Wild Nature – Page 6 – Karen's New York Love Affair

Clinging to summer

Labour Day is over. It’s September. There’s no denying that summer is over, even though the sun is still bright. The wheel is turning around to the west, to the harvest, and the dying time of the fall. As a Scorpio born in late October, I always relish the coming of the fall. Maybe it’s memories of back to school and new school clothes and the smell of pink erasers. I keep one in a drawer just so I can smell it now and then. Remember those back to school days, with yellow pencils and maybe even a new set of coloured pencil crayons?

But if you’d like a little while longer to cling to the long days of August, here is a summary of the postings that describe August days at Monkey Valley. I invite you to stroll through the long grasses of the meadow, and hear the call of the red-shafted flicker once more…

Flying flicker feathers

An August day at Monkey Valley

Red-shafted flickers

I wasn’t completely off the mark when I thought my morning visitor was a woodpecker. The flickers are a type of woodpecker, but rather than pecking at bark to eat the grubs and insects underneath, they feed on ants and other ground insects, as well as berries in the winter time. I’d never seen one so close before, to notice the black breast-band. What has always struck me is their visual impact in flight, with their salmon-pink under-wings and white rump flashing, and their solid-looking shape. They have the up-and-down, undulating flight pattern shared by most woodpeckers.

When I was growing up my family owned land on Knouff Lake, northeast of Kamloops, BC. We spent a lot of time there, especially in the summer, staying in the one-room cabin that my father built. Bathing in the lake. No electricity or running water. (Many years later my dad put in power and phone.) We canoed around the lake, suntanned on the dock my dad built, swam, hiked, ate a lot of great food. One time bears tore into my sister’s and I’s tent, while the family was away on a day hike. There were paw prints on the windows of the cabin, too, more than 8 feet off the ground. Needless to say, Kim and I slept in the cabin that night, and learned not to hide goodies in the tent!

When my dad learned he had brain cancer, in the late 1990s, he had to sell the property, and the family met there for a final farewell. It was a very sad visit, all of us struggling to come to terms with his cancer and impending death, and also losing this land that had meant so much to us. On the last day, as we were getting ready to leave, I went off for a short walk by myself, and found some beautiful orange feathers on the ground. They seemed like a miracle to me. I had never seen anything so magical as these brown feathers with white spots and patterns of orange on them. It was truly a gift from the land, a parting gift. I felt so moved and grateful to receive this goodbye from this place, a memento to keep with me always. I gave some of the feathers to my family, and kept one for myself. I have this feather still, and it is in the north on my altar—the place of my people, and a symbol of the air element.

I didn’t learn until I was studying ecopsychology at Naropa University, in Boulder, Colorado, and walking to school with a fellow Canuck, that the birds with the orange under-wings are called flickers. Before I even knew what these birds were called I found some flicker feathers on a trip to Boulder, down by the Boulder Creek. I was in Boulder for a weekend workshop on rites of passage, and one night went on a special medicine walk to learn about what the threshold means—one of the three stages of a rite of passage. I had overcome my fear and gone into the creek in the dark, symbolically leaving behind my old self as I crossed through the icy water. I laugh to myself now, remembering how I was afraid the water was so cold it would freeze my legs and I wouldn’t be able to get back to the motel I was staying at! I made it home alive, and the next morning I found a pair of lovely orange feathers down by the creek. These are on my altar now too.

Ted Andrews, in his wonderful book Animal Speak says that the flicker signifies new rhythms of growth and healing love. It usually reflects that the stimulation of latent talents is going to be a catalyst for major creative changes in your life. Right now I believe that doing this blog is opening up some writing energy that has been blocked for years, and I am very excited to see what will emerge through this activity!

I have found a few other flicker feathers over the years, and they always feel special to me. And then, the morning before I visited with the flicker on my balcony, I found an orange-tinted feather on the ground below the balcony. My first gift from the flicker on this land. I felt like this place is truly my home now. It has been marked. It has been acknowledged. The land and her creatures agree.

