Happy End of the Old Year!

Oh, beloved readers of Brush and Baren, my apologies for long silence this month. I've been down with The Crud for a couple of weeks, during which time I was also technically homeless. I'm still coughing but finally upright and returned to my temporary housing situation, so almost ready to return to adventures in printmaking.

Today I felt well enough for a little walk around my patch... which probably did more for my recovery than the assortment of meds I've been chugging.

While I was out I picked up a couple of little willow twigs to bring back and draw. It's been too, too long since I have drawn anything just for me, which seems clear when I regard my impatience with the process and my less-than-stellar results. But I did it, and that was good.

My plans for the remainder of this week include continued recovery (oh please oh please), some year-end administrative tasks, and some print time. It's safe to say that 2013 has been one of my least favorite years ever,* so I'm looking forward to putting this one on a shelf and getting a fresh start in the new year.

(As a friend said recently, "It's enough to make one triskaidekaphobic!" So one good thing that came out of this year: a legitimate excuse to use that word in a sentence!)

A little more chilly cheer

Despite our thermometer hovering at 0 F this morning, the DM and I went for a walk down to Sands Lake. (We had to walk there because our cars are still buried under Thursday's snow, complicated by the efforts of the city snow plows.) I hoped the hoarfrost might be as it was yesterday... only this time I remembered to bring a camera. Beauty, eh?

Signs and sighs

Ooph. Things have been a bit slow in the update department, here at ol' B-and-B. Contract projects have been stacking up, which is both good news and bad news, and studio adventures have been squeezed to a mere trickle.

Wednesday, however, I was able to get outside with a sketchbook. It turned out to be the last sunny, cloudless, wind-free day for the week. Sigh. Our perfect autumn couldn't last forever, I guess.

I made a few sketches for the 100 Thumbnails project, and then settled down with a fresh sheet of paper to enjoy the cozy autumn light and a longer drawing.

Sands Lake this week, with the Sawatch Range in the background

If you know Salida, or if you've read Brush and Baren for any length of time, you're familiar with Sands Lake. It's more of a pond than a lake, really...  Okay, okay... What it really is is the settling pond for the effluent of an upriver fish hatchery. It's a popular spot for fishermen-and-women-and-kids and a great little birding area. The constant in-one-side-out-the-other flow of water through the pond keeps it open for waterfowl even in the deepest part of winter. In late summer the deliciously tall and dense willow shrub can make a stroll around the lake feel like a jungle safari, and the pond's proximity to the Arkansas River makes it attractive to all sorts of migrants spring and fall.

Yeah, I think it's pretty spiffy, too.

Perfection gets a bit of a trim in the autumn, however, when the managers of this State Wildlife Area slash some of the willow to stubs. My first year here I was horrified to come across the post-chopping scene and grumbled that "just because fishermen need access to the shore doesn't mean they should destroy all the willows." Silly me. I understand now that, left to their own devices, the shrubs would take over the trail and I wouldn't be able to even get around the lake, much less walk to the edge to see ducks. And each year they grow back just fine... thick and green and higher than my head.

I hadn't been down to the lake in a few weeks, and in my absence the willows came down for another year. Sigh. Another sign that autumn is waning.

Willow stubs seem pretty unattractive after the verdant exuberance of summer– until you sit down with one. I mean, come on! Look at that thing!

Hmm. The metaphors available for that simple observation are staggering, but I think I'll leave you to connect your own dots. Further signs that autumn is on the wane are piling up in the yard, and signs of winter are piling up on the peaks. Sigh. Gotta go rake before it's time to go shovel.

Weird interruptions 2, Artist 1

Hooray! I made it through an outdoor drawing expedition without wet dogs or convicts! There WAS an annoying incident involving a woman, a bag of grain, and a noisy bunch of aggressive domestic geese that have been dumped in the state wildlife area where I went to draw. Grumble grumble grumble. But that was between drawings, not smack in the middle of them, so hardly counted.

