Yesterday I mentioned the dog(days) of summer; today it’s going to be the birds you saw flying around over these last many months: ospreys.

I like everything about them. They are fearless, they are willing to let you come (relatively) close, they have an interesting way of adapting to current conditions. They usually lay three eggs that both parents tend to but that hatch not all at once. The staggering of chicks ensures that one is bigger than the two others and if there is a food shortage it will make it sure it is fed first. That way during times of scarcity only one bird will survive in an environment that can only carry that load. If there’s plenty then all three will thrive and fledge into a world that has food and room for all of them.

A world, that is, that is not poisoned by chemicals. Ospreys were threatened because commonly used agricultural pesticides thinned their eggshells and hampered reproductive strength. They have now come back in force because of tight regulations that protected the species, and many involved naturalists who built osprey “gardens” – platforms in the landscape where they tend to their nests out of harm’s way. In Portland you can find them reliably on Sauvie Island and at the Tualatin River Wildlife Preserve, the two places where the photographs were taken.

The links below show a video of these fishhawks  and an article that discusses the results of protectionist measures. And I quote gleefully from the NYT: For myself, I also love ospreys because they give me a chance to remind the Republicans who generally own seaside real estate (and covet ospreys) that these birds are a living reminder of how well government regulation can work. We saved ospreys not just through laws regulating pesticides and protecting migratory birds, but also through the Clean Water Act of 1972, which turned the Connecticut River, and many others, from an open cesspool to a precious natural and recreational resource.

http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/osprey

Ospreys are considered a type of eagle in many Native American tribes, and are accorded the same respect bald and golden eagles are. In coastal tribes where ospreys are most commonly seen, they sometimes play ‘police’ or guardian roles in traditional legends, and seeing one is sometimes considered to be a warning of danger to come – or so tells me the Native American Legends website. http://www.native-languages.org/legends-osprey.htm

Well, I don’t need warnings of dangers to come, am well aware of them as it is – all I have to do is look at may laundry drying outside sprinkled with ash that is falling from our skies as a result of the forest fires.

Not sure what I cherish more – getting a surprise gift from a semi-anonymous source (a thousand thanks to B’s BFF)….) or reading said gift, which turns out to make me laugh out loud while learning.

The book, written by Mark Forsyth, is called Etymologicon – A Circular Stroll through the Hidden Connections of the English Language. More of a spiraling, tumbling, somersaulting romp through numerous languages of the world, if you ask me. It helped distract me from yesterday’s news of yet another cruel and despicable presidential act – the rescinding of DACA. I spare you my cynical thoughts and instead share with you what I now learned about the roots of the word cynicism.

Loosely quoted: “The Cynics were a school of ancient greek philosophy, founded by Antisthenes and made famous by Diogenes. Cynic meant doglike. Diogenes taught and debated at a gymnasium called Cynosarge, Gymnasium of the White Dog, because a white dog had once defaced a sacrifice there, running away with a piece of meat. Diogenes, not being a native Athenian, was forced to teach at this Dog’s Gymnasiusm, which is how one hungry and ownerless canine gave his name to a whole philosophical movement. A fun litte result of this is that any cynical female is, etymologically speaking, a bitch.”

And speaking of dogs, it sure feels like the dog days, although they only last through mid – August, that hot, oppressive part of late summer. I now learn that people thought that Sirius, the Dog star, second brightest in the sky after the sun, combined its light with the sun for added heat (it cannot be seen during late summer when it rises and sets at the same time as the sun.) Sirius means scorching in Greek – and the only thing I know of these days that enjoys this heat is the sunflower……

Seems like wherever I look I see stuff published on the upcoming eclipse. The science end, the mythology angle, the aspect of what it will do to our state when the influx of a 1000000 or so sun gazers hits the parched lands….

For your reading pleasure (admittedly I am too hot to write and am counting the hours to the advertised rain on Sunday) here are two links that offer an interesting slant on the event.

https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2017/08/annie-dillards-total-eclipse/536148/

Dillard’s essay is a lyrical report, if such a things exists, of a total eclipse she saw in Washington State in the 80s. Cannot think of a way to say poetry-like prose that doesn’t sound like a cliché, but suggest her words should be set to music. By Alma Mahler.

https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2017/08/kings-beware-the-eclipse-looms/536385/?utm_source=nl-atlantic-daily-081017

Andersen, senior editor at the Atlantic, has a knack for writing about science and history as if they are inseparable subjects. His musings on the psychological power exerted by these rare celestial events are a worthwhile read.

