Happy holidays, everyone!
Hearts of Christmas
Category: Mother Nature
Molten Metal Fireworks
Sunday, 12 December 2021, evening:
I breathed through my mouth through the face covering. I had learned in my first winter here that when the temperature drops below 20º below freezing (yes, more than 50ºF colder than when water freezes) that it hurts when I breathe the air directly in through my nose. Pulling air through my lips the long way to my lungs helps warm it up so it does not freeze my lungs’ alveoli or the inside of my nostrils.
The forecasted temperature was not expected to rise, and I did not feel like waking up extra, extra early tomorrow to plug in the truck so that its oil pan would be thawed enough for the engine to turn over. So, I unhooked the long outdoor extension cord from its spot inside the house.
The outdoor socket is on the side of the porch directly next to the front steps. As I lifted the protective lid with one hand, I noticed that the cord in my other was bent at nearly a forty-five degree angle down from the back of the plug. My brain absently recognized that this might become a problem and I should think about buying a new cord. Maybe later. I plugged in the cord and let the protective cover relax downwards.
Pop! A cascade of fiery red sparks shot out towards the stairs and I screamed in shock and jumped away. My heart rate rocketed. I whimpered a little, and gingerly, yet as quickly as possible, lifted the metal cover and pulled the plug from the socket, thinking it might burn my hand through the insulated wither glove. The cord dropped to the ground, having been cut away from the plug I was now holding. The metal of the cover had completed an undesired circuit from the socket though the break in the cord’s plastic, and obviously a break in an exposed wire, out into the dangerous shower.
The thinking part of my brain said, huh, you should have trusted me when I pointed out the bent cord. It also noticed the luck of the burst spraying towards the stairs — and away from me.
A lingering electrical burning smell prompted me to action. Heart still racing I dashed up the stairs and pushed open the front door.
A moment to pull the rubber guards over my soles so I could prevent damaging my flooring then I raced through to the other end of the house to check the breaker box. ‘Outside socket, West’ showed a little red box on the panel. I flipped the switch back and forth curiously, and the red disappeared. I breathed out. Does this mean I could still use the socket? I turned on the breaker and headed back outside. The short cord I store in the truck (and use to plug in while at work) should reach, since obviously the long one is destroyed.
The burning smell was stronger. My headlamp showed streaks of soot extending like a starburst from the socket openings. A vision of the house burning down from this point up and back through the wood transformed into me speeding in reality back into the house.
I flipped the ‘Outside socket, West’ switch once more to ‘Off’ and headed back outside. My house will not burn down. Thank you to whichever electricians invented the distribution board and circuit breakers!
I sighed. Now I have to learn how to replace a socket, and maybe (most likely) the cord from panelboard to socket. As a young child I remember helping my father rewire the house, but the extent of my experience was him yelling at me from another room to pull the wire through. “Do you see the wire?” “No!” “Now?” “I’ve got it!” “Well, pull it!” I felt so proud to be able to help him. How to actually do rewiring though I have no idea. I feel a little irritated and a little excited about the need to learn. That can wait until summer though. When it is a lot warmer!
The need to plug in the truck remained. I drove the truck to the other side of the house, nose in, and strung the short blue cord from what the electric panel would surely call ‘Outside socket, East’ through the porch railing and down to the front of the truck where the oil pan heater cord dangled.
I wondered if a moose might pass through as one sometimes does, and if it would step over the cord or push through it like through clumping grass, pulling it out of one or both of the sockets. Having not seen a moose all winter, Murphy’s Law dictated that now would be the time when one chose to visit. I could envision the cord tangling about a long brown leg and falling off somewhere where I would never find it, leaving me with no cord and only the option of biking to work. Brrr! I used a hand to help lift my snow-panted knee up and over the cord — and my leg sank into the snow up to that same knee. Teetering through the drift I stopped worrying about what a moose might or might not do and just went inside to sleep.
