My Unseen Friends

My unseen friends leave me messages, often in the little cemetery on my running route. 

The red-shouldered hawk I sometimes see left me a beautiful tail feather not long ago. I stuck it in a crevice in the trunk of a dying red cedar as a hello to anyone who might see it.

One day when I was lying on the grass under this tree, the red-shoulder landed on a dead branch very close by. She didn't know I was there. The branch broke under her weight and that hawk sprang straight up in the air flapping like mad. I laughed 'til my stomach hurt. It's fun to see such commandeering, graceful, powerful creatures look silly sometimes.

I would love to see the owl who left this whitewash on an old stone. I can only imagine the creatures who people the cemetery at night.

I saw the first tiny fawn prints, along with its mother's tracks, in early July. The pockmarks are raindrops. This photo doesn't look like much, until you see how tiny they are next to my hand.

Yes. That's a fawn the size of Chet Baker, maybe smaller. I imagined it tottering through the mud behind its mama.

One morning I found the most perfect pile of bobcat droppings in the middle of the road, past the cemetery. I was so excited that I ran straight home to get my camera. The droppings were full of turkey feathers--poult feathers, to be exact, and I wanted to document that. 

All the way home I dreamt of the photo I would take of the turkey-stuffed bobcat poo. I climbed in the car with my camera and by the time I got back someone had run over my poo pile. 

RATS!

I moped for a little while and then decided to get up before light the next morning in hopes the bobcat had come back and pooped there again.

I ran with my camera in my hand the whole way, more than two miles. And when I got there, the angels smiled and there was another perfect turkey-feather-stuffed bobcat ca ca, put right atop the old pile.

And I got my photo.

 So don't go around saying you don't know anyone who gets up early to photograph bobcat crap, because you do. One of the good things about living this far out is you don't really have to worry about anyone seeing you crouching next to a pile of poop, getting the perfect shot.

I wouldn't care if they saw me anyhow. It's probably more interesting than what they're up to, which would be smoking and driving a car. You can see the feather quill in the squashed poo, and then the fresh stuff, put right atop the smashed pile. How kind of the cat. Must've smelt my disappointment when the first pile was run over.

These photos conjure up an image of a beautiful bobcat leaping high into the air to snag a football-sized wild turkey poult. Good eatin'!

Just because I found it online, here is a photo of a melanistic bobcat taken in Scioto County, Ohio, several years ago by a trail camera. I've seen three Ohio bobcats, but none of them have been midnight black. What an unutterably cool animal. I might not recover if I saw something like this.

No, mostly what I get to see is what my unseen friends leave behind. That's where the imagination kicks in.

Runnaversary!

 July 30, 2011, was my one-year runnaversery. Having run almost seven days a week for a year, having been out in every kind of weather from weeks of icepack to sweltering 90's, I am more than a little pleased with myself for sticking with it. I've probably run almost 800 miles in the past year. Not a lot for a serious runner, but it feels good to write that. Good? It feels unbelievable, in the purest sense of the word.

I thought I'd lose weight. You'd think, reading this, that by now I'd be one of those sinewy stick women. Nah. Not an ounce lost. I gained several pounds of muscle. Oh well. But what I noticed once the soreness wore off was how much better I felt in my body. It was a revelation.

How could I not stick with it? I'm hooked, as much on this landscape and these colors, as I am addicted to the exercise.

 

Nothing is the same from day to day. Everything is different and new every time I go out. One fine morning the thistles will have bloomed.

 The colors change. Some mornings they're dull, some mornings they're glorious. I feel blessed to have this road stretching out before me, to have it almost all to myself.

I stay off the paved road. Gravel has proven much kinder to my feet and knees than pavement would be. But every morning I stop and look down at Carl's house, at the place where his beautiful leaning barn used to be. I listen for the catbird.

 Just before the birdsong died out (naturally, I'd add, for they're done breeding now), I started carrying a folded piece of notebook paper and a little pen in my pocket, and scribbling down the birds I heard singing every morning. It was a wonderful way to take my mind off the heat and the hills and the sweat and the toil. I write lots of other things on the paper, too--usually a few haikus every morning, or song lyrics, or ideas that come to me when my blood is pumping.

My personal best for the 2.8 mile daily run was 48 bird species on July 9, 2011. Because I am a nerd, I will list them here in bander's code, because anyone who knows enough to care what birds are singing on my road will probably be nerd enough to figure out what they are (Yes, KatDoc, I'm talking to you) and anyone who cares but can't figure it out can ask me. I love this list so much. It is pure, distilled essence of what makes Zick happy--getting out every morning, rain or shine, recording what I hear and see, and paying full attention to the wonders all around. Note that all these birds are breeding right around my house. That's not all that breed; the worm-eating and black-and-white warblers and many others aren't singing any more, but gee whiz! How's that for a chest full of treasure?

