Sense_of_Place – Page 4

Grand Canyon – Sweet

So I asked my question.

“I was here 50 years ago. How much has the Canyon eroded since I was here last?”

I was standing at the edge of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon in Arizona. I was talking to a park ranger who looked like she would appreciate my curiosity – and also looked like she would know the answer.

She answered, “The Canyon erodes about the thickness of a piece of paper each year.”

“So,” I said, “that’s 50 sheets of paper, a tenth of a ream, about three-quarters of an inch. I thought I saw the difference.”

And yes, I did see a difference. Not when I peer over the edge and look outwards towards where I can see the Colorado River, but when I look around. There are more people at the Canyon then there had been in November of 1973. The Park is more modern. The trails look better than they had 50 years ago. But the trail down into the Canyon looked just as challenging.

In both my visits to the South Rim, 50 years ago and now, there was snow on the ground. The snow adds to the beauty of the Canyon, as the rocks and trees and shadow are accentuated by the stark white of the snow. But caution is necessary as the trails can be icy and slippery. But with snow or sun caution is always necessary as with the added erosion of the past 50 years its a long way down – plus a bit.

During this visit I would not hike the South Kaibab trail; I would do my hiking on the rim trail. But in 1973 I wanted to see how far down I could get before I had to come back up at day’s end. I started early in the morning with a light pack that I bought the day before in which I had an extra pair of gloves, some sardines and crackers, and something to drink. I don’t think they sold water in bottles back then. I was layered against the cold and had on my sea-duty rain jacket with a hood. It was heavy over my denim jacket, but it would certainly keep me dry. I also had on my woolen watch cap.

I had my copper bound walking stick and was ready to begin my descent. It was cold and clear, and I was the only person on the trail. It was great. The views of the Canyon opening to me were exhilarating. I could look back millions of years as I passed the rock face of the trail wall. I took time to think of all the history that had passed in the first few yards, and then I was well down into the prehistory of the Earth.

It was the uplift of the Colorado Plateau that allowed the marvel of the Grand Canyon to become. About 70 million years ago tectonic forces lifted an area that is now within Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona. As mountains formed and snows and rains fell the nascent Colorado River began its journey off the Colorado Plateau down to the Gulf of California. The River began to cut its way through the uplifted plateau as it sought to reach sea level. As it picked up sediments from its sources it flowed across the uplifted plateau like liquid sandpaper. The rushing River gouged and polished its way down to its present level. As the River grew so did the feeder streams that flowed into it; each cutting its own side canyon. The Canyon sides collapsed as the River cut deeper. This collapse created the width of the current Canyon. Rain and freezing water and trees and wind worked their own patterns of erosion on the Canyon walls, dislodging rocks that would tumble down towards the River below.

And here was another difference. As I hiked down in 1973 I kept an eye on the weather at the Canyon rim. I could l see clouds gathering and knew that it was snowing at the top. After reaching Skeleton Point and eating my sardines and crackers, I knew it was time to turn back in order to get out of the Canyon before the weather worsened. I was trudging up the last half mile in snow, leaving my footprints behind me. The wind was blowing the snow, and I had my hood up. Then I heard something. It sounded like the thumping of distant thunder. I put my hood back so I could hear better. There was a rumble and rattle of above me. I looked up and saw a good size rock rolling down the Canyon side in my direction. I took several steps backwards and watched as the rock landed on the trail where I had been standing and bounded further down and out of sight in the direction of the River.

I had witnessed the process of the Canyon. Things change. That rock is now in a different place and the level of the Canyon floor is now lower. And I can tell the difference.

Meteor Crater

In December of last year Science News reported on the discovery of a crater under the ice in Greenland. It is thought to have been caused by a meteorite nearly a mile wide. It was discovered during a scan of the thickness of the ice in the polar regions. The researchers were drawn to look more closely at the area due to the rounded edge of the ice over the crater.