Berry berry woolly mullein

An August day at Monkey Valley

Yearly changes

Last year the wild strawberries were everywhere. I couldn’t walk without stepping on the tiny luscious bursts of red flavour. This year I didn’t see any strawberries, though their bright red creeper vines are still everywhere covering the ground. I don’t know if I just missed their ripening time—perhaps it happened while I was traveling—or if they didn’t fruit this year. I haven’t even seen the dried strawberries that would surely remain if they had already ripened and died. It’s very mysterious!

And there is a new crop this year: wild raspberries growing all around the house, clustering up against the stairs, under the porch, even beside the road. Luckily I am here at the right season to enjoy these fruits. Each morning I’ve taken a yellow bowl out to gather some red globules to add to my breakfast cereal. Last year there was just one small patch at the north-east corner of the porch overlooking the creek. It is amazing how they have spread. Maybe it’s the work of the chipmunks, eating the berries and pooping out their seeds all over the place!

The woolly mullein, also known as lamb’s ear, goes through a two-year growth cycle. One year it grows woolly leaves in a rosette pattern on disturbed earth like the road, which was put in as a logging skid trail just a few years ago. The second year it grows upward from the basal rosette in a startling shaft that reaches as tall as five or six feet, with yellow blossoms at the top. (According to Roberta Parish, Ray Coupe, and Dennis Lloyd’s Plants of Southern Interior British Columbia, the woolly leaves make great toilet tissue—a tip for you fasters out there in the wilds.) In 2005, the mulleins lined the road like sentinels. I’ve been away so much in the past year that the road hasn’t been disturbed enough to prevent plant growth this summer, and the mullein are growing tall right in the middle of the road. I tried to flatten them out with my car tires, feeling very guilty as I did so, because I was concerned that the faster who was driving in both a) wouldn’t be able to find the road and b) wouldn’t know that these amazing growths would bend over as she drove on them, and wouldn’t hurt her car. Once I got over my initial guilt at destroying one of the earth’s beautiful beings, I kind of got into knocking them down one after another. The dark and destructive side of (human) nature!

Another thing that surprised me this year is that the flies are different. For the past few years there were black flies and flies with yellow lower abdomens, both of the usual fly shape. This year the main flies I’ve seen dashing themselves against the windows trying to get outside are a different type, less solid-looking, wings bigger, browner, more transparent. Very mysterious. I have only lived here for six years, but thought I knew all about this place already. I can see how it might take a lifetime. There is so much to learn about the ways of the land and her creatures.

Swimming hole at beaver dam

An August day at Monkey Valley

Gone swimming—Part 3

I started across the dam, sometimes walking on twigs and branches above the water, and sometimes slightly below the surface. The walkway felt sturdy, though, and I wondered why I’ve never tried this before. Halfway across I noticed that the water right below the dam was quite deep. Hmm. I retraced my steps to the bank, and undressed, leaving my hiking shoes on. I gingerly lowered myself into the creek, using the branches supplied by beavers for footing, and found myself in waist-high water. Yow, it was cold! I scrambled back out again, but soon took another plunge. It was silty but with solid ground beneath. The water grew murky from the stirred-up silt. I lowered myself into the coldness, a bit at a time, until I was up to my neck. I did it! The coolness traced on my skin felt wonderful, after I was out of the water again. The residue of coolness fades quickly, but it always feels so cleansing—a sacred ritual, a blessing from the water spirits.

I dried, dressed, and crossed the dam, hiking up the hill to the house. It turns out that after an hour and a half of searching, I found a spot only about 50 yards south of where I started! I’m sure some writer through the centuries has something clever to say about that. Me, I just felt pleased with myself about the whole adventure, and didn’t even take a shower before bed.

Into the meadow

An August day at Monkey Valley

Gone swimming—Part 2

As I walked up towards the dirt/grass/moss road that parallels the creek on the opposite side of the valley from the house, I startled a ruffed grouse, who whirred away ahead of me, disappearing into the pine forest. This cheered me up—I always love catching sight of these wild yet domestic-seeming creatures. I heard some others softly clucking nearby, and settled onto a giant boulder in the dappled shade to listen for a while. A squirrel started scolding me with its chuck-chuck-chuck rattle, and I laid back, closed my eyes, and listened to the land. I realized that it’s a lot more pleasant to simply be while outdoors on the land with other creatures and lffife to keep me company than it is within the stark, lonely, artificially white four walls of my apartment in Vancouver. My soul needs the input of the natural world that we evolved in. Something is missing without it. Something I can rest in.

