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Grainy, but not Old

Thirty years ago, when I began going to Battery Heights to hike, 35mm film cameras were used by, I would guess, the majority (>50%) of the adult population. Even as that trend changed towards digital cameras, I continued to use my old Canon camera. This grainy picture, of a tree and the slope beyond to a tree line and a sinister cannon, is the last picture I took with that camera which carried me through three decades.

My first camera had been a Kodak Brownie camera (Starflash). I used that camera for 15 years, dutifully carrying my film to a photo counter to have it developed. In a week or so I could go and pick up the pictures and see the results of my last two months of photography.

Those pictures that I deemed worth keeping, I am glad to say the majority of them, I placed in a photograph album using little gummed corners which held the pictures in place. How many years, if not decades, has it been since I licked the dry gum of a corner and placed it, with three of its brothers to hold my picture securely on the page. Now nearly 70 years later I can look back at pictures of my friends and family and relive those moments with them. I can see pictures of the dogs of my youth with whom I ran fields and roamed swamps. I hope to be reunited with all of them at the end of my days on Earth.

I bought my Canon while my ship was marooned in Japan. It replaced my Brownie which no longer functioned after I had wrapped it in plastic to try my hand at underwater photography. The bag leaked. All but one picture on the roll was destroyed by the salt water.

I liked those cameras from which, when I heard a resounding click of the mechanical shutter, I knew I had captured the image I saw through my view finder. There was no automatic system to adjust the color or to focus on a distant unimportant object when what I wanted was to capture the seeded-head of a tall stem of field grass that stood before me. I was suspicious of the capability of the digital cameras to take the pictures I wanted. I wanted mechanics, not electronics. I wanted to be responsible for the quality of the picture. But I ran into the problem of where to buy film, and then where to get my film developed.

One day when I came back from an outing to the battlefield, I picked up my daughter’s old digital camera. She had a new one, and I decided to try using the new technology. So, I put down my trusted camera.

I put my Canon in the trunk of my car. I had carried that camera on many miles of muddy roads and frozen trails, taking countless wonderful pictures. It sat in my car, hidden, for 15 years, through the heat of summer and the bone chilling storms of winter, until I realized that its time had come, again.

Now I feel a new age has dawned for my photography. I can buy the film I want. I can mail the film to be developed in a photo lab with clean chemicals and who respects my time as a photographer, even if my pictures make no sense to them, or are grainy, or out of focus because I thought that was a snake I heard moving through the grass, or the light wasn’t just right but the content was.

I sent the old roll of film off to see if the new mail-in lab was any good. And now I have this grainy photograph of a tree and a cannon before me. When I look at it, I know where I was, and I know I was glad to be there. I am pleased. It’s a simple snapshot, worn by the effect of heat and cold on its chemical content, but I was there, I heard the click, I wound the film, I replaced the cap. It was the complete experience.

These days I am not going out on hikes. However, I will start using my trusty Canon around the back yard, pursuing flowers and their insects. And I will take up my old lenses, and my old eye-piece. I will dust off my old wood tripod on which I mounted a wooden device, from a friend’s sketch that enabled me to track the stars. I am again ready to capture the world around me on film.

And I know that Battery Heights, and the tree, the creek and the bridge, and the woods with deer and owls, and the stars beyond, are waiting out there for my return.

Fire Swifts

I am fortunate. There is a stand of tall, old trees that I can see from my backyard. This year, I often go outside early in the morning to enjoy a cup of coffee and look out towards these trees. There are three in particular that stand out. On the left is an American Ash, to the middle-right there is a Tulip Poplar, and on the right, just beside the Poplar, is a Sycamore. They grow in a creek bed that runs through this small wood.

The creek meanders through its small valley. Over the years and centuries the stream has cut a bed for itself that is approximately 10 feet below the overall terrain and less than a tenth of a mile wide. Maybe at one time it was a cow pasture.