In 2001 I was taking a commercial flight from California to the east coast. As I often do I took out the airline magazine from the seat back pocket and looked at the map of all the airline’s routes. As my trip took me via Dallas, I realized that the route would take us over Winslow, Arizona. This meant we might be flying over America’s most accessible meteor crater. I asked the flight attendant if she would ask the pilot to let us know if the crater could be seen from the airplane. About half an hour later the pilot announced that if we were to look out the windows on the right side of the plane we could see the crater.

There far below us with a clearly raised edge was an obvious crater in the Arizona desert. It was by no means tiny even at our perspective from thirty-some thousand feet. It was roundish, with a particularly squared-off shape. You could clearly see that it was a depression in the Earth.

Years before I had been there to see the crater, and had taken the opportunity to walk down to the crater’s floor. In 1971 I was driving to California for a stint in the Navy. My route west took me along I-40 which passes the Meteor Crater. I needed a break from the highway, and I was curious about what the crater looked like. It was summer, and it was hot. When I entered the visitors’ center and was purchasing a ticket the man at the counter asked if I was in the military and when I showed him my military ID card he waved me on through. I asked him if I could hike down into the crater. He said that if I wanted to I would have to hurry because it was at least an hour’s hike down and back. As I walked towards the door to the outside he called out to me, “Take plenty of water. And look out for snakes.” Good advice to a down-east boy on his first trip to the desert. The path was over a quarter mile long and rocky and steep. When I finally reached the bottom, I stood on the crater floor and looked up at the rim towering 500 feet above me. It had been windy and hot when I stood on the rim. On the crater floor there was no wind, and it was hotter. I don’t remember as much of the hike down into the crater as much as I remember the hike back out. I didn’t see any snakes, but I kept thinking that I should have carried more water. The path up was a scramble in the loose sand and rocks that easily gave way under my feet. When I reached the rim, I was hot, tired, and thirsty.

But it was a good hike – if only that I could say that I had done it. It’s not something they allow visitors to do anymore and probably with good reason. The crater can be a trap. It was simple to get down into it, but not so easy to get out of.

At over a half mile wide the Arizona crater is impressive in size but it doesn’t even crack the top ten of known impact craters on the surface of the earth. But most of the known craters are not as visible or accessible as the one in Arizona. They are hidden by millennia of erosion or they may be under water. The largest known impact crater is Vredefort crater in South Africa. It is 118 miles across and was created by an impacting celestial body that was approximately 3 to 6 miles across approximately 2 billion years ago. This crater is more than twice the size of the Chicxulub crater which is theorized to have been the finishing blow to the reign of the dinosaurs 66 million years ago. The recently discovered but undated crater under the Greenland ice sheet is 19 miles wide. Another crater in Greenland reported in 2012 in Space.com is estimated to be three billion years old and the oldest known impact site on Earth.

But back to Arizona. In the early 1900’s attempts were made to find the meteorite that crashed in to what is now the Painted Desert of Arizona. The object is estimated to have been up to 300,000 tons. The mass of the meteor and its speed likely caused the meteor to vaporize in its explosive impact. When you are on the rim of the crater its not hard to look up and imagine what the object might have looked like as it streaked across the sky and then exploded just before impact, carving out the crater. Soil and plants and rocks and rubble were heaved upward and outwards.

In 1994 I was again standing on the rim of the Arizona crater. I could look up and imagine the bright light that suddenly appeared in the sky and with a thunderous roar exploded in front of me. Of course if I had been standing there 50,000-some years ago I would have been vaporized as well. What is a safe distance from such a blast? Miles and miles I am sure. And even if I was at such a distance to only feel the earth tremble and to see the blinding flash on the horizon and to have been knocked to my knees by the pressure wave from the explosion, I am sure that it would have left a searing mark on my memory. The mark I carry now is one of looking up from the crater floor towards the rim and realizing that the best path for me to take was upward and out before the night fell. And I was wishing I had brought more water.

