Nature in the Flesh

(Last week’s presentation: no slides, just skin.)

 

If you want big groups, power point presentations, and to learn about nature indoors, we can’t help you. But if you want to grow close to nature, hike hard in all weather, get dirty and tired, be intrigued in small groups, handle creatures that squirm, consider a career change, write poetry, find your inner wildness and surprises in your laundry, and to help save the planet along the way, you are invited to join The Naturalist School.

We do not collect or forage, take prisoners for pets, or believe that nature is our personal pharmacy or grocery store. We seek only to love and not to exploit, to honor the planet, do good science, and to become a more intimate member of the wild community to which all humans belong. If that sounds good to you, find yourself with us.

And wear good boots.

— Jack Phillips

 

Photos by our members: top right, Jerry Toll (with Abbe Richardson and Cooper’s hawk); bottom right, Sarah Berkeley (self portrait spreading prairie seed), all others by Robert Smith and his phone. 

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Less Mutter. More Moment.

Becoming a Naturalist, Part 21.

By Jack Phillips.

cricketfrog circles

Blanchard’s cricket frog (Acris blanchardi) in a bright ravine at Waubonsie State Park, Fremont County, Iowa. (Photo by Robert Smith.)

 

I find myself in a morning coffee shop when not in the field. Yesterday I drank a medium Rwanda and read my new fascination, the cosmic avant-garde French-village poetry of Gustaf Sobin. David Hinton’s new The Wilds of Poetry: Adventures in Mind and Landscape put me on to Sobin, held up as a clarion of eco-poetics in the traditions of Lao Tzu and Henry David Thoreau. The professors, philosophers, and poets at nearby tables new nothing of Sobin, not one. I argued that one day that Sobin will stand as a giant along Mary Oliver and Gary Snyder, and explained how his poetry speaks of the existential hunger of humanity for authentic contact with the wild. But then something came hot out of the oven, and we answered our quest for meaning with blueberry scones.

Today we are following a spring-fed brook, and my hunger for wildness takes the shape of a frog. An existential frog is much harder to find than a hot scone. Cricket frogs in this bright ravine jump ahead, preferring that we go back home. I don’t want to eat them, just to adore their shiny calico backs and maybe hear them sing. But they don’t believe that we will love them, and the last guy needed bait.

Humans have come to believe that nature is ours to collect, name, or forage. So nature does not wait for us around the next meander, but runs like hell or hides. Linnaeus hired a marching band to lead the way on field trips, and likewise we march into the bush, chanting mispronounced scientific names to hang on wild things that can’t get away. Cricket frogs are as disturbed by our super-sized feet as by our Latinized babble, by what Gustaf Sobin makes out as mutter and muscles:

 

    what the eye     flies after transluces; what

you want, doesn’t want: it vanishes…

    

    you’re only yours, mutter and

muscles, as you enter it, its vanishing.

 

    

    we’re almost not, and

know    it.   but the poem, the   poem happens

    before us , and we send it   across, in-

 

nocent and still    hesitant, instead of     us.

 

Sobin’s words make space for moments that can’t be captured. They feel to me like gaps in human ambition, respites from boots on the ground. But these spaces are more than the absence of words, they function as an opening into creative silence. In Hinton’s analysis, “A Sobin poem opens a “talk of mysteries,” a force field of wonder and query and unknowing.” Sobin’s ecopoetic practice weaves “consciousness and cosmos together.”

This morning in this bright ravine, this poem written in cosmos, we stand at the edge of unknowing wonder before we go crashing in, if at all. I long to enter the space in-between, to feel cool mud under my bare feet, to add mine to the impress of fox and bobcat, turkey, crow, racoon. And frogs. But the morning mysteries are guarded by poison ivy and nettle, so I keep my boots and my distance. In space and silence, in the stream in-between, cricket frogs indulge us a moment of vanishing innocence, a moment of being purely and ever-wildy frog. With them we are briefly spared the never-ending tromp and titter disguised as love of nature.

Swatting in Paradise

 

We believe that a good naturalist walks with ever-growing attentiveness, curiosity, wisdom, wildness, and creativity. We have found that drawing, writing, and other contemplative and creative exercises help us to grow in these ways. That’s why I love Jack Collom’s definition of poetry as “questions without answers.” “Without answers” means that the mind keeps on seeking.

A naturalist keeps seeking. That’s why we spent last weekend walking, writing, crawling, sweating, squinting, gazing, swatting, drawing, and photographing our way through Iowa’s Loess Hills:

A bridge arches
Through this pregnant fog to
A ghost wilderness.
——————————
Elderberry nodding gently
Flowers crisp and brown, poised
For purple plumping.
(Shaun Warkentin.)

——————————-

lopseed

Lopseed by Becky Colgrove.

