Tag Archives: Wilderness

Spying on Birds

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A flash of color. A movement out at the edge of my peripheral vision. A song so sweet it lingers in the mind after it’s done. These are the taunts of the birds as I try to spot them. Brown. Gray. Yellow. White. Black. Sometimes bright colors. Blue. Green. Red. Orange.

Birding, the act of watching birds, can be passive or active. In the passive form one simply observes birds that flit or swore on the path of one’s normal travels. In the active form the purpose is to see birds, discover their hiding places, and learn their names.

Growing up my mom liked birds and knew the names of most of the ones we saw in our rural home. My mom’s side of the family was a bird-loving side. As such, bird names – blue jay, cardinal, chickadee, hairy woodpecker, osprey, red-tailed hawk, wood duck, mallard, etc. – were part of my normal vocabulary. Just like, I imagine, brands or celebrities’ names were part of the vocabulary of other children. I didn’t know it was unique to know birds by name until I moved away for college. There I found myself on an urban campus where I wasn’t convinced that some of my colleagues could identify a live chicken.

Life unfolded. I stayed urban for a time. Then I moved abroad where there was too much to learn to also learn new birds. And then the doctorhood quest took off like an ultramarathon – slow and steady but always busy in its own way. Fast forward. I found myself in Virginia. Virginia and Vermont share many birds. And some of the birds Vermont sees only in the summer Virginia sees at other times of year. As I wandered the forest and wetland trails on my days off from residency, I started to notice the birds again. Somehow, having spent 10 years learning other things and more than that away from my childhood home, the birds I knew as a child resurfaced. Old knowledge was not lost despite filling my brain with an additional zillion factoids on medicine and the human body. Birds. I still know the song of the hermit thrush – Vermont’s state bird. I remembered the nuthatch and the tufted titmouse.

I have a good partnership. My spouse likes to take pictures of birds and I’m good at spotting them. My binoculars are my superpower. The only challenge is that when one starts actively spying on birds it’s hard to stop. My spouse and I now seek out birds on our vacations. I find myself toiling over bird books and using Merlin Bird ID.

Birding escalates. It starts with just trying to see birds. Then it’s about naming them. Then it’s about finding rare birds and memorizing new bird names. A harmless pastime. Another excuse to be outside. Another reason to love wild places. Another reason to also learn about the trees and plants that birds, themselves, adore. What fun it is to go on a walk and be able to name the birds, trees, and plants I see. Almost everyone used to be able to do that. Now it’s a dying art. Funny how the world changes. It’s never too late to circle back on the knowledge we once had. It’s never too late to learn something new. Just ask the birds migrating on ancestral routes and adapting to new cityscapes. They’re experts in learning.

Bones on the Trail

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Each year, July 1st is the infamous day when new doctors who just graduated from medical school (called “interns”) start taking care of patients for the first time as physicians. This year I’m among these new doctors. It’ a momentous day for the interns because it’s a huge milestone and a huge transition. Some words that come to mind in anticipation of the experience are “excited,” “terrified,” “happy,” and “ready.”

I’ve been mulling over what I think about starting residency. As I’ve reflected, a story from a hike I did in New Mexico came to mind. I think it captures my mixed feelings of starting this phase of the Doctorhood Quest.

New Mexico, June, 30, 2021

My partner and I arrived at our lodging place in the late afternoon so we had just enough time for a short hike but not so much time that we could dillydally. We looked up some nearby trailheads and settled on one just down the road. We were staying in a flat valley lined by near mountains on one side and far-off mountains on the other. It was spring so even though there was no mistaking that we were deep within the New Mexico desert, the shrubs were as green as they could be. The cactuses were blooming.

We started off walking across the flat valley floor following a road through the shrubs. We stopped often to take pictures of the desert flowers that lined our path and kept a lookout for elk because there were many in the area. We laughed and joked and chatted as we often do when hiking. Our mood ranged from jolly to ecstatic. The beige and browns of the dirt and rocks contrasted against the blue sky; sage-green shrubs and cactuses; and yellows, pinks, reds, and purples of the flowers.