But now, since the valley is low and the stream pushes through it during rainy seasons, it has never been developed. However, because of the stream and its valley, there is a green belt of trees that snakes though my small town and out into the county. This green-way is a nature preserve. It harbors deer and foxes and other sub-urban wildlife. And it is a haven for birds that are not generally seen this far from the tree covered mountains to our West. And in the upper reaches of the trees, under the broad leaves of the Sycamore and the Polar, and beneath the delicate leaves of the Ash, there are thousands of broods of flying insects. But, the only ones that I can see are the Fireflies that flash in the evenings.

Today I am not thinking of the beauty of this small valley nor of the denizens that are concealed inside its narrow borders. Today I am thinking of a feathered visitor that arrives each year in the late Spring and early Summer while passing to the North., and again as it passes through in the Fall as it makes its way South. It is the Chimney Swift (Chaetura pelagica). These delicate birds soar through the air above me as they pass close to the tops of the trees to catch flying insects. The Chimney Swift is a common bird of North America, East of the Rockies. Some will build their nests locally, assuming they find a suitable location. Others are passing through on their way North to the limits of their range on the Canadian side of the Great Lakes of North America.

While they are here what a show they put on! From my backyard I have only a small patch of sky in which to look up, but in the mornings when I am sitting having a cup of coffee, I can see these birds sail through the air, the sun shining on their dark wings and reflecting as the birds twist and turn showing an alternating brightness on the underside and then the sooty dark upper-wing and body. It is as if their wings were hammered steel, winking flame of fire. These aerial acrobatics amaze me as the birds suddenly turn to snatch a flying insect from the air. Several sites I read state that a pair of breeding adult Swifts feeding a brood of chicks will consume upwards of 6,000 flying insect a day.

In the Fall the Swifts turn their thoughts to warmer climes and head South. In The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame’s masterpiece, Rat challenges the swallows on why they do not stay in England as the year turns away from summer. The birds reply, “Ah, Yes, the call of the South, the South. … Its songs, its hues, its radiant air.”

It is the same with the Chimney Swift. As Summer ends the birds leave the Great Lakes. They leave the Blue Ridge Mountains. They leave the Georgia shore. But where did they go? For many years no one knew where the Chimney Swifts went.

In 1943, this changed. A scientist studying the indigenous people of the forests at the headwaters of the Amazon River in Peru spotted a curious necklace on one of the people. He asked to examine it and was able to purchase it. The necklace was made of the tiny metal bands that are placed on the legs of birds to track their migration. He returned the bands to the United States Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS) of the Department of the Interior. The FWS confirmed the bands had been placed on Chimney Swifts in several locations, five States (primarily Tennessee) and a Canadian province. The birds had been killed for food in Peru, and the small metal tags were strung into a necklace.

The FWS put out a press release in November 1944 that announced “The solution [has been discovered] of a centuries-old riddle of bird migration — the location of the winter home of the Chimney Swift .”

When I recently learned this I marveled at the thousands of miles these birds, which I watched over my morning coffee, had crossed. I know that they soon they will hear “the call of the South”, and they again will take their ancestral route to find “ the songs, the hues, and the radiant air” of far Southern climes.

A site of the Tennessee Wildlife Resource Agency about the Chimney Swifts. https://www.tn.gov/twra/wildlife/birds/chimney-swift.html#:~:text=The%20wintering%20range%20of%20the%20Chimney%20Swift%20was,stations%20in%20Chattanooga%2C%20Knoxville%2C%20Nashville%2C%20Clarksville%2C%20and%20Memphis.

Other sites regarding the Chimney Swift and their range and habitat include; http://www.prestonmnchamber.com/play/attractions/chimney-swift/ and http://www.chimneyswifts.org/

The FWS 1944 Press Release may be found at, https://www.fws.gov/news/Historic/NewsReleases/1944/19441112.pdf

HOLLY FLOWERS

My neighbor has a row of holly trees along the sidewalk in front of this house. He maintains them well, They are not over trimmed, and that particular part of my walk has a pleasant wilderness-feel to it. The ground beneath the trees is thick with a flowering ground cover. The hollies and the undergrowth give comfort and cover to many birds and a variety of wildlife.

I see the birds flying in and out. Sometimes to rest. Other times I imagine to nest, sometimes to nest. A red Cardinal, and the charcoal and orange Eastern Towhee, sit at the tops and make their song resonant throughout the neighborhood.