Elm roots, Sands Lake SWA

I did learn that the problem with going to draw at a place where I regularly walk and take note of birds is that my first compulsion is to pick up binoculars and keep moving. I made a quick circuit of the lake, just to see what was around and then, WHEW! Managed some quality time with my pencil.

[And in case you're wondering, the quickie bird list included: Canada geese, American wigeon, common goldeye (an unusual juv that spent the summer here), a lesser scaup (seems early), gadwall, mallards (with ducklings), coots (with cootlings), Wilson's warblers by the bucketload, yellow warbler, evening grosbeak, red-winged blackbird, black phoebe, belted kingfisher, 60+ pinyon jays, blue jay, great-tailed grackle, lesser goldfinch, black-capped chickadee.]

Fog event!

If by chance you've managed to stick with this blog for any length of time, you might remember that I get pretty excited about fog.

For those of you who live in places where atmosphere exists by default such excitement might seem a little odd, but you have to remember that despite living at 7000' altitude in the Colorado Rockies, our average annual precipitation is 10 inches, give or take.

Yes, I know... 20 minutes away at Monarch ski area they had 360-some inches of snow this year. And that doesn't even TOUCH what they got last year. But that is there, and this is here, and most of the time we are forced to run a humidifier so we don't completely desiccate overnight.

Fog is a big deal.

I felt a twinge of guilt as I charged out the door with binoculars and camera: The DM is wrapped in blankets on the sofa, suffering a nasty sore throat and cough.

Didn't STOP me. But I did feel a twinge. Really.

It probably took an entire hour to get around Sands Lake, since I had to keep stopping to take photos. (Well, that, and to suss out what birds were on the water in the fog.) I knew the fog wouldn't last long, and sure enough it was gone before I'd gotten 100 yards up river. But it still made for a lovely morning.

Fifty species of birds didn't hurt, either.

Fog is burning off already, just upriver from Sands Lake.

Turn 180 degrees from the photo above, just a moment later,
and it looked like this:

Finally the bloody ibis have shown up. They're LATE.

Could have turned up while we were away, but that was still later than normal. Slackers.
This shot was taken maybe 90 minutes after the first one above.
No sign of fog. Anywhere.

Trying not to feel smug

But it ain't working. According to the WeatherBug station at our local middle school, it was 62 F here today. Whilst our friends in the north and east are making videos about the way hot water behaves when sprayed into ambient temps of -15 F, we are walking around the lake sans jackets. By the time we got back home from a walk this afternoon, both the DM and I were sporting short sleeved shirts.

At the lake goldeneye and wigeon were making "hey, baby" noises at each other. A dipper under Spiral Drive bridge was vocalizing so exuberantly that we were compelled to scramble down through Russian olive shrub to the river edge to confirm it was a single bird. Little flocks of chickadees seemed to have their knickers in a right bundle over who-knows-what. Dabblers were dabbling, divers were diving... even the nap-inclined seemed to be doing so with a certain luxuriant enthusiasm.

The problem with a surfeit of fabulous weather and tantalizing bird behavior is that we're all going to be mighty unhappy when the obligatory frigid February weather moves in. With all this raucous revelry going on it's difficult to avoid thoughts of spring and green, even when the only non-coniferous green to be found is in hardy watercress crops in protected ditches.

It seemed only right to temper all this giddiness with a little dried-plant reality check. Which I did. And now I'm going to go check on my inventory of green ink and green paint. Just so I'm ready. You know. Eventually. In April. Maybe May. They're just around the corner. Aren't they?

Warning label

My friend Brenda hangs a poster in her home workspace that says, "It could be that the purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others," or some such interpretation of that theme.

And that's a little how I feel about today. FINALLY this morning I got out for the long-neglected walk, and OOPH. The season has changed and I missed the entire process! Travel and work and an unfortunate encounter with an ice-covered step kept me either on the run or under an ice pack for most of the last month, and while I was away my familiar landscape got an extreme makeover. One portion of "my" trail has been scraped away by hospital-constructing bulldozers. Another has been widened and covered with new gravel. Yet another has been denuded: large clumps of willow taken out around the lake to make room for more fishermen. (I guess.)

