Mountains are big. If you want to prove something to yourself, or someone else, climb a mountain. But the mountain probably won’t be impressed. If you want to impress a mountain, you have to be a bit more creative. You would have to beat the mountain at its own game. How long can you sit still? If you can sit absolutely still for 5 minutes, you might see some of the birds that live on the side of the mountain. If you can sit still for 30 minutes, you might see some of the squirrels or voles or little rodents that live on the side of the mountain.

If you can sit still, totally and perfectly still, for a day or two, the deer might start walking by, but they would still keep their distance. If you can sit perfectly, absolutely still for a week, the birds might start landing on your shoulders, or on your outstretched arms, the way they do on tree branches. Can you hold your arms outstretched for a week or more? If you could sit perfectly still for a month, the deer would browse on grass right up to your knees, but if you so much as blinked and they caught you, they wouldn’t ever fall for it again. If you could sit still for 6 months, and you’ve picked a good spot for your test of endurance, you might see bobcats, cougars, coyotes, wolves, those big predators walking by, in pursuit of those rabbits and deer grazing near your sitting spot. If you could sit still for a year, a bobcat looking for some shade in the heat of the day might curl up next to you as if you were a convenient stump in the shade of which she would take a nap. If you could sit still for 10 years, moss would grow in your hair, a seed from a big-leaf maple tree might land in the moss, and in the accumulated dirt might germinate, the roots winding their way down your back and around your outstretched arms, hoping to find solid ground before you rot away. If you could sit still for 100 years, you would be surrounded by the arching roots of that big-leaf maple tree, looking out at that grass upon which the deer graze oblivious to your presence. The raccoons would use your outstretched arms as steps on a ladder on their way to their homes up in the tree. You would only see the ground birds, the wren keeping house in the nearby shrubs. They might use your outstretched arms as lookout posts, but you wouldn’t see them as much as you did in the beginning. The woodrats would make their nest against your back under the arches of the big-leaf maple tree, and you might be thankful for the lumbar support after all this time.

If you could sit still for 500 years, after the big-leaf maple has seeded itself all around you, so that the landscape has completely changed; so that now you only see the deer as they walk past, in search of sunnier places where the grass still grows; then, maybe, the mountain might begin to notice your presence and wonder what this young vagabond is doing sitting around on its flank all the time. In another 500 years, you might have made enough of an impression to be allowed to introduce yourself. But then again, maybe not. It depends on the mountain. Some are more gregarious than others.

Tags: mountain, creative writing, naturalist

Setting up my desk for serious work, now that I’m done with the summer craziness this year. I re-hung the picture of my dad’s family above my desk, and sat pondering it for a while.

I struggle with not wanting to be “typical”; I don’t want to embody anyone’s idea of femininity; I don’t want to be passionate about plants, because that’s typically feminine; I don’t want to be passionate about wolves, because that’s so teenage girl; I don’t want an hourglass figure; I don’t want people to think they can put me in a box just by looking at me.

So I was looking at these pictures of my ancestors and a couple things occurred to me. First of all, with this heritage, it’s pretty darn unlikely that I would end up being “typical”. Buncha weirdos. Secondly, these women probably do embody someone’s definition of femininity, and that’s okay. Every picture is taken outside. There’s one of my grandmother in her 20’s on this huge jack mule, chomping at the bit. (The mule, I mean, but it seems like Ruth can hardly hold still long enough for the picture either.) There’s a picture of the old homestead, the car outside buried up to the windshield in snow (in the window of the cabin, I can see frilly lace curtains); another picture shows my grandmother and grandfather with the three kids, all preteen, bundled up in warm coats having a picnic under the trees somewhere in Montana. I know that these women gardened, and made school lunches, and canned tomatoes (some of them over old woodstoves), and sewed all their own clothes. And they also broke horses and learned to ride bareback long before they could afford their own saddles, and sawed down trees, and helped to build the brick chimney for the cabin, and split firewood, and hauled water from a hole chopped in the ice when the pipes froze in winter, and generally kicked ass. I suppose I could learn to be okay with embodying that sort of femininity.

