Albuquerque from Above

We arrive at the balloon launch site around sunrise. As the pink cirrus clouds above begin to fade to white, a myriad of supplies are unpacked and three long rainbow colored carpets are laid out along the ground. A confusion of cables is unfurled and generator-driven fans roar to life. Jets of wind ripple into the gaping mouths of fabric as three immense balloons begin to take shape.

The burners are ignited and that’s when the magic starts. Hot pulses of air blast into the supine balloons changing their hummocky exteriors into taut teardrop-shaped globes. Finally, ever so gently, each balloon uprights to its full vertical stature and ten individuals are loaded, like so many chocolate Easter bunnies, into each empty basket below.

Objects of reference on the ground begin to fall away and shrink as the buoyant balloon rises into the air. A surreal sense of stillness abounds, made all the more palpable by the contrast of occasional combustive bursts from the burner. Everyone is transfixed by the beauty of the topography below, and by the rare opportunity to experience a sweeping aerial view of the world unencumbered by glass.

The air is cold and still, not even a hint of breeze. We fly parallel to the Rio Grande and see a flock of Sandhill cranes wading below, their long dark shadows cast across the flat surface of the river. The late autumn trees glow like golden torches in the morning light, sharply contrasting with the elongated strands of shade that darken the ground at their feet.

We drift south of the river over the intermingled neighborhoods and fields of Albuquerque. Densely packed developments of pueblo-style homes create a harmonious mosaic of rectangles. Large tree ringed farm plots are dotted with a variety of structures – houses, outbuildings, fences, fountains, pools, ponds, gazebos, orchards, gardens and paths. Each property a sprawling testament to the lives, occupations, and histories of the generations that have resided there. In that moment, a multitude of scattered dog barks filter up unhindered through the air to join in a morning chorus punctuated by the occasional rooster's call.

As the balloon slowly descends back to the ground, it passes over a mining operation. The juxtaposed gentle curves and stick straight lines make for a mesmerizing composition. Miniature dump trucks glide lazily around the sculpted piles of gravel and sand, shaping and reshaping a landscape created by an infinite accumulation of energy - eons of geologic deposition and centuries of human innovation. I cannot get the word ‘industrious’ out of my mind.

And then I am reminded of a quote I read recently, one which I could not understand fully until this moment, "It is from the air that the true relationship between the natural and the human landscape is first clearly revealed. The peaks and canyons lose much of their impressiveness when seen from above. What catches our eye and arouses our interest is not the sandy washes and the naked rocks, but the evidences of man." – J.B. Jackson

I marvel at all the ways across generations that the landscape has shaped us, and how we have shaped it in return. 

Transitions

My husband made an interesting observation while we were walking along a dirt road flanked by rainbow colored maple trees earlier this fall. He noted that unlike flowers, which have adapted their forms and colors to fit the function of reproduction, the particolored leaves decorating the trees each autumn serve no functional purpose at all. The shades of green that we normally see are the result of food production, but in the fall when the trees begin their transition into dormancy and so stop producing food, a tapestry of gold, scarlet, terracotta and plum suddenly begins to emerge. Isn’t it miraculous? What a gift to the human soul that the trees set the world alight with their beauty just as the long dark of winter is settling in.

Such times of transition are ripe with anticipation. The resulting energy fills with air around us and charges us with emotions. Sometimes we welcome these feelings – the first rainy fall day that generates the desire to curl up on the couch under a blanket with a warm mug of cider in hand. Our first collective glimpse of the bride as she steps into view and begins her slow walk down the aisle. The joyous moment of reunion with an old friend after too many years gone by. These are the moments that remind us how sweet life can be.

But transitions can set off emotions that are not always so welcome. There are times when the crush of the unknown weighs heavily on our worried hearts. The night the rain won’t stop – it just keeps falling and falling, and so the water keeps rising. Waiting for the test results, as the known world hangs in the balance. The point at which the decision is made, whether by choice or by force, and tentative steps are taken down an unfamiliar path. These are the moments that remind us how fragile life can be.

