Avian interlude

(It's crappy out there today, but 'tweren't so yesterday afternoon when I'd planned on penning this piece.)

A hazy Monday afternoon. A clear, cool breeze brushes the beach when I'm finally able to peel my arse from the office chair and step out for a post-prandial saunter. Choppy waves are bereft of pattern. The everpresent low grumble of constantly churning water strums the bass as stereophonic trebles from breaking and running waves roll from the left ear to the right.

A dozen gulls at the mouth of the creek become two hundred in a manner of minutes, small flocks diving in from points west. A small California gull coasts the rippling creek from the estuary to the breaking edge of the closest wave, flapping off just in time to return to the estuary and ride the creek out again.

A single seal glides through the narrow channel from the calm estuary to the tempestuous surf, popping up just once to make sure I'm holding to my spot on the bank.

In the estuary, six grebes are joined by a double-crested cormorant for an afternoon of quiet fishing.

An osprey flaps silently above me, his black masked eyes to the ground, heading southward into the wind.

Loud twittering killdeer frantically pace the mostly dry south slough channel.

A great blue heron knows I'm approaching before I get there. He honks away on slow, lumbering wings trusting the cows on the other side of the slough more than me.

The neighborhood northern harrier posts up high above the alders, twirling softly, soundlessly.

A pair of male mallards cruise overhead. Amateur birders everywhere applaud their bright green heads.

Least sandpipers prance and dip in the exposed muddy floor of the draining creek.

An artfully camouflaged Wilson's snipe traces the grassy edges of the south slough. His mate (her mate?) emerges briefly from a hole carved into the deep grassbed before disappearing back inside. Alas, the time has come for me to do the same.

Ken Burns' Best Idea

So have y'all been as glued to Channel 13 (KEET-TV) the past three nights as I have to Ken Burn's latest docu-series, The National Parks: America's Best Idea. After 26 years in the subject organization, I know I'm a bit biased, but not only am I learning a few things from Mr Burns, in many regards I'm feeling a renewed enthusiasm and energy for the work we try to do. Seems this profession has some merit after all.

A few random thoughts pulled from the depths of the easy chair as I watched the first three episodes:

Why can't I tell stories like Ken Burns? The guy's a genius storyteller. Hours of research, evocative music, compelling stories, intelligent and inspiring interviews. He does a better job of telling you about what we do than most of us do in doing the work that he's telling you about us doing. Of course, I'm just me with a computer and a tiny library and vast and glorious park to wander around. He's a multimillion dollar production company backed by huge corporate sponsors. Be he's just so damn good at spinning a great tale. I want to be able do that.

We do work in a noble profession after all. Though the days are too often bogged down in mind-numbing bureaucracy and frustrating drive-through tree tourists, it is for a worthy purpose that we do what we do. And Ken Burns isn't making a 12-hour history of the life insurance business, is he?

I need to read more on the transcendentalists. From the snippets I see in Burns and through recently read bios of John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt, the ideas of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau inspired many of the most important 19th century environmental thinkers. I need to go back and read some of their original stuff. I'm beginning to wonder if literally, spiritually, intellectually, perhaps I'm more akin to Thoreau and Emerson than any of my own generation?

Your dad knows a little somethin' after all. It's been fun watching this with the kids and knowing the next piece of the story before Burns tells it. For once, I'm not their idiot dad but someone who's picked up a thing or two along the way.

Did the redwoods miss their chance to be among those first iconic national parks? What if the entire, two million acre redwood range, from Oregon to Monterey Bay, hadn't been stolen from federal ownership before the 1880s? Yosemite, Sequoia, Yellowstone, and Mount Rainier were available to be set aside as our first National Parks in large part because those lands were owned by the federal government, and not by states or private individuals. Jerry and Gisele Rohde have an interesting piece in this month's Humboldt Historian (Fall '09) explaining the land fraud that moved public lands through foreign syndicates and in to private hands in a matter of years. Would we have lost nearly all of this grand and ancient forest as we almost lost the bison had the feds prevented their theft?

Three more episodes and six more hours. A dozen more thoughts to come, at the very least.

And for those wanting more of our local story, KEET-TV received a grant through the Ken Burns' backers, to produce Redwood National Park: Preserving Ancient Forests, the story of the establishment of Redwood National Park. It'll air this coming Sunday, October 4th at 7pm on Channel 13 (then rebroadcast Thursday, Oct. 8 and Saturday, Oct. 10). We'll get the sneak preview at the office tomorrow. Assuming the Claire and Sam have any of the skills of Ken Burns, they will have expunged the rantings of a occasional blogger from their program, thus ensuring its success.

Looking for tsunami tsigns

"Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe." John Muir.

I'm on the beach early today, a bit before the morning's high tide, curious to see if our beach shows any impact from last night's predicted 24-inch tsunami. Crescent City reported some errant sloshing around within the harbor around 9:30 last night, but I've heard nothing about other points on the north coast. It seems as good an excuse as any for spending a few minutes wandering this lonesome strand on a bright and cool September morning.

The sand is still wet higher on the beach than usual. The overnight surf made deep cuts in the ocean-side slopes. The beach is scoured of human foot prints. Narrow canine tracks in two straight lines and patches of triangular gull prints are all that decorate the beach in front of me. At least a few people normally precede me on mornings like this. There's no sign anyone's been here today.

The sand spit blocking Redwood Creek from reaching the Pacific looks washed over. Perhaps two-thirds of the broad beach is clear of footprints and driftwood. Several dessicated lines of brown foam crease the lee side of the spit, as if the surge tried to reach across the bar, falling short by a few yards. Is this evidence of a small tsunami, or just of strong surf during last night's high tide?

