At The Stumps

Gray Fox

Western Gray Squirrel

Raccoon

Blacktail Deer

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Nature's Gifts

I like a well-ordered, even minimalist image as much as the next guy, but I also like the rumble-tumble of the bumble-scrumble—nature in all her random mathematical chaos. Especially when the image includes flowing water and rocks being colonized by moss.  

Back in the dry months I used to enjoy sitting as still as possible on these rocks where I'd face downstream into a spacious glade created by the high canopy of trees. There was a small pool of water that survived at the base of the dry rocks, and birds would land practically at my feet to drink and bathe. 

Once again I wasn't finding any large fleshy fungi, just little fellas like this weather-worn trio of (I believe) Mycena maculata. 

So shinrin-yoku, or Japanese forest bathing, is having a moment. I even saw a book about it on the "new non-fiction" shelves at Green Apple the other day. It's hypothesized that the molecules floating in the forest atmosphere have a beneficial effect on us, and savvy marketers will gladly sell us a bottle of essential oils to bring some of forest bathing's benefits into our own home.

Shinrin-yoku is another "ecosystem service" provided freely by nature. Gifts such as clean air and fresh water literally make our lives possible, and our lives are degraded in proportion to how much we degrade those gifts.

Nature is the gift-giver par excellence, the substrate of everything we are and the original giver of life to our small blue planet, our twirling mote in the immensity of space. Nature says Merry Christmas to us every day. 

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Solstice Sunrise

You know you're spoiled rotten when you call a sunrise like this ... a dud! As I looked out the bedroom window this morning I could just make out the waning crescent moon, nearly half-way across the sky, shining dimly through a layer of cloud. I sensed that a colorful sunrise might not be in the cards, or in the clouds, but I was already out from under the covers, maybe twenty-seven-percent awake, and it was just after 6 a.m. Which meant I had about 20 minutes to get dressed, get my gear together, make some coffee, toast a bagel, and get going in time to reach the Mt. Tam gate at opening time.

By the time the slightly tardy ranger opened the gate a little past 7, there were four cars behind me. 

I'd seen a deep crimson bar on the horizon earlier which had gotten my hopes up a little bit, but instead of blossoming into a Mt. Tam Winter Wonder Spectacle of a sunrise, the color had likely faded even before the gate opened.

Nevertheless, I am lucky and blessed to have a place like this to enjoy on a Saturday morning. A pair of red-tailed hawks called to each other as they sewed flight lines across the sky, surfing the strong, chilly winds with nary a wingbeat. I needed a jacket as I started down the Cataract Trail, but I had to take it off soon after I entered the woods and got out of the wind. The creek was flowing clear and with authority, but not rushing. The day is short. I'll savor it while it lasts.

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