A HAWK, UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
You know how you look up, way up, and you see a passenger jet on its way to wherever, flying at what, 20,000 feet? How it looks so small, barely a dot in the sky?
That’s what I’ve always felt like looking at hawks as they circle up above, looking for prey, that high-pitch screech of theirs, always seemed a little dumb to me, truth be told, warning their prey that they are up there searching, but who am I to question Mother Nature?
Sidetracked with my musings . . . about two years ago, sitting in the backyard of the home we sold in order to take this journey, a red-tailed hawk landed on a fence post not ten feet from where I was sitting, and my first thought was “holy cow, those things are huge,” which was immediately followed by Maggie barking, the hawk taking flight, and the four-foot wingspan confirming what I had just exclaimed out loud, those things are huge!
Driving down the road yesterday, in Puddle Walker, coming back from the grocery store, and a red-tailed hawk takes flight from a field to my right, a squirrel wiggling in its beak, and then flew five feet off the road surface in the same direction I was driving, in front of the bus, its wings practically filling my field of vision, and another holy cow moment occurred.
Which got me to thinking about a documentary I had seen about the Peregrine Falcons roosting at the top of the George Washington Bridge in New York City, finding a way to adapt, and it seems like I heard, during a distracted moment, that those birds can fly 200-miles per hour. Is that even possible? Did I hear correctly?
Be that as it may, the point of this all is my utter amazement of nature, and what incredible things there are for us all to witness, if we just tear ourselves away from the latest reality show on the boob tube.
You don’t need a bus like Puddle Walker to explore and see amazing things. Step outside your door, find a field, find a woodlot, find a stream . . . sit still and be awestruck at the show Ma Nature provides for us, for free, each and every day.
UPDATES ON DEPARTURE
July 11th is the date I’m hearing from Bev, the date we will finally hit the road once again.
Ten days from the date of this writing we return to the Pacific Crest Trail.
I am beyond ready.
Texting a friend who is still on the trail, she told me there are hardly any March starters still out there, which I can confirm by the lack of Marchers posting on Facebook and YouTube. Most of them just went home. Some, a few, flipped north, or skipped sections altogether, or decided to take alternate trails in other states. But the number of actual hikers who have forged ahead, into the Sierra, is literally, as of this writing, less than twenty that I know of. Considering the fact that fifty left each day, starting March 1st through March 31st, a total of what, 1500 or so, those twenty still at it are to be applauded and held in awe. They went beyond backpacking and entered the realm of mountaineering.
I still have no idea where Bev wants to rejoin the trail. Makes no never-mind to me. Somewhere in Southern Oregon, maybe right on the border where Highway 99 crosses over the trail. I don’t know. Don’t really care. It’s all rock n roll to me, and the road is screaming my name.
A young mother just stopped to ask me about Puddle Walker, Laura was her name, with her daughter River. It was nice having company, giving them a quick tour, sharing five minutes with another human, hearing part of her story, hearing some of her dreams, bits and pieces shared by strangers who were willing to take a chance and actually go beyond “hey, how ya doing?” And my favorite (dripping with sarcasm, here, “have a nice evening.”
You can learn a hell of a lot about a person if you really appear to give a damn.
Painted a red stripe on both sides of Puddle Walker today. On a whim. On a why not spur of the moment. The sort of thing I would have done when I was fifteen. Now, reverting back to the teen years, the “if it makes you feel good, and it’s not hurting anyone, why not” years.
If not now, when?
Spent some quality time with my buddy Jim. Ran errands with him. Kept him company. Laughed a lot. Helped him with some projects. You never know, right? The misconception that there will always be another time is so silly it makes me cringe.
If not now, when?
I might paint that on the top panel of Puddle Walker. One side will say “if not now, when?” and the other side will say “meeting America one handshake at a time.” Feels right.
Saw a crow today, chased away from a tree by five small birds, sparrows my guess, all five of them not, in total, the size of that crow, but the crow wanted nothing to do with that determined group of pissed-off minis. I got all reflective over that display, the power of a determined group, taking on the odds, not backing down from the challenge. I could go on and on, but you get the point.