Monday, 13 December 2021:
On the way home from work today I swung by the grocery store and purchased a new 50-foot cord. This cold snap is predicted to be only a short one of three to four days, but I need a new cord today so I can park in my normal spot — nose out— and lay the cord across the deck rather than park nose-in on the other side of the house. I wonder if one day my truck won’t start, even after plugging it in. It will be simpler to reach the battery for a jump if the engine/hood is easily accessible. I know it will certainly be easier, and less expensive, to tow if the front of the truck is facing outwards and not diagonally where there might not be enough room for a tow truck to maneuver. As long as I (or any surprise visitor) doesn’t trip on the cord stretched in front of the door, the set-up will be just fine.
Since, I was outside already and thinking about the bad things that can happen, I decided to check the heating oil. Just my luck to run out again.
I always use the same gloves when checking the fuel: leather work gloves that are far too thin to be worn at these temperatures, but they are the ones covered by drops of heating oil. I’d have to move quickly. I slipped them on and I could feel the cold through them right away. I’ve heard tell that petroleum products can burn flesh through contact at these temperatures. I removed the padlock from the fill pipe, got the dip stick, and flipped open the pipe’s cover. The dip stick’s slide down into the fill pipe was not checked by the surface of the liquid for a long time. I hold my breath. How close was I to running out of fuel? After pulling out the measuring tool and checking the fuel’s exact level (low enough to call for a fuel delivery, but not too low for me to start to worry), I ran a hand down the stick, forcing the clinging liquid to drip back into the fill pipe. Fuel is pricy and very drop counts. Though the leather I felt burning on my fingers from my rings; I could sense the silver sucking in the cold and transferring it painfully to my skin. I hurried to replace cover, dipstick, and padlock then tossed the gloves into the porch corner and pulled on the thick winter gloves. My skin burned. I needed to take the rings off!
Stiff-jointed from the cold, I tripped over the curls of extra cord on the deck, nearly banging my head onto the storm door.
Sigh…
Maybe I should go to bed early tonight…
Sweet dreams, readers. Dreams of working joints and working houses….
A Picnic with Bumblebees and Fireweed
Ever since a friend of mine showed me the Bee Field in the Koponen Homestead trail system, I’ve put it on my summer to-do list. Sometimes I walk down the trails to and from, at other times I bike up to it on the Pasture Path, a gentle enough slope for my fitness level, yet bumpy enough with exposed roots to be interesting. While overcast and cool, today was the first non-rainy day in a succession of downpours.
My friend, her granddaughter, and I were going on a picnic!
I packed up my bike and pulled on a neon-yellow vest for the intersections and the stretch of road where there was no bike path. It was on this road that a car slowed, and the driver and small passenger waved and called my name. I grinned and waved back cheerfully.
“See you there!”
Would I beat them to the Bee Field?
As my distance was the shorter one, I did, which gave me time to tug off my outer layers and walk about to cool off from the ride and stare about in astonishment. What had happened to the Bee Field? Alder saplings from as tall as my knee to my waist poked up intermittently through the ground cover of dogwood.
It appears no one has mown the field this year, sadly. I hope there is someone in charge of doing so because it would be a shame to have the forest reclaim the area. The joy of this open space is the bees. When the dogwood blooms white, the air is full of humming, a delicious sound of focused productivity. The Bee Field was named for a reason. I wonder whose hives benefit from the nectar gathered here.
I really hope no one complained out of fear of a bee sting, prompting the neglect of the field’s care. The human does not have to encroach on the bees’ space and sustenance. Staying on the trail is enough to stay out of their way: even the curious bumblebee prefers blooms to skin. Or, the nervous human can stay off of this trail entirely. There are others just as beautiful.
Because of the obstructing slender trunks, we walked through the trees to the lower grassy field further down the hill. The ground rolled gently, the manicured grass verdant around the handful of solitary trees which would have thrown wonderfully cool shade on a hot sunny day.
Atop the adjacent gentle rise was the perfect backdrop to our picnic: a patch of tall fireweed all in the pink. We sunk onto the blankets we spread upon the grass and shared and nibbled our noonday meal. The little girl complained of crawling nature. We chatted and laughed. In moments of silent, we could hear the breeze in the treetops and the hum of the nearby bees. Eager for the blossoms’ ambrosial awards, the apian insects did not visit us, and we respected the margin of their angustifolium in turn.
Rested and well fed, we gathered up our items, checked that nothing had been left behind, and headed back up the gentle slope. The dirt path curved between the tall stately trunks. In the midst of the trees appeared a wooden bench, and, delightfully, an old-fashioned lamppost.