As I walk past, I may hear a rustle in the undergrowth and be surprised by a chipmunk as it darts out on some important errand. Or in the early morning if I look out my window, I may see a fox using this as a path where he can remain covered while watching the neighborhood – or perhaps looking for that self-important chipmunk.

The hollies themselves enclose a small dogwood that is trying to grow up and out from beneath their branches. The dogwood looks healthy and is trying to push its way up. It had numerous white blossoms this Spring which is a good sign for its future. It will be interesting to see how it continues in its relationship with its covering neighbors.

The showy dogwood flowers have had their time and are now gone. Lying quietly behind what had been the showy branches is a small green-hued flower of the American Holly.

I get in close to see it the tiny blossoms. The buds and the blossoms lie in a profusion at the tips of the branches. They are well guarded by the holy’s spike-tipped leaves. In their time the blossoms will fade, and its petals drop, and then it will fruit in the Fall and Winter into the deep crimson berries of the American Holly.

These trees have always held an attraction for me. And a certain amount of fear. There are many hollies, and all have the shiny leaves with spiny points. Some may be soft and flexible. Some are as hard and stiff as a sheet of steel with long sharp needle-like thorns That when a leaf falls to the ground and dries out they are a terror to a barefoot boy in rural North Carolina.

I have many memories of that rural yard. There was a peach tree that gave few peaches and those it did produce attracted multitudes of wasps. And up the dirt road to the highway were the old pear trees which presented glorious, hard, sweet pears. But those fruits if allowed to lie on the ground became a magnet to yellow-jackets and bees of all kinds. And what child, not me or my brother or my cousins, could resist the chance of finding a recently fallen pear lying in the golden autumn afternoon, would not risk the buzz and perhaps sting of the insects searching for that sweet, sticky nectar, and make a dash to grasp the prize and to come out with the fruit and perhaps a much respected wound from the enemy, to seek comfort while sharing bites of their hard won prize.

Now, years later, I hazard a closer inspection of the holly flowers. There simplicity is stark. Their grouping is like that of a family staying close to each other for comfort – and fun. Even in their tight grouping I cannot detect a scent. And the threat of even the softer thorns of this variety does not allow me to get too close.

As we approach Summer and look towards Autumn, these flowers may fade, but they will remain, as do the pears, and the thorns, and the laughter of years long gone. And all this is brought back to me by a group of tiny, little flowers.

On the Patio

These days, as all of us either choose not to do – or perhaps we cannot do, I no longer go out to hike some federal lands. I haven’t been out there for nearly two months. It was a long drive, but it was a drive that I enjoyed.

But right now it’s a drive that I really don’t need to take. Plus, I can walk in my neighborhood.

I can also go out onto my patio. Many of us have a deck or a balcony or a small patio which enables us to have a place to step out-of-doors.

I can escape. In years past I have done this from an apartment that had no balcony. I would pull a chair up to a window and look out at what I could see. I would put myself out beyond what I could see in front of me. I would imagine standing on a distant shore or a far away mountain top. Sometimes I would close my eyes to do this. Other times I would sit there with my eyes wide open and plan my trip down the stairs, out onto the street, and then out onto the open highway to take me to this place in my mind.

But yesterday I sat on my patio.

It was a sunny afternoon. The sun was high in the sky, and hot. I have set up a support for a beach umbrella so I can sit in its shade. Periodically I got up and walked around the greenery that we had placed in the center of the patio. A tree had stood there when we first moved in. Unfortunately, the tree was old and passed away, and we had to have it cut down. But we preserved the place and use it for flower pots and greenery.

When the Hostas bloom and the tall spikes of close-packed flowers emerge, the spot is alive with bees. And chipmunks run out onto the patio from under the cover of the broad leaves to look at me and then dash back into the shade of the leaves. They live under the rotted stump.

But yesterday it was quiet. I relaxed in the shade of my old umbrella and thought of far off places that I remember from easier times. Yes, it is an escape. And it’s a good one. It helps me look forward to a better future. A future where I can get out and go places that I have been before and to other places I haven’t been. I can look out over vistas where bear and elk roam. I can see a sea shore where the sand is hot and the waves carry the tide in and then allow it to retreat.

