Delicate Beauty

The temperature was unusually warm for December 2.  After leaving the car in the Doane Rock picnic area, I took the forest path toward the ocean which leads through a grove of pitch pine and red cedar for a short way before intersecting with the Park Service bike path.  Instead of following the path up to the old Coast Guard station, I skirted around to the right along the marsh edge.  There is not a formal trail.  Successive tides erase muddy footprints but the way is clear because of a tramped corridor through the invasive phragmites.  After a couple hundred yards I climbed over the dunes and down to the beach.  I was alone on a remote ocean beach on a day so perfect that it hurt.
 

Walking south toward the inlet, I was accompanied not by humans but by hundreds, no thousands of sea birds.  Gulls, scoters, and cormorants were too numerous to attempt any reasonable count.  Majestic gannets soared in  huge vaulting arcs, plunging to the sea in spectacular explosive dives.  
   
All of us have all been in places where the natural beauty is overwhelming. On this day, I felt a gentle  ache of melancholy, questioning how many more opportunities there would be to have such an experience.  I recalled old friends that are now far away in space and time.  There is so much that should have been said to those we have known and loved.    

At the far end of the spit the tidal water was boiling through the inlet.  An owl had arrived from the far north to share this view of the marsh.  She sat patiently while I fumbled with the camera.  I finally got a couple of decent shots.  We stared at one another for long moments, me curious, she apprehensive.  

I returned on the marsh side of the barrier dunes, taking in the expansive views toward the Coast Guard station.  The marsh side walk is peaceful and quiet in contrast to the harsh pounding surf, the subtle colors comforting in the low slant of December light.  

There is a house at the head of the marsh that I covet.  I imagine a comfortable chair with an open view across the grasses swaying in the winter wind.  In that warm refuge I would consider contacting old friends far away in space to say things that should have been said.  I could only contemplate connection with those who are lost in time.
 

Bog Morning

early morning mist covers the abandoned bog in late October 

 Nothing like a slow stroll in an abandoned bog on a cool October morning.  A hint of frost tinges low undergrowth.  The warmth of the morning sun powers a rising mist.

It's harvest time for cranberries but not in this bog.  Left fallow for a number of years, the land was purchased in 2001 for preservation by the Harwich Conservation Trust.  The area is now returning to the wild, with grasses, brush and young trees growing into a mixed habitat ideal for plants, birds and animals, near the center of the village of Harwich Port.    

a portion of Cold Brook running through the bog

 More than 280 species of plants find a home here.   The area is officially known as the Robert F. Smith Cold Brook Preserve but locals refer to it as the Bank Street Bogs.  The birding community considers it a hot spot for observing.  Indeed, 17 species were seen here this morning.

Great Blue Heron warming in the morning sun

 A Great Blue Heron surveys his domain, absorbing the early morning rays.  More than a dozen yellow-rumped warblers dart among the clumps of brush.  Hardy butterflies don't seem to care that hard frosts threaten.  
 

American Copper in the grass

To resident Cape Codders, the bogs provide a refreshing alternative to seashore rambles.  The blowing sand and flying foam of wind-blown beaches can wait for another day.  Thanks to Mr.  Robert F, Smith for guiding the Harwich Conservation Trust to protect this boggy home for nature to thrive and for human visitors to savor.

Salute to the National Seashore

We are all searching for heaven on earth.  Perhaps after we cross the river for the final time, the clouds will part and gates to paradise will open.  Should we hold our breath?  In the interim, while chained to this lonely planet, we strive to create an illusion of paradise.

Cape Cod is a logical place in which to attempt the impossible.  Many here have purchased BMW convertibles, expanded modest bungalows into sprawling mansions, launched stupendous yachts and installed heated pools complete with bath houses.  Are these wealthy any nearer to transcendent bliss?

I have chosen a different path (since I cannot afford the luxury route).   I spend time at the National Seashore.  The air is clean, the breezes soft, the sun warm and the water frigid (will true paradise have similar drawbacks?).  My idea of bliss is a roast beef sandwich on a bulkie roll garnished with lettuce, tomato, yellow mustard and white mayo ($5.49 at the Wellfleet village market) devoured slowly while lounging in the heathland off North Pamet Road.  I savor each bite, surrounded by wildflowers, calls of the Towhee and the scent of pine needles baking in the noon day sun.

An Eastern Tiger Swallowtail posed for me

Pasture Rose

Trail through heathland off N. Pamet Road

View of Atlantic from lunch spot

Don't Count Yourself Out

Our parents taught us to count almost from the time we could walk.  Our grade school teachers pounded the times tables into our resistant heads.  In high school, we struggled through the abstract landscape of algebra.  Should we have been fortunate enough to tiptoe into a college calculus class, we became quite confused, and seriously questioned whether we had ventured too far into the alien world of mathematics.

As adults, however, we count and calculate, every day, every hour, almost every minute.  Consider the number of times you check the time and calculate the minutes you must count down until the roast must be taken out of the oven or the kids must be picked up from soccer practice.

In fact, we have become obsessed with counting and tracking those counts.  Calories and weight watcher points are favorites.  Then, of course, we are tempted to plot pounds versus time until perhaps, the graph no longer shows a black diamond descending slope or even a gentle bunny slope but flattens out and horror of horrors begins to rise again toward a new record high.

On my personal home front, I'm becoming a little worried about my obsession with numbers.  Even in my volunteer work, I count dead birds (SEANET program), live birds (Cornell Ebird program), and birds at the Wellfleet Audubon Sanctuary (project Feeder Watch).  Birding labels me as a strange enough creature without all this counting.      

Redpolls at the Audubon feeder (two of them)

My thoughtful wife bought me a Fitbit for Christmas.  You guessed it.  I am now counting steps, miles walked and active minutes as they accumulate each day.  I'm tired just from counting.  I don't have any energy left for exercising.  Where will this end?  Do yourself a favor and don't start counting the number of things you count.  You could become depressed about counting like me.

To comfort myself about this numerical dilemma, I'm counting the number of days until I can leave Massachusetts winter behind and head south for a few weeks.  I'm hoping to leave numbers behind.          

Morris Island Autumn

Winter is finally closing in.  The new year is here.  The storms have spared us so far this season, but experience teaches that the cold of the north will visit soon.  Before the arrival of wind and snow, why not take a moment to look back on a walk taken during one of the mild days of October.  

Morris Island lies off the southern edge of Chatham.  A rustic trail leads through the marsh to the channel which separates Morris from the Monomoys.  We followed this narrow way through a corridor of Groundsel flowering white against our shoulders.         

pond in the marsh on Morris Island

The sky shown bright blue as we approached the west end of the island.  

looking west on approach to the channel between Morris and North Monomoy  

We stopped to look back to the east for a distant view of South Beach, a thin and fragile spit which extends several miles from the lighthouse in Chatham.

looking east across the channel to South Beach 

The upturned bill of this Hudsonian Godwit caught our attention and posed several minutes for photos.  Godwits breed in the arctic and winter in southern South America.  We were lucky this one chose the Cape as a rest area in the midst of his epic journey.  

Hudsonian Godwit

The trail home leads through a mixed forest.  

return path through the Wildlife Refuge 

At the parking lot a red-tailed hawk eyed our departure.  

Red-tailed Hawk

With memories of walks like these, it is easier to cope with the growing fear of the inevitable brutal winter winds.  Wishing all friends the strength to hold out till the balmy breezes of spring.