 Like finishing a good book, wishing it wasn’t over. What happens next, as she rides into the sunset, as they walk down the aisle, as he waves from the train? The story isn’t really over, is it? There’s always something next. It’s been a long, dry summer, but the rains have returned, and the wind, and suddenly, despite the warm mid-day sun, fall is in the air. I found a new word this week, petrichor, the smell of first raindrops on long dry land. We are turning the page, beginning the next chapter. I’ve been away, guiding hiking tours on the Olympic Peninsula. The first week-long tour was most definitely in summer. I dove into crystal clear Lake Crescent and glacial carved Lake Quinault. A herd of 30 elk crossed in front of us in the rainforest. A humpback appeared just beyond the surf on our beach walk. Marmots whistled to each other on Hurricane Ridge. The blue dome above us gave no hint of what was to come. On the second week, we watched the weather carefully, crossing our fingers for a break between dark clouds for our walk on the ridge. Vine maples turning red on the Solduc Road reminded me that salmon were waiting for enough rain to come back upriver. Drops splattered the windshield and wipers swept them away. Someone said our rain was like walking through the produce section at the grocery store. We walked under tall trees as a light mist fell. The sun came out for our picnics. But the night we got home, it poured, a long awaited, much needed, all night down pour. With my window open, I slept like a bear in winter. Once again, I’m waking in the dark as our days grow shorter. I’m reaching for a sweater for my morning walk. As I pass the plum tree, I squeeze the fruit and find some ready to eat. The juice oozes between my fingers. Blackberries drip from the vine. Apples are ripe for the harvest. Pumpkins turn orange. My summer garden projects are not quite done but time is running out. It’s September. In a few weeks I will want to put my tools away and hibernate. I love this time of year. As a kid, I looked forward to seeing my friends at school again. Our summers in the south were hot and humid. The turning leaves a welcome sight as temperatures cooled. Here in the northwest, rain and wind bring cooler days and chilly nights. We enjoy the last street dances and farmers markets, but summer fun is winding down. This is the hinge of the year, the door to summer is softly closing behind us. We pause on the threshold, going from bright and bold, to cool and stormy. The garden offers up the last red ripe tomatoes, cool green cucumbers, string beans and squash. But the soil is starved for rain. When it arrives, it will be time for planting and transplanting shrubs and trees. Pruning the orchard. Putting the garden to bed. The next chapter is about to begin, or the next book. The story never ends. Maribeth
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 It’s Smokey the bear’s birthday this week. In our season of deep drought, as wildfires blaze and smoke fills the air, I am grateful for the water around us, salt, fresh, even the water in my bird bath that attracts beautiful visitors to my yard. Last week, I left this river-less island and visited the Quinault rainforest. Hiking and camping with friends in the Olympics among the huge trees and lush green growth, streams, rivers, lakes, was so refreshing. On the way home we hiked the Solduc watershed. We all need water, plants and animals, so this piece is dedicated to keeping our forests green and waters blue. It never ceases to amaze me how the body rebuilds itself overnight. I lay down sore and exhausted, and the next day, voila! I am rejuvenated! It’s miraculous. I’m an official senior citizen, but a few days ago I hiked with a couple of younger friends, one just 25, and made it up to Deer Lake above Solduc Falls. It was a hot day, and I was thankful for the tree canopy above and the near constant sound of water below. A bridge gave us pause over a rushing creek. We took a water break. Waterfalls hidden by Devils Club sounded alongside. As we crossed little streamlets where the mossy bank dripped with cool water, I dipped my bandana, squeezed it out, wiped my brow and wrapped it around my neck. Rocks and roots, roots and rocks, for three miles up, up, up. I hadn’t climbed this trail for several years and didn’t know if my body was up for it. So, when I looked up and saw the lake at last, I was grateful. We paused to appreciate the pristine subalpine scenery, the lake surrounded by pointy trees and high peaks. This wild beauty made it worth the effort. We found a shady creek that fed the lake, took off our shoes and soaked our feet in the icy water. After a snack and guzzling more water, we were ready to start down again. Going up was a challenge aerobically. Going down increased pressure on ankles and knees. We stopped to watch a grouse and chick taking a dust bath just off the trail. Then stepped carefully down, down, down from rock to rock. It took as much time to go down as to climb up from the thundering Solduc Falls, but we made it. I made it. There was a little less than a mile to the parking lot on a much gentler grade. We wove through the crowd at the bridge and pushed on to the trailhead. At the car we opened the doors letting the hot air out before climbing in. I stretched, bending and twisting this way and that. I knew I’d be sore and stiff after a long drive home. We stopped at the store to get some cool drinks and then made our way back to the rendezvous point where we’d left their cars. Hugs and smiles and they were gone. I stretched some more before continuing. Cruising down the hill I caught sight of Lake Crescent, my happy place. Driving around that glacier carved lake pinned in by Pyramid Peak and Mount Storm King, I thought about my day following the watershed from a subalpine lake, down waterfalls, through streams and rivers, out toward the ever-waiting sea and David Whyte’s poem came back to me. I’d recited it many times to groups of students and seniors while overlooking waterfalls or lakes in the Olympics. Where Many Rivers Meet All the water below me came from above All the clouds living in the mountains gave it to the rivers, who gave it to the sea, which was their dying. And so I float on cloud become water, central sea surrounded by white mountains, the water salt, once fresh, cloud fall and stream rush, tree root and tide bank leading to the rivers mouths and the mouths of the rivers sing into the sea, the stories buried in the mountains give out into the sea and the sea remembers and sings back from the depths where nothing is forgotten. We are rejuvenated by a water, the sight of it, the sound of it, and the feel of it as we splash in after a hot, dusty day on the trail. Drink it in. Replenish. Then sleep, and wake rejuvenated! It’s miraculous. Maribeth  There’s a book in my kitchen called The Joy of Cooking. But honestly, cooking does not bring me joy. I know some great cooks and I’m delighted when they invite me to join them for a meal. But I’d rather grow the food and contribute some of the ingredients for their delicious dishes. You know the saying, Think Globally, Act Locally? That’s a motto I try to live by. It’s hard to listen to the news and realize people are losing their homes, their loved ones and their lives over our need for oil. Experts tell us the oil reserves are running out and we’ll have to pay even more at the pump. The cost of fertilizer, and thus our food, will continue to rise. More people need Food Banks and assistance just when our social programs like SNAP are being cut. I know this isn’t what you want to read about here. I usually write about getting out in nature, which is a great antidote to all the craziness around us. I promote exploring places close to home, to reduce our dependance on fossil fuels and deepen our appreciation of this place. The more we understand and appreciate it, the better we’ll take care of it. So, this week I want to write about the Joy of Gardening. I’ve been gardening here for decades and have grown to love it. It gets me outside. It feeds me, with extra to share. Now, at the peak of summer, let me take you on a joyful walk through my garden. First, let's visit the veggie garden. Hummingbirds love the sprinkler. A few years ago, Jack helped me put some old metal roofing around the base to keep the rabbits out. The taller deer fence supports the peas and beans. I fill my pockets with peas to snack on later. Inside the fence, the squash are producing well. I bring a pocket knife to cut off a zucchini before it gets too big. One for me, one for a friend. The potatoes are flourishing. My cousin Nancy, an organic farmer, gave me some purple potatoes. They keep coming back, year after year, along with some Yukon Gold I got locally. Beets are coming up. They’re good grated into a salad or baked into a cake. The kale spread from a tall, old growth kale I had in the garden all winter. Carrots, leeks and Brussels sprouts will be ready in the fall. Swiss chard will keep me in greens all year. I’ll add turnips to my soups. Broccoli makes a great addition to stir fry, and onions and garlic are easy to grow. On my deck, tomatoes, cucumbers and basil soak up the sun, while lettuces grow in containers in the shade. Rosemary, oregano, mint and lavender grow in the flowerbeds. Deer don’t like strong smelling herbs. There’s