I wonder what will become of recently-met Laura and her daughter River? Do you ever reflect on stuff like that, or is it just my overactive imagination? Laura was sweet, facing a bunch of challenges, but her smile ever-present, and that daughter of hers will break some hearts along the way. Mom wanting the best for her daughter, willing to make some serious sacrifices, willing to roll the dice and risk it all, alone, rather than live in toxicity, still she smiles, still she takes the time to genuinely care about my life and plans and, well, I can’t help but hope the best for the two of them, and be thankful that I shared those five minutes.
HEATWAVE
The summer heat has arrived, nineties the next few days, I know, I know, I hear from people down in Texas and the Deep South, hell, Bill, nineties ain’t hot, they love to say, but it’s hot for us wimps, so there you go.
Things slow down in the heat. That’s the way it is here, anyway, a slow motion sort of existence, men, women, animals, all seem to gear it down, push the ‘ain’t no rush” button, and if it wasn’t for the profusion of sweat, I would like the pace of life presented by the heat.
I spent a good three hours today, sitting in the chair, under the maple tree, watching the leaves and limbs gently sway in what breeze there was, watching birds do their bird thing, insects doing their insect thing, the amazing squirrels, able to appear like they are playing even though they probably are not, and dragonflies, holy moly, I will never grow tired of watching dragonflies mate on the fly. Am I the only one who thinks that is absolutely mesmerizing? And the sweet ladybug, who could ever harm a ladybug, like killing a mockingbird, a shout out to Harper Lee. I had a ladybug land on my shirt today, crawl up that shirt, crawl over to my arm, up my arm, just checking out the humanoid, shouting a greeting, almost like it was waiting for me to pet it, you know?
Maggie hates the heat, and hate is not a strong enough word to describe her reactions once the temp rises above seventy-five. She spent the day, today, in a semi-coma under the shade of that same tree, and she almost looked like she resented me for pushing her to take a walk.
The shades of green in this area cover the entire spectrum of green, and even those shades change in hue depending upon the sun and the clouds, the angle of the sun, the fine nuances there for us all to see. High summer, the air alive with small insects, predators of all sizes circling above, crows loudest of them all, sentries for the neighborhood, making announcements only the winged and four-footed would understand. And my mind strays to the animals I will encounter on the next leg of our journey, and that thought energizes me on this humid evening, the sweat trickling down my cheek, my neck, and staining my shirt in a fine demonstration of the Chaos Theory.
It’s all as it should be in my little corner of the world.
THE BOXER
I may be wrong by a year, but I believe that song by Simon & Garfunkel was released in 1970. I loved the song then; I love it still.
Are you familiar with the lyrics? If I’m not mistaken, it is a song about a young man leaving home, hitting the open road, unaware of the challenges he faces, woefully unprepared for what being alone is all about. Having said all that, my favorite two lyrics from that song are:
“Still a man hears what he wants to hear,
And disregards the rest.”
You better believe that gets me to thinking and pondering. It’s true far too often, you know. Think about it. We have all seen evidence of it on social media. Heck, most of us are guilty of it. The mind is a powerful doorman/bouncer, my friends, only allowing information to enter which has been approved by the human connected to the mind and disregarding that information which is in opposition to the desired knowledge. And, taking it a step further, we all tend to only accept other humans who meet certain standards we have arbitrarily established.
And how close-minded is that? I have no problem admitting that I am guilty of it.
Which, of course, plays into one of the reasons for me hitting the open road. I want to meet people, as many people as possible, and not just people I agree with and approve of. How can I expect to grow as person if I don’t force myself to be more accepting and willing to listen to opposing ideas and thoughts?
To go along with that lyric I shared with you, I think we can add “still a man sees what he wants to see and disregards the rest.”
I share, with you all, some pretty heavy philosophy from one of my favorite deep-thinkers . . . Pooh:
“A hug is always the right size.”
I send a hug to you all, no matter what you believe in, no matter what you look like, no matter how you were raised, no matter your economic standing, no matter, no matter, no matter.