And then there is Kentucky. Read here what they are expecting on 8/21 (In a strange coincidence, August 21,the day of the 2017 eclipse, carries a lot of significance for Hopkinsville. That’s the day, in 1955, that a local farmhouse in nearby Kelly received an alleged visit from a band of extraterrestrials and a fierce gunfight ensued. Local police and military police from nearby Fort Campbell investigated, and the incident received considerable coverage from the national press.) 

http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-tiny-kentucky-town-that-eclipse-fans-are-obsessing-over

I, personally, think nature picked a particularly bad time to show off in this way. For one, the millions of superstitious people, some in the highest ranks of government, might just use an eclipse to dig deeper into their fantasies of being told “this or that” by a higher power. “This or that” being associated with heat and fury, no less. And darkness, no longer passing.

Secondly, the drought-stricken parts of our state will see so many people drive through, camp out, light their choice of inhalant, and then discard it or the ashes, that accidental fires are almost guaranteed. And not that many fire brigades are available given how many forest fires are already being fought, and how little water is around.

Tense times, then, which I will bravely try to overcome by getting myself a big dish of ice cream. Right now. Which brings me to Friday’s question.

Coffee, strawberry or vanilla?

I often wonder what attracts photographers, myself included, to environments that speak of – best case scenario – better days or – worst case scenario – that present serious destruction.  Think of war photography, or documentary photography of a decaying Detroit, for example, or portraits of a drug addict community under siege, homeless camps, derelict factories, you name it.

For some it might be the need to document a process of decay, or hint at the causal roots of it. For others it might be symbolism for whatever psychological message they want to share. For fine arts photographers it is often the sparseness of the subject, or a way to do the modern version of the Vanitas paintings of old. As the Encyclopedia Brittanica defines it: A vanitas painting contains collections of objects symbolic of the inevitability of death and the transience and vanity of earthly achievements and pleasures; it exhorts the viewer to consider mortality and to repent.

Well, I do not ask anyone to do either- to consider mortality or repent! I just felt that there was an intrinsic beauty to the burnt swaths of forest that I hiked through last week.

The Gnarl Ridge fire near Cooper Spur started in August 2008 because of lightning and was finally extinguished by October of that year, having burnt over 3000 acres of trees. Firefighters were able to rescue the few historical structures in its path by wrapping the buildings in flame-retardant materials.

The Dollar Lake Fire near Vista Ridge had a similar course: August to October, almost, and 6300 acres burnt. These are huge areas, visible still today, 6 years later.

Looking at the forest gives you the shivers, it is an alien landscape in its whiteness.  If you look at large swaths stretching into the sky below or above you it almost feels skeleton like. But all fleeting moments of morbidity disappear when you look at individual trees close-by. They feel pristine, as if wrapped in some silvery satin, glowing in the light, reflecting it, cleansed of bark.

Here is a link to a short clip on firefighting in Oregon’s forests. The people are mindbogglingly courageous.

Cooper Spur and Vista Ridge both offer a profusion of wildflowers at this time of the year. The latter area experienced a serious forest fire (more on that tomorrow) 6 years ago. As a consequence there is less shade and more sun on the trail which has led to an explosion of wildflowers in areas already blessed with them during normal times.

The forest is carpeted with avalanche lilies at this time of year; once you arrive at the meadow, Eden Park, which is one of the destinations of this hike, there is a field of flowers of every color of the rainbow traversed by a meandering stream. Breath taking. Whoever named that place had it right. Eden does come to mind.

Here are a few that I particularly liked. (Descriptions can be found here https://www.wta.org/news/magazine/magazine/WT-06-08-WILDFLOWERS.pdf which also taught me that there are more than 57 species of wildflowers in the Cascades and Olympics.} I give the names where I think I know them – happily stand corrected.

Bear Grass

Indian Paintbrush and Alpine Cinquefoil

Sitka Valerian

Jeffrey Shootingstar

Lewis’ Monkeyflower

The Cooper Spur trail has the advantage of leading through trees in the beginning which give shelter to seas of lupines.

Above the tree line you get plants hugging more closely to the ground to avoid the constant wind. It sometimes looks like some giant infatuated with polka dots painted scores of colorful circles onto the volcanic ash and pumice stones.

Wild Asters

Explorer’s Gentian

Spreading Phlox

And the last photo is dedicated to Charlie, the Mole Magician. Friend and neighbor, he manages to keep his yard mole-free while mine, which merges seamlessly into his, looks more like this.  What’s the secret, Charlie?