But just as the coziness of that first chill fall day fills the soul with the sensation of pleasure, so too does that first summer-like spring day, when we cast off our layers and drink in the sunshine. We know warmth, because we know cold. The beauty of love and reunion are more palpable because we know loss. Tradition comforts all the more because we know the uncertainty of change. This oppositeness provides the frame of reference for all we know in the world.

What we sometimes lose sight of is that those times of transition we resist out of fear, are also the times that unite us together. We tend to each other’s needs in times of sorrow, just as we celebrate our joys – with a heart wide open to the emotional spectrum of what it means to be human. Compassion is cultivated most readily when we support others during times of difficult transition. At these times, we are all reminded of who we hold most dear, and what really matters most. We come to know the essential aspects of our life that do not change, even as chaos is swirling all around. Perhaps it is the tenuousness that makes this one life so precious.

There are times when the only thing we can do is love. All the words have been said, there are no new ideas to impart and the answers are suspended in time. Somewhere out beyond the fear and worry lies the reason behind our anguish – we love. In this life we will all know pain and suffering, but we will also know love, because at the heart of it all this is what we are. Isn’t it miraculous? That in such fragile moments our true nature can be revealed. Even in the darkest times it can set the world alight with its beauty.

Morning Miracles

At some point in the middle of the night, I remember waking up in the tent with the scent of smoke filling my senses. Given the recent drought conditions, I momentarily worried that we had not doused our campfire thoroughly enough before going to bed, but I quickly realized that I had no immediate need for concern. Campfire smoke has an acrid, almost sour smell that lingers for days in hair and on clothing, eventually fading to a stale memory, but distant wildfire smoke is different. It is sweetly spiced and clings not to objects, but to the air itself enveloping everything in an invisible blanket of warmth that gets heavier and more stifling with proximity. Even from afar, its presence is overbearing on a hot, dry midsummer day, but in the slightly humid, chilled air of this autumn night the sensation was pleasant, if slightly unsettling. Though no immediate threat to me, I knew there was a fire burning to the south just over a ridge from the town of the Jackson, and that friends faced the possibility of evacuation. I lifted a few thoughts of uncertain hope up to the heavens for them and the town as I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

Some hours later I woke up just after sunrise. I gathered my down jacket and gloves, unzipped the tent and slipped out into the quiet cold. Perched on a large rock at the edge of Leigh Lake, I observed the stillness all around me. Looking to the east, I saw a hovering wall of mist rise to blur with the smoky air aloft. The veiled sun reflected on the rippled surface of the water filling the air with a lavender gray light. Male elk bugled from distant valley meadows, their piercing screams muted to a high, haunting whistle. I was enchanted, although not unexpectedly. Such morning miracles are not uncommon in this special place.

A few hours passed with the usual tasks of breakfast and breaking camp, but even at ten o’clock when we were ready to leave, the stillness had not lifted. Without even a hint of breeze, a thick layer of cold, smoky air remained undisturbed across the obscured horizon and the lake reflected a perfect image of the surrounding trees and mountains. We slipped our canoes into the water and floated across the simulated sky. Gliding with effortless strokes, I watched as concentric rings rippled out from each droplet that trickled off the tip of my raised paddle. I heard a gentle shush as the hull split the surface of the water into two rivulets which then snaked along the side of the canoe before smoothing back into the water. It surprised me to realize this was another kind of miracle, to be suspended safely above the fathomless depths by a thin piece of concave plastic.

On and on we paddled that morning away from the peninsula where we had camped, around the shallow fringes of Mystic Isle and over to the inlet at the base of Mount Moran. I meditated on the pull of the paddle against the water, the cold air that filled my lungs and the refraction of light off the surrounding rippled sea of glass. Eventually a gentle breeze did begin to stir, breaking up the stratified air. Warmth crept back into the world and the haze slowly lifted. As the mountains regained their clarity, I shed layers until my skin felt the light of the sun. The peaceful spell was finally broken as our canoes scraped against the rocky lake shore at the portage site, but I was not sad to let it go. Even then, I knew that I would remember this experience not as a dream, but as the best kind of reality – one that I could have never imagined for myself had it not actually happened.

