E.C. 1991. After the ice age. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago and London.

Struever, S. and F.A. Holton. 1979. Koster: Americans in search of their prehistoric past. Waveland Press, Inc., Propect Heights, Illinois.

Taft, J.B., R.C. Anderson, and L.R. Iverson. 2009. Vegetation ecology and change in terrestrial ecosystems. Pages 35-72 in C.A. Taylor, J.B. Taft, and C. E. Warwick, editors. Canaries in the catbird seat: the past, present, and future of biological resources in a changing environment. Illinois Natural History Survey Special Publication 30. Champaign, Illinois.

Tallis, J.H. 1991. Plant community history. Chapman and Hall, London.

Theler, J.L. and R.F. Boszhardt. 2003. Twelve millennia: archaeology of the upper Mississippi River Valley. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City.

 

Related Posts on The River Landing Blog

"Woody Vegetation Regrowth Following Fire"

"An Illinois River Hill Prairie Fire" 

"Change and Comfort in Nature" 

What Have I Been Missing?

        Early on this cold, sunny morning, I went for a hike on the home trails, and then sat for a while with the honey bee hives. All the bees, of course, were inside keeping warm; no activity to watch. So I simply sat and listened. Soon a few blue jays and a red-bellied woodpecker called. And I could just hear a gray squirrel lightly screeching. Nearby there was a red-headed woodpecker on its overwintering territory. Official winter was still a few weeks away, but there had already been two rather substantial snow falls (rare for November in central Illinois); I resisted imagining this as a harbinger of a tough winter.
        Through the leafless black locust trees, I searched the vast blue skies for any sign of waterfowl, but could see and hear nothing except the faint sound of a truck one half-mile away on the highway. My thoughts were simple: After my coffee is empty, I’ll head back home for some breakfast.

 

Backyard at the bee hives (note the chair through the cedar branches)

        Then suddenly a dark gray, silent streak of a sharp-shinned hawk shot past at eye level only a few feet away. Hidden by a cedar tree, the hawk must not have seen me; otherwise, it would not have chosen such a close flight path. But in less than two seconds, it passed down the trail and away. If I had been facing another direction or blinked my eyes, I would have missed the hawk completely; not even the air through its wings made a sound that my ears could hear. And I wondered, How much have I missed over the years when my eyes and ears were focused elsewhere?

Morning Grackles

    The air was cold and crisp, sound carried, and fall colors radiated in the early morning sunshine. I stepped from under the back porch roof to meet the day, when, at that instant, thousands of common grackles began calling and taking flight all at once. All of the trees within several hundred feet were filled with these raucous, excited birds with more streaming in from elsewhere, just as large numbers left the area.

Back yard a few days before the grackle invasion.

    Standing still, without making a sound, I thought if I had been the factor that initially disturbed the birds, they would soon calm down. If anything, though, their loud chatter increased, as more grackles continued to arrive. When great numbers took to the air at once, they coalesced into a tight, organized formation, each bird following the movements of the others. But which bird was the leader? Or was there even a leader? Air moving through so many beating wings was a living wind, matching the complicated motions of the flock in tone, volume, and pitch; a symphony of physics. In an instant all of the chattering stopped…and then started up again all together as if directed by a conductor’s baton.
    I could have stood watching until all of the grackles flew away, but they might have stayed around for quite some time, and I was not willing to wait. Serious plans were in place for my day: run a few errands in town, check on the bee hives and chickens, walk some trails, read, tune my autoharp, read some more, and nap. So I abandoned the chaotic grackles for them to figure out their own problems, but I left with a feeling of being slightly impatient and of missing something important.

Edward Abbey and The Fool’s Progress: A Personal Thirty-year Assessment

        I first read the novel The Fool’s Progress (1988; Henry Holt and Company, New York; 485 pages) in 1988. By that time I had already read many of Edward Abbey’s other writings, and I was drawn to his humor, irreverence, and sharp, concise evaluations of issues and situations—particularly his take on our modern industrialized society and its effects on the environment. The book’s main character, Henry Holyoak Lightcap, is based on Abbey himself; although, being fiction, there are major differences.

