Cabin Journal

Death from Above

I was at a beach in San Diego last week admiring the brown pelicans flying overhead. They are the supreme flyers, with wing spans of 6 to 8 feet and able to soar only inches above the waves while looking for fish or skimming the cliffs without moving their wings, making tiny adjustments in their flight patterns to catch the thermals that come up from the ocean. At Torrey Pines, I watched as rows of pelicans came floating along the cliffs from the north and south, like lines of armadas, supremely powerful and confident.

Suddenly, I saw a small bird—a raven or crow, I thought—come out from the cliff and hit one of the pelicans. And then this huge bird plummeted to the ground. I thought it was an accident, one bird hitting another, and waited for the pelican to rouse itself, fly back up and join its comrades.

There were several of us on the beach coming from different directions who had witnessed the crash. A young woman who had been sitting with her boyfriend was the first to reach the downed bird, and I could see by the anguished look on her face that something bad had happened. She had witnessed its death throes, she told us, five women gathered around the bird, trying to make sense of what we saw. Even in death, the bird did not look diminished, splayed on the sand, its wings outstretched (below).

By then we had figured out what happened. A peregrine falcon (left, among the rocky outcrops) had its nest in the cliffs, and the pelicans had flown too close. A ferocious bird, the falcon had attacked the closest pelican, probably breaking its neck with its claws. Indeed, as we stood there watching, the falcon flew out again from its perch toward another line of pelicans, but this time the birds moved out of the way fast enough.

Among our group was a German woman. “Just like that death comes,” she kept repeating. And we finally all moved away, went back to what we were doing: jogging, spending time with a boyfriend, beachcombing.

Sobered, I continued walking down the beach, the waves crashing on one side while the tall ochre cliffs stood guard on the other, concealing dangers I had only dimly been aware of. I distracted myself by watching snowy egrets, almost ghost-like against the white surf, pecking at something the waves brought in.

And the pelicans continued to come, row after row, but if the falcon attacked another one, I didn’t want to know. One minute you are soaring high above the land, feeling the wind through your feathers, and the next you’re lying on the sand taking your last breath. None of us know when, but I hope the last thing I feel is the wind on my face.

Small Bits of Color

    
 

 

 

 

At the cabin this week, the skies were gray and gloomy, the light flat. On my walk around Meeker Park, I realized I was almost desperately looking for signs of color in this still brown and monochromatic landscape. Almost the first thing I saw was the sage buttercup, a brilliant small yellow flower hugging the ground (below).

In the meadow, the willows were beginning to bud out, and these small furry buds from a distance almost looked like bits of snow stuck to the branches (above). For reasons I’ve never understood, the willow bushes come in several colors: red, orange and yellow. Looking at them spread across the field, they form a delicate palette of subtle colors (bottom).

 
My goal on this walk was the top of a hill next to the road where every year I’ve found a patch of pasqueflowers (otherwise known as western anemones). I found them but much diminished from last year when they covered the whole area.  I’m assuming their poor showing is because of the lack of snow and rain this year. Still, and even in this poor light, they seemed to glow from within, as if they have their own light source (right).

Coming back, on a patch of what looked like barren ground, the kinnickinick was spread out and seemed greener than it had all winter. In a few months, with all the grasses growing, the bushes and trees leafed out, and wild roses, columbines, and lupine claiming all my attention, I won’t even notice this low-lying bush. But for now it’s a welcome bit of green, a harbinger of what’s to come.

 

Life Returns

It’s been more than a month since I’ve been able to get to the cabin. My parents were in Colorado for a long visit, and work and other obligations kept me from getting up here during the month of March.

It was hard being away so long. I even had a frustration dream in which I was driving in the area near my cabin with some relatives, but couldn’t talk them into going to the cabin. I realized that it’s not just the cabin and surrounding landscape that I love but that every time I come here I reclaim a piece of myself.

And when I arrived last week, even though everything was still brown, no sign of the first pasqueflowers, it was evident that spring had arrived. I was greeted with a flock of noisy  and rambunctious chickadees. Soon, I saw an Abert’s squirrel (below), the black squirrels with prominent tufted ears, being chased, strangely, by a fox squirrel, the denizen of city yards. And I saw my first ground squirrel of the season, sitting on the fence, looking a bit sluggish and its fur mussed up, as if it just woke up (at bottom). What does it feel like to be out in the world again after sleeping for five months? And keeping up a constant chatter were flocks of blackbirds and Steller’s jays, those dazzling blue birds with the cocky crests.

After a winter in which my only animal companions were the jays, an occasional chickaree (gray squirrel) or rabbit, this seemed an abundance of life. When I went for my walk around Meeker Park, Tahosa Creek was mostly free of ice, noisy and exuberant, like a surge of life coming back. It may be predictable, but every year it seems more amazing. I don’t take spring for granted anymore.

Maybe it was the signs of spring that made me want to turn things around. Each time I take my circular walk around the edges of the valley, I head south and then east on the road. But this time I wanted to do something different, so headed north, bushwacking up the hill that I usually come down. It’s a strange thing but the world looks different from the opposite direction. I saw things I hadn’t seen before: trees, cabins, a new view of the valley and Mount Meeker (above). It was like taking a little vacation, seeing a new landscape.

Freed temporarily from work obligations, I had come up here to do a two-day meditation retreat. My first morning, my thoughts were as rambunctious as the creek, flinging everywhere, pinging off the walls and floor. I thought about job letters I could send out, how I would do my taxes this year, emails I needed to respond to.

But over the next day, my mind settles into this place. I “practice” being aware of everything I’m doing, so when I’m washing the dishes, I’m aware of the plate I’m holding. When I go for a walk, I notice each tree and the circular mass of grasses. When I make my lunch, I’m aware of the avocado I’m mashing.   

Even after one day of this, when I meditate the next morning, my mind had stilled, and I am happy just to sit and feel the sun on my arms as I eat my breakfast, drink my tea, and watch the steam curl. Outside two rabbits are chasing each other, and the jays are calling from the trees.  All is right with the world.