 

Wuck wuck wuck , diddle doo.

Chickle tweep: hooah wee-oo-wee….

Here: hear cheer what?

Piddle pee dee dee dee; teacher greep!

(Birds of Honey Creek.)

————————————

 

leaf shadow drawing

Leaf Shadow by Sarah Berkeley.

 

Unfettered birdsong
Behind a wall of white
Impenetrable fog
Obscures paradise.
——————————-
Upturned feather
Shard of rock
Mottled sunshine
Cicadas’ response
(Alysia Alger)
————————–

 

saffron-winged

Saffron-winged meadowhawk. (Robert Smith)

 

And we’ll do it again this weekend and through late summer into the fall. You can find us somewhere in the Loess Hills for our Sunday morning series: Walking and Writing, Art and Curiosity. Details here.

Wearing the Skin of Dreams

(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 20) by Jack Phillips

spadefoot,harrisoncojuly16'17

Plains Spadefoot (Spea bombifrons), new metamorph. Harrison County Iowa, July 17th, 2017. (Photo by Robert Smith.)

I very seldom remember my dreams and when I do, they survive only as fragments. They are also quite ordinary; for all the surreal and fantastically supernatural events and weird juxtapositions that are the stuff of dreams, mine are oddly normal. That is, when I remember them. But why would I? Even as a child, my dreams felt like a typical summer day, governed by local geography and populated by wild creatures of my acquaintance.

A prompt assigned by last week’s nature writing workshop leader jarred loose a dream-fragment that never would have survived for more than 50 years if not for the waking event that followed. We were asked to write about an experience wherein nature and not-nature collided, an event when wild nature broke into our ordinary lives. First we would hike alone, then write. The toad that crossed my path probably had something to do with my remembering.

One summer night when I was maybe 7 or 8 years old, I dreamt that a box turtle appeared in my driveway. This would have been only slightly out of the ordinary, as the eastern box turtle (Terrapene carolina) was occasional in eastern Nebraska in the early sixties and in my woodsy neighborhood. Upon waking, the completely realistic dream compelled me, still wearing pajamas and the film of a dream, to bolt out of the house to see if were true. To my astonishment, in the very spot where my dream-turtle had appeared, was not a turtle, but an oversized toad. I fed her a cricket.

At some point during my childhood, I came to believe in something true and wild beyond the schoolyard and the regularly-mowed lawn, and I could find it in boundless nature to which dreams and other freedoms belong. Yet those dreams took me to places more familiar than exotic, beyond the outfield fence but not too far, with wild creatures not too strange, wandering the woods just on the other side of the creek. A waking dream or asleep could be a new path into those woods. I held this belief until I reached the age of knowing better, which I suspect has yet to arrive.

My mother always insisted that her children shower before bed after a day of dirty adventures, which was every day. But there are some souvenirs that soap will not scrub away, like bug bites, berry stains, pokes and prickles, and the residual smell of pond. The adhesive properties of amphibious slime endured for days. Under clean pajamas, the skin of the day became the skin of my dreams.

Such was the case with daydreams a well. Even after school started, the skin of free afternoons and weekend safaris bore the smell of frogs and fish. With chin on fist or hands in face, the faintly-scented patina of semi-permanent slime helped me endure my classroom captivity. Thoreau wrote of the “slime and film of habitual life” as the obstacle to reconnecting with nature. But that depends on your habits and where you get your slime. The wildness within us, nourished by dreams and daydreams and dreamy summer days, is sometimes only skin deep.

The morning after the workshop, I went to work wearing my habitual bug bites and carrying a notebook. My colleagues and I entered a steamy woods under the sentry of barking treefrogs. It smelled of young earth. Leopard frogs, hard to classify even when still, rocketed to escape our nightmarish advance. Slender chorus frogs, invisible at rest and even in flight, made merely dashes against the dewy green. With each step, the earth twitched with toadlets, barely more than tadpoles. A seldom-seen plains spadefoot (Spea bombifrons), with the skin of a frog and the body of a toad but belonging to neither, was seen. Secret spadefoots emerge on warm and rainy nights, and like a slippery dream, on the morning after.

Observing Rana

tadpole withlegs

Soon to be a bullfrog (Lithobates catesbeiana) at Hitchcock Nature Center. (Robert Smith.)

Becoming a Naturalist, Part 19.

The dark-night canoeing of my youth was humid and ranic. That is, crooned by members of an ancient and slippery clan that we, regulated by the Interagency Taxonomic Information System, have assigned to the family Ranidae. In my affection for them, I learned that bullfrogs were Rana catesbeiana, but that name has disappeared along with my boyhood ponds as human progress demanded culverts and flood control and suburbs and a new, better genus for bullfrogs.