After a while, feeling refreshed, I noticed that this spot was almost exactly across the valley from the house. The spirit of the explorer infused me once more, and I wondered if I could find the mythical passage across the valley. I headed back down to the creek, and after climbing over a few fallen trees and tangles of branches I saw a perfect crossing place: narrow enough, with a solid log making a bridge from bank to bank, about three feet above the water. I stepped onto the sun-bleached wood, and my feet slowly felt their way across. I felt grateful to my father for holding my hand while I walked on logs as a young girl. His gift lives in me now.

I kept walking on the log, which stretched out on the earth long after it had spanned the creek. When it ended I stepped into the tall grass, rounded some willow bushes, and smelled mint. I discovered a whole garden of mint plants growing on the wet earth amidst the tall grass. I ate a leaf to be sure, tasting the peppery bite of the fresh herb. Yes! A reward for the explorer! I will come back to this place to harvest some mint for tea… I walked a little further south, to the end of the willow bushes, and found myself in the vast meadow in the middle of the valley. Virgin territory! The place where wild moose run!

Stepping cautiously, because the ground was somewhat marshy, I was glad that my feet were wet already so I could walk out into this beautiful meadow. Straight across was the house, and I made my way towards it. I came to a narrow channel, cut by beaver, that was easy to jump across. Large leaves low to the ground identified particularly wet areas, which I walked around, slowly making my way to the other side of the valley. I heard the creek again as I neared the valley’s edge, and found myself at the beaver dam just south of the house. I realized that since my feet were wet, walking across the dam was as easy a way to cross the creek as any. Almost home… (to be continued)

Monkey Valley beach

An August day at Monkey Valley

Gone swimming—Part 1

I thought the other day was hot. But yesterday was even hotter—it was 43° C in the afternoon (108° F)! Too hot even for Lizard Woman, and I decided to brave the icy waters of the creek.

The challenge was to find a place to swim in. In addition to being unreasonably cold, the creek is very silty in most places, making the bottom mucky and—as my sister Kim found out one summer (to my great amusement)—sometimes as treacherous as quicksand. But that’s another story… And the places where the bottom is rocky, sandy, or pebbly, the water is usually swift-running and shallow—too shallow to swim in.

First I headed for the “beach” Kim and I created the first summer at Monkey Valley, rolling sandbags down the hill to a spot on the creek right below the house. But that was seven summers ago, and the sandy spot is now overgrown with tall grass. And also, while the creek used to be nice and deep right there, it has filled in with silt. So the hunt was on.

I decided I would try to find a nice deep spot at the north end of the valley, near the ford. The water is fast-flowing there, and maybe there would be some solid creek bottom. I left a note on the table, in case I should die before I returned, so my family would know where to find my body: “Gone swimming in creek (near ford).” Since this was turning into more than the quick dip I had planned, I put on some sturdy hiking shoes and blue jeans, grabbed a towel, and headed north, up the dirt road to the place where it fords the creek.

I found that I could cross the creek on the fallen down fence, and did this for fun, coming back on the rock path I had made. The creek was only a few inches deep at this low end of summer, so I headed south, following the creek along the edges, noticing I was walking in a recent path made by the cows grazing at this end of the valley. I saw a few spots that were about two feet deep, created by the waters rushing around bends in the creek, but these spots weren’t really the swimming hole I was looking for. Soon I came to the log my friend Dorrie had used to cross the creek a few weeks ago. Beside it was the spot where I had fallen in while trying to jump across! I remembered that it hadn’t really been that cold, and decided to just walk along the creek itself for a ways.