The road neared the bottom of the mountains and narrowed to a wide footpath. We didn’t know the trail, but we had a GPS map and a general sense of the trail’s course. We were timing ourselves to ensure we turned around with time to get back to our car before complete darkness. We knew before starting that we wouldn’t be able summit if we wanted to be home by sunset. It was our first hike together in New Mexico, the western US states, and mountain lion country.

We wanted to have fun while also exercising caution. We’d learn later that trip exactly how scary things can be in the big mountains, but that would be a lesson learned on a different hike. We were experienced hikers, but we’d primarily hiked in New England and never in the western US (except as children under our parents’ watchful eye). The short mountains of the northeast are different beasts than the giants of the US west.

As the trail narrowed, we entered the woods and left behind the shrubs and flowers of the open desert. We soon crossed a small stream. There, on the far side of the stream was an elk carcass in the middle of the trail – it was mostly skeleton, almost picked clean. We paused and became quiet. The bones were a reminder that there were big predators in these woods. We debated if we should continue and decided we would. We stayed loud and watched our surroundings more carefully than before. We were especially attentive to our timing and made sure we got back to our car before darkness fell.

We had the skills and knowledge foundation to successfully complete the hike. The difference was the terrain and responsibility/higher stakes that came with a more complex hiking environment. Hiking in new, more intense territory isn’t such a bad analogy to becoming a resident after being a student – just like with hiking, as a resident I’ll draw on previous skills and knowledge as I take on more responsibility and learn more about my craft.

The Ocean

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I’ve never lived by a sea or ocean before. But for a few weeks this winter I am. And not just any salty expanse but the Caribbean Sea and Atlantic Ocean around Puerto Rico. It’s not hurricane season so, in the few days I’ve been here so far, the waves have crashed with careful, well-mannered regularity. Right now, I’m on the Atlantic Ocean coast. The water is warm and blue. Walking along the beach I find myself covered with a salt film both from the lapping waves and the salt in the air. The temperature has been perfect and the sun a beautiful gold. Proximal to the sand and rocks that meet the water are coconut trees, marking where the beach ends and the rest of the island begins.

As I walk along the rocky bits of the shore crabs scuttle so quickly that they’re hard to see – their shell patterns match the sea plants and the design the sunlight creates as it dances with the waves. Pelicans hover above the water, make a diving plummet with a smack as they break the water’s surface, rest on the ocean’s surface to swallow the fish they caught, and then take flight to follow the wind off the water to only scoop around like a boomerang and head back out to fish again.

People sit on the beach and hangout in the water. They listen to their loud music, dig holes in the sand, throw rocks, and drink alcohol (mostly beer). I walk along the junction between the water and the sand – sometimes more on the side of the sand and other times more on the side of the saltwater. The waves fill the gap between me and the seemingly infinite ocean. Sometimes I’m taken by surprise when a large wave barrels to shore and splashes up against my legs and catches my shirt in its spray.

Where there are tidal pools, I look down at the ruby red sea urchins with deep crimson spikes – their colors remind me of the colors of fresh and dried blood or, perhaps more appealing, the colors of red I’d expect royalty to wear. There are little fish that dart around in the tidal pools; they’re the color and pattern of sand. There are sea plants that look like little green balloons. There are shells hiding live creatures whose names I don’t know. Some of the bigger pools have sea anemones. I peer into each tidal pool, eager to see what it keeps in its mini-sea haven.

I love the sound of the waves and the smell of the salt water against the sand. It’s new to see coconuts. But, in this serene backdrop I can’t help but notice the broken glass and plastic bits, bottles of all varieties, cans, and all the other trash humans on the beach have failed to pick up…or humans elsewhere tossed in such a way that their trash found its way to the beaches where I wander now. I walk barefoot in the sand, but it’s almost a bad idea because so many people have broken their beer bottles.