It’s summer. Between travel and blogging and editing the latest edition of Cognition I have been remiss in hiking.

That has now been remedied and I will report on the two most glorious hikes I took last week. When it comes to the world, I really am an omnivore, as delighted by cityscapes as I am thrilled by nature.

So I first tackled and almost finished the Cooper Spur Hike which ascends Mt. Hood from the Northside, starting at around 5850 ft elevation at the Cloud Cap Trailhead and gaining 2800 ft in a 6.5 miles roundtrip that leads you up to Eliot glacier. When they listed it as difficult they meant it. The path itself is well graded, but the climb at that altitude is intense, I’m huffing and puffing just thinking back to it. The second hike was to Eden Park, on the other side of the mountain, in lower altitude, but longer, since I finished the whole thing. Both hike are about two hours from PDX, with dirt road for the last 9+ miles that require vehicles with high enough clearance and bones that can tolerate shaking ……

But, oh, is it worth it.  Think of walking through giant old mountain hemlock forests, then through white bark pines. Lots of wildflowers on sun-dappled forest floors, and endless patches of them when you traverse the tree-line and get up into alpine territory. The soft volcanic ash (like wading through sand) gives way to rocky paths, lots of switchbacks and incredible views of Mt. St Helens, Mount Adams and Mount Rainier towards the Northwest and huge expanses of the Columbia Plateau and High Desert to the East.

And straight in front of you, up, up,up are the icefalls of Eliot Glacier and to your right is the spur, a rocky ridge that abruptly gives way to views of the moraine, a deep hollow carved by the ice flow.

It is not for the faint of heart (or lung) to balance across that ridge, but photos HAD to be taken….

Since I am writing this on a day where it’s 90 degrees in Portland I decided to start with images of the icefall. That also fits with the other recent news of that huge ice shelf breaking off in the Antarctic – lest you think visions of alpine meadows make me forget environmental concerns……

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/what-does-the-antarctic-ice-shelf-break-really-mean/

And from the Vista Ridge side:

More on wildflowers tomorrow….

This week I’ll muse about sounds. A friend introduced me to the research of Gordon Hempton, an acoustic ecologist. He pursues places of silence – spots unmarred by human sounds, filled with nature’s noise only – and mourns their rapid decline.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0xHfFC_6n0

The link is a short videoclip that explains what he does and how difficult it is to find a single square inch of silence in our noisy world. Reading up on him I realized how many people value silence; but it also got me thinking about sounds that actually matter, in everyday life. Admittedly free-associating, here are some sounds that made my life more interesting:

Comfort: the quotidian noises of my German rural childhood evenings – the hoof clopping on the street when the cows were herded home, my mother playing the piano below my bedroom, after a long day. The neighbor’s diesel motor when he went off to night shift. The cooing of turtle doves heard through the open windows while trying to fall asleep.

Exploration: waking up in a dark hospital room from yet another anesthesia, unable to move or feel, trying to decipher if the noises are once again from a respirator or a suction pump to empty the lung cavity from surgery fluids as a teenager.

Irritation: wondering if the scratch of pen on paper would ever be replaced by some wise comment of the unseen shrink behind my back. (Curious, the word shrink. Attributed to Thomas Pynchon from his 1966 book The Crying Lot, in reference to ancient tribal practices of head shrinking of enemies. Not loved in the therapeutic community for obvious reasons. I prefer the German word Seelenklempner – soul plumber – unclogging those emotional drains. But I digress.)

Frustration: trying to fall asleep in your hotel room, while the ardor of the amorous couple above has the bed squeaking in F major.

Awe#1: sitting in the absolutely stunning silence of the North Saharan desert.  Awe, that is, until some traveler in urgent need of channeling his inner child brings out the bongo drums.

Awe#2: hiking through the tropical rainforest in Equador around the Rio Napo, in an environment louder than Manhattan at rush hour, animal noises and sounds of water, streaming, banging, dripping, clanging. A veritable symphony.

Surprise: another gift from nature. Climbing to the top of a local mountain, walking on natural gravel that starts to sound like music and seems to be echoed through some strange trick of physics. Can you find the marmot?

Pure joy: on a bird photography stint, standing at the right place at the right time, having sandhill cranes crossing over so closely that you can hear the sound their wings make.

And the best of all: the first time you hear your children laughing out loud (or for that matter any time after that!)

Nothing else in the world beats that sound.