And so I went, walking in the water up to knee deep, crawling over logs and climbing up the hillside when the creek became too silty to walk in. I marvelled at how there always seemed to be deer trails to follow up the hill when the land forced me that way. This evidence is as good as any that there is a logic in the unfolding of reality! The mosquitoes I had been anticipating decided to join me, and I wrapped the towel around myself for protection. I kept pushing south, still hoping for the magical swimming place I was looking for, but hurrying ever onward to avoid the mosquitoes. After a while the creek widened out a lot, into a big marshy section. I climbed onto higher ground and just about decided to give up and head back to the house. But then something special happened… (to be continued)

A creek runs through it

An August day at Monkey Valley

Shrimpton Creek

The creek, with the unglamorous name of Shrimpton, is a defining characteristic of Monkey Valley. It is fed by snow melt from the northern end of the Cascade Mountain range, as well as icy cold underground springs. In the eight years since I have owned this land, and the beavers have been allowed to do their work without interruption, the shape of the creek and the valley bottom have changed a lot.

(Shrimpton Creek shows up on Google! And there is Merritt, BC—the closest city to Monkey Valley Retreat Center.)

The beavers have dammed the creek in strategic places, and dug hundreds of meters of new channels. As the channels bring water to new patches of land, willows spring up where the tall grasses used to grow. The valley bottom, formerly a large grassy meadow, is slowly filling up with willows and other bushes. The willows draw the moose, and I once was lucky enough to see a pair of them galloping down the middle of the meadow, an amazing demonstration of vital aliveness and freedom. I’ve also seen a mother moose and her calf grazing at the northern end, moving in and out of view as they nibbled the branches.

The willows and the sheltered valley bottom—inaccessible because arms of the creek form a natural barrier protecting the giant grassy meadow—are also home to an abundance of birds who like to nest in the tall grasses. And many animals visit this land, pausing on their travels to drink at the creek. Any muddy place at creek edge shows signs of their passing. I have seen tracks of bear, deer, moose, cow (!), beaver, bobcat, and otter. The rare visits from river otters are especially delightful, but I’ll save that for another day. The creek is also home to mink (who become ermine in their winter coats), and many other small mammals who like to live near running water.

When I first moved here there were two places to cross the creek: a shallow ford at the north end of the valley, with a wood-log fence railing beside it; and a set of planks near the south end, which a previous owner had placed there to form a bridge. One summer I placed rocks in the shallow ford, creating another way to get across, but the creek level often rises above the rocks. One spring the high water, combined with the beaver’s creek-widening activities, carried the planks away. There is still a series of wood fences at the southern-most end of the property that can be climbed on to cross the creek, which has two branches there. When the fence at the northern end fell down, I used to cross near the ford on a fallen log. But the creek level has risen above that log now. It is amazing how the land keeps changing! And like explorers who have sought short-cuts throughout the ages, I have always wanted to find a way to cross the valley straight to the house, which is about one-third of the way from the north end, rather than having to walk all the way to the ford and then double back.

A morning visit

An August day at Monkey Valley

Another morning visitor

Another beautiful August morning, sleeping out on the balcony again. I heard something scrabbling under the balcony. I wondered if it was the flicker, or maybe some other bird building a nest. Suddenly a bird popped its head up above the weathered wood boards of the balcony. She noticed me, and, startled, flew onto the slender pine log railing. She looked at me and fidgeted this way and that for a moment, with something in her beak. I noticed this bird had beautiful spots of pale yellow, one under the throat and two on the side. Lovely! She was otherwise light brown and pale-breasted, with speckles.

“What have you got, little birdie?”

The yellow-rumped warbler (I later guessed that this might be her kind) flew down to my feet and deposited a small, tan-coloured moth on the boards. Then she flew away. Hmm, breakfast, delivered to me right in bed! I wondered what the moth might feel like in my mouth—soft and crunchy. I briefly considered giving up being a vegetarian. Very briefly!

Good sleep is easy to come by

An August day at Monkey Valley

Sleeping on the Balcony

The thick walls of the log cabin usually keep the house at Monkey Valley pretty cool, even in the August heat. But I had all the windows open, and after a day of +40°, it was 26° inside the house in the evening, and even hotter upstairs in my bedroom. This motivated me to drag the futon mattress outside onto the balcony next to the master bedroom, and sleep out in the moonlight. I brought out my down pillow and two down comforters, and snuggled in for a night of blissfully relaxing sleep. Usually when sleeping out I’ve used a mummy bag. The down comforters were warmer and so much more comfy, without the confines of the mummy bag. This is definitely the way to go!