The creatures and features of the ocean are no less beautiful with the trash present, but I imagine how it would be paradise without the plastic bottles there as a reminder that so many places I love are being filled with trash. Will this beach be swimmable when my grandchildren are alive? There must be a better way. There must be a way to keep this beach with its crabs and sea urchins for the generations to come.

As I turn up the road between where I’m staying and the ocean I see heaps of bottles, cans, Styrofoam, plastic bags, and other discarded single use items on the side of the road. They create a scattering of litter among the snake plants, palm trees, mango trees, papaya trees, pothos vines, and other plants of the tropics. Is there another way or is it already too late to return our natural spaces to paradise?

The Mountains

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These days between the hours of studying, the doctorhood quest unfolding slowly and quickly at the same time, I find myself hiking whenever time allows. It’s difficult to describe what I find in the forest as I climb to a mountain’s peak. Some days I go quickly, not observing the trees and moss as I forge up the trail. Other days I step slowly, methodically looking at the ferns and the rocks and the sun rays that scatter across the forest floor.

Sometimes my mind buzzes with thoughts—of friends, family, and school. Of puzzles I still have left to solve or chores that await me when I get home. But, more often as time goes, I find my mind mostly empty. An uncommon feeling in my daily life in town. As I get lost in thoughtless contemplation, the chipmunks make me smile as they scuttle around me and the grouse make me jump as they burst into flight before I see them. The sound of their wings is in stark contrast to the silent trees around me.

I stop for a sip of water partway up a steep stretch of trail. My forehead is crusted with salt from sweating. I feel my heart pounding. The wind picks up and the trees creek and groan. I look up and see their branches waving. Even a brief pause allows my breath to slow before I hoist my backpack to my shoulders again. Onward.

I’ve done enough trails to know which rocks are most likely to make me lose my footing. I avoid them. Mud jumps from the trail to my pants. The trail gets steeper and I shed a jacket layer. Once taking off the layer, I climb higher and the wind gets stronger. I put the jacket back on. It’s a dance of layers—just enough to stay warm, not so many that I roast. I sweat regardless.

As I climb the final pitch to the mountain top I have on my warmest layer—in summer just a windbreaker and in winter a hefty coat. I hike so much, there are many days when I get to the highest rock and there is no view. Clouds never did bother me, so the clearness of the day doesn’t impact my decision to take to the hills. When it is sunny and clear at the summit, the landscape around my mountain stretches away from me. I think about what all the distant hills and valleys have seen, countless stories they can’t tell me.

Some days the wind threatens to push me over as I pause at the summit. On days when I can see the mountains beyond my mountain, I ignore the wind and take time to watch the sunshine. The rolling hills and fields below are a patchwork of cloud shadows and sun patches. Beyond them are the mountains of some other state. When I hike in Vermont, the mountains beyond are always pointer than the one I climbed. The green mountains were scraped by glaciers and, therefore, have softer features than their neighbors in New York and New Hampshire.

I don’t doddle as I descend to my car. My heart is filled by the fresh air of the summit. I’m ready to return to the hustle of regular life by the time I get back to the parking lot. At the same time, as I turn my car toward home, I’m already daydreaming of my next hike. The mountains don’t let me forget them, no matter what adventures I have waiting for me in the lowlands. 

Climbing Mountains

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One year when I was young we celebrated my mom’s birthday by hiking a nearby mountain. Our family has loved mountain adventures since our beginning, so it seemed like a perfect way to celebrate another good year.

The hike was beautiful and challenging and magical in the way hours spent in the woods while climbing a slope always are. When we got to the top we settled on the peak rocks to enjoy the view, eat snacks, and let our heartrates drip back to resting. Us kids sat down, pulling out our normal fare—peanuts, bread, cheese, among other easy-to-pack items.

My mom wore a happy smirk as she opened her backpack. First, she unpack a stack of plates and forks. Then came some bags containing several layers of chocolate cake. Then came the Tupperware with the sauce for between the cake layers. And then the whipped cream…She’d also brought sparkling cider.