Today I found peaceful balance from picnicking with friends in a beautiful purlieu.
I was curious about the Bee Field’s care, so I contacted the Friends of the Koponen Homestead and received a very nice reply to my email. I learned how I can volunteer to help keep the space beautiful. I would like to share my enjoyment of the green space with you, while respecting that the area remains privately owned. I am a guest in their neighborhood each time I walk the trails and breath in the space.
Want to know more? Check out the website of the Friends of the Koponen Homestead: https://www.koponenhomestead.com/friends-of/.
Young Guest in the Yard
Mother Nature surprised me today while I was cleaning the kitchen. I glanced out the window and saw movement. I gasped when I saw the velvet-covered buds on the young moose’s head. Never before have I seen a bull in the process of growing antlers. The ungulate’s size and his smooth hide, free of nicks and discolorations, made me guess the moose was a youthful one. I stayed by the window to watch and awe while he munched on fireweed. He noticed me watching and after a while the attention was too much and he moved on into the stand of willow behind my house. The lucky wonder left me feeling serene and blessed, as Nature’s charm always does.
Action at the Lake: Mostly Wings
At first glance, the Lake appears calm, with few seeking pleasure from its waters on this hot summer Thursday. Out on the lake there are a couple of water skiers, and a child sitting in a green tube being pulled mindfully by a boat, but the few other watercraft seem to be heading purposefully straight across from point A to B.
For me, it will be an active work day at the Lake. Today, I am to help finish painting the cabin’s railing and begin on the windows. I am to learn, too, that many others are also working here, but surprisingly… most have wings…
In the birdhouse under the eave, tree swallow chicks wait for momma and papa to bring collected mosquitoes and other protein. The adults’ black wing feathers flash cobalt blue in the sun as the avians dart busily back and forth.
A few prehistoric dragonflies skim through the air near shore, also stalking insects, while out in the middle of the lake a couple of mew gulls wheel, then dip to the surface, catching lunch, or perhaps teaching their young how to fish. There are more mew gulls flying about today than ever seen here together before.
A black military helicopter turns tight circles and buzzes the open water — testing the pilot or perhaps the machine. (I muse later if it has in fact been scouting ahead for the floatplanes.)
A neighbor walks out into the lake to do some underwater mowing. He tosses a long-handled T-shaped metal object smoothly and surely like a fisherman tosses out his line. The man tows it toward him with the ease of repetition, then casts it ahead again. The perpendicular blades on the end of the handle cut the unwanted reeds near the sandy lakebed. The man gathers these mown reeds and takes them ashore. Will they become compost or go directly to the transfer site with the rest of his garbage..?
A bald eagle soars overhead to land in a preferred perch, a sprucetop two houses over, from which it surveys its domain for a tasty nibble, perhaps for itself or perhaps for its young.
The unmistakable whining roar of a two-engine aircraft growls suddenly overhead — so close! The white airplane circles to the opposite side of the lake, and we realize that there are two. The Lake watercraft turn off their engines. The floatplanes come in ostensibly for a landing — but that is not why they are here: water fills their pontoons, slowing their progress across the surface, visibly making it harder for them to take-off (their ascent is markedly more gradual than their approach), but they do lift off. The planes, now loaded with liquid cargo, head in the direction of the forest fire near Munson Creek. About an hour later they are back, flying again directly over the cabin before circling and dipping into the water without a pause.
By the time it is time to call it a day, my work is not done, and I’ll be back again sometime soon to join the others still a-work at their daily labors.
On the approach… 
Touchdown! 
Scooping up water… 
1… 
2… 
3… 
4… 
5… 
6… 
7… 
8… 
9… 
10…and… 
Lifting off. 
Up, up, and away… 
Float plane flying overhead. (Note the hatches on the pontoons that open to collect water — and later drop it on the nearest forest fire, which today is only about 35 miles from home.)
Lovely Sun Day at the Lake
A yummy lunch, a doze in the warmth, the waves gushing at the shore when a boat speeds by: It’s a lovely Sunday at the Lake.
Three hours of helping paint a railing bestowed me a day of sun, diverting conversation, laughter, and the chance to assist good friends — along with the satisfactory transformation of posts, once ragged and peeling, now a pretty grey the color of the deck, a grey that disappears in the mind’s eye when I look out over the water.
Amid the labor of love, the day is full of moments of both tranquility and urgency.
A single sailboat cons silently, softly, back and forth, taking advantage of the gentle wind.
Two motorboats pile on the steam towards a boat vomiting a billow of white smoke — once, twice — but after a brief exchange, the concerned neighbors pilot away and the river boat putters off, unsunk. Four lines dangle off long poles and we wonder if the fishermen (and one woman) have a barbecue unwisely aboard their floating bark.
The blue surface sparkles in the sun. Rays blaze hotly down on our skin as we cruise along the shore in the pontoon boat and take in the relaxing view.
A water skier makes the smooth glides to and fro seem easy inside the fringe of refreshing white spray kicked up by the tempo.
Three personal watercraft buzzum by, two each ejecting a stream of water behind. The cloudless azure sky draws my eye, then I gaze leisurely downward to see the third PWC tootling back along the shoreline, while the zippier ones end up bouncing like ping-pong balls on vacation off of the peaked wake of a heavier, larger craft.
The balance between speed and leisure is present all day long, even close to the wee hours of the morning when I am on my way into town. A lithe red fox stands, relaxed, at the side of the road, and, after I have hurtled past, it calmly crosses all four lanes of the Richardson Highway, leaving me with a serene sense of wonder all of the way back home.
Don’t Like the Weather?
Just wait five minutes — it’ll change.
Are you from a place like that?
I’m not. I’ve lived in those places, but that’s not here.
Here, once weather arrives, it stays. I mean staaayyys. For months…. The weather does not alter — unless you count the 10º temperature changes, say from 13º to 23º F or from -15º to -25º F, or you head out of work to another layer of fresh snow. Never mind these such drastic changes, it’s still winter.
The other three seasons are another matter. The delightfully warm, fresh summer (with a week or so on either side for spring and autumn) is the reward residents earn through the white cold. By this time of year (April) the sunlight has returned a little more each day and eventually so does a little heat too. Summer is enticingly on its way. The only thing the snow has to do is slowly melt.
Sometimes, though, Mother Nature throws out a surprise.
For example, this past April Fools’ Day… No, nothing bizarre or surprising actually happened on April 1st, but it should have. Only two days later, the sky began to snow (see entry “Keeping the White Dress”). The snow-removal crew had cleared out all of the bus lanes in the district’s 32 schools by the time this story took place, but had not had time to plow out parking lots.
I pulled into the staff lot late that morning and saw that someone had taken my spot. Grr! Who took my spot?!
A little clarification: My spot isn’t actually mine. There is no sign bearing anybody’s name anywhere in the lot. This spot just happens to be the furthest from the entrance — a great excuse to get a few more steps in each day, and the ideal place to park a brand-new vehicle. Ten years after purchase, parking there has become a habit, and the “step” rationalization has become more logical, and a good reason to share if people ask about my parking habits. What most don’t recognize because I’ve generally arrived before they do, is that “my” spot has generally been plowed to some degree because it is the closest to the designated snow dump.
This of course was the motivating factor for anyone to park in my spot, especially today.
I hesitated before pulling into the adjacent, snowy, spot.
What I should do, I considered, is dig it out before I park…or flatten the snow a bit… I had already missed the quiet time before most employees arrive and, feeling a bit crunched for time, I nosed in over the snow. A pickup truck has a higher undercarriage than most other vehicles after all: I should be fine, I assured myself. If any snow is too high, the truck will sheer off the top layer, essentially self-flattening it anyway. It’ll be alright.
It would not be until after 5 o’clock that evening that I would think about the snow refreezing into hard ice after the heat from the engine had melted said top layer…
About ten minutes later Mr. X came, unapologetic, to my classroom door to apologize for taking my semi-plowed spot. We chatted and laughed, and I agreed that his tiny vehicle was at a disadvantage compared to mine.
“I’m sure it will be okay,” I concurred.
After a wearisome day, I had forgotten about the parking lot and I was just looking forward to home. I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise to see my truck was the only one in the parking lot. I had half-suspected that my supervisor might still be there, but it was not unusual that she had made it out a little before me. It had been a loooooong day —
—and the jerk and hold I felt when I started backing up was not close to anything I desired at that moment. I drove forward a little and reversed. Another jerk to a stop, and the truck held that position, despite me pressing the accelerator. Sigh.
I climbed down from the cab and grabbed the snow brush. I had already stowed the shovel in the shed since I had thought snowfall had ceased for the year, and had not pulled it back out when the foot-and-a-half started to fall over the weekend. So, the only usable tool I had was the squeegee end of the snow brush.
I laid on my side on the ground and began to pull the snow out from under the chassis. I could not see from one tire to the opposite one, or even all the way around the one by my shoulder. Over and over I pulled snow from under the vehicle. I flipped the brush over and used the ice scraper to cut at the hardened crust. I cursed Mr. X, his choice to take my spot, him not even have the decency to find out if I needed help digging out, and people’s selfishness in general.
Wiggling down to the rear tire, I rued the fact that my supervisor had left before me and growled that she had not deigned either to see if I had needed help! I gouged out snow over and over, periodically twirling the brush to the ice scraper side, and occasionally changing arms to give each a rest.
Of course, I fully understood why my colleague had pulled into that last spot. After all, I would have myself if I had been on time (and, I admitted, I would have privately reveled in the fact that it had less snow than any of the others). I appreciated Mr. X honestly coming to say it was he who had taken the spot, and, naturally, since his day had ended two hours before mine, I certainly did not really expect him to stay to see if I could back out! It just felt good to blame someone else for a while as I rolled on the ground and worked my arms.
I pushed myself to my knees, brushed off the snow, and stomped to the other side of the truck. The snow was deeper here. I gritted my teeth together and scraped at the snow.
There was no need for my supervisor to have packed up slowly, like I had today, just so that our departure times could synchronize. I cannot speak for her, but some days I want to discuss the day, and other days I don’t want to see anyone, much less talk. Today had been that kind of day. Plus, I did not begrudge her the longer trip she had to get home, especially on treacherously snowy roads like these! I took a deep breath and readjusted my body. The last bit of acknowledgedly misplaced rancor drew out of me with the next scape of the snow brush.
Dig, dig, dig. The motion was actually quite pleasant. I was getting quality arm exercise and seeing immediate progress for the work I was putting in, not always sometimes a teacher can detect. Very fulfilling.
Gasp. The light at the end of the tunnel! Hope elated. I see it!
If I looked at the correct angle from one wheel to the opposite one, I could now see a glow from the other side under the truck. Yay!
It was six o’clock and I was still digging. An orange pickup drove slowly through the lot, and directly by me. The driver’s unneighborliness pricked me. I took a deep breath. This judginess was as fallacious as my earlier complaints. The driver may not have seen me lying in the depression next to the tires. He or she may not have had tools to help, or perhaps there were people in the truck who were immunocompromised and could not risk to help during a pandemic, despite vaccinations. I focused on my task.
Dig, dig, dig.
Finally I could see satisfactorily enough through to the opposite side of the truck, and I had broken down the snow crust near the lowest metal base frame. I stood and brushed off what snow I could, shivered once from the cold, and climbed into the cab. I took a short prayful breath after the engine started, then put the gears in reverse. I had to complete a couple of back-and-forths but — success! I grinned and turned the wheel away from the parking spot.
I had a fleeting vindictive fantasy of piling all of the snow I had dug out back on to the spot, plus adding more from neighboring spots to trap Mr. X the next day, but I scoffed at myself. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s so mean. The petty part of me born from hunger and weariness whispered that this would take more of my time and effort anyway. Plus, since there were no designated spots, how I could I know who would park there tomorrow…
I frowned and pushed the puerility into the far back of my amygdala where it should stay.
I drove into my driveway at 7:30 p.m., perhaps still a little irked at the lost time, but calm now. I decided not to do anything resembling work, but to rest and enjoy a healthy dinner and a tasty cup of tea after changing out of my wet clothes.
A long sigh. A deep breath from a cup of orange and cinnamon. Ah….
Everything turned out quite well in the end.
Hmm, this is yummy tea….
Keeping the White Dress
Golden daffodils are popping up through the remaining hillocks of sparkling snow. Young girls in Easter dresses gambol about seeking colored eggs among green blades of grass. The sun warms the skin and the heart with the hopes of spring. Somewhere. Somewhere much more southerly.
Here the tiny snow crystals fall — as they have been falling steadily throughout the last eighteen hours. The delicate white flakes blanket the world in another layer of shimmering lace and tug at my truck’s tires like velvet. Mother Nature has decided to keep her white dress.
Yesterday the birds sang, the sun shone brightly in the cerulean sky, and it felt like spring was truly coming. Today I am brushing snow from the truck and scraping ice off of its lights once again.
Spring comes slowly, sometimes stubbornly here. Two weeks ago the birds wheeled and dipped and darted. Water dripped from eaves. Two little healthy avians alit atop the leading branch of a small spruce, using the stiff needles as ladder rungs to walk up and down, around the conifer’s leader and each other. One flitted away but the female hung out for a bit to allow me to snap some photos. Then, she too flew off to continue her aerial dance, singing a rapid vibrato chirp. Their perky excitement lifted my own heart. Now, sounds are hushed by the veil of white. Icicles point downwards, and the snow brume blurs the boundary between the hilltops and the muted sky.
Perhaps some years Mother Nature is just not ready to select her garb from the the browns and dirty yellows of snow- and ice-melt in her closet. Pristine pretty white makes the world look so much more aesthetically appealing. The trade-off for us is more snowfall, and even more…
My House Speaks of a Moose Visit
All year long my house creaks and groans. For about nine months of the year the heating registers click and pop in tune to the mini igniter-explosions and puffing whir of the boiler. Occasionally a boom ricochets through the house. I used to strike out on a search for a new crack or void that must certainly have resulted from the house’s movement — especially when the sound woke me from a deep-night sleep. Now, I blink it off and go back to whatever I was doing and let my heartbeat slow naturally to its normal rhythm.
It’s no surprise that the house speaks its own language. I would moan too if I had to endure the annual temperature change of, in a mild year, 100 degrees Fahrenheit (55.5 degrees Celsius)…
During my first year living here in Fairbanks, Alaska, the winter temps dropped under 50ºF below zero — which is 82º below the freezing point of water (ºF)! The summer was a warm one, even getting a couple of times to 90ºF. I was living in a dry cabin that year (meaning my home had no plumbing: the only running water came from the blue water jug by the sink that drained into a bucket below), so I do not know what havoc the low temps could have wrecked on my current ‘wet’ home — or its cries of pain during the 140ºF-temperature change (77ºC-change). Still, I always listen to my house speak, no matter the temperature. I listen for a sound that is out of place because I believe that will be my home’s first warning gasp that something is wrong.
As I listen to the walls and beams around me, there is a special bang that always makes me drop what I am doing and turn off the evening lights so I can clearly see outside. The bang comes from the back the house or the side, just below the windows. Sometimes I see nothing when I peer outside. Sometimes I see the willow tree dip towards the kitchen window or hear it rub against the siding. I stand on a chair or press my check against a wall by a window. I stare towards the outside. I wait. Always I am rewarded with a wide dark back or a sturdy elongated head.
Yes! A moose has come to visit!
Minutes pass as I watch it pull down the willow to reach the leaves atop. It closes its mouth around a branch or narrow trunk then uses the tree’s willowy springiness to its advantage, letting the tree right itself while teeth and tongue strip off the tasty leaves and side-twigs as the tree passes through the moose’s mouth on the willow’s way back to its normal standing. The moose chews as it walks to the next willow or interesting-looking plant. If it is spring or summer (and I had no lights to turn off), I can watch the moose top the fireweed growing along the side of my house, detach the bright green needles from young spruce, or nibble on other new growth. I learned my lesson the first year I tried to grow veggies: neighboring hare might devour parts of my plants, but moose can remove all but a stump of a plant with one eager chomp. I am glad that the herbivores appreciate the taste of my efforts, but after the hard work I would like to be the consumer of the harvest. I now raise all of my plants on the deck behind its fence-like railing.
Today the moose I watch looks small. Its head does not come up to the base of the window. Odd.
[Please note that my house is built up on pilings so I walk up seven steps to reach my front door. The lower window sill therefore is 7 feet 10 inches (2.4 meters) from the surface of snow-covered ground.]
Ah. It’s a calf.
Is this young moose solo or does it still travel with mama…?
Found her.
Mama is resting on the ground in a depression made by her much larger body, by a telephone pole, feet tucked under her, head up, eyes and ears alert. I watch her. She looks like the same moose who has voyaged by my house since I moved in. An abrupt sound from the road makes her lurch up and trot to the spruce stand. She stops there, head and neck blocked by the tree trunks. All I can see is her body from withers to rump.
For a moment I wonder if she is like a human tot who thinks that when her eyes are covered then no one can see her. I rather doubt that. If I were a prey animal (like her), walking near the residence of a potential two-legged predator (like me), I would be careful to protect myself and the little one with me. And that is probably what she is doing: watching out for her child. From her angle she probably has a very good view of her babe.
I continue to watch. Mama moves forward to snack on a small cluster of short vegetation and I lose track of the baby since it is so close to the side of the house.
Another distinctive bang. I do not see a bouncing willow. This time perhaps the calf’s shoulder has knocked against the side of the house.
I dash upstairs to look out of a second-story window for a hopefully wider view of them both. Yep. There they are. My brow wrinkles slightly. Both moose look exactly the same height. I guess the angle from below made them look differently sized. It’s all about perspective. But why are the two traveling together still? And then mama steps forward into view.
It’s a cow with two calves!
I am so excited. Two! Usually moose bear only one calf each spring. There must have been a lot of food this past year since she has borne twins. Come spring these two will be off on their own as mama’s attention turns to her next newborn.
She watches them still as together they climb the hill created by the house’s leech field, tugging on the smaller willow as they go. Mama lets them move up and over as she takes the long way around to the other side of the mound, and within only a few breaths, all three ungulates are out of view, and I am left with a peaceful smile on my lips.
Moose resource: https://www.adfg.alaska.gov/index.cfm?adfg=moose.main
Awe and Wonderment: A Lynx Sighting!
Unhurried, and almost regal in bearing, the Lynx canadensis walks silently confident atop the snow-covered garden of wild grasses and determined wild roses. Tufted ears and luminescent eyes remain alert. The body, although rounded by thick, fluffy fur, nonetheless exudes a dangerous sleekness.
The lynx pads calmly through its yard — which just happens to be where my house is built. I have chanced to see it through the kitchen window as it appears from out of the boreal woodland behind my house. After a stunned and awed gape I scramble to tug my camera out of my backpack, but the batteries are dead! I grab up my old iPod and low-tech flip phone and fumble to open both cameras.
Unhurried, and almost regal in bearing, the Lynx canadensis walks silently confident atop the snow-covered garden of wild grasses and determined wild roses. Tufted ears and luminescent eyes remain alert. The body, although rounded by thick, fluffy fur, nonetheless exudes a dangerous sleekness.
I try to steal as quietly as possible to the front window where I peek out between the slats of the blinds, snapping furtive photos. As I gaze in continued wonder, I can understand why some Native American cultures view(ed) the lynx as a guardian of secret truths. Watching the feline stare perceptively focused into the spruce stand by my driveway, I also grasp why a person with good eyesight can easily be described as ‘lynx-eyed’. I chuckle at the reason that Polish astronomer Johannes Hevelius named a configuration of 19 stars “The Lynx” in 1687: only the keen-sighted could truly see the faint constellation. The first time I glimpsed a lynx — about a month ago, and for such a brief moment that I mused if I should doubt my eyes — it was on the other side of the George Parks Highway from which the spruce woodland separates my home. I wonder if this one is the same carnivore.
I stay cautiously inside until the grimalkin has moved down the length of the driveway and I feel brave enough to take photos from just outside the front door (but still up on the porch). The wild cat pauses, ponders, and prowls onward. I let several more minutes pass before I venture down the steps and peer at the impressions in the snow. The wide prints are clearly different from the hare and fox tracks I have not seen since the lynx first graced the neighborhood with its presence.
I feel blessed to have witnessed it.