 EATO

AMCR

BLJA

ACFL

CHSP

FISP

NOCA

AMRE

TUTI

KYWA

RTHU

REVI

HOWA

BGGN

EAKI

INBU

EABL

HOSP

CACH

DOWO

AMGO

RBWO

EWPE

AMRO

SCTA

YBCU

YTVI

BASW

EUST

MODO

GRCA

WBNU

BWHA

BRTH

PIWO

CHSW

COYE

NOMO

BHCO

EAME

WOTH

YBCH

RSHA

WEVI

NOFL

SOSP

CAWR

EAPH  48 spp. 7/9/11  (PERSONAL BEST FOR RUN SO FAR)

It is a great regret of mine that I can't carry a camera every morning, but even the slight weight of my Canon G-11 is too much to want to haul. So on one particularly lovely misty morning I carried it along in my hand as I ran, and recorded some of the beautiful things I see every day, just to share it with you. It took hours. In the tree above is one of those beautiful things. Can you find him? If I had a soundtrack you could. Astute readers will notice that YBCH eluded me on July 9, though there were three pairs along my route. Ever-changing, never predictable. I bet I coulda broken 50 species with the chat and a raptor flyover. Oh well, next year. It keeps you thinking. Listening to birdsong, sifting one from the other, is my thing. 

A yellow-breasted chat, quacking and clicking and grunting and hooting his heart out.

I'm writing this post while waiting for Phoebe's nightly cross country training--45 minutes to the school, two hours for her training, then 45 minutes home. She loves it. And she's built for it, like a gazelle, unlike her little brick outhouse of a mama.

Whoda thunk just a year ago that running would become such a huge part of our lives? Needless to say, I highly recommend it. Yeah, I thought I hated running too--until I committed to it.

Welcome to My World

Every time I go out running, and that is every morning

I wish I could bring you along. But you are usually sleeping, or at least not in the mood to stretch yourself out and then get very sweaty. 

You would think I'd tire of this road, running it every day, but the fact is that watching it change its clothes and its soundtrack each day fascinates me endlessly.

There are always surprises. Sometimes it's the deep violet blue of the morning's first chicory.

 

Sometimes it's pink chicory. I know of five plants on this curve that are pink. I don't know how common that is, but it feels singular to me.

 

There's one intergrade that is a bewitching periwinkle bluepink.

Sometimes it's an eastern tailed blue mimicking a flying bit of chicory. I love ETBL's. They are a most friendly and confiding butterbug. You can see the tail on his left hind wing.

Sometimes it's a hayfield, suddenly cut, with meadowlarks circling overhead not knowing what in the world they should do. (They wound up leaving the next day, but that's OK, because I had seen their babies fledge weeks earlier). If there's one thing meadowlarks know about, it's haying.

 Sometimes it's an unexpected curve in a treeline that reminds me of England.

 Or black-eyed Susans against a misty tree scrim.

And always at my side Chet Baker, sweet companion of the morning and my life. In him I have a dogmometer. I can tell how hot it is by whether he's in front of me, beside me or yards behind. Over about 82 degrees and I'm liable to have to wait for the boy. Under 80 and he waits for me.

 We always stop and think at the cemetery. We breathe and sweat and are glad to be alive and not having a red cedar and pizen ivy growing up through our rib cages.

The Golden Turtle

Run in the rain and

You'll find the golden turtle

Treasure of treasures.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that for the past year I've been writing a lot of haiku. They're direct outgrowths of the process of running. I'll have been running a year on July 30. I run 7 days a week, weather and travel permitting. I'm on my third pair of running shoes. I liken the Runner's Haikus to work songs. They take my mind off the heat and humidity, off the deerflies and the weight of my body as I force it up the hills and down the hollers.

 

 There are rewards for the running. This morning as the rain dripped off my hat brim and soaked my shoes I found The Golden Turtle, an old female who's weathered some hardship. All the toes but one are gone from her hind feet, probably courtesy of a short-tailed shrew while she was hibernating. Shrews do worse than that; she was lucky her head and front feet were tucked in.

This calls into question her viability as a breeder. Could she dig a proper nest with soft stubs for feet, without claws? I don't know. I suppose if she found soft sand or very wet soil, she might be able to dig a nest of sorts.

Damn shrews.

 

I don't like to pick up or move turtles unless I have to, to get them out of harm's way.  It seems disrespectful. So these photos aren't the best, but they're the best I could get without disturbing her unduly.  In this photo you can see her eye, a dull red, hallmark of an older female. 

I left her there by our driveway, and when I came back she was gone. Soft soil and shrewless winters to you, dear Golden Turtle.

I Knew This Day Would Come

I knew this day would come, when I wouldn't be able to run any more. When the ice and snow would come and our country road would turn into a treacherous mess; when the mercury would dive to single digits and just walking out to the mailbox became an adventure. What would I do? How would I start my day without the two and a half-mile run? How would I get my blood pumping, my thoughts nicely aligned, my haikus written?

 

Well, I wouldn't. I'd just get up, get the kids fed, packed and on the bus (if it wasn't another --insert choice word-- snow day), eat breakfast,  feed the animals and birds, and start my workday, wishing I could still run.  And I'd go back through my photographs and remember 50-degree mornings with the sun slamming on the hills and what was left of the autumn leaves, mornings with my dog and sometimes even my daughter by my side, with the crunch of gravel and the birds flying over and the neighbors waving as they drove by. Mornings when my body reassured me it still worked just fine.