My mother had secretly packed and carried an entire black forest cake up the mountain. That’s dedication, determination, and the proper way to start a new era.

I’m turning 30 this year, so I’ve been thinking about birthdays a bit because it seems like ending my twenties might be a big deal. I can’t really think of a better way to nod goodbye to my first complete decade of adulthood than cake on top of a mountain. There is something about icing that makes the horizon seem promising and clarifies the path you’ve already trod.

Golden Leaves and Golden Sun

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Autumn in Vermont is like a pendulum; it swings between cold rainy days and bright sun that reflects off the yellow, orange, red, and brown leaves soon to fall off the trees. The damp days and frost-laced evenings are a prelude to the winter soon to come. The strong sun on the loveliest days of October is not only a reflection of the summer just past, but also particularly appealing because it contrasts with the brisk wind and cool damp air inherit of autumn.

Earlier this October when the sun looked like a flood of gold as it reflected off the hills, I set out with a friend on an easy, wandering hike through the woods, past beaver dams, and up the tame slopes of a hill with an outstanding view. The shade and wind carried the hint of frost, but the sunlight danced so joyfully through the birch, beech, and maple leaves that I didn’t feel cold while wearing only a light jacket. The pleasantness of the day penetrated through my slight haze. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of adventure, topped off by working the night shift the night before our hike and running a half marathon with my sister two days earlier. But, as we parked the car and started walking I didn’t feel tired. My mate had kicked in and the day was too charming to pass inside. There’s something about the woods in Vermont…they recharge me more than anywhere else. [Text continues after image.]

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I grew up in Vermont, but moved to the city for college and work and then moved abroad. I’ve been back a few years, enjoying the time until more schooling picks my next home. I imagine, just as I did as a new adult, I have more city turns and many places to live before I sleep for good. I imagine many of those places will be about as different and as far from Vermont as possible on our small planet. While I never really miss the Green Mountain State in its entirety, when I live elsewhere I periodically find myself aching for the quiet woods that always awaits me here.

The woods in the fall are my favorite. Fall is my favorite season in Vermont for its smells—piles of leaves, apple cider, wood smoke, and pumpkin baked goods—and perfect temperatures. The leaves already fallen rustle underfoot and the tangy, earthy smell of the soil and crisp foliage tingles your nose in an only pleasant way. The natural world is getting ready for sleep and a long stretch of harsh weather. The chipmunks and squirrels are in overdrive, jumping about like bunnies with cheeks full of nuts. Wild apples, acorns, cherries, and berries adorn the trees, weighing the branches down and feeding the deer and other woods dwellers. There’s an influx of geese and other migrating birds—their flocks fill the ponds and trees and raise a chorus of excited chatter about their long journey south.

The forests of Vermont aren’t epic like those of California and Washington state. They aren’t misty, exotic, and lavish like the Amazon or the jungles of Central America and Africa. Nor are they tangled and concealing large snakes, jaguars, and anteaters like the forests in Paraguay. In contrast, it’s their humble scale and unassuming beauty that brings thoughts of the Vermont woods, my childhood haunts, to me when I’ve spent too long away. I always know when those thoughts percolate it’s time to visit.

My friend and I paused on the hilltop to enjoy the view and take in a few golden rays before our descent back into the forest. I sat, knees pulled up against my chest, and gazed out over the rolling patchwork of gold, green, and bronze. The stone face on which I sat was slightly warm thanks to the sun. We were shielded from the breeze. No one else was around. There was a quiet that’s forgotten even in the smallest of towns. The calm was a relief after the rush of work in a hospital and traveling for medical school interviews—places full of complicated thoughts and human interaction. In those moments on the hill, I was thankful for the forest. I also felt a pang of bitterness about the cold winter soon to come, but I know (as I’ve said before) that the cold is one thing that keeps people from flooding Vermont. And, anything that keeps the autumn woods here quiet so I can sneak away and meditate on life’s challenges is welcome.

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