I look up at my umbrella. I remember backpacking it onto the beach where we would camp and wait for the sun to set and the stars to come out. The umbrella reminds me of that place. I can smell the ocean. I can hear the bubble of our pot on the small camp stove as I prepared some rice or some chicken or some other simple meal.

Later, I would carry our plates and the pot to the edge of the surf and scour them out with sand. The leftover bits of food washed away to be eaten by the sea birds and the tiny crabs Then back to my chair to sit down and look out at an unbelievable field of bright stars.

I would just sit and imagine.

JS+I

Bear in the Meadow

I saw a photograph that I want to describe to you. The setting is an American alpine meadow surrounded by tall conifers. The view is to the west. A forest of the conifers rings the far side of the meadow. There is a high but thick cloud cover wrapped around the sheer granite walls of the peaks. The morning sun is just now burning off the cloud cover and in places the cliffs are reflecting the sun’s glory. In the meadow not far from the observer is a brown bear, head lifted, looking towards the morning sun.

It is a beautiful picture. It shows the grandeur of the Yosemite valley. It leads me to believe in the grandeur of this park and of all National Parks. The bear in his meadow, in his home, moves me. Yet, the picture of the bear makes me somewhat scared. But being scared is not a bad thing. It makes you cautious, so you are able to make better decisions.

When the hair rises on the back of my neck, I know it is time to consider my position, assess the situation, and take appropriate action for my safety and that of the people who may be with me.

In the photograph the bear looks far away, but it is probably less than 50 yards from me. I believe that he, or she, could cover the distance quickly. Bears are known to be able to charge at speeds above 20 miles per hour, and up to 30 miles per hour. This bear could cover these 50 yards in less than 6 seconds!

So I don’t mind being scared as it makes me aware of where I am and ready to react when I go into bear country.

I have seen grizzlies and other bears at were minding their business, and I let them alone and minded my own business, which was my safety. I kept a safe distance, well beyond 100 yards. That is a minimum safety distance with bears. To quote from the Glacier National Park website;

“Approaching, viewing, or engaging in any activity within 100 yards (91.4 meters) of bears or wolves, …. is prohibited. … Never intentionally get close to a bear. Individual bears have their own personal space requirements, which vary depending on their mood. Each will react differently and its behavior cannot be predicted. All bears are dangerous and should be respected equally.”

Whenever I talk about bears, I must talk safety. Keep away. Enough said.

This brief article is about the bear’s place in the meadow and my place with him.

I must say that I have never been to Yosemite. However, one of these days I hope to get there.

About the bear, in the photograph I can tell from the bear’s alert stance that he is listening and sniffing the air. Something has caught his attention in this, his territory. This is his place. He lives here. And he has, although I don’t know what he would call it, a sense of place about it. He knows the routines of the other animals, where there is food, when the snow will soon fall. He knows his way in this meadow. He likely feels safe here and has what we might consider a level of comfort in this place. And he is jealous of this place and will guard it. For this meadow, the bear has a sense of place.

But I don’t live there. I have never been there. But I have heard stories and exciting tales of camping and hiking in Yosemite. And I have seen pictures and photographs of the place. I want to go there. I also have a sense of place for the park that includes this meadow and includes this bear.

In my mind’s eye, I see the valley below the granite walls. And I as a visitor in the bear’s home, have to respect the bear and his “belongings” and know that he will guard them jealously and violently if he feels it is necessary.

But when I imagine myself in this meadow, I have a feeling of wonder, a feeling of contentment. I feel as if I belong to this place, but not that this place belongs to me.

I feel the contentment of being in the right place. I feel a shared comfort with the mountains, and the woods, and the grasses, and the bear. I feel the desire to stand out at night and see the stars, and then see the sun come up and splay its light across the peaks.

And I will be cautious, as I am in the company of the Bear.

The Glacier Park information on bears ay be found at; https://www.nps.gov/glac/planyourvisit/bears.htm

The picture is based on a photograph at the NPS Yosemite website, El Capitan in Early Morning.Described as “Morning sunlight on eastern wall of El Capitan, Yosemite Valley, with Merced River in foreground. [RL001244].” The photograph may be found at; https://www.nps.gov/media/photo/gallery-item.htm?pg=110576&id=B1794C5D-155D-4519-3E4385AA40753AF0&gid=B17BC4E5-155D-4519-3EC6B73FCE2806A8 .

A New Hike

This week I did not go out to the hills of Virginia for a hike.

I didn’t go out the week before either.

Instead I went for a morning walk to a nearby city park.

Why the shift? Social distancing. Closure of state parks. The Corona Virus.

This virus is changing our lives.

I miss my hikes into the deep woods. But my walks in the neighborhood give me a new appreciation of the work my neighbors put into their yards. I’m not talking about grass being green. I am talking about the joy of standing on a sidewalk and looking at the arrays of azaleas that have burst open in their vibrant colors. I am talking about the vegetables gardens that peek around from the back of their houses or more prominently placed in the side or front yards in order to get better sun. I am talking about the joy I see in my neighbors’ faces as they see the joy in my own face at the beauty provided by their labor.

Let’s be real. A rough-barked Persimmon tree growing on the margin of a field of uncut hay has a stark beauty all its own. I know of the fruit I may find there in the Fall. There is wonder in the ancient Pear tree growing on the edge of a parking lot where a house stood 200 years ago. The tree may only have a few seasons left but in the Spring it blossoms, and in the Fall it still produces several hard, sweet pears. In summer the Chinaberry trees that line the old lanes provide their sweet fruit for me and the birds that usually get them first.

But here in our neighborhood, my pleasure in being outside is immediate. I see the daffodils growing nearly wild in more than one yard. I know that they will be gone soon, but they will be replaced by the later blooms of the flowering trees. I would see many of these same trees deep in the woods on my walks in past Springs. I have written about the pale green blossoms of the small Dogwoods that turn to a blazing white deep in the soon-to-be-shadowed depths of the hardwood forest.

These old places where I walk are like old friends. I know them well in all seasons. And likewise they know me. But now the sidewalks in my neighborhood are becoming my friends again. I had walked them when I was recovering from an illness two decades ago. I know the slender, twisted branches of the Quince bushes with their delicate pink blooms. There are several of these along my walk up to the park. I know the shade of Linden trees that are planted in the park at the end of these urban paths.

These places, the present and the past, all have a place in my mind. I derive pleasure in thinking about the old, and from walking the new. And when I get back home, I can relive those walks in the forest paths of years ago by telling tales of those paths. And the tales of today’s walk in the neighborhood? I can tell those stories as well, as together we build a sense of place for these, our shared sidewalks.

And there are the birds as well.

Bug on the Water

It is Spring. The rain is a bit warmer. The days are a bit longer. The early flowers are beginning to poke their heads up in the fields and in the yards.

And out in the woods the buds are showing on the trees and bushes.

In my neighborhood the flowers have paused for a moment. The Cherry blossoms were magnificent. Even the fall of the Cherry blossoms was nice; it looked like a late snow fall. Now we are awaiting the Dogwood trees which burst open, all in the same week, throughout the neighborhood.

Back to the woods the buds and nascent leaves are showing red and green throughout the undergrowth. The Persimmon trees still have tight buds. The blackberry vines are showing buds that promise a sweet treat in late summer. The Dogwoods in the deep woods are preparing, just as the ones in our neighborhood, to burst open in all their glory.

But what of the bugs. I have seen one or two of the bright yellow Cloudless Sulphur Butterfly (Phoebis sennae) of Virginia in the fields. And while on the trail I have been passed by several large bumble bees. But its not up, but down that I want to look.

In the stream that the trail crosses and recrosses I can see small bugs, True Bugs as it turns out, darting around as they chase and follow each other. They skate on the waters surface from the edge of the bank into the slight current of the small stream. These are Water Striders, insects of the Order Hemiptera, meaning “half-wing” due to their divided fore wings. But it is their feet that are the most amazing and which give them the ability to glide on the surface of the water.