Information on the craters mentioned above may be found at:

Regarding the Vredefort site, https://geology.com/articles/vredefort-dome.shtml

The recently found crater in Greenland was reported in the December 8, 2018 Science News, https://www.sciencenews.org/article/impact-crater-greenland-asteroid-younger-dryas

In 2012 Space.com reported on what is the oldest known impact site on Earth, https://www.space.com/16366-oldest-meteorite-crater-earth-found.html

The home page of the Arizona Meteor Crater is https://www.meteorcrater.com/

Frosty Morning

What it’s like going out to a bird survey station in the late Fall before the sun comes up.

It’s DARK !

It’s quiet.

It’s cold.

There’s the sound of the frosted grass crunching under your feet as you walk up the hill.

It’s the frosty haze from your breath.

It’s your heart beat as the loudest thing you can hear.

It’s thinking that your backpack is too heavy with too much stuff.

It’s passing the old family cemetery.

It’s stumbling on a root that you’ve stepped over 1,000 time before.

It’s the little bird flying up in front of you as you pass its roosting place in the grass.

It’s your heart rate speeding up.

It’s stopping and standing and listening and hearing the exhale of the Earth.

It’s seeing Venus brighter than you’ve ever seen her.

It’s losing the path and stopping to try to find your way.

It’s finding the path.

It’s thinking that you hear something.

It’s reaching the summit.

And it’s setting down your chair – and sitting in it.

It’s relaxing to the point of being in the dark like everything around you.

It’s looking up and seeing stars you can’t see from your house.

It’s your heart rate slowing down.

It’s knowing that no one else is out there – it’s just you.

It’s recognizing Orion and Spica in Virgo.

It’s having a cup of hot coffee from the thermos you carried in your back pack.

It’s hearing a night hawk close by.

It’s sitting quietly and watching the eastern sky brighten as dawn comes.

It’s waiting – for what you’re not sure.

It’s seeing a deer cross the top of the distant hill.

It’s seeing a fox come out of the underbrush and look at you.

It’s wondering what the fox may think.

It’s seeing the hill and the woods go from grays to the golden browns and reds of the Fall.

It’s knowing that the persimmons can be eaten – if you can find them.

It’s hearing the first bird sing out – and an answer.

It’s recognizing the bird song from your youth.

It’s thinking about what you need to do that day.

It’s the excitement of hearing the bird call you are seeking.

It’s seeing the sun come up.

It’s realizing that what you’re doing now is as good as it gets.

It’s lingering in the early light.

It’s walking down the hill in the morning sun.

It’s saying a prayer for the whole world on a frosty morning.

An Acorn in my Hand

When I walked outside this morning it was warm and humid but there was promise of change in the air. It is August, and we are well into summer so the temperature and the humidity were not a surprise. But I realized in my first few steps into the day that a change was coming. It was not as bright. The sun had not yet come up. The days are growing shorter. Soon we will have darker mornings and cooler nights. Then the moisture will slip away and we will enter Fall and Winter. There will be no more long, balmy days. But it will be a great time to go outside into the dark and to marvel at creation.

Any day or any hour we can look around and see creation all about us. Yet for me to look up at the clear night sky and see the stars and distant galaxies is always the most fantastic of moments. In the current summer nights Arcturus and Vega rule the night sky. The Summer Triangle of Vega together with the bright stars Altair and Deneb is clearly visible even on less than pristine nights. As we approach Fall, Orion with its brilliant display will rise in the night sky.

Each of these stars and the hundreds of billions of stars in each of the visible galaxies are part of the vastness of creation. Each of them – which we see as points of light of varying brightness – was born out of a cataclysmic explosion and a whirling vortex of hot gasses which coalesced to form stars, galaxies, and for us, our planet, Earth. This is not to imply that ours is the only planet. We know we reside in our star’s system with eight other planets (I am including Pluto) and a myriad of asteroids and comets and minor planets. And beyond the Solar system we have discovered there are a multitude of other stars with planets circling them. All of these are part of the vastness of creation. But we are on this one, and that makes it the most important planet in the universe for us. We are part of it. It is our home. It coalesced from the cosmic dust, and so did we.

When I lie down on the grass under a night sky full of stars I can marvel at creation. I look up and let my mind be swept away to amazing and far distant places. I wonder how we will get to there. Will we be able to wander across other worlds? I know that we will someday make that journey, and I am a little sad that I will not be on that ship. I am sure we will find unknown marvels in the vastness of creation.

