2012-05-22T12:57:15Z Ron Harton Copyright 2012, Ron Harton SPHPBLOG Journals, May 10, 1853

I walked around Wawona Meadow in Yosemite yesterday with mountains on all the horizons. I started at noon on a warm day, cumulus clouds building in the north, warm sun on my shoulders, a cool breeze setting the ponderosa pines sighing and singing. They are the aeolian harps of the forest. When I hear them, even if the sky is dark and stormy, I want to add my voice to theirs.



The meadow was an emerging green: soap plants, yarrow and thistles showing above the dead grass of last year, lupine sprouting, meadow foam opening first flowers. Under the shade along a section of the western border brook, the purple buds of giant trillium peaked above mottled leaves. The gray willow branches had tiny catkins on their tips.



Looking across the meadow, the mountains on the west horizon were shaded with a blue haze. Those mountains were my destination. I wanted to take a trail from the back of the meadow up the slope to where it joined with a dirt road, still closed from winter. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I sat down to listen to the brook and watch the sunlight on the meadow and hear the singing of the pines.

People who don’t stop and sit and watch and listen to nature miss so much. Nature doesn’t conform to our instant gratification demands. It opens itself slowly to those who conform to its time. I once saw a New Yorker cartoon in which two men in business suits were talking. One said something like this, “I tried nature once, but I couldn’t get into it. No plot.” Nature has the ultimate plot. The plot of nature is our plot as well, but we have to take time to know it.

As I sat watching, a pine cone fell, bouncing from branch to branch above me until it thumped onto the thick needles by my feet. It was brown and old, but the stem end showed the light yellow color of a fresh break. It had made a momentous part of its journey, having grown high on the tree, probably for a year at least, it now joined the community of the forest floor. In a few days, it might roll farther out into the meadow to decay and feed the trillium and yarrow and lupine that will be blooming soon.

And of course, that’s my plot, too. I stood up to continue my journey into the mountains. The mountains--and the meadows--do make it easier to die and to live.
]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry120426-140310 2012-04-26T00:00:00Z 2012-04-26T00:00:00Z
I find it hard to sit still. It’s a temptation to rush into planting vegetables and flowers. It’s difficult to sit and be patient, watching the season slowly unfold to the warm nights that will heat the soil.

The manzanitas are not waiting, at least not around here. They have been blooming for over a week now, and the bees have joined them in their early celebration of fertility. At my house, the pink flowers of the gray-leaf manzanita open to the buzzing of bees and flies. I suspect the bees are the leaf-cutting and mining bees, but they won’t hold still long enough for me to identify them. Several large carpenter bees are out and exploring already, too.



Last year, after the record rains, the abundant manzanita berry crop fed many skunks and foxes, the evidence showing in their scat. With less rain this year, there may be fewer berries, but the plants aren’t worrying about that. They are giving it their best effort as flower sprays crown every branchlet.

The tiny manzanita seedlings that sprouted last year in the spring don’t have flowers, but tiny buds tip their stems—signs of new growth. The land can’t support them all and many will probably die away in the long hot summer ahead, but right now life surges through them, fed by the recent rains and snow.



It’s the spring energy flowing through my old body, making me impatient for what it’s not time to do, yet there are some spring things ready to be done. My task is to be in sync with the rhythm of life now: waiting for some things, being active in others. Timing—that’s the key.

The forecast was for a sunny, warm day, and it started out that way. I was all set for sunshine, but cold gray clouds blew up over the ridge. The temperature is dropping. I think it may rain. I’m going to pull on a Polartec sweater.
]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry120329-130659 2012-03-29T00:00:00Z 2012-03-29T00:00:00Z
I thought I’d take a day off and head up to Mariposa Grove in Yosemite to see what the wind was like in the Big Trees. I anticipated a great roar as the wind poured through the branches because the wind sounded like a freight train in the pines and oaks on our ridge.

When I arrived at the Lower Grove, there was no wind. Cold air had sunk into the basin overnight and remained at mid-morning. A few patches of old snow lined the parking lot.

I took the Outer Loop Trail, heading north first, quickly warming on the uphill trail. I stopped to shed a layer and stuff it into my daypack. In a couple of miles, I came to the top of the ridge, above the Upper Grove. The ridge drops down to Wawona on the north and the South Fork of the Merced on the east.

That’s where the wind hit. The wind raced down the Merced River canyon from the headwaters up in the snowy mountains by Red Peak Pass. My little thermometer sank from 45 to near freezing, and that didn’t count the windchill.

The Sugar Pines, Incense Cedars, and White Firs caught the wind in their branches and made it sing. After a lunch stop on windy Wawona Point (about 6,800 feet), I dropped down to the Sequoias of the Upper Grove. I searched the tops of the trees for signs of wind and listened for a roar. The smaller top branches moved sedately as if tossed by a spring breeze with hardly a sound. The trees handled the wind easily.



Looking at the massive trunks of the trees, some of which are almost 2,000 years old, I wondered how many windstorms they had endured. Perhaps this wind was nothing to what they felt, say in the fall of 1509 or during the big storm of the winter of 1173.

I followed the Outer Loop Trail on down the south side, where a fire had burned most of the cedars, firs, and pines. The trees were very exposed and the here wind hit them full force. Fir snags creaked in the wind, small branches and needles rained down. Yet here also, the branches of the Sequoias gently swayed. There were signs of recently fallen Sequoia branches--footlong sections of limbs, with needles and cones, but the trees themselves seemed little affected by the wind.

In several sections of the burn, nurseries had sprung up, featuring hundreds of Sequoia seedlings. I stopped to sit on a fallen tree and watch their tiny branches trembling in the wind. Only a few years old, they were just beginning life, and they hadn’t experienced many strong winds. A few of them will survive to maturity. Perhaps this wind will help drive their roots deeper, enabling them to withstand the blasts of the future.


]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry111202-140127 2011-12-02T00:00:00Z 2011-12-02T00:00:00Z
It’s comical to watch them try to balance on the slender top branches of the live oaks as the gorge on acorns. They swallow the acorns whole making large bulges in their crops. Then they flap noisily to one of the nearby lodgepole pines to sit while they process the food.

The acorn woodpeckers do not find them comical. A flock of fifty large pigeons consumes a prodigious amount of acorns and the acorn woodpeckers see their winter food supply dwindling. They rally their community to scold them from nearby trees and to fly out at the pigeons, but to no avail. The acorn woodpecker is not small, but at only 3 ounces, has no impact on the pigeons. The band-tails take no notice of them or any other birds.

Except hawks. Cooper’s and Red-tailed hawks live in the area. When a hawk flies by, the pigeons take off in a roar of flapping, circling the ridge in a synchronized formation until they deem the coast is clear.

The band-tails remind me of descriptions of the extinct passenger pigeons of eastern North America that flew over the forests, roosting and nesting in massive flocks that covered thousands of acres.

Like the passenger pigeons, band-tailed pigeons were also hunted for food. Birds of American (1917) records that great flocks ranged along the Pacific coast of North America. Market hunters shipped thousands of birds to Portland, Los Angeles and San Francisco as late as the winter of 1911 and 1912.

Judging from the noise and mess the flock of band-tailed pigeons on my ridge produces, the impact of the gigantic flocks of birds of the past must have been tremendous. The ecology of the continent must have altered with their disappearance, just as certainly as the local ecology of this ridge will be affected by the nomadic appearance of this flock.

The little snow stops the plow
The big snow stops the riverboats
(Chinese Proverb Trans. W.S. Merwin)]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry111113-114433 2011-11-13T00:00:00Z 2011-11-13T00:00:00Z


The south deck can only be accessed through the house, so on the way I started the coffee. Opening the sliding door to the deck, the loud calling of a saw-whet owl greeted me. It was somewhere in the dark, dense foliage of the live oak by the deck. As I listened, I heard another saw-whet owl answer from down by the meadow. Since they seemed to be having such a meaningful dialogue, I decided not to disturb them.

By then the coffee was ready, so I took a steaming mug out to the front porch. The moon was just coming over the mountains, so the night was still very dark. I had a great view of Orion and the meteors flashed overhead. The highest density I saw was four within a few seconds of each other.

Interestingly, right after that display, the owls really started calling, a lively discussion between the saw-whet owls, and down the canyon, a northern pygmy owl hooted in the background. Soon after that, goldfinches began chattering in a live oak, even though first light was still a half-hour away.

Were there connections between the meteors and the owls? I bet they noticed the meteors. I don’t think they miss much of what goes on in their night world. I don’t know whether their increased vocalization was because of the meteors, but it sure seemed like it.

There might have been a connection between the owls and the goldfinches. The call of the pygmy owl probably disturbed their slumber, and the goldfinches chirped cautions to each other to be careful as they took their early morning flights.

One thing I’m sure about was the connection between getting up early and my observations. All that excitement would have gone on as I slept. I would have missed discovering more about the world just outside my door.

]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry111024-121434 2011-10-24T00:00:00Z 2011-10-24T00:00:00Z
The snow gradually deepened, almost a foot in drifts along the trail. We could see the white granite crest of Buena Vista Peak shining in the sharp sunlight to the west. Bear tracks came from the west and joined the trail in front of us. Both front and rear paw prints with claws imprinted the snow. The bear was not far ahead. We were following it over the pass.