In Mary Austin Country

I first heard of Mary Austin when searching for a new book to read. While perusing a list that the San Francisco Chronicle put out a few years ago ranking the 100 best nonfiction books about the American West, I noticed her book, The Land of Little Rain, at the very top. A laundry list of thoughts began to pile up in my head - I had never heard of her; I had never heard of this book; It was written in 1903 (by a woman roaming the high desert on her own, no less); How did this book make its way to the top of the list? As it turns out, this slight, unassuming collection of short essays opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at the world.

Austin wrote about the West through her own direct experiences and observations. She reflected for a sentence, a paragraph or a whole chapter on subjects as small as an insect or as expansive as the sky. It was all connected in her mind, and therefore worthy of the time it took to explain how. She became a student of sheepherders and Native Americans - two groups who were marginalized and disdained by society at the turn of the last century. Her careful, compassionate observations of their daily life now provide us with a window into their world and an opportunity to reflect on our own perceptions and prejudices.

While on a road trip on the east side of the Sierra last weekend, I passed through the little town of Independence and took some time to visit the place Mary called home while writing The Land of Little Rain. At the local history museum I learned about resident Native American tribes, the Manzanar Internment Camp for Japanese-Americans during WWII, area mining claims, the Owens Valley water battle with Los Angeles, and details about many important local figures. Regarding Mary Austin, they had arranged a small glass case with original copies of a few of her books, a single photograph and a brief biography. I left the museum somewhat disappointed by this very humble tribute to a woman who has so illuminated our cultural and ecological understanding of the West. On the way out of town I passed by her home. A small historical marker stands out front with little information provided beyond a short, albeit compelling, quote. The 'no trespassing' signs around the property make it clear that this home serves as a monument only and not a museum. 

As I walked back to my car, I happened to glance to my right and noticed the flat wide street in front of her house heading due west out of town and straight up into the mountains. I heard her words in my head, "All streets of the mountains lead to the citadel; steep or slow they go up to the core of the hills." I realized that although her contributions may be assembled in a shadow box, summarized in a paragraph, or analyzed by professors in a classroom, Mary's real tribute is written across the vast landscape of the Eastern Sierra. She is a kindred spirit to those who wish to view the world with an unbounded sense of curiosity and wonder. How could such a spirit be contained inside four walls? 

And so here is my tribute to Mary...

"There is a Paiute proverb to the effect that no man should attempt the country east of the Sierras until he has learned to sleep in the shade of his arrows. This is a picturesque way of saying that he must be able to reduce his wants to the limit of necessity. Those who have been able to do so, and have trusted the land to repay them, have discovered that the measure is over-full. A man may not find wealth there, nor too much of food even, but he often finds himself, which is much more important."
-Mary Austin

"The shape of a new mountain is roughly pyramidal, running out into long shark-finned ridges that interfere and merge into other thunder-splintered sierras. You get the saw-tooth effect from a distance, but the near-by granite bulk glitters with the terrible keen polish of old glacial ages...When those glossy domes swim into the alpenglow, wet after rain, you conceive how long and imperturbable are the purposes of God."
-The Streets of the Mountain



"The lake is the eye of the mountain, jade green, placid, unwinking, also unfathomable. Whatever goes on under the high and stony brows is guessed at." 

- Water Borders

"The arrow-maker had a stiff knee from a wound in a long-gone battle, and for that reason he sat in the shade of his wickiup, and chipped arrow points from flakes of obsidian that the young men brought him from Togobah, fitting them to shafts of reeds from the river marsh...They drove bargains with him for arrows for their own hunting, or for the sake of the stories he could tell. For an armful of reeds he would make three arrows, and for a double armful he would tell tales."