These insects spend their life first beneath and later on top of the surface of streams and ponds. They are sometimes carnivorous and prey on smaller and less agile bugs that come into their territory. And they delight us with their quick movements as they sprint across the water’s surface. This ability is due to the size of their long feet/fore legs which rest on the water. Their long legs distribute their body weight across the surface of the water and at each foot they are amply supported by the water’s surface tension. They can glide across the water’s surface without breaking through. The Water Strider’s body and legs and feet are covered in tiny hairs which trap air bubbles when in contact with water. These hairs covering the little bug’s entire body are water repellent. These hairs not only help the Water Strider to distribute their weight on the water’s surface but allow them to quickly shed any water that might splash onto their body and weigh them down.

As I stand on the edge of the bank, I watch these Water Striders dart across the surface of the stream. Their quick movements are mesmerizing as the bugs chase each other across the surface.

These are not the only insects in the streams. Right now the nymphs of the Mayfly (Order Ephemeroptera) and the Stonefly (Order Plecoptera) are beneath the water’s surface. They remain there for several years after they hatch. Then as early Summer warms the air and the water, the oldest class of these insects will emerge as adults and fly up from the surface in clouds that can easily be seen. The nymphs of these two insects are especially important indicators of the health of the streams as the insects are very susceptible to pollution. The clouds of these insects above the water are indicators of a healthy stream. And these clouds provide a tasty treat to the fish of the streams.

Below the clouds the Water Strider skates across his territory.

Wet Day with Grapes

In these days of the Corona-virus I don’t get out as much as I like to. But when I have an opportunity to get out, I usually go. Last Sunday I went out to a small National Park which has some good hiking trials. But it was so crowded that I did not even park my car. After visiting three trailheads I turned around and headed home. It’s not very far from where I live, so going out and coming back is not any trouble for me.

It was late afternoon when I went out as that is when I like to hike. When I got to the entrance road, I could see there were cars parked all along the drive. This meant that at some point in the day the main parking lot had been full. And it may have still been full. When I saw all the cars parked along the road, I knew that part of the park was more crowded than I like it. So I drove to another area in the park where there are some excellent trails. Here again the same thing. Cars and trucks parked all along the road up to the small parking area (3 spaces) at the trailhead. When I saw this, I passed it by. The third area was the same. At this area I could see down the paths that cross the mown fields, and I could see large groups that I would likely have to intermix with. That’s was my last chance, so I drove on home.

Although I was disappointed in missing my walk, I didn’t mind because I was taking charge. As Dr. Fauci has told us time and again, we are not in charge of the timetable for transmission of the COVID-19 sickness. This new virus, the novel Corona-virus, is in charge. But we can be in charge of what we do, of how we react to the presence of the virus. As he tells us the best thing we can do right now is do your best to prevent the transmission to ourselves and to others. We must follow the social distancing guidelines. We must avoid public areas as much as we can. We must protect ourselves, and thereby protect the hospital workers who we might pass on the trail or who live in our neighborhood.

But what about the grapes? Was it raining last weekend?

No, it was not raining last weekend. I took this picture of the grapes dripping water last year in late summer. I was in the same park but down by the broad creek that forms the boundary of the park.

The grapes were just beginning to grow, and so were quite small. I doubt that they would have grown to full size fruit as there are many animals and birds that enjoy the grapes, at whatever stage the fruit may be. I don’t eat them since wild grapes can be rather sour if you get them too early. And even if you wait until they are fully developed, they are still rather tart. As the grapes ripen the blue jays and other birds will fly in and sit on the thicker parts of the vine while they eat the grapes When the grapes are a bit riper, the raccoons and possums will climb up and pluck them off the vines.

Up in the woods of the Virginia foothills, I use to walk in a State Park in the Blue Ridge where there was a big grape vine there that the kids could pull themselves up on. I imagine that it was decades old. At my home in North Carolina there was an old grape vine that had been growing and hanging from a tree deep in the woods for as long as I could remember. The tree was toppled by a hurricane several years ago and the grape vine which was about 6 inches across had to be cut so the tree and its branches could be removed. I’m still hoping that the shoots I have seen on that stub will continue to grow for another 50 – 100 years.

These vines of wild grapes are all through the southern woods. They are a welcome sight as I know that the birds and the beasts enjoy them. And seeing the big vines hanging from the trees always make me smile as I think back to the first vine that I ever swung on.

