It would be harder, I think, if I lived in a city to mentally escape the horrors of Trumpism. Yes, sure, here in the country I'm up with the latest data, the latest news, the latest hideous outrages. There are so many; they multiply hourly. It's not possible to look away. Nor is it right to look away. We've got to see the whole bloody thing.
But there are other parts of life, after all. I remember my late boss Margarat MacVicar said to me once, "Don't let what's urgent get in the way of what's important."
So what is important?
Winter came quickly, suddenly, this year. One day it was fall, and the next day all was frozen in place. Leaves hadn't fully left the trees. Even now some are falling, blown off mostly. The cold was a bit of a shock.
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| Caught a cold, this hydrangea did. |
Before the first snow fell, at my altitude anyway, as snow always hits the mountains first, there were days when he pond remained unfrozen. It was in the morning of a couple of those days with temperatures above 32 degrees that the muskrats–smaller than beavers, larger than rats– that have been living around the pond appeared. They emerged from their tunnel, more likely tunnels plural, carved out under the bank on the far side of the pond (not wanting to risk–whatever risk that might be–from the Canus familiaris domesticus who lives on the other side). Out in the open they calmly munched grass or foraged for creatures that live in the grass–slugs maybe? One day, before ice covered the pond, I counted four of them, the first time I'd seen more than one at a time. I suspect that may be the entire family, as offspring–and muskrats produce a lot of them–tend to find new places to live while still young. Only the late arrivals are likely to remain to overwinter with their parents.
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| One on land, one a-swimming. When they're moving underwater, only ripples give them away. |
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| A closeup (tail hidden); but not my photo; not my muskrat either. |
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| After the snow, out in the field with Canus familiaris domesticus |
As for the other pond, the swimming pond that was built this summer, it too went through some quick changes. One of those last chilly days before the freeze I noticed there were many large clumps of algae dotted here and there, not surprising because the water was longer being filtered. (The pump was removed in the nick of time.) I decided to grab some of the algae with my skimmer. It came up in chunks, unlike the stuff I'd find in the summer. I took a lump of it, this thick bright green carpet-like stuff, and prepared to toss it into the field when I was shocked by the presence of something alive inside, moving. Oh my god! What was it? Protruding from the lump of algae was the leg of a large frog, the rest of him fully encased. Quickly I tossed the ball of algae-plus-frog back into the pond. I worried that I had upset his life-cycle as it dawned on me that the frog must have been in a state of near-hibernation. I looked at the other clumps of algae, probing one or two of them, but decided there would be no further removal of algae this time of year.
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| One of the odd-looking clumps of algae. Maybe with frogs inside. |
This is only a guess, but I imagine they wrapped themselves in algae because there were only stones, no mud they could burrow into in this "unnatural" pond. I wondered whey they chose to winter here at all. They found this new pond on their own, having originally lived in the big muddy pond, so why not go back there? Why pick this less hospitable place? Or did the cold take them by surprise too?
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| The other pond, a frozen swimming pool. The ice is thick, even where the snow cover is thin. |
Early one morning–I'd just gotten up and hadn't even gotten dressed–I heard a sound that I thought might have been a bird hitting the glass of the back door. I didn't look out. Often a bird is merely stunned momentarily, and then flies off. Not long afterward I let Skyler out. When he came back in a while later, to my horror, he had a good-sized bird in his mouth. (He is a bird dog, after all, by breeding if not training.) I picked up the bird the monent he put it on the floor. It was a mourning dove, and it was severely injured. Could this be the bird that hit the glass? I slipped on my boots and stomped out in the snow to put the body in the woods, out of his reach. It lay on its side. As I was about to turn away I was startled to see that it move. It was still alive. A luminous dark eye on the soft gray head looked at me. I felt it look at me. But I was frozen in place. I didn't see how I could save it, but I also couldn't bring myself to kill it. No, that was impossible. I wrenched myself away and went inside. It was cold. I was still in my bathrobe. I made my coffee. But I was in tears for the beautiful bird, and my uselessness.
Hours later I went back outside. I covered the bird–now lying stiff in the snow–with evergreens. How silly. What was the point of that?
Here's another story.
Ken's grandson Spencer was out hunting about a week or so ago. It's black powder season, rifle season having ended after Thanksgiving. He wanders a large territory when he hunts. He was somewhere in the Breadloaf wilderness, alone, when he heard the sound of a moose. If I'd heard this sound I would go in the opposite direction, but Spencer, with his interest in the forestry and wildlife, turned toward the sound. As he got closer it became clear that the moose's call was one of distress. He slipped quietly through the trees, and when he got to the site what he found was this: an injured moose, alive, was lying in the snow, surrounded with areas of blood, and over him loomed a huge black bear, of a size Spencer estimated at around 300 pounds. Startled, it immediately ran off. Spencer recorded the scene on his phone. Then he loaded his powder (you can only load one shot at a time) and killed the moose. All this while presumably keeping his eye out for a returning bear. This was an unusual encounter, for many reasons. Bears do not normally bring down moose. He reported the episode to Fish and Wildlife. (He had to make clear to F&W that the bear was there before the moose was shot, otherwise killing the moose would have been illegal.)
Spencer's dad, Bill, showed me the video of the moose a couple of days ago. I wished I hadn't agreed to look at it. It was the eye, the moose's eye as it lay there, death imminent, that got to me. Its large eye looked at the camera, or at the person behind the camera, or at the world for one last time. Or at me.
What did any of this matter? I can't really say. Ken felt more strongly about the life and death of all living things as he grew older, and more reluctant to kill even a small insect. Maybe that's what's happening with me as well.
None of this is urgent or anything, it just feels important somehow.