I stand up from gazing at the stars and look around me. I see the forms of grass waving around my legs and the outline of trees in the darkness. I walk over to an oak tree, and I bend down and pick up a fallen acorn. I hold it up and study it and realize that inside this acorn are packed all the marvels of the universe, the galaxies, our solar system, and this Earth, our home.

Quail and Sparrow

I submitted my siting to the online bird database. The first thing they told me – and I expected them to tell me this – was that I likely did not see what I told them I saw. But that’s ok, the data managers’ responsibility is to ensure the data submitted makes sense.

What I had seen was a black bellied whistling duck (BBWD). But I knew the bird was way out of its normal neighborhood. The BBWD is a bird of Florida and southeast Texas and up the Mississippi River as far as Tennessee. The map of its range can be seen on the black bellied whistling duck page of the terrific, on-line Cornell guide to birds. But it is not seen in a creek in the hills of Virginia. But that’s where I saw him, or rather them. Three BBWD standing in a creek on those long, very unduck-like legs with their long necks held high.

They looked quite at home in this lowland stream. And I was very much at home in the outdoors walking these woodland paths. I had not seen one of these long-legged ducks before, but I knew them from pictures. I was certain they were not geese. But I was surprised to see them there minding their business while I minded mine. As I watched them they flew off to some other more private stream. I imagine that they were heading back to a location that they are more use to. I watched them until they disappeared through the trees. I stood and continued to watch and listen in case they circled back. They did not.

What is it about birds that has the capability to enrapture us?

I think it’s because they make themselves available to us. They fly overhead. They will sit in a bush – perhaps hidden – and sing to us and to all of creation. They have the capability to remind us of the life and the beauty that is abundant in this world. And knowing this, they also remind us of our responsibility to enjoy and protect them, and to protect areas in which they can live so that they come back year in and year out to nest and sing and give new life and joy. The appearance of a certain bird may be a harbinger of spring. Or it may be an indication of a change in the weather, as gulls flocking inland may be warning of a storm. Their morning songs bring up the sun. And their last flights of evening bring the return to the nest and the calm of the night.

There are two birds in which I am currently interested as a volunteer citizen-scientist for a national park. I help with the park’s bird observation and management programs. It’s great. I have a reason to be out in the woods and the open fields. And it takes me out for the sunrise and into the new day that follows. I often hike to my listening stations in the pre-dawn darkness. It takes me out in the Spring and in the Fall and my task is – to listen to the birds sing.

I listen for the gentle call of the Northern Bobwhite Quail and the often hidden and reclusive Henslow’s Sparrow, a little bird of the open fields. The surveys each bird are repeated in selected areas along specific transects with established stations. It requires standing still and listening; it requires patience. Often I do not hear the quail whether it be the well-know “bob-white” call or the more muted nesting calls that might be heard. Nor do I often hear the Henslow’s Sparrow the thin, reedy notes that might rise and fall in the tall grass. But that’s all part of being outside. The birds are allowing me to share their home. I come with respect and quietness. And I am rewarded, if not by the song of my subject bird, by the call of all their feathered partners of the woods and fields.

Listening and surveying for these birds is part of an overall program to determine the health of the local environment and its ability to support these birds and birds similar to them. If the birds are present it means that they have an adequate food supply and have a place to perch, or hide, or loaf. I love that term and often picture the quail loafing around their nesting area. However, absence of these birds indicates that they and other birds may not find the food or cover or level of calmness that they like in order to take up and maintain residence in the area. As noted above we have a responsibility to ensure that we maintain and conserve areas where wildlife may thrive and we can go and loaf ourselves.

And the Whistling Ducks, they are welcome to come back anytime, but I agree with the purveyors of protocol on the bird site. This is not a normal occurrence, but it is the normal and the not-normal that continue to draw me outside to enjoy the birds, and the woods, streams and open fields.

Halcyon!

Picture is taken from Jules Breton’s painting “The Song of the Lark” from the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago.