Arboreal Love

This one is an ode to redwoods, tall and old and beloved. Their heartwood is red, water- and pest-resistant, even fire-resistant. One can walk into a blackened hollow of a trunk, yet the tree still lives.

Too bad they are not people-resistant. Tannins can't stop chainsaws. The ability to regenerate a circle of clones about your trunk can't compete with the monetary benefits of clear-cutting for beautiful hot tubs.

Spotted owls? Banana slugs? Revered forest friends go slighted in civilized society. And who is moved to tears anymore when standing beneath the aged giants? Who holds the fog and light streaming through the trees precious anymore?

All we indoor people have poor circulation--we are cut off from our life-blood, our Mother Earth, our American heritage--now that we no longer listen to the trees.

The Secret Life of Birds

I should like to know the secret life of birds. There's a fascinating book called The Secret Life of Bees and Richard Attenborough has drawn our attention to many hitherto unknown facets of avian life in his Life of Birds documentary series. But I still wonder.

There were four seagull chicks getting fed by the same adult in one area of Alcatraz. So what, say you? Well, Western Gulls lay three eggs in each nest. This seems incontrovertible. And other gulls' nestlings are driven away or killed, as a general rule. But one of the four chicks huddled by itself when feeding time was over, so I fancy it an adopted orphan. Perhaps only other adults are territorial rivals. Josh, the biologist intern, said he saw one other group of four and thinks a similar thing occurred, for one was much bigger than the other three. If only someone had time to get to the bottom of this... Anyone want to sponsor me to uncover the secret life of birds?

--Postscript: Several days later, we discovered a pair of gulls feeding six chicks, quite near a public path. The other three had probably fallen from a nest on the cliff above. The adults seem a grouchy couple, aggressive toward human passersby. No wonder--they're super parents!

Confessions of a Tour Guide

Today I hid out in an Alcatraz tunnel. People overwhelmed me, so I strode with purpose beyond a barricade and looked out at the bay alone through dusty, rusty windows in a big, empty building. Then I stopped in the gunnite-lined tunnel and stooped down to watch a big fat banana slug with a blob of dirt at the end of his tail (or should I say "his and her"?--they're hermaphrodites). I really just didn't want to come out and face what Ranger Jose calls "the teething masses." I watched its tentacles grow longer and shorter, its mouth parts explore the gravelly ground, the slow curve of its slime trail.

At last I came out, but even then I was hiding out. I kept looking beyond the visitors at wildlife. The three baby ravens have learned to fly and were soaring about the island with quavery croaks. Three fuzzy gull chicks slept in a ball like a big clump of lint, while mom slept nearby, head tucked under wing in midafternoon. The cormorant colony looked busy with long undulating necks and beaks, as birds dove into the water, flew back to the cliffs, tended dependent young or brooded slower nests.

I do like people, really, but sometimes visitors at play tire me out more than wildlife quietly getting down to business.