Oddly, the new name was coined in 1802 by the author of the old name in the same year, biologist George Shaw. For some reason he proposed two different genera, but one of them, the genus Rana, has recently been stamped “invalid” by the ITIS. So now, we shall properly address the American bullfrog (taxonomic serial number 775084) as Lithobates catesbeiana. But they are still Rana to me, a nickname for a childhood friend.

With a sibling or buddy or two, wooden paddles sliding and pulling silently in inky water parting duckweed and spongy algae, big male bullfrogs would sing like bulls with frogs in their throats. The volume up close was astonishing; we could approach much closer than we would have been able on foot. Our flashlights would sometimes catch them ballooning their throats, making a bubble as big as themselves, already way too big for a frog.

A canoe was a magic carpet for us. We could float between worlds on a skin of space between water and sky, unbound by earth and almost invisible. Big snapping turtles would crawl into our torchlight, searching the silty bottom on tiptoe for carrion. Brassy carp with eyes always down, seemed to glide on finny wings for smaller morsels just right for rubbery lips. Bass would lie in ambush, barely concealed in pondweed. Above, bats and nighthawks fluttered and looped, coming close for the drifts of moths circling our lights. Fireflies glittered the shore. Chorus frogs and cricket frogs and crickets sang in metallic bells and whistles and little strings. Leopard frogs snored. Bullfrogs, having acquired evolutionary basso profondo, performed with unabashed bravado.

That was July. On hot summer nights when school days seemed distant in past and future, bullfrogs intent on procreation filled my imagination with songs and finally asleep, my dreams under canvas or under the stars if the mosquitos weren’t too bad. Fifty years later, they still sing for sex and territory and for all of us. The hot period immediately following the solstice, season of Rana, can be observed with a canoe or with rubber boots or old sneakers, or from a hammock within earshot. With little regard for daybreak or high afternoon sun, bullfrogs will perform for any audience throughout the day and season.

 

Observe and celebrate the season of Rana with The Naturalist School. Click here for July workshops.

 

 

Meadowhawk Watches

(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 18) by Jack Phillips.

meadowhawk

White-faced meadowhawk (Sympetrum obtusum), three days after the summer solstice in Pottawattamie County, Iowa. (Photo by Robert Smith.)

I reversed my usual route and decided to climb the steep face of the bluff that loomed over the little roadside parking. It is best to come down this west face rather than to go up, but on that early morning the oddly-cold late-June wind, barely beyond the solstice, advised a jacket and promised to push me up. She was little help, and soon my exertion made the jacket gratuitous. Many times I have learned not to trust the wind, but I was anyway beguiled by her confident demeanor gained by her long blow up the river valley.

I stopped to take a breather and to pack my wrap. I had only reached a shoulder, and soon gained the summit after another steep and hard ascent. There I found an unusual calm. The high savanna ridge was sunny and still and resplendent with diamond flowers, purple prairie clover and some white, and here and there an impatient rudbeckia well ahead of normal blooming. As I stood still and breathed hard, I was suddenly surrounded by squadrons of bright dragonflies of myriad colors and nimble flight.

They had their own reasons for mounting that ridgetop, as became apparent as they looped and landed on sunny perches to take the sun. They needed to warm up before commencing their ectothermic duties of hunting and mating and derring-do. I looked around at the familiar faces of pondhawks, blue dashers, whitetails, twelve-spotteds and widow-skimmers — all content to watch me watch them. I find it fascinating and a little unsettling that they can turn their heads like little deities with monkey faces. With each of my furtive steps, some would flit and some would hold. I reached out to gently touch a glowing-green female pondhawk on her wingtip; she remained unperturbed.

A few steps on, a host of mango and cherry seraphim darted from the woods and took positions on bluestem and rye. Some were saffron. With my close-focus binoculars, I studied their faces and even the hairs on their legs and veins in their wings. I made a new entry for white-faced meadowhawk (Sympetrum obtrusum) in my odonate survey for this site. With each step the meadowhawks turned their faces, and I suddenly felt all eyes on me. I put away my notebook and lenses, feeling that I had crossed a sacred boundary and had received an undeserved vision.

Sometimes the dragonfly pantheon offers less taxonomy and more divinity and asks less documentation and more reverence. Their lives and that high place were not to be reduced to species lists as though a bit of Latin could reveal their true identities. I needed to be precise in my science and attentive to the wild mystery that surrounded me. I walked on that high savanna as on a sacred place, but not through any scientific knowledge or spiritual insight on my part. It had been consecrated by dragonflies.

Spiders that fish.

dolomedes triton

Dolomedes triton, six-spotted fishing spider, captured, admired, and released at The Naturalist School last Saturday. It measured more than 2″ wide. They lie in wait on aquatic vegetation for fish and other prey. (Photo by Robert Smith.)