Morning Adventure

Is someone on the roof?

I roll over in bed and stare at the ceiling.  Impossible.  Swinging my legs out over the side, I slip my feet into my slippers and pad to the front door.  Unbolting it, I swing it open to discover huge clumps of wet snow falling off the trees, landing in the driveway, off in the woods, and on the roof my cabin.  The air is chilly, but without wind it doesn't seem too oppressive, so I decide to skip breakfast and head up to Baker's Knob (the blue trail).

Halfway up the first rise, I come upon deer tracks and follow them along the trail.  The animals and I are working with the same advantage: the plopping snow everywhere helps mask the sound footsteps.  Even trying to be quiet, I know that the perfectly spaced sound of my step is unnatural.  Against my better judgment, I take a shortcut through a minefield of downed twigs and branches, reading the snow carefully to avoid any sticks that might break underfoot.  I lose the deer, meekly afraid to wander too far from the well-beaten path, but coming back to the trail I discover something new--fox tracks.

They're old, probably from early this morning, since the snow at the edges has fallen into the center of each print.  Every now and then I come upon a spot where he or she stopped to dig in the earth for something my inferior sense of smell would never allow me to find.  When the loop of the blue trail comes back on itself, I can see where the fox stopped, must have looked up hill, backpedaled, and continued across the trail instead, back downhill into the trees.  So, I abandon the fox and, when I get to the top of Baker's Knob, rest against a picnic table.  I'm beginning to understand the disadvantage of this plopping snow: I can't decipher any sounds either.  I'm ready to give up when I hear it.

The snap of a twig underfoot.  No falling snow could make that noise.  I creep carefully to the edge of the hill and find myself looking down at seven white-tailed deer maneuvering their way through the snowy understory.  I watch them for several moments until they're out of sight.  Just then, a huge dollop of snow crashes into my head and sprinkles down the back of my collar.  This reminds me that I'm cold (or made me cold), and I curse myself for skipping breakfast as my stomach lets out an unhappy growl.  I turn my back in the direction of the deer, and plod home.

Photo courtesy of Adele Brand of The Sitting Fox

*Have an adventure today!

Moving Out Means Moving In

I need a minute.  Just one minute to gather my thoughts, so I pull the office door shut behind me and rub my temples with my fingertips.  Despite the chill in it, the breeze freshens and lifts my spirits a little; the chickadees call to each other in the tree tops, somewhere farther away the two geese renting the pond honk loving comments to each other.

I sigh and think, "All the animals packed away so nicely in the cabin".  It's true, I've been aching to get them back into the nature center for weeks--since I started even--, but I wasn't truly conscious of the organizational skills required to move a dozen different species.  However unprepared I was for the move today, I barreled through the process of clunking heavy glass containers down narrow stairs (with some tough men to help), gathering food items, fixing heat lamps, tearing down and setting up tiny environments for the critters I've come to love so much.  When someone shows up for an afternoon business meeting, there's a break from talks of contracts and time for a short tour.  I jump at the first chance to get a snake into the hands of this visiting young gentleman. 

He watches Snakely constrict around his arm, flicking her tongue up the cuff of his sweater, as I prattle off interesting facts about ball pythons, unable to help myself.  I guess teaching never really leaves you.  I love the look on someone's face when they get a special chance to pet or hold any of the animals, especially the snakes.  Sometimes people are afraid of them.  I understand this and would never push anyone beyond the certainty of their comfort level.  But sometimes, just sometimes, when the child next to them reaches out bravely, without hesitation, to stroke their curious skin, I see them consider it for a moment.  If I'm really lucky, they'll screw up their courage and give a lightning-quick swipe down the snake's back with a single finger.  A heroic moment for any naturalist.

Photo courtesy of Psaenz on DeviantArt

*Most of the animals have returned to the nature center for your viewing pleasure.  Please don't mind the mess!

What is a "Teachable Moment"?

The teachable moment isn’t about making flashy displays or planning an activity overloaded with sensory stimulation.  The teachable moment embraces tiny details—the first wildflower of spring, a salamander spotted through the glare of a creek’s surface, the call of a Great Horned Owl in winter darkness—and, like a dry forest in summer, the tiniest spark ignites the mind and spirit.  The teachable moment celebrates the fleeting, the unique, the breathtaking; it gives a standing ovation to the miraculous, intricate face of the outdoors, all things great and small.

What do I love most about the teachable moment?  Instinct.  It satisfies one’s natural wonder, a wonder that I believe exists no matter your age or upbringing, that only needs nurtured to be drawn out.  It's a teachable "moment" because it can disappear with great speed, bounding away into the forest on four tapered legs with its tail held high.  Take a deep breath of fresh air and let your senses (and your curiosity) be sated.

Whether it's at Strawberry Hill or in your own back yard, take the time to let a teachable moment catch your eye, even if you're only teaching yourself today.

Beauty is in the Eye

My hands are cupped together, craddling Bumpy gently as she attempts to digest an unruly earthworm.  I know it's unruly because every now and again, one end of the worm pops out of Bumpy's mouth, eager to escape, but Bumpy's fat, bubblegum tongue pulls it back inside effortlessly.  I hold her up to my face, admiring her toady features.  I drop back to sit on my heels with her like that, bulbous and gasping* in my hands.

As I draw her even closer to my eyes, I watch as her tiny, teardrop-shaped nostrils flare and relax at the tip of her nose.  Rough, dry, her back covered in warts*.  What's not to love?  Her stubby front legs concave back against her body, toes protruding at odd angles, while, from a frontal view, her enormous gut practically swallows any sign of her back legs.  No matter how homely this toad may seem at first, one special feature keeps me in awe.

Bumpy has beautiful eyes.  Pitch black pupils sit horizontally, surrounded by brilliant, liquid gold.  In the sunlight, it glints like gold leaf on a painstakingly prepared wedding cake, speckled throughout the iris and lining the pupil.  We spend a few quiet moments staring at each other--toad and human--before I put her back in her temporary home. 

Photo courtesy of CarolinaNature.com

*"Gasping?" you might ask.  I use that word in particular because the flap of skin under a toad or frogs chin flutters constantly, soundlessly, to help them take in air since toads don't have a diaphragm to help pull air into their lungs.  

*The warts on a toad contain a milky, poisonous substance used for defense, excreting when the toad feels the threat of immediate danger.  It's not harmful if touched, but if swallowed or transferred to the eyes or other mucous membranes, it can make some animals very sick, including dogs.