A fast-moving wave reaches my feet on the crest of the berm as I scribble these notes, erasing my footsteps fifty feet down the beach. Always keep your eyes on the ocean! The backing wave seems to retreat farther into the sea than the last set. Does this portend another tsunamic push, or just the oncoming tide? Or am I seeing all these things because I want to see them?

More than a hundred are dead and dozens more are missing in Samoa as I stroll this lonely beach on a quiet autumn morning. It was about this time on their morning that the magnitude 8 quake struck. I think about how easily reversed this moment might be. A few miles off our own shore, three larges pieces of the planet's crust crash and grind and tear at each other. In another moment, it could be the curious Samoan beachcomber that wanders his beach looking for smoothed sands or misplaced driftwood after hearing of an instant tragedy on a distant shore. 300 years ago it happened here, monstrous waves pouring over these very beaches within minutes of thunderous shaking. We hope that our luck holds a bit longer as we feel for those suffering an ocean away.

Huh?

I've been outed, of sorts.

Surprised to find a mention of these here scribblings in this week's North Coast Journal's Best of Humboldt 2009. Flattered, of course, while recognizing that being Humboldt's Best Blogging Park Ranger is akin to bein' your Mama's favorite only child. Thanks anyways for the shout out, Heidi, but there are so many more erudite and interesting bloggers in our community who deserve notice more than I.

A bit curious too about the potential fallout from such a designation. As a deep closeted introvert, at least in private, not many know I occasionally spill a few words about in here. Good thing I kept the organizational politics and personalities mostly out of my rants and wanderings. For folks in the know, there's enough clues to pin the correct name plate to my rapidly graying chest. I can only hope that coworkers and friends don't read the Journal as closely as I do.

Does this mean I have to end my long summer hiatus and pick up the ol' pencil and keyboard again?

The everlasting pea

Why does it seem that the most striking flowers of spring shouldn't be here at all? The everlasting pea (Lathyrus latifolius), is non-native. Exotic. Invasive. Unwanted save for those who enjoy a flash of bright color in the sea of grass of the backdunes.

From it's homeland in southern Europe, the everlasting pea has spread across North America and to every state except North Dakota and Florida, thus proving its good taste in travel destinations. Thomas Jefferson noted it on his Monticello homestead in the 1770s and planted it in his gardens (more likely his slaves planted it in his gardens) in 1807 while Jefferson was off bein' president.

It's not supposed to be here, and someday we may do something to eliminate it from this protected landscape. But on a quiet June morning, with the gate locked behind me and the beach to myself, I'm glad it's here.

Her night to shine

Not that I'm bragging, but check out her stats from last night's 5-0 victory in the semifinals of Mad River Girls ASA 10 & Under tourney:

On the mound: 3 IP - 0 runs - 7 K's - 0 BB including a 3 strikeout bottom of the 6th to shut the door and send us on to the championships. At the plate: 2-fer-3 with a 2B, RBI and a run scored. Add in a nifty running catch at second and it was quite a night.

Kinda like wrapping up both Ellsbury and Papelbon and stuffing them into a 4'6" blonde ponytail.

'Twas her night to shine after weeks of patiently watching her freshman big sister's 25-0 championship season with the St Bernards Crusaders.

Not that she did it herself, of course. She and her teamates saved the most perfect of their 16 games this season for last night, an elimination game that would either end their season or propel them forward to the championships. Timely hitting, smart base running, strong defense, and stellar pitching from my kid and another great li'l thrower all came together on one magical night. That the victory came against the team that embarrassed us a week ago makes it all the more exciting.

It's so easy to be proud of two beautiful kids who seem to excel - in sports, school, and life - in ways that I never have. One has outgrown her dad's coaching skills and taken her game to a new level at a new position under new leadership. (Though I still offer my advice, she knows better than to listen.) The other, still trapped under coach/dad's tutelage, is emerging from the shadow of her big sister as an athletic force in her own petite right.

Can Dad match their glories when Arcata's D-league wood bat season begins next week? Not sure that I can, or that I even care to try. I'm satisfied bein' a proud dad for now.

First of May

10am, Friday morning, the first day of May, just before low tide.

Unusually calm out here this morning. Almost no breeze to speak of. A flat, gray-blue sky. The ocean quieter than it's supposed to be. Feels more like a summer on Blue Hill Bay than the roiling Pacific coast.

A western grebe sits just out of reach atop the placid sea, wrestling a slender silvery fish into position for the long slide down his white gullet. Further out a black'n'white-backed loon rises and falls on modest swells.

Reading Rock seemingly floats above the ocean six miles out. The ebbing tide uncovers a rocky path from the north side of the creek to the Sisters. Dark boulders, usually unseen, surround Little Girl Rock. A single long wave breaks a hundred yards offshore indicating a shallow sandbar raised by gravels carved from the redwood hills and transported downhill in the belly of the creek.

The sun tries in vain to crack the gray clouds. It never quite makes it through, though the sky brightens and warms my neck nonetheless.

Three cormorants zip by as I reach the mouth of the creek. The waves are taller here and crash more loudly where they meet the creek's rushing waters. The mouth bends to the south, the lack of recent rain slowing its push to the ocean.

Three dozen gulls rest on the peninsula separating creek and ocean. Western gulls, California gulls, and a single Heerman's gull, his orange bill and charcoal gray body distinguishing him from the rest. Two Caspian terns soar above the small seagull gathering, followed a moment later by a solitary pelican gliding inches above the waves.

I follow a single line of heron tracks from the mouth back to the calm estuary. The timeless drumming of the surf gives way to the twittering of a thousand songbirds. This place comes alive in the spring. It’s long past time for me to do the same.