Chincoteague

As a child I read Misty of Chincoteague (which is on sale in

every store in town for $2.99) and have always had a mental image of this place

as wild, with farms dominating the landscape. The town itself is hardly worth

mentioning. There are beach stores aplenty selling t-shirts and other tourist

necessities, and a range of restaurants selling fairly mediocre seafood. Of

course. But the island itself,

across the Assateague Channel, where the ponies graze remains open, with sandy

soil, pines and plenty of birds. This area is protected as part of the national

seashore. Though it is very managed, you can still get the feel that comes

across in Misty. If you have not recently read the book, do—the descriptions

are marvelous and the writing clean and vivid.

So, to get to it: we did see ponies, at first at a distance,

in groups of four or five. Brown and white, a bit on the big bellied side (from

the salt in the grass—they hold water). Then on our final day we visited

Assateague on the Maryland side and there they were grazing right next to the

parking lot, wandering around so close some reached out to touch them though of

course there are warnings galore not to do so. They lose a bit of their wild

mystique being so “tame.” And hardly elusive. The ponies are managed

differently in Virginia—there is the annual auction as in Misty, while in

Maryland they shoot the mares with birth control so that they bear only one

foal in a lifetime. In this way the population is kept in control. The ponies,

though, were not nearly as thrilling as all of the birds migrating through this

beautiful landscape.

Promise, this won’t be a list. But I’ll describe the refuges

we visited and some of the marvelous sightings.

On the drive down we stopped at what is known to birders as

“Brig,” which is the Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge. This involves

an 8-mile dirt road loop, where you are not supposed to leave the car. Herons,

egrets galore, and then we read that someone had seen a roseate spoonbill,

which would be an unusual visitor to this area.

Kyla asked: “what are we looking for?”

Mark (our very knowledgeable and generous leader): “something

pink.”

“There,” she said. And sure enough, there it was. As simple

as that. I’d seen one of these before in Texas, but it was glorious to see that

long flat bill, a bit goofy, of this wandering bird.

In the distance a large flock of skimmers performed their

the balletic dips and turns, as if someone had choreographed their moves. Their

orange beaks are long and dramatic, the lower half longer than the top so that

they literally skim along the surface of the water.

On the Cape May-Lewes ferry we were joined by hundreds of

bikers, most Harley riders, all congregating for Bike Week. They live up to

their stereotype with tattoos galore and bucket helmets with sayings like: “lick

me till I scream” or “the more hair I lose the more head I get.” Terrific

contrast with our group of 20 birders, all with their binoculars, sturdy

walking shoes and practical clothing.

Our first day on Chincoteague we walked two loops, the first

three and a half miles, the second a mile and a half. These were paved walkways

through sand and marsh. The mosquitoes were active but not overwhelming,

probably because we always had a slight breeze. That or the fact that in town,

at night, a truck drives through with a spray off the back—what will come of

that?The pines here are very long

leafed—loblolly pines and there is a lot of crepe myrtle in wonderful

bloom—pink and purple and white. My favorite sights on these two walks were

Forster terns, with their regular wing beats that then give way to a plunge

into the water; black terns that seem to lope along through the air, and

merlins, which are a compact, strong falcon. One sat atop a post so we could

look closely through the scope. Hooked beak and spotted chest and a sense of

power and pride.

On this walk there was also a range of fantastic insects—red

ants and praying mantis and the most frightening spiders with webs ten feet

across. Also some blue red bugs piling on to create more blue red bugs. And a

wonderful assortment of butterfly including the monarch and the buckeye, which is

beige with round darker bulls-eyes on their wings, and the red spotted purple,

which is a deep blue-purple.

There were also squirrel boxes where two Fox squirrel poked

out their heads.

In the afternoon we had time by the ocean. The waves rolled

in and I had to go out and swim, the water still deliciously warm at this

point. I am lucky to have many beaches in my past, my parents drawn to water

for vacation. Lake Michigan, Cape Cod, the Basque Coast. So water and waves

bring back my parents and those carefree perfect days of childhood. They would

have loved this beach and water, would have been out there with me bobbing in

the waves. They also would have enjoyed the grilled shrimp and flounder

sandwich I ate at Captain Zacks in town. A few of us sat around picnic tables,

shared beer and this simple food, made tastier with a few hush puppies.