The swallows are completely gone and the juncos have come down from the high country. Many trees are completely bereft of leaves. And I am chagrined that I wasn't there to note the change in gradual increments instead of great swaths. (This is the part about serving as a warning to others: do not let doing interfere with being!)

My one consolation is that the "good winter ducks" have started to arrive: ring-necks, gadwall and wigeon are in. A few grebes, a few mergansers.-- and one handsome wood duck. Sands Lake's lone summer coot has 8 or 10 buddies now, and an osprey haunts Frantz Lake before continuing south.

The milkweed has transitioned from pink flowers to brown husks, so I brought a chunk in from the trail to draw this afternoon. My original intention was just to make a pencil drawing, but the temptation of a brush close at hand was too great. I'm not sure I like the drawing as well with the color... but there you have it.

And yes, I'm walking tomorrow- before it starts snowing or something!

Mishmash morning

Just one of those days, I guess.

As I walked this morning, my mind wandered down a half dozen paths... none of which I seem able to map at the present time. So... a visual checklist for when my brain and fingers conspire to create complete sentences.

We had another brief fog event this morning in the wake of more evening rain. There's a story to be told about a waterlogged bin of potting soil, but it's a stinker... literally...


By the time I got around the first lake, the fog seemed to be wandering in aimless blobs (kinda like me)... time elapsed between Photo One and Photo Two? Eh. 20 minutes, I'm guessing.

The story here is that the trees are starting to turn. Yet another example of incomplete childhood nature education, like "Monsoon = India": "Trees turn in the autumn, autumn starts in September."

Swallows. I have lots of thoughts about swallows. Some I've even articulated before. But not here. And certainly not today.

This here's a cliff swallow. (Photo by Tony Leukering.) Two, maybe three weeks ago the Spiral Drive bridge writhed with them. Today it was silent and still. Erroneous childhood nature knowledge #3: "Birds fly south for the winter, which means they leave in the autumn, which doesn't happen until September." (Tell that to the rufous hummingbirds, whose fall migration brings them through here starting in July. And the Bullock's orioles, which start to clear out about the same time.)

Once I got home I did manage to hold onto a train of thought long enough to put the last color down on the blanketflower lino this morning. I always like seeing the print rack full... makes me think I accomplished something. Maybe.

Oh, wait. Did I say train of thought? My friend Kevin just called. He's on his way to Chama to work on the train.

Chama. That's in New Mexico. I might go to New Mexico myself. Wait, wasn't I talking about walking? It would be a long walk to New Mexico. I wonder if their cliff swallows have left yet?

I can see clearly now...

Opening the window blinds this morning sent me dashing out the door so fast that I left without my binoculars! Last night's rain and this morning's sun combined to create a lovely and rare "temporary fog event" in the valley, and I wanted to be out in it.

The binnies were sorely missed, as the morning was far "birdier" than it's been of late, but I did have my little camera in my pocket.

Part of the reason I nearly sprinted down to the lake was that the back of my mind has been occupied for several weeks with images made by my friend Michael. He caught the valley on a fog-bound morning last autumn and took a series of photos that I just love. The thing was, I couldn't quite describe why. Yes, yes... nice atmosphere. Yes, yes, striking compositions. "Something I might paint." But why?

Eureka! This morning the haze made it all clear. (No, really. I'm serious.)

There before me was a familiar landscape transformed and simplified. The fog isolated a single hill in a complex piñon-juniper slope and suddenly I saw the shape of THAT hill for the first time. Those pesky, attention-demanding mountain peaks? Gone! Rubbed out by a cloud. The mind-boggling profusion of leaves? Smeared to a lovely soft green shape.

Of course, the fog also created a charming soft and subtle color palette. The kind I can appreciate but never, ever pull off successfully either in paint or in ink.

I scribbled the words "isolated landforms" on the back of my hand, and later on a little piece of paper I found in my jacket pocket. (Along with the cryptic notes: BUOR FY, choco rio, catalyst, foreign air, stillborn fawn, no bins.) Make of all that what you will, there is something about pared down, stripped down, fogged down, even desolate landscapes that drops me every single time.

But, as with most atmospheric weather events here in the 300-days-of-sunshine-a-year Center of the Universe, the magic was short-lived. A short climb up from the river to the mesa and I was eliminating the middle ground instead of the background, squinting into crystalline light, and wishing I'd eaten some breakfast before I bolted from the house.

In all, a satisfying walk... bins or no bins.

Early spring walks: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Friday I decided it was warm enough to declare "first shorts-wearing day of the season." It was a little overcast, so the potential for my exposed pallid limbs to frighten the wildlife seemed slim. Time to take a walk along the river. Wearing shorts seemed like a good thing, and I started a mental tick list of all the fine reasons to be out walking on such a day. Before I made it back home, wearing shorts became a not-so-bright-idea-culminating-in-near-disastrous-idea.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I just came in from another fine early spring walk (no shorts, it snowed yesterday and the wind is chilly today), during which I spent a lot of time thinking about how and why I walk the same route day after day. I've no doubt it's a topic that will get greater attention soon, but for today let's just start with that list of early-season pros and cons:

Good: Red-winged blackbirds in an uproar.
Bad: Clouds of midges. Breathe only through the nose, and do not inhale deeply.
Good: The arrival of tree swallows- can everything else be far behind?
Bad: Time to say goodbye to the winter duck party on Sands Lake.
Good: Ice-free paths, so watching feet not necessary. (*See the Ugly, below.)
Bad: Defrosted dog poop hard to see on those same ice-free paths.
Good: Scolding chipmunks.
Bad: Personal temperature regulation. (Jacket on, jacket off, jacket on, jacket off.)
Good: Increased dawdling potential.
Bad: Work behavior decreases in direct relationship to rise in dawdling potential.
Good: Who wants to work all the time anyway?
Good (and probably the best): That feeling of waking winter-dormant knowledge: Whose song is that? What plant will that green sprout become? When should I look for catbirds? Where will the fox spend sunny afternoons? When will the river turn brown and muddy... and how high will it rise? Will the wild iris come up in the same place? There's a new sense of expectation to a walk just now... because the potential for surprise is high. This territory has been familiar but slow to change for the past few months, and now all bets are off.
Good.
Good.
Good.

As for the Ugly bit... that happened on Friday, and is related to Good Item #3.

At Frantz Lake there are small wooden footbridges over a ditch that runs along the path. I've crossed them hundreds of times. But on Friday I was looking up, not down, when I crossed, and I didn't notice the missing board. At least not until I fell through.

Please recall that I was wearing shorts.

So now my winter-white legs are also sporting red raspberry scrapes and lovely purple bruises. But I didn't break anything, neither on my person nor in my pockets. I did, perhaps, crack my pride ("some observant person YOU are"), but it's better than cracking my head. And I certainly got a surprising new view of my usual route. Welcome spring!

Sacred Wednesday

I'm beginning to feel like a broken record (which will be an incomprehensible simile to anyone under the age of, say, 35).

It's still just bloody COLD here. This morning's low was an improvement over the previous: -8 degrees Fahrenheit. I still wouldn't call it warmer.

It's been one of those disconnected days. Wednesdays are supposed to be my "reserved for art-making" days... sacred and inviolate... but somehow this one got away from me. I did paint this little study of dried cucumber vine into my journal... but otherwise I got involved in a client proposal, and gathering reference for a project, and fixing some code on my website, and making exhibition plans, and doing laundry, and.....

You know how it goes.

Early afternoon I decided things had gotten out of hand and I headed out to the trail. It was startling to discover that Sands Lake was half iced-over! In the five winters I've been here, there has never been more than a thin line of frost around the edges.

Days like this, in which my plans disintegrate completely by 9:00am, it's even more important to walk. To distract myself from mental chatter and restlessness. To pay attention to a world bigger than the little vortex I create around myself and my "doings."