But be careful; don’t grab hold of a poison ivy vine. They are in the same woods. Know what you are grabbing hold of. If the roots of the vine and where it is attached to the tree have “hair” growing out onto the tree the vine is climbing don’t touch it. Its poison ivy.

I hope we are all back in the woods soon. And please remember to always wash your hands.

I believe the grapes pictured are Riverbank Grapes (Vitis riparia).

DINO Tracks

On a recent trip to New Mexico, before we had to hustle back home, we visited an exposed dinosaur trackway in the north-east corner of the state.

For me visiting these sites is an experience in time travel as much as it is in science. The tracks at Clayton Lake State Park were made in the early Cretaceous period about 100 million years ago. At this time in Earth’s geology, the main continents that we know today had been separated from the Pangea supercontinent of 250 million years earlier and were roughly in shapes that are recognizable today. At the time the tracks were made the current continent of North America was divided by a shallow sea that ran from the Arctic area to the current Gulf of Mexico. This sea is known as the Western Interior Seaway. Its western shore ran along the eastern area of the Rocky Mountains. The western portion of the Seaway covered the states of Texas, Colorado and Wyoming as well as much of Montana, Utah, and New Mexico. Throughout the 79 million years of the Cretaceous period the seaway rose and fell, receding from and later re-covering areas of shoreline.

Along this shoreline walked the dinosaurs. They lived in what was likely a marshy area of damp soils in which their footsteps would create massive footprints that can now be seen in several areas along what was the western boundary of the Western Interior Seaway. This western boundary now contains what is called the Dakota Group of rock which was laid down by the silts of the Western Interior Seaway.

The trackway at what is now known as Clayton Lake State Park was discovered after a large rain event in 1982. The dam which forms Clayton Lake was built in the 1950s and improved in the 1970s. The dam captures the water of the Seneca Creek which is held behind the dam. The dam is 92 feet high and 150 feet long with a broad walking path on the top. This path leads to the dam’s spillway on its northern end. This is where the dinosaur footprints may be seen. When the dam was built a spillway was cut out of the adjacent hillside so that the dam would not be damaged by heavy rain events. In that type of rain event, the lake may become filled to near the crest of the dam. The adjacent spillway allows water from the lake to be channeled around the side of the dam so that it is not over-topped by the rising water. In 1987 as the water rose it flowed over the spillway in torrents large enough to carry away the layers of rock and dirt that overlay the bottom of the spillway.

I imagine that I can see that storm and the rising water in the lake. The overflow from the lake flows across the spillway, cutting away material above the dinosaur footprints and exposing them. Now as I look out, I can see the herd of dinosaurs moving up the shore of the lake. Large hadrosaurs, believed to have been Iguanodons, slowly walk past me moving north along the shore of the Western Interior Seaway. They browse on the vegetation that grows along the shore . Some splash out into the shallows of the water to eat the submerged vegetation that grows there. A baby Iguanodon scurries past me looking around for its parent. As it passes, a crocodile, swims up through the shallows looking for a meal, perhaps something about the size of the small Iguanodon that just passed. The crocodile is too small to be a threat to the adults, but it is large enough so that as it lies in the shallows, watching, the adult Iguanodons move around it. As I stand watching, the beasts in the herd flow around me, large bulls, adolescents, females, and scurrying so as not to be stepped on a number of the baby Iguanodons. They move past me on their way up the shore of the vast inland seaway.

In the failing light of the day they continue their trek. I can barely see them through the mist and slight rain that seems to continually fall. Suddenly, ahead, I hear excited chirps and calls from the herd. A great roar is heard ,and the Iguanodons can be heard splashing in the shallows as they surge into the lake. A carnivore, a meat eater, known now as an Acrocanthosaurus, can be seen coming out of the taller vegetation farther from the shore, and moving slowly towards the herd. It moves north following the herd of herbivores, plant eaters. Soon the herd and the stalker disappear into the mists and failing light.

I find myself still standing on the walkway that surrounds the dinosaur footprints, looking down the footprint left by the Acrocanthosaurus. I am back in the present. I look out across the arena where these creatures walked over 100 million years ago.