Tags: feminine, heritage, ancestors, homesteading

8-14-06
Saw fresh tracks along the road on the way in. Spent the eve learning the 6 (7) Arts of Tracking from Jason. Went to bed well after dark—walking away from the campfire and into the darkness felt like walking into the whole galazy, the stars just inches away in every direction. A few instructors walked by, complimenting me on my new bivy-style tent. Out of the darkness, we hear a distant howl. Someone is walking through camp, the sound of footsteps in dry grass enough to drown the sound. “Listen,” someone whispers. “Listen! Stop walking and listen!” The footsteps stop; the distant howl holds a long drawn-out note.

8-15-06 Evening
I walk away from camp 20 minutes or so, to a creek we crossed on our travels today. Roy walks along partway, and we discuss the “wisdom of trails” and the ability to trust the path you are on. According to an old story, the Creator actually created all of the animal trails before he created the animals. So part of the animals’ original instructions were to follow the paths that the Creator had intended for them. It’s been a big lesson for me, in the last year, to learn to follow deer trails. It is in my nature to see that I am at Point A, and I wish to be at Point B, and therefore I will go directly from one to the other, no matter the obstables in my way. 5 acres of solid blackberries be damned, I WILL get to Point B!” I am learning that the deer often want to get to the same places that I do. But they won’t bust through 5 acres of blackberries to get there. They will meander around, check out an interesting meadow or two, stop at the drinking hole, and eventually make their way around to Point B. If I remember to trust those trails, even when they seem to be leading exactly opposite the direction I think I want to go, I usually get around to where I wanted to be. And it’s often faster than whacking through the blackberry thicket. “The universe rearranges itself to accommodate your picture of reality,” I tell him.

After he turns back, I find a pool in the creek and strip down. I use my all-purpose red bandanna to wash up, and the cold mountain water makes me gasp and leaves my skin tingly. As I sit on a stream-side rock to wash my feet, I imagine what it would be like for the wolves to meander by now. There’s something that feels right about encountering such a symbol of primitive power while sitting naked beside a mountain stream. I pause and lift my head. There are robins, grey jays, and juncos in sight. In the distance, I hear a raven call. I wait a long moment, but no wolves appear, and I hear no alarm calls.

After I finish my bath, I take my sarong with me to the nearby meadow to dry off in the setting sun. The oranges and pinks of sunset are focused on the ridge at the far side of a large meadow. We walked partway up that ridge today, following raven calls. Tracking wolves means finding elk, and finding elk means listening to ravens. Wolves and ravens have a sort of understanding, since both like to eat elk, but a raven can’t kill one. So the ravens follow the elk herds and call the wolves. When the wolves make a kill, the ravens get the leftovers. So we, like the wolves, followed the ravens’ calls. We found plenty of fresh elk sign, but only one old wolf track in a dry wash. I am on the far side of the meadow from the dry wash now, and I can see ravens congregating on a point of trees that extends out into the meadow. It’s on the north end of the meadow, to my right, and is a section that we didn’t explore today. In my mind’s eye, I can picture the elk herd moving through the tall grass at the base of those trees, finding the softest spot to bed down for the night as the last bit of sun slips down behind the ridge. I note the spot so that tomorrow morning we can walk through that section looking for beds.

On the far side of the meadow, far enough away that I can only make them out by the distinct motion of their heads and necks while they walk are 2 sandhill cranes. A light breeze moves the grass across the meadow and the cranes take to the air. I hear the crazy, prehistoric call that they make, and it echoes of the far ridge so that I can’t tell if it is the pair in flight or if there are others in the tall grass. Just then, in the tall grass bordering a dry creekbed right in front of me, I hear rustling. Something small is moving from right to left down under the grass. I can see the grass moving and hear it rustling. It seems like an animals about squirrel sized, but there are no trees nearby. The nearest ground squirrel holes are several yards away. We’ve seen lots and lots of mink sign so far this week, and I picture that sleek dark brown body and tiny patch of white bounding through the creek-side brush. I never see the animal, but I am filled with a sense of well-being and connectedness as the sun finally slips behind the ridge, the ravens stop calling, and the grasses settle into stillness.