I noted simple things today-- no headline news. Ice on the lake (dead duck frozen into the crust). Mergansers under a willow tangle on the shore. Slush floating down the river. Squeak of snow underfoot. Watercress still growing bright green in a sheltered ditch, despite the unrelenting cold. Goldfinches. Barking dogs somewhere up the hill. Cold sting of little ice crystals blown up from drifts and into my face. It didn't get completely dark until after 5:30pm.

Huh. I guess this day turned out sacred after all.

Best foot forward

I've been spending quite a bit of time staring at my feet lately.

The snow storms of the last few weeks have made treks around town quite interesting, especially as the regular thaw-and-freeze cycle makes each journey different from the last. Watching my feet is a sort of exercise in self-preservation, although I confess I have still landed on my behind more than once.

As I've focused on the placement of my feet upon snow I've seen the tracks of animals, people, skis, bikes, and cars. Interesting patterns of ice. Crusts of frozen slush castles. My wet bootlaces. Feathers of birds-become-meals. And today, a dollar bill. (One of those a-typical rewards for being observant.)

Yesterday, however, I remembered how to look up.

Friends gathered from near and far for our annual Christmas Bird Count, and we were out at first light to tally up a sense of the fortunes of the feathered mortals. Oh, BRRRR! The time-and-temperature sign at the bank proclaimed 0 degrees Fahrenheit as we headed to the first stop at Sands Lake.

The lake was a wonderland. Mist rose from the surface in great clouds and froze in crystals on every twig, blade, and stone. Ducks and geese were floating spectres, appearing and disappearing in the fog, their heads tucked over frosted backs and down between wings. (It wasn't a scene particularly conducive to identifying and counting species, mind you. We decided to come back later.)

We spent the rest of the day distracted by every little movement, every odd shape in tree or shrub or sky, every chirp or squeak or chip. Nearly 300 pinyon jays swirled over a house on a hill-- a blue and gray (and much more raucous) echo of the earlier lake mist. A lone northern harrier quartered a barren field. Juncos perched on deck railings. Nuthatches bounced downside up through the trees. When the sun disappeared in the west we were still out, peering through the darkness at a great horned owl's silhouette just visible at the top of a power pole.

73 species and copious amounts of pizza after that first ethereal goose, we called it a day. One more look up, into the red-cheeked and weary smiles of my friends, and then? I only had eyes for my pillow.

A walk between weather

We're actually having a winter this year! As anyone who tried to get to, through, or around Colorado last week knows, we had a VERY white Christmas. There's another storm working its way here for tonight, so I decided it was finally time to take the walk that has been neglected for several days.

I've a regular route, from home to Sands Lake, up the river, past the fish hatchery, around Frantz Lake, up the mesa and back home. It's about 3.5-4 miles, depending on how many detours I take or how quickly the weather drives me home.

Every walk is different, despite the fact that I travel this same path several times a week, all year long. My trailmates change with season and time of day... early summer mornings it's often just me and the birds. Today it was me, birds, slush, ice fishermen, families, mule deer, fat squirrels, a road grader still scraping snow from the last storm, and the ominous clouds that signal the next round of white stuff.

Dippers chattered and kingfishers rattled and chickadees chicka-dee-dee-deed, but the stars of the winter are, for me, the ducks. Sands Lake stays open all winter, and starting in late November the surface fills with the waterfowl glitterati: common and Barrow's goldeneye, bufflehead, wigeon, teal, gadwall, scaup, redheads and ringnecks and mergansers. Already the males are flirting with the females and jousting with each other, their buzzing and trilling and feathered sweet nothings reach my ears even before the lake is in sight.

Last winter Sands Lake stood empty. It's the settling pond for the hatchery upriver, and every ten years it must be drained and dredged. It was a lonely, lonely season and I found it difficult to get out and walk past the open wound that was once duck party central. But it's true, that old phrase about absence and hearts and fondness. A full lake, a full quorum of waterfowl, and a full heart add up to a great start for a new year.