- Mahala Joe

"Sometimes she plaited willows for the coarser kinds of basket-work, or, in hot noonings while the flock dozed, worked herself collars and necklaces of white and red and turquoise-colored beads, and other times sat dreaming on the sand." 

- The Coyote-Spirit and the Weaving Woman

"It is difficult to come into intimate relations with appropriated waters; like very busy people they have no time to reveal themselves. One needs to have known an irrigating ditch when it was a brook, and to have lived by it, to mark the morning and evening tone of its crooning, rising and falling to the excess of snow water; to have watched far across the valley, south to the Eclipse and north to the Twisted Dyke, the shining wall of the village water gate; to see still blue herons stalking the little glinting weirs across the field."
- Other Water Borders

"None other than this long brown land lays such a hold on the affections. The rainbow hills, the tender bluish mists, the luminous radiance of the spring, have the lotus charm. They trick the sense of time, so that once inhabiting there you always mean to go away without quite realizing that you have not done it." 

- The Land of Little Rain

"But if ever you come beyond the borders as far as the town that lies in a hill dimple at the foot of Kearsarge, never leave it until you have knocked at the door of the brown house under the willow-tree at the end of the village street, and there you shall have such news of the land, of its trails and what is astir in them, as one lover of it can give to another." 

- Quote on the historic marker outside her former home

For the Birds

Puffy fair weather cumulus clouds dot the western sky as a glow of morning light spreads across the golden green meadow. The air feels cool and humid on the shady trail, but it is tinged with pronounced mugginess in the patches of sunlight - a sign that it will be another hot July day here in the Sierra Nevada. Hodgdon Meadow snakes along Old Big Oak Flat Road at around 5,000 feet above sea level, just inside the western boundary of Yosemite National Park. Ringed by stately evergreens and filled with waist high sedges and dense willow thickets, it is a haven for wildlife. Of particular interest this morning are the small winged aviators now gliding swiftly overhead and across the meadow in search of food and shelter. They fill the air with a cacophony of sounds - an undercurrent of warbles and chirps, overlaid by the melodious trill of a Pacific wren, and occasional punctuations of the Olive-sided flycatcher, “Quick, three beers!”. I’ve been invited by Sarah, a park biologist, to join her curious, energetic daughter, and a local volunteer from the neighboring community of Groveland for a site visit to a park project funded by a grant from Yosemite Conservancy. We are heading out to one of seven banding station where we will observe field technicians as they catch songbirds.

This delicate, diverse avian family has been known throughout history for its complex, inspiring vocalizations. In recent decades, however, songbirds have also gained recognition for their sensitivity to habitat loss. Significant declines in a variety of species have been documented, prompting scientists to take action. The Institute for Bird Populations (IBP) was established in 1989 to coordinate 500 banding stations to research and share information regarding the population and distribution of birds across the continent. This crucial long-term dataset looks not only at individual variables, but also the cause and effect relationship between them, making it a very power tool for scientific research.

When we arrive at the station, no one is around. A small black table is blanketed with papers, tools and writing utensils. Clothes-pinned to the length of one side of the table are small dangling cloth sacks. Some of the bags twitch sporadically, belying the contents inside. As the technicians make their rounds every forty minutes between seven different nets, they collect the birds that have become ensnared. A half dozen or more may be gathered during this time, so the cloth bags allow the birds to be safely transported and kept in waiting, until their turn to be examined. This state of suspension doesn’t seem to cause the birds too much alarm. Even after they are extracted from the bag, most are fairly calm as long as their wings are kept pinned to their sides. One exception are the Northern flickers, who vocalize a continuous stream of car alarm-like shouts while being handled.