Our second day we drove down to Kiptopeke State Park, which

is at the end of this strip of land, the ocean on one side, Chesapeake Bay on

the other. The drive down itself was interesting if a bit depressing. This is

where our chicken dinners come from. We first pasted the Tyson factory then later

Perdue. The place smells of chicken and turkey vultures circled in a kettle

overhead. Long chicken coops line the road, looking an awful lot like the

trailers that the workers live in. There’s a sense of just getting by in this

pretty landscape. Lots of billboards telling us that Jesus is coming soon and

that fireworks are for sale, along with cartons of cigarettes. The small world

I live in most people no longer smoke. They do here.

At Kiptopeke there were more falcons, accipiter and buteos

than I will ever see again in my life, is my guess. They circled and flapped

and dove and soared, in a strong, beautiful wind. It was a clear day, with a

few high clouds, and so we could see long into the distance. Mark called out

what was what and helpfully pointed out what to look for—the compact body or

rounded wings, the size of the bird and how they took thermals. He is a warbler

man so these larger birds are not his passion and yet he knows them well. And

soon we too were calling out Coopers Hawk, Sharp Shinned, Broadwing, Harrier. My

sense of despair in really learning all of this washes over from time to time.

The warblers bring on the greatest sense that this is impossible, but identifying

a bird circling hundreds of feet in the air, where they are a mere dot is also

a bit daunting. And yet—every day

brought a few more birds into sharp relief, something about the place or the

color or the sound that I will remember. I’ll probably have this all well

figured out just as I go into late age dementia.

The landscape at Kiptopeke is overrun with wild fennel, but

also graced with purple passion flowers and a few beauty bush with their

glowing purple seeds.

There was a hawk watch underway nearby and we stood on the

wooden lookout in silence with the counters who did not speak to us. And I

realized how I am spoiled by Mark’s generosity in what he knows, in that he

enjoys infecting others with his passion for birds. These hawk watch people

were secretive or perhaps just so focused they didn’t have room to explain what

they saw, so I wandered off, down to the beach. This was on the Chesapeake Bay,

the water warm and calm.The salt

water floating me gently along and as I bobbed, head above water, I felt

grateful for all of this beautiful land and the luck of moving in and through

it.

The unexpected event of the weekend was that NASA, which has

a base on Wallops Island (just before Chincoteague) had a schedule launch. Honestly,

I didn’t expect much. But we ordered out food from Captain Zacks (more hushpuppies

and a crab cake sandwich, which was ok but not great), and headed to the beach

to watch.

We witnessed a startling sunset, and then waited in the dark. Without

announcing itself, an orange ball zipped into the sky, hesitated a moment as

darkness took over and then what looked like hundreds of yards but was probably

hundreds of miles above, the orange-white streak continued on. Minutes later an

enormous boom—sonic boom—and then it vanished. Shortly after, a cloud, like a

bulbous milky way, appeared. We stood stunned by this display.

On the way home we stopped on the causeway to look for

rails, which make a distinctive noise, like two rocks being tapped rapidly

together. No luck.

So on Sunday morning several of us got up early to seek

rails yet again. We’d heard them, even from the deck of our hotel. We drove out

the causeway toward Wallops Island, and heard more rails, and fleetingly one

flapped by (honestly, I can’t say I saw it).

Later, as a whole group, we headed north into Assateague on

the Maryland side. There, we hiked three short trails, seeing brown pelicans

and a Caspian tern (great orange beak), pine warbler, black and white warbler.

Right, I said this would not be a list. But this was our one warbler day as we

were in the woods, and the strong breeze from the day before made for a good

warbler day. Some sika elk—little tiny elk grazed in the woods near us. One

mother, with a band around her neck had a baby, which nursed a bit. Rather

magical.