a lush row of rhubarb. Last winter I cut the roots in half, gave some away and made a new row in another part of the yard. They come up early in the spring and are high in vitamin C. I have apple, pear and plum trees, strawberries, raspberries and blueberries. The birds and bunnies get most of the berries. I started a new pumpkin patch with seeds from the Hubbard squash and pumpkins I got from friends last year. They’re doing really well! In the fall, I’ll be busy making apple, pear, plum sauce and pumpkin pie filling for the freezer with extra boxes of produce for the Food Bank. I don’t want you to think that I work hard to grow all this food. I don’t. Since my garden has been in the same place for years, some of the plants replant themselves. I add manure in the spring, buy a few seed packets and starts, water and do a little weeding. A little effort goes a long way in the garden. In this region, we can grow food year round! I’m grateful for the abundant food, the beauty and the joy of gardening. And if I can’t find it in my yard, I visit my local produce stand or the farmer’s market. Think globally, eat locally. Maribeth PS Think globally and vote locally by August 4th. For Washington State ballot box locations near you click here.  There they are again. Spaced evenly apart. Looking at the water. Looking at the bluff. Sitting on a camp chair. Sitting on a bucket. Quietly attentive. Do I dare interrupt? “Excuse me, I know you’re concentrating on your survey, but could I ask you a few questions?” She was almost done taking notes which she does every 15 minutes for an hour. Then she was happy to talk with me. Frances Vandal is the leader of a team of six that span out along the beach in my neighborhood. They come once a week from June through September to observe the Pigeon Guillemots. These charming sea birds make use of the cavities in our sandy bluffs to nest and raise their young. In the winter, they move out to the coast. The watchers on this team are a bit like spectators at a tennis match, looking back and forth with binoculars, as the adults fish in the near shore and bring food to their chicks on the bluff. The team members note the location of each active burrow, record whether the adults are carrying a fish, what kind of fish, if they take the fish inside the cavity and if they can see chicks inside. Or if they just go up and hang out on the ledge visiting and admiring the view. They also make note of any disturbances that might change the bird’s behavior. As we spoke, a bird dog came down the beach. It waded into the water eyeing the birds. The owner walked near the bluff. They moved along. An Osprey flew over but didn’t seem to bother the Guillemots. Later I saw the Osprey flying back with a fish in its talons. All this was noted on Frances’ clipboard. The Pigeon Guillemot study was started over 20 years ago by Frances Wood and Phyllis Kind, both Whidbey Island birders. They realized that by studying the Guillemots, we’d get a good idea of the health of their population, and that of their prey fish, and the health of the nearshore environment. Pigeon Guillemots are considered an Indicator Species. Remember how Joni Mitchell used to sing, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” Frances thought we better figure out what we’ve got before a tsunami or oil spill occurs. With support from Whidbey Audubon and Sound Waters Stewards they launched their endeavor. The Pigeon Guillemot survey is now a community science project with hundreds of volunteers from Olympia to British Columbia. Their official title is the Salish Sea Guillemot Network, SSGN for short. The data is collected and reports are generated and shared with researchers at the University of Washington. Using the data collected over the years, researchers can identify trends. Information and photos are available on their website.. There’s also a book about the study called The Bird with Flaming Red Feet, by Maria Mudd Ruth. I attended a conference where she gave a hilarious keynote address. The stories of her Guillemot team and the lengths they would go to for their observations and records were the stuff of adventure tales. So, if you’re out on a beach walk early in the morning, and you come across a half a dozen people, sitting separately, eyeing cute black and white sea birds with bright red feet, take a moment to thank them for their work. But don’t distract them. They’re engaged in a serious study. And if you’d like to join in the effort, as a part-time substitute or to make a summer long commitment, visit the website here. It's not a bad way to start a summer morning. Maribeth |
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