It occur to me that even in if the deer trail doesn’t end up taking to you Point B, if you don’t see the wolves loping along the edge of the meadow like you thought you might, you don’t find the elk beds where you thought you would—those trails end up taking you along a route such that you want to be exactly where you are, as soon as you arrive there. I can’t think of anything I would rather be doing than watching the light escape from the meadow in the middle of the Frank Church/River of No Return Wilderness on an August evening.

Tags: wolf, tracking, naturalist, philosophy, paths

For the last week, I had the chance to help out with a wolf tracking expedition in the Idaho backcountry. We took 20 kids, ages 14 to 18, out into the Frank Church/River of No Return Wilderness to track the Bear Valley pack. One of the main techniques used in tracking wolves is to track ravens. The wolves and ravens have an understanding, because both of them love to eat elk. However, a raven, even a whole bunch of them, can’t kill an elk. So the ravens will follow the elk herds, and holler to the wolves the location of the herd. Then when the wolves get an elk, the ravens get to have the leftovers. Humans used to have the same deal with the ravens. So if you want to find wolves, you find their food source (the elk), and to find the elk you listen to the ravens.

It was a really magical week, with some really awesome kids. The sort of teens that give you hope for the future of the world. They were kind to each other, inclusive, understood how to use consensus, pitched in to help with all the chores without question, never complained, and looked out for each other all the time.

We found the ravens and the elk, and lots of wolf sign. By the end of the week, we had a pretty good idea where the wolves were, although we didn’t see them (it’s fairly unusual to actually see them). We found fresh wolf tracks surrounding our camp, and even found some wolf pup tracks one day. We also tracked mink, weasel, otter, beaver, deer, sandhill cranes (they have incredible feet!), great blue herons, raccoons, coyotes, and a badger, which several of the the kids got to watch in action for 30 minutes or more.

I also learned about a new plant, which I need to find out if I can grow here in the humid PNW. It’s common name is mugwort, and it’s an artemisia, which seems like an appropriate plant to learn about on a wolf tracking expedition (see the goddess Artemis). It’s related to sagebrush, so I suspect that it might be a desert plant only.

The camp cook and I drove back together, and when we stopped in Boise for breakfast, my legs felt really weird at first. I thought maybe it was just because I had been sitting still in the van for so long and my calves were a little cramped or something. Just as I was thinking that, she turned to me and said, "Wow, it feels really weird to be walking on concrete." And she was totally right. We’d been in the back country long enough that walking on the sidewalk felt very foreign, as did being inside a building where I couldn’t tell which direction the wind was blowing by the feel on my skin. It felt like trying to eat with my nose plugged.

Anyway, I returned to my little spot in the woods yesterday. My tomatoes are still growing in their weedy little way, but I’ll be surprised if I get much in the way of fruit off them. There are a couple small green tomatoes on them. Of course, I lost my labelling system, so I don’t know if those are supposed to be the cherry tomato ones, in which case they are close to ready, or if they are full-sized, in which case they have a long ways to go. I’m debating about whether to plant a cold weather crop. The deer and rabbits are so pervasive that I have little hope of being able to grow lettuce or spinach. And let’s not even talk about the slugs.

Tags: wolf tracking, naturalist, garden, artemisia, teenagers

I probably won’t have time to post much in the next two weeks. Next week is my last week of summer camp, and the longest commute. In fact, I’m not positive where I’m going to be staying, starting tonight.

Next week…Wolf Tracking! I’ll be spending the week with some world-class trackers, helping out on a teen expedition in the Idaho backcountry (somewhere near Stanley). I’ll probably come home with an overwhelming number of stories, and never get around to recording them here, but I’ll try to hit the highlights.

So anyway, send me good thoughts for safe travel and many wolf sightings. I’ll be back in touch in a couple weeks.