After these walks we headed to the wide, smooth beach to

bodysurf. Six of us plunged into the warm water, rolling with the waves. I saw

Denise on shore in her suit. 83 years old and from the Pas de Calais, we had had

lovely conversations in French about everything from the lousy food to her home

country. She retreated to her towel. But I thought: if she is at all like my

little French mother, she wants to get in the water. Indeed, with my help she

was game. So hand in hand we braced ourselves against the breaking waves. Steve

came in to take her other hand and the three of us floated further out,

bouncing in the waves. This simple

happy moment in the water, treading to stay afloat, Denise’s hand in mine . . .

a delight.

As we left the parking lot of the hotel in the morning a

duck was taking his time crossing the road. Ducks are everywhere, honking early

in the morning, and in general ruling the town. There is an ordinance that

forbids feeding them and I understand why—for food they could become quite

aggressive. So we let the duck cross, but a white pickup coming in the other direction,

barreled on through, tossing the duck into the air and tumbling it under the

body of the truck. Of course this didn’t kill the duck, only left it flopping

helplessly in the middle of the road. There was something so violent, and quick

and careless about this that I couldn’t help tearing up. Mark braced himself,

got out of the van and carried the duck to the side of the road. After that, I

could not look.

Heading north, we made one final stop at the Blackwater

National Wildlife Refuge, a rich ecosystem, which has more nesting bald eagle

along the east coast, except Florida. And, they have tons of turtles. They

cooperated by sunning near the roadway—Eastern Painted turtles, a Snapper, a

large Northern Redbelly and Red Eared Sliders.

I have never been on an organized trip and there is no

question that moving with 20 is not a speedy or flexible affair. Just getting

everyone in and out of the two vans took time. But there are also huge

advantages of a group—I did not have to plan a thing or make a single decision.

Our hotel, a Hampton Inn, was comfortable and served a good enough breakfast.

Through these fives days, I have floated along, going off to swim when I needed

the water. Above all, there was the incredible expertise of all of these

birders. Mark DeDea, who runs the Forsythe Nature Center in Kingston, has a

supernatural ability to see and hear everything, even while driving. Most of

the group was made up of women, mostly retired (I’m jealous of this), though

there was Carol who is an organist and Roberta who runs the 64 acre Green Heron

farm where she has more than twenty horses (Morgans). Her humor came at me

sideways, as did her kindness. Lin Fagin, president of the John Burroughs

Society (we called her “president”) was along, with her quiet years of

observation and her vast knowledge. Along with Mark was his girlfriend Kyla to

told us of their home life with their Eastern Screech owl. Julie and Steve Noble were our other leaders, two young environmental

educators who work for the city of Kingston. They run programs in the schools

and locally, day and night and weekends—the city is lucky to have their

goodness and hard work. They are both also great bodysurfers. All of our

leaders had infinite patience with this group as we asked to stop: for restrooms, and birds, for turtles

and a glimpse of Misty’s descendants. 

Michael Werner

    A few days ago, I called my rock climbing friend Rich Perch,

who lives in Colorado

    “What are you doing inside on a glorious day?” I said

without a hello. I was full of the early autumn glory of the east coast.

    “It’s hailing here. And lightening.”

    He’d been climbing in

the morning but had retreated to his home in Estes Park in the afternoon.

    I’ve known Rich since I started climbing in 1975. He and

Thom Scheuer were thenthe rangers

at the Gunks, a world-class climbing area in New York’s Hudson Valley. I

remember walking down the carriage road beneath the blocky, sheer cliffs, and

seeing the two of them in the back of their blue Toyota pick up trucks reading

the New York Times, collecting day fees and bantering with climbers. The moment

I saw them I knew this was a world I wanted to be a part of.

    Since that first encounter, Rich and I had shared a rope for

days at a time, as well as many friends, some of whom, like Thom, had died.

    “Tomorrow is my anniversary,” Rich boasted.

    “You’ve never been married,” I pointed out.