Measure wing length, puff of air to the chest to check for body fat or a brood patch, puff of air to the skull to determine age based on the pattern of bumps that emerge as the cranium matures, spread the wings to look at feather condition, tip the bird upside down into a cylinder to keep it still while being weighed, all the while scribbling numbers and codes onto a data sheet. For all but the hummingbirds, look for a numbered band and if none is found, secure one to encircle the leg like a bracelet. After weeks in the field, this team works like a well-oiled machine. Questions and uncertainties are discussed and negotiated with the help of various manuals passed back and forth across the table. The slightest suggestion of curiosity by visitors is met with an assured, demonstrative response. It was explained to me by one of the technicians that each primary feather is assigned a number. Because juveniles and females are so similar in appearance, sometimes the only way to determine the exact species is by noting the difference in length between two particular feathers. I marvel at their capacity for attention to such nuances.  Sarah is clearly proud of the work they’ve been doing, and already wistful about losing her team lead, who was recently offered a position by the IBP to be a regional coordinator for independent field research teams.

The birds are examined with deft efficiency, and then carefully set free. After being restrained, some seem to forget that they know how to fly, and so they hold still for a moment suspended in time. At this point in the process, visitors are encouraged to participate. I am offered the opportunity to release an Anna’s Hummingbird, and suddenly a breath of feathers is slipped into my hand. I’m hardly aware of its physical presence, except for the warmth that concentrates and spreads across my open palm underneath its fragile body. I am coached to gently rock it back and forth onto its stomach, and with a few shallow bobs of my palm the sprightly bird elevates up into the air. The flash of movement and sudden pulse of wing beats against my hand cause me to gasp. I remember in that moment that it is possible to hear your soul shout for joy. I glance at my instructor and I see it in her eyes too – the childlike wonder of the moment when this wisp of bone, muscle and feathers manifests into pure grace. How privileged we are to be surrounded by such every day miracles.

Seeing the World in a New Light

I am obsessed with light. It started in college when I took an art appreciation class and learned about the Impressionist movement. The idea that a painter could paint not an object or scene, but rather the reflections of light, created a whole new way of seeing. Static objects within the landscape became dynamic as my awareness of sun-shifted shadows and highlights intensified their textures and colors. Sunlight unlocks the door to an infinitely more beautiful world.

Around this same time period I began pursuing photography as a hobby, learning to consider light as I composed my shots. I’m not a very technical photographer, partly because I don’t have the patience to learn about and practice the exacting art of manual focus and light control, but digital photography has allowed me to experiment and develop my creativity. To compensate for the restrictions of a point and shoot camera, I began playing with sunlight by filtering or blocking it with objects in the shot to control any resulting lense flares. I remember the first time I raised my camera up to the petals of a back-lit flower to take an extreme close-up while on a hike in the Tetons. The resulting photo gave me a miraculous new appreciation for the natural world.

As we meet our own needs for hunger and thirst throughout the day, it’s easy to forget that the plants and trees around us are constantly taking in nourishment as well. We gardeners know it more than most, especially out west, but even then how often do we really take the time to appreciate the systems that give life to the plant? I’m not a biologist by training, so it took me completely by surprise that night when I got home from hiking and looked at my photo on the computer. The sunlight had highlighted an intricate tracing of veins across the surface of that deep purple larkspur petal, and refracted to reveal a sparkling translucence that literally took my breath away. There are few things more beautiful in this world than a flower bathed in sunlight...

Ever since that day, I’ve been obsessed with documenting the delicate inner workings of leaves and flowers through my photographs. One of my favorite places to be is under a deciduous tree at midday when the sunlight is streaming down, illuminating the canopy of leaves above me. There is a quality to that vivid saturation of colorful light, which makes me feel intensely alive and keenly aware of the life pulsating around me. My body and the tree, we both absorb this invisible bombardment of photons and turn it into physical nourishment. We both move fluid through our veins as a means of surviving and thriving. We breathe in symbiotic partnership, each sustaining the other. In this moment I am reminded that it's not so much a matter of reconnecting with nature as it is simply removing the layers that insulate us from each other. The connection itself is impossible to sever...

  

This luminous way of seeing requires only a simple shift of perspective for wondrous details to instantly emerge. All you have to do is let your eyes be guided by the light...