My road. How I miss it. It's hidden under a shroud of white. I'm waiting for a thaw to lift the sheet so I can see its face again. I've no doubt it's still beautiful, but I'd have to slow down to baby steps to even go out to see. Yesterday I plowed into the ditch just turning out of our driveway. The county wastes no money treating our road. My car being a Subaru, I simply backed out of the predicament.

 

 My neighbor's house, shining in morning light against cold front clouds.
 I'd never realized how magnificent his maple was until I composed this shot. A good tree can make a house without even being noticed. And this is a good tree.

 

 One of his sheds. I wish I had a shed like this to look out at. I'd put it in every painting.

 

 The whole spread. Everywhere I go, classic Ohio farmhouses like this one are being razed and burning down, replaced by spiritless modulars. There's not much money around here, the kind of money that drops mansions into cornfields, so the vast majority of our new constructions come in kit form.  They huddle on the road frontage like vinyl-sided shoeboxes, enhancing the landscape not one whit. Look how this gracious old wood frame house sits like a jewel in the fields.

 

 On this stunning November morning, I had exactly ten minutes of weak sun to work with. I saw the clouds beginning to break up, ran home as fast as I could, grabbed my camera and jumped in the car. I ran up the big hill and was in position when it broke out of the clouds. I shot and shot, and then it was over.

 

 Have you got me in the picture, Mether? Because my spotty tuxedo would resonate nicely with that white farmhouse. Keep shooting. I will look out over the meadow.

Thank you, Chet Baker. My photos are nothing without you. Just a bit of dog brings the whole thing to life.

I go to bed at night, having looked disconsolately at my swiftly returning flubber, and pray for open road.  Can a sista get a break here?

Apparently not.

Oh, by the way: I've now been blogging for five years. Imagine that. 1,232 posts, maybe upwards of 8,000 photos; ten brazilian random thoughts and a truckload of great comments from you. I look back at the 2005 archives and see that skinny puppy and those teeny little kids and marvel that it's all here to look at, but I never ever do...I just keep creating new posts. Reading even a smidge of my early stuff disorders my mind.  Someday, maybe, but not now. If you'd asked me in 2005 if I'd still be blogging in 2011, I'd have looked at you real funny.

To all you who've stuck with me, thank you. To all you who've stumbled on this site and taken the time to read the archives, thank you.  To those who've hit the "Donate" button, thank you, too. You're the laces in my sneakers, the sun on my hillside, the bluebird on my windowsill, the bat in my basement.

Running with Chet Baker

A thoroughly inviting road. It has everything I need.

On July 30, I decided to try running. Phoebe's been running all summer, and she doesn't feel right when she can't go out. So that morning, I ran and gasped a mile behind her lithe form as it disappeared around the first bend. She met me, still outgoing, on her way back.

Running behind a 104-pound teen with a BMI of 16 is not what I, or anyone my age, should be doing. So the next morning I went by myself. Well, I went alone, but for Chet Baker. He's essential.

There followed a week of very sore legs and feet while I decided whether running was what I should be doing at my age. Ow, ow, ow. Kneeling down was excruciating. I figured I'd run right through it, every day. Didn't want to quit. Something about seeing your daughter disappear in front of you spurs you on. I'd only tried running once, when I was in college, but the harsh pavement and antique shoes killed my shins and I had to quit.

We have no pavement, only fine gravel that crunches and gives underfoot. The road stretches well beyond where I go, but I go a little farther every day.

Soon enough, the soreness went away. Stretching and a decent pair of shoes helped.

And I found that getting out in the early morning was just what I needed to get my blood circulating and my thoughts arranged.

We have Queen Anne's lace, chicory, and garnet red clover that sparkles with dew.


We have a towhee that sings alone from the fastness of a mist-wreathed forest.

We have bees that hum in the pinetops, and the odd red-eyed vireo muttering away to itself.

Sometimes we have bunnehs, but not enough to suit Chet.
They always get away.

We have our own curious cows, Angus-Holstein crosses, perhaps?

Perhaps you remember Abby and Veronica from winter sledding parties. Veronica (the mostly white calf) has grown tremendously.


They like us.

I'm glad to have them as training cows for Chet, who with their help has become completely reliable around cattle. Abby, the white-faced mom, helped by being sort of snorty and stompy to Chet when he ventured under the fence a couple of times. Good girl. Tell him he's trespassing.

Now: No scolding, no lead, no collar...just the understanding, and the trust between us.


I don't have to say a word to him. He knows we no longer harass cattle. As a two-year-old, he was wild, nipping, darting, chasing...it's hard to believe he's the same dog. They do settle down, become the dog you dreamt of, if you give them time and love and trust.

He turns on his heel and trots away. Good BOY, Chetty!

He flicks an ear back to acknowledge the praise, and there's extra spring in his step. He's proud of himself, too.

Extra Orcas for Chet Baker, you good boy, you.

Running with Chet--a month out, it's turned out to be a very good thing.