    “Tomorrow is the day of my first climb, forty years ago.” Rich

has a list of every climb he has done and with whom.

    I tried to think back to the date of my first climb, now 39

years ago. I can picture the thick, stretchy goldline rope and the cliff

itself, a crumbling piece of rock in Huntington, Pennsylvania. I can even smell

the hesitant fear I had then at 15, when I was told to fall, to learn to trust

the rope. I can remember the

mixture of pleasure and thinking this was crazy all bundled together. I don’t

remember the date of that first day at the cliffs, but I know that that fall

day draws the line in my life. Before, I was a teenager with energy but no

focus, after that day I had a passion that has kept me looking skyward, and led

me to climbing areas around the country and overseas.

    It’s not

surprising, then, that my first lover was a rock climber. I confess that I

remember a lot less about that first time and that the shift before and after

was hardly the monumental one I had so imagined.

    I congratulated Rich on 40 years of happy marriage to the

cliffs of New York and Colorado, California, Nevada, Arizona.

Rich is a funny man, prone to puns, which I actually laugh

at. But for a moment his voice became serious. “Listen, I have to tell you

something. I learned that Michael Werner killed himself last fall.”

    I waded through twenty-eight years to remember the blond

skinny man I fell in love with. For a moment I didn’t know what to say—his

suicide didn’t entirely surprise me but his death did.

    Before I met Michael I was half in love with him. I’d grown

into climbing on Werner brother stories that made both Michael and his older

brother Peter heroic. The grandest feat was Michael’s 150-foot fall at the

Gunks. He hit the ground, breaking both legs. But he was still alive. A few

weeks later he sawed off his casts and was out climbing. When I met him, I

found the way that his long skinny legs bowed particularly sexy.

    I met Michael in Colorado the summer I graduated from high

school. My climbing partner, Neil, and I climbed during the day and usually

camped out in the Eldorado parking lot, but from time to time we showed up hoping

to scrounge a meal or a shower at the house Michael shared with some mutual

friends.

    Michael was not immediately taken with me. In fact, I wasn’t

entirely sure he even liked me. He was older (a worldly 24 to my 18) worked in

a tool die factory, smoked, listened to Dire Straits and drank a lot of beer

then spouted his political views, which were so far right I thought he must be

joking. Or drunk. We didn’t really have much in common except for the climbing.

Still, after watching him move on the rock—he had delicate precise footwork—I

was smitten.

    I spent my freshman year of college hoping to hear the phone

in the hallway ring and then that one of my dorm-mates would tell me it was for

me. I fantasized Michael arriving in his wide Buick Wildcat to say we were off

to climb in the Black Canyon or nearby in the Garden of the Gods. But he didn’t

call until February—I’d given up hope and had found a boyfriend—to ask not for

a date but did I want to go to Tuolomne for the summer. I said yes.

    He came down the next weekend and we climbed together. But I

didn’t see much of him after that until he called in April to say his car had

died, did I mind hitchhiking.

So early June after my sophomore year, Michael and I stuck

out our thumbs and headed to Tuolumne Meadows, which rests at 9,000 feet in

Yosemite National Park.

    Every morning that summer we hitchhiked to the rounded granite

domes that make up the glory of Tuolomne climbing. Hitchhiking was easy because

everyone picked us up—mothers alone with their children, tourists from France,

other climbers fortunate enough to have a car—because we looked so wholesome

and we were (if a bit unwashed). For hours every day we tip toed our way up

smooth solid gray rock, testing our finger strength but more our minds that

bent with staring at scarce protection and long falls. Michael appeared

fearless, taking the sharp end of the rope on fantastic leads. I cheered him on

through moves where he hesitated—he was, after all, immortal. His constant play

with the edge was not suicidal, it was a celebration of life. He wanted the

next hold; he reached for the summit.

    Most days we arrived back at our tent with just enough

energy to cook a meal and crawl into our sleeping bags. Back in Boulder,

Michael often drank too much, but there in the mountains we didn’t want (and

couldn’t afford) beer. I don’t think I have ever been so physically satisfied

or openly happy. By the end of the summer we were both scrawny and strong, and

climbing hard. And in love. With climbing.