        Lightcap is a middle-aged man dying of cancer (Abbey died in 1989 from internal bleeding) who travels from the Southwest, where he spent most of his adult life, to his boyhood home in West Virginia. Along the way, he recalls his life in flashbacks, the highs and lows, and airs his opinions and philosophies of life. He is a man, like Abbey, who lived an unconventional life full of troubles with alcohol, bad decisions, poor behavior, and several failed marriages. Many of the stories in the book are based on what Abbey actually did, judging from his nonfiction and posthumous biographies. So in many ways, the loosely semi-autobiographical The Fool’s Progress is a culmination of Abbey’s best fiction and non-fiction writing.
        In 1988, I was in the midst of reading works by many of the major environmental and nature-oriented writers such as John Muir, Rachel Carson, Paul Ehrlich, Sigurd Olsen, and more. I was a subscriber to Sierra magazine and belonged to most of the mainstream environmental groups. Living in Chicago’s expanding suburban area, with daily losses of natural habitats, I was ripe for Abbey’s polemical writings. I was also drawn to his writings because he eloquently expressed ideas that were vaguely floating around in my head. On the surface, he seemed to be someone I could listen to for inspiration, at least as far as his views on nature and living a simple, meaningful life. I did not see myself in a conventional suburban situation working an uninspiring nine-to-five job with only two weeks of vacation a year for the next forty years. Abbey’s writings showed how at least one man managed an alternative—if he was being honest.
        After first completing The Fool’s Progress, subtitled “An Honest Novel,” I thought it was the best fictional book I had ever read. I felt as if I personally knew the Lightcap character, although I found it difficult not to view him as Abbey, albeit in fictional form. I savored every word of this book.  These days, my view of The Fool’s Progress must be taken in the context of thirty additional years of living and voracious reading, a formal education in environmental science and ecology, and my professional experiences in the natural resources field (I fully acknowledge that Abbey’s writings were part of the motivation for entering this area of work). In fact, I think it is my scientific training toward objective analysis and digging deep for answers that helped me to view all of Abbey’s writings from a less fanciful viewpoint. And over the last thirty years I have traveled to or lived near many of the real places Lightcap passes through on his fictional journey. Also, there are many ecological references in The Fool’s Progress that I would not have fully appreciated the first time reading the book. So the details of the book came to life much more on the recent read than previously. In addition, as I became older, I have gradually become more politically aware. Much to my surprise, I eventually realized that many, if not most, of my attitudes would fall on the conservative side of the political spectrum; while the stances of environmental groups, in general, fall on the other side. As a consequence, I have long parted ways from such groups. And I never really had much use for radical environmentalism (e.g., Earth First!), which Abbey pioneered and where he probably remains an icon. It is because of the changes that I have gone through over the years that I was not sure how much I would like The Fool’s Progress on this latest read.
        However, following my recent reading of The Fool’s Progress, I still believe it is a great book, deep, and very much a literary novel; it also maintains a strong plot that pulls the reader forward. I am still drawn to the main character, but not as someone I would listen to, learn from, or emulate in any way; in fact, one of Lightcap’s outstanding characteristics is his hypocrisy. Lightcap, like Abbey, complains about modern western society as he reaps its benefits. He longs for a return to a simpler, agrarian time when people lived closer to the land, but forgets to mention the hardships of those times, for example, when a toothache could easily turn deadly. He speaks of following a lifestyle of “voluntary simplicity.” But I ask, what does it take to manufacture his six-pack of beer that he routinely drinks while driving and his truck plus the fuel to power it along an asphalt highway so that he can throw his empty beer cans out the window (Lightcap does this in the novel, but Abbey actually did this). How much of modern, industrialized society is necessary so that such items and everything else that he takes advantage of can be designed, produced, and made easily available? He advocates for rugged individualism and the rights of a free person, but seems oblivious to how his actions affect others, especially in his relationships with women. He complains about human overpopulation, but seems to be fine with his own person. His hypocrisy and self-contradictions, in fact, are much more obvious to me today than thirty years ago.
        Yet my final assessment of The Fool’s Progress is that it is well worth another read at some point. After the first time through, I had planned to return to the book after I turned 60, about the age of Abbey when he completed it. With that now accomplished, I probably should wait at least another thirty years for a third read, and then make a final re-assessment.

 

References

Abbey, E. 1988. The fool’s progress. Henry Holt and Company, New York.

Calahan, J.M. 2001. Edward Abbey: a life. The University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

Loeffler, J. 2002. Adventures with Ed: a portrait of Abbey. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque.

Hepworth, J.R and G. McNamee, editors. 1996. Resist much obey little: remembering Ed Abbey. Sierra Club Books, San Francisco.

Not a Good Day for Canoeing

        For several days I had looked forward to today’s (October 17th) weather; the forecast was for sunny skies, temperatures in the lower fifties, with sustained winds no more than 10 miles per hour. Also, the Illinois River was well into its usual fall rise, following the low waters of late summer, when even a canoe would have trouble in the shallow backwaters of Quiver Lake. I longed to be in my canoe, heading across the backwaters to the river beyond, a day to be lost to the elements. But a simple glance at the treetops around my home, three miles from the river, showed that even at mid-morning, the wind was strong, reaching at least to the forecasted high level.
        So before heading to the cabin on Quiver Lake and my canoe, I took a slight detour to Chautauqua National Wildlife Refuge to test the winds, so to speak. Here I felt nearly thrust forward into mid-winter as the cold northwest winds came screaming off the refuge’s vast open waters and lowland marshes. I bundled up with scarf and winter hat, scanning with my spotting scope at the distant rafts of waterfowl bobbing in the roiling waves, but was soon defeated by the frigid wind chills. There were gadwall, northern pintail, mallard, ruddy ducks, northern shovelers, a lone ring-necked duck, and Canada geese; at one point, a bald eagle flew low over the ducks causing many to fly in various directions, providing a scene of confusion to a formidable predator.
        Leaving the refuge I recalled that only ten days before I was lamenting the hot, humid weather that made it feel like July all over again. Most of the trees had yet to change color, but it already felt like winter. In truth, paddling a canoe I could have handled the 15 mile per hour winds and higher gusts, but it would have been hard work maintaining a constant direction, especially if the wind blew crosswise in open waters. So feeling rather low on energy at mid-day, I instead opted for a quiet afternoon at the Quiver Lake cabin, reading, playing my guitar, perhaps a nap or two, and feeding wood to the fireplace.

Bird Song Cabin at Quiver Lake

 

        Later I would walk down the bluffs to the sandy waterfront and view the lake, sky, and forests of the opposite lakeshore. From that vantage point I would hear a towboat-barge chugging along on the river about a mile away, leisurely watch a large group of American white pelicans soaring ever higher on the high winds, search for the last few tree swallows of the season, and question my decision to stay shore bound…especially knowing that truly cold weather would soon arrive for months, and canoeing would not even be an option.