The snow in the trail was only about 6 inches deep, so the bear was walking its normal gait. It’s hind track was about 8 1/2 inches, not counting claw imprints, making it an average size California Black bear. The bear seemed to be coming from a high rocky area under the peak and heading straight on the trail for Buena Vista Lake in a small cirque under the north face of the peak.

We looked around for possible food sources in that area, but there weren’t many berries in that area. Lodgepole and white pines dominated the forest. Since black bears forage in the day and fall is approaching, we thought the bear might be seeking some high protein foods around the lake.

The bear led us on around the peak to a windy ridge overlooking the high country of the Sierra Nevada. From there the trail switches back to the west side of Buena Vista Lake, but the bear left the trail and headed down through deeper snow to the northwest side.

We stopped for lunch, sitting on granite ledges, looking out on the back of Half Dome, Red Peak and all the way across the range north to Sawtooth Ridge above Twin Lakes.



Later, at the lake, we saw the northwest side of the lake was thick with scrub. Perhaps some of the bushes still had berries, and the bear, while we lunched on the pass, was down enjoying lunch by the lake.

We never saw the bear, but we felt like it was our companion on the trail for a brief time in our fall journey.

An excellent guide for identifying and following animal tracks of all kinds is The Tracker's Field Guide by James C. Lowery.

]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry111017-144020 2011-10-17T00:00:00Z 2011-10-17T00:00:00Z
A Northern Saw-whet Owl lives around my house. Earlier in the summer, in June and July, I heard it in the Live Oaks on the edge of the little meadow at the bottom of the ridge. Last evening and this morning, it called from the oaks right by the front porch, a steady quick series of barks that some think sounds like a lumber jack’s saw being whetted or sharpened with a file.



Birds of America (1917) edited by Gilbert Pearson and John Burroughs lists an old name for the bird as the Acadian Owl. Acadia is a region of North America extending from Quebec and Nova Scotia down into Maine, hence the “Northern” attached to saw-whet. However, the owl ranges through much of North America, but it doesn’t inhabit the northern parts of Canada or Alaska.

The small, eight-inch owl likes to nest and roost in old woodpecker holes and to dine on mice and other small rodents. We have plenty of woodpecker holes in the trees around our house. The heavy snowstorm at the end of last March left many snags, and the acorn woodpeckers made some new holes this year. Perhaps the owl uses one of their old abandoned holes.

A new book, The Owl and the Woodpecker (2008) by Paul Bannick beautifully portrays in words, photos and sounds the relationships between the two species.

Drawing on his vast experience, Alexander Wetmore, wrote the section on owls in Water, Prey, and Game Birds of North America (1965, National Geographic) in a personal, anecdotal style. Look for used copies of it with plastic sound records in a back pocket.

Hearing an owl’s call, draws me into the night world, a world filled with drama and intrigue. It sparks my imagination to recreate that world in my mind. One day I want to try to recreate that world in writing, the way David Rains Wallace did in The Dark Range: A Naturalist’s Night Notebook (1978).

I’m going to listen for the Northern Saw-whet Owl again this evening and tomorrow at first light. I hope he decides to stick around for the winter.
]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry110921-131524 2011-09-21T00:00:00Z 2011-09-21T00:00:00Z
Finding the trailhead can sometimes be the hardest part of a hike. Yesterday, I planned to hike to Grizzly Lake. I had seen it on the map many times, and it isn’t too far away, so I thought I’d give it a try.
The map indicates a trail leading from Sky Ranch Road, dropping down into a canyon and ending at a small isolated lake. From the lake, a stream tumbles down the canyon into the South Fork of the Merced River.

On the way up the road, I stopped at Fresno Dome. A couple of weeks ago, I found a community of Fringed Pine-sap (Pleuricospora fimbriolata), a white mycotrophic wildflower that is far less common than the red Snowplant and Pinedrops. I wanted to check on the plants and take a photo.


The plants, sheltered under Douglas fir, red fir and Jeffrey Pine, had begun to dry in the late summer heat, without making any berries. Small mammals like to eat the berries, but it looks like they will be out of luck this year. I wonder what made the plants start out so vigorously and then come to a screeching halt.

Mycotrophic plants have no chlorophyll. Instead they draw sustenance from a fungus that lives symbiotically on the roots of other plants

The meadow downslope from the Pine-sap is still moist and cool, alive with the calls of Wilson and yellow warblers, nuthatches, and chickadees. The aspen are lush green and their heart-shaped leaves shimmered in the breeze. But up the hill, the duff under the trees is powdery dry.

My guess is that the late spring caused the plant to emerge only days before the sun slanted through the canopy that had been thinned by late storms. The strong sun dried out the forest floor and the pine-sap.

I drove another six miles searching for the trailhead. I didn’t think it would be marked, yet I hoped I could find it. A number of new logging roads and jeep trails crisscross the area. They aren’t on my map, and that complicated my search. I found what I thought might be the trail, but there was no place to park on that section of the narrow dirt road. I made a note to get a new map and I drove on to the end of the road.

The road ends near the boundary of Yosemite National Park (California) at the Quartz Mountain Trailhead. That one was easy for me to find since I couldn’t drive any farther and there is a big sign marking the trail.

I hadn’t walked fifty yards before a pine marten (Martes americana) came bounding up the trail toward me. It saw me, stopped and rose up on its legs. Then it bounded a little closer, stopping not more than ten yards away. It checked me out once more and, leaving the trail to me, hopped through the duff, up on a log and ran out of sight.


Martens are not common in this part of the world. They once were, but trapping and development have caused a great decline. Now they are considered indicator species. (See the Science article on indicator species. If martens are present, then the experts consider it a sign that the forest is being managed effectively.

This one seemed right at home. The forest in that area is full of large, old growth trees. There is no sign of recent logging, no development of any kind. In fact, I hiked the rest of the day, down to Gravelly Ford on the Merced River and then following its cascades up toward Chain of Lakes, and I didn’t see another person. I kept the inquisitive little face of the marten in my mind all day long.
]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry110905-174035 2011-09-05T00:00:00Z 2011-09-05T00:00:00Z
I hiked yesterday out of Nelder Grove, near Yosemite National Park in California, at about 1700 meters. The trail winds through the territory of ancient sequoias that survived the logging industry of 140 years ago. I was surprised to find, so late in August, characteristics of early summer or even late spring.

The cool mixed deciduous and coniferous forest was alive with birds, which I had expected. Most had already nested and were busy about their own feeding. I watched a Townsend’s Warbler find and devour a green caterpillar almost half its length. I also found a family of young robins, the juveniles just old enough to hop around the scrub, flapping vigorously.



In the Nelder Creek basin, I found ripe gooseberries, red and prickly, a few meters away from blooming dogwood and bluebells. Most of the various species of lupines were already dispersing their seeds, but there were spots where it was still in peak bloom. The bright red paintbrush was just opening in full bloom, but there were no hummingbirds in sight.

High in the giant Sequoias, the clusters of cones were forming and the cones of the sugar pine were still small and green. Of course, small for a sugar pine cone is about 15 centimeters since a full grown cone is 30 to 45 centimeters.

It seemed like the seasons were mixed. In some places on the trail, it seemed like late spring or early summer in others it seemed like late summer. spring was late in arriving this year due to late heavy snows. High mountain passes, usually almost snow free by now, are still buried several meters deep.

I wonder if fall and the arrival of rain and snow will be late this year. Some people try to predict the months ahead by looking at the animals’ activities or the production of acorns. It seems to me that those are more reactions to the past seasons than predictions of future ones.

One thing that I love about nature is the way it keeps surprising me. Within the regular cycle of the seasons, within the constant rhythm of day and night, within the boundaries of species and habitat, the life of the individual in nature surprises and delights.
A Surprising Season]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry110819-153719 2011-08-19T00:00:00Z 2011-08-19T00:00:00Z
For birds that cannot soar, God provides the low branches. --Birds without Wings by Louis de Bernières.

A hermit thrush fluttered like a falling leaf through the sprinkling rain down onto the sandstone walk by my study window. Every year for the past fifteen years, I have had one, and only one, hermit thrush visitor during the winter months.

The hermit thrush left last spring about April 10. I like to think it is the same one returning, but I don’t know that.

For the first five years, I was living in a different house, a few blocks away. A hermit thrush visited every winter there. I wonder if there is still one coming to that house. The yards have a common denominator: they both have tangles of ivy and shrubs along the edges. That is where the thrushes like to hang out, hopping from the lower branches to probe the ground for worms or fallen berries and then jumping and flicking back into the shrubs after insects and spiders.

The bird visiting my garden is dark and has probably descended from Alaska or Canada to stay here in the mild California winter. Last spring, he even sang a bit from my neighbor’s junipers that line the yard.

The hermit thrush is a good companion. In its eyes, I see myself reflected, a kindred soul. “You don’t befriend a Hermit Thrush by storm, but with quietude and reverence,” David Gaines in Birds of Yosemite.

Somehow he reminds me of Christmas: making a long journey; lodging in the lowly, dark neglected places other call undesirable; alone, isolated, seldom seen, ignored. He only flits by my windows a few times a day, but he always pulls me back into his world--to the small, gentle wildness close to home.]]> http://www.naturewriting.com/blog/index.php?entry=entry101220-140541 2010-12-20T00:00:00Z 2010-12-20T00:00:00Z