    We both kept journals, writing every morning over coffee,

and for Michael a cigarette or three, at our camp table. At the end of the

summer we agreed to swap, an idea no therapist would think good for any

relationship. Mine was filled with meditations on my love for Michael played

out through the rope that kept us bound on the rock. I wrote with all of the

obvious, juicy metaphors between climbing and love—the commitment it took, the

patience, the ability to anticipate when Michael would move up or fall and my

ability to catch him if he did. I literally held his life in my hands and I

found this glorious. But really, my journal was mostly filled with an

overwhelming self-satisfaction, a dreadful ego that perhaps a young climber

needs but that I would rather never claim. To read that journal now is pure

embarrassment.

    I peeled apart Michael’s notebook and read his neat

handwriting. Climbs listed by name and grade, his fear, some drama, some humor.

He was a good writer, a good story teller, spare and crisp. My name didn’t

appear once.

    That fall, I came undone in college. My studies (Nietzsche’s

overman!) and the climbing collided so that when I went home at Christmas I

didn’t want to go back. It was easy to blame some of my problems on Michael and

so I did and so the relationship ended. The love of my life lasted for a year.

Michael killed himself. What do you do when you learn that

someone you loved, someone you have not spoken to for 28 years has died? A

silent sadness lodged in me as I thought of how unhappy he must have been in

this world. I spent one frantic night trying to learn more, wondering how he

died, did he perhaps jump and fall, a final plummet to the earth that shattered

more than his legs? There is no reason I need to know this, and my quest

implies that a death by falling would somehow make this sad end more noble or

right. It would not.

    I’m reading the Inferno for the first time. The suicides are

there, in the 7th circle of hell. When Virgil encounters the dead

what they want is to be remembered to those still alive. So this is what I can

do: remember Michael, the way his long skinny legs stepped high for a hold, the

California sky blue, his smile punctuated by a Marlboro that greeted me on

those thin belay ledges. What I can remember is that in that summer of climbs

we shared a love that for me has lasted a lifetime.

Full Moon Paddle

Not much blogging this summer, but some adventuring (which I’ll

perhaps get to recounting at some point). Last night was the September full

moon—not as special as the August full moon, which is the Sturgeon Moon, but it

is the Corn Moon and the corn has been pretty wonderful here. I put in at

Cheviot, which is just a bit north of Tivoli. It’s almost across the river from

the St. Lawrence cement plant, which looms on the western shore. When it’s dark

I confess that the plant is magical with its lights.

I put in around 7:15 and pointed north. It’s a great section

to paddle because the river spreads wide and shallow so the channel snakes up very

near the western shore (where

barges dock to load and unload at the cement plants). So I could paddle down

the middle of the river and except for the occasional sea monster it’s pretty safe.

Off I went, coasting through spooky calm water. While the

sun did a dizzy descent behind the Catskills, gulls gave off their haunting “you

are at the ocean” call. Soon enough, the moon popped up, huge, white,

frightening, and spread light and shadows across the water.

I arrived at a mid-river marker where Cormorants nest. The dark

birds dotted the spindly metal structure as they went about their end of day rituals. They burp. They

clack their bills. There was the peep of babies hoping to be fed. At the top

one bird stood in regal silhouette in a blue-black sky. The whole place stunk.

For a while I floated there, facing the moon, the birds

behind me snaggling away. Did they appreciate the moon? Perhaps yes. Me, I fell

into that moon. I wish there was a better word than awe. But there I was, awed,

small and huge at once, and grateful for this moment on the river, for this

life on this round earth.

This evening I went out again hoping to capture that magic

once again. It’s a risky thing to do because disappointment is almost

inevitable. But no, the evening played out with the same gorgeous display of

sun shading orange, pink, blue, black to the east, and the moon popping up

orange to the east. If I fed on

bugs I would have returned home full.