Pictures of these dinosaurs may be found at; Acrocanthosaurus at http://www.emnrd.state.nm.us/SPD/claytonlakestatepark.html and Iguanodons at https://www.newdinosaurs.com/131_iguanodon_raul_martin/

Information on the New Mexico Clayton Lake State park may be found at http://www.emnrd.state.nm.us/SPD/claytonlakestatepark.html , https://geoinfo.nmt.edu/tour/state/clayton_lake/home.html , and https://ucmp.berkeley.edu/mesozoic/cretaceous/clayton.html .

Moon Bowl

In 1990 Science News printed an article which told of the Mimbres culture of what is now southwest New Mexico. The Mimbres people made black-on-white pottery adorned with intricate designs and mysterious animal. Of particular note in the article was a shallow bowl with the figure of a rabbit painted on the inside. According to the article the rabbit is an animal associated with the moon in numerous indigenous cultures of what is now the Southwest United States and Central America.

Upon close observation, the image of a rabbit on its hind legs can be seen in the dark areas of the full moon. Which might have led to the link between the rabbit and the moon.

The article concerned a study led by astronomer R. Robert Robbins and student Russell R Westmoreland then of the University of Texas in Austin. In studying the pottery of the Mimbres culture, they happened upon a specific bowl which pictured a rabbit “clutching” a small circular image with 23 rays. They proposed that this bowl was a record of the explosion of the supernova which created the Crab Nebula. The explosion was recorded by Chinese astronomers in the 11^th century Common Era (CE). This would make the bowl, now known as the Supernova bowl, the only known record of the supernova that created the Crab Nebula outside China and Japan.

At the time I found the story intriguing and started a search for more information on stories from indigenous peoples related to a rabbit on the moon. I was also curious about the shape of the shallow bowl. It was round but quite shallow and would not be able to hold much inside, whether it was water, or grain, or sand. I was not able to find much information on either, but I was also wrapped up in my work as an engineer – and camping along the unpopulated portions of the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Several decades later I was sitting on my screen porch at night. I might not have been in the wilderness, but I was outside enjoying a very pleasant evening. The light that entered the porch was from a single streetlight across the street. I happened to look up at several items we had hanging on the wall of the porch, one of which was a large, shallow bowl I had bought in street market in Morocco in the 1960s. We had two of these bowls hanging on the wall as they are well made and have a colorful geometric pattern. As the light from the streetlight hit the bowls at a shallow angle the side of the bowl cast a shadow across the curved depth of the bowl and created a pattern of a waxing crescent moon, as it proceeded to a full moon. I was amazed. I carefully removed the bowl from the wall and turned it so that the light of the streetlight hit it a different angles and created a shadowing affect that appeared like the changing phases of the moon.

I found this interesting and wondered how ancient people explained the phases of the moon, or whether they might have thought of the moon as a bowl. Of course, we now know that the moon is not a bowl but rather is a sphere created around the same time as the Earth. As both revolved around the Sun and each other they became more and more rounded from the effect of the rotating motion.

Several years later while looking for a space-related gift for a colleague who was retiring, I came across a “moon bowl”. It was made of metal with an acid-etched surface. It was very shallow and looked very much, in its general shape, like the Mimbres bowl I had read about so many years before. I gave the gift and told the story, or what I thought was a plausible story, of how ancient people might have used a bowl to explain the phases of the moon.

Recently, I went in search of more of these metal bowls but was disappointed to learn that the foundry in Vermont was no longer making the bowls.

But the story does not change, and now when I stand outside and look up at the night sky. I wonder what ancient people thought the moon and the stars and the wandering planets might be. Some stories have come down to us, from when those people, our ancestors, stood outside and gazed up and the night sky and marveled at its beauty.

The Science News article from 1990 may be found at; https://www.sciencenews.org/archive/astronomy-71

Dr. R. Robert Robbins remains on the staff of the University of Texas in Austin where he teaches the history and philosophy of astronomy and archaeoastronomy; and science education.

The picture of the “Supernova Bowl” below is from a copy of the Science News article. I will post a better one if I can find it.