I slept deeply until about 7:30 am, well past dawn. I was awakened by a chipmunk bounding up the stairs to investigate the strange green and yellow mound of duvets on the balcony. I looked at him and he scurried back down, pausing for some tail-flicking halfway down the stairs. I luxuriated on the mattress, enjoying the calls of the birds in the pine grove near the house. I noticed that the morning air smelled like root beer—sweet, earthy, faintly pine. Soon a female flicker flew over to the railing near my feet. We spent a minute or two looking at each other. I admired her spotted breast—white with black spots—noticing a black patch at the top of her breast, and the black stripes on her back. “How beautiful you are!” I said to her. I actually thought she was a woodpecker, and was trying to remember all the details so I could look her up in the guidebook. I felt deeply satisfied with this visit, and watched her for a while after she flew away to a nearby lodgepole pine. I heard her call out a few short, definite “kee-ew” calls, and thought “Aha! So that’s who makes that sound.”

I marveled at the aliveness of this land in the morning hours. The air was filled with bird calls, and as I watched the pine grove it was constantly moving with the flights, landings, and take-offs of darting birds. Consulting the guidebooks later (National Audubon Society Field Guide to Birds: Western Region and David Sibley’s The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America), I discovered that my visitor was not a woodpecker, but a red-shafted flicker, female. The flicker is special to me, and I’ll tell you why another day. Other birds I saw in the grove included the stunning yellow warbler, with brilliant yellow head and belly, and olive-toned back. This is one of my favourites, and I’ve seen these beautifully joyful birds frequently at Monkey Valley, especially down in the willow bushes near the creek.

I also saw a group of black-capped chickadees flitting about, their white-edged tail feathers flashing in a V. These ones were very hard to identify in the bird books. Their white V shaped tail pattern is so distinctive, but this wasn’t shown in either book. I am perhaps a dud when it comes to identifying birds. They seem so clear and vivid when I am looking at them, but then the guidebooks have details I didn’t notice, and perhaps show examples of birds with slightly different colouring. The Sibley Field Guide is more useful for showing variations in coloration that occur due to differences in region, gender, and age, and I trust it more than the Audubon one, which has beautiful colour plates that never seem to resemble the birds I see!

Anyway, this was such a wonderful start to the day, followed by morning coffee (Nelson, BC’s Oso Negro Decaf—think global, buy local) with the guidebooks on the porch overlooking the creek. It made me wish I never had to leave Monkey Valley. I felt so happy to be alive, and lucky to live on this beautiful land.

Morning walk at Monkey Valley

An August day at Monkey Valley

The morning walk

I started the day with a walk up to the top gate at the north corner of Monkey Valley. It takes about 15 minutes to walk up there from the house. The driveway goes past the spot where a faster pitched her tarp a few weeks ago, and just as I meandered by this stretch of dirt road, cup of tea and cell phone in hand, I startled a deer who quickened her pace up the hillside. I wondered if it was the same deer the faster saw, and felt her spirit on the land. As I followed the road up the hillside I heard red-tailed hawk calling out his raspy high-pitched song, and saw him high on a dead tree’s branch. I called back, and we spoke back and forth a few times until he grew tired of the game and flew away to a further tree.

The digital valley

I was walking up to the top gate to get a really strong cell-phone reception for the 7:45 am meeting I call into every morning. Since Telus switched from analog to digital cell signals, the signal doesn’t bounce as far and I don’t get consistent reception down in the valley where the house is. It makes for a more peaceful time here, not having a phone ringing throughout the day. But it also makes me feel like nobody wants me! Anyway, these work meetings give me a great reason to get out early in the morning to see what creatures are wandering around.

Lizard woman

After the phone call I had breakfast on the porch overlooking the creek, with wild raspberries from the bushes growing around the house. Lunch on the porch too, watching birds in the willow bushes, and wondering who was scurrying around under the porch. Chipmunk, it turns out. Afternoon coffee on the top balcony outside the master bedroom, for a view of the reddening woods. The temperature was 41° C this afternoon (106° F)! Beautiful hot summer heat. I took a break to lay in the sun for about half an hour, and felt held, uplifted, and nourished by the land and sun. There’s a good reason my brother-in-law, Geoff, gave me the nickname Lizard Woman!