Birds, Birds, Bicknell and Blackburnian

Mid-May I woke up and heard bird songs. Of course I had always heard birds rattling away in the morning, a blur of noise that told me the world was alive. Suddenly, though, as if a part of my hearing had suddenly clicked into place, there emerged distinct calls in rhythm and volume, in pitch and repetition. That’s all I heard. When in the past I could walk without really seeing or hearing anything, now I can’t walk without hearing every peep, chirp, chip, slur. And wondering who it is.

I’m not the first to suddenly be taken with birds and their songs. But I feel lucky to join a large and often nerdy bunch of people wandering the globe with a range of binoculars, scopes and cameras and a will to see. If only for a moment. There’s one thing I’ve learned: birding is about moments, flashes. You don’t hold onto these birds. You are lucky to get a glimpse.

Across the Hudson River Mark DeDea at the Forsythe Nature Center  organizes nature walks that often focus on birds with the John Burroughs Society. For the past two weekends I’ve joined them on walks/hikes led by Christine Guarino, an energetic young woman who is part parrot and who hears everything.

The first walk I joined was at the Lundy Estate, a 5,200 acre property, currently held by the Department of Environmental Conservation. It’s a gorgeous piece of land—fields and forests merge together, with the remnants of a plan: a row of tall white pines, forming an allee.  It lies south of the Catskills, and north of Minnewaska State Park, offering a bridge between these two swatches of protected areas. From the web, I’ve gathered some of this land’s complicated history (if someone out there actually reads this and knows more, do let me know). Frederick Lundy, the most recent owner, was a restaurant owner in Manhattan. He bought the original land in the 1920s and added to it during the Depression. From the web (reliable source? Who knows): “After a 1926 kidnapping, numerous armed robberies, a shoot-out at the restaurant, and finally, the suspicious death of his sister and her husband, Lundy became a recluse. He lived above the cavernous restaurant with 14 Irish setters and a servant. An elaborate scheme to defraud him of $11 million kept his name in the headlines for years after his death.”

Not sure who was kidnapped, but the 14 Irish setters overwhelm and delight me.

For this walk, 21 people showed up. Peter Schoenberger stood out for his three foot long, ten pound (or more?) camera. The Blackburnian at the top of this post is his; other photos, posted on flickr, are marvelous.  We spent a long time trying to coax in a Blackburnian warbler, with no luck. So let me be honest: until that Saturday I had never even heard of a Blackburnian warbler. But after that day I wanted to see one.

Yesterday, June 6, I woke at 4 in the morning (awake before the birds) and drove across the river to Slide Mountain, the highest peak in the Catskills and one of my favorite hikes, with this same group. We were a smaller group—only six—and our goal was to see the Bicknell Thrush, which was first identified as a species distinct from the Gray-Cheeked Thrush, on Slide Mountain.

Minutes out of the car Christine was pointing left, then right: Ovenbird, Redstart, Black-throated Blue. To watch someone with such an ear in action is thrilling and she, as well as Mark, are generous with what they know and willing to field the simplest of questions. Thrushes live at different altitudes—the Wood Thrushes down low, the Swainson and Hermit mid mountain, the Bicknell near the top. We headed up.

Near the summit, the mountain shrouded in fog, the birds were just getting started on their morning’s business of eating or finding mates. And yes, there was the song of the Bicknell Thrush, which to my ear, like all thrushes, is a bit haunting, a hollow noise in the middle that lacks the cheer of many bird songs. (Listen here). So we “pished” and stared into the dense fir forest and hoped, and had moments of excitement (but that was only a Blackpoll warbler…or some other bird teasing us with its movement), and hurt our necks and, for me became momentarily discouraged, then excited, then frustrated. You have to be emotionally flexible to bird. No Bicknell.

I did not feel disappointment, but rather a sure determination to return.

On the descent, long after my mind was soft with bird sounds and trying to remember what was that still singing at such a late hour (now past noon) there he was, the Blackburnian I did not hope to see, perched in a tree just above me. Bear with me here—is this not true to life? After we stop looking, there’s the Blackburnian.