Where Dinosaurs Roamed

Tuesday May 17, 2011

The day before I left Bandelier I happily wore shorts while tackling last minute chores. The following day arrived with the chaotic weather of high altitude spring. I packed my car while shivering in biting wind and swirling snow. Ugh, it is May and I just want to be warm! Determined to find the sun, I pointed my car toward summer. I knew Southeast Utah would be compliant with warmth strong enough to penetrate sandstone.

In Utah, I  hiked through canyons, around arches, fins and up and over huge slabs of red and buff colored sand, cemented hard with time.  I gazed into the eyes of a ram and into the brilliance of paintbrush sparking fire in sage. I hiked until my muscles grew weary and my heart content to be in a place of silence so intense that it became hard to imagine the quality of sound.

 Friends urged me north. “When are you coming? We can’t wait to see you.” “I will be along in a day or two, I just want to do a few more hikes.”   My response was lame, not good enough. Carrie and Paul were persistent.  “You can hike up here.” Our friendship was cemented with the glue of more than three intense years of academic study. We were students of Asian medicine. We spent full days in the classroom, studied and stressed over exams, vacationed together, called each other to say, “Turn on your TV, quick, the Twin Towers are going down in flames.” Our friendship was rock solid.

Each time they called, I told them “just one more hike” and then I would head north. Reluctant to leave the comfort of my tent nestled among pinyons on the sun-drenched mesa, I was “dig my heels in the sand” unwilling to travel north into a latitude of winter. There was one more call. It came as I arrived at Grandview trailhead, “Hey it’s us, we thought maybe you would come up today and surprise us.” There will always be plenty of opportunity for a another red rock hike.  Carrie and Paul beckoned. Their love was hard to resist. I got into the Honda started the ignition and traveled the road north.

They fed me well when I arrived; spinach salad with tomato, onion and avocado, cooked broccoli, sautéed breaded eggplant with spaghetti and marinara, all made fresh, a delight, after a week of simple travel food. We shared stories before a night of dreams. At daybreak, they left for Lander  leaving me behind in the company of swallows.

The latitude kept its promise, I woke to falling snow mixing in a shower of rain.  Now, I sit snug on a leather couch looking out toward red rock hills draped in juniper at Cedar Springs Marina in Flaming Gorge Recreation Area.This boat is cozy, a home complete with an electric fireplace, a  perfect place to wait out a spring storm. 

 The reservoir straddles state lines on a route to nowhere. The marina, tucked in a southern arm stretches down into northeastern Utah. I drove up and over a mountain to get here. Along the way road signs informed of crocodile teeth found in the area, the presence of dinosaur tracks, rock that suggests the presence of oil, marine fossils and of the sea itself. With each mile I journeyed back into geologic time.

Today, alone, I float on top of clear lake water, home to record size trout. I have come here for respite, a time out, to rest my weary body, content to muse about reptilian-like creatures that grew larger than me. I wonder what or whose tracks lay buried under this water that has inched up these canyon walls with the damming of this portion of the Green River. The afternoon drizzle is a good excuse to sit still. Each time the sky begins to clear I think that I should dash out, explore, take pictures and find a trail to hike. I know before the day is through I will do this but for now I contemplate time on a boat.

 

 I have sailed, kayaked, cruised, ran a skiff and paddled canoes, but this watercraft is different. It is not merely transportation. This boat is a nest, a floating home.  Once I was aboard a vessel that carried lots of gear and biologists. The kind of boat where you sleep in a bare bones berth queasy from ocean swells and then at dawn you are asked to gather your things. Unwittingly, before you are truly awake your pile of gear is dumped into a zodiac, where it lays besides your feet as a stiff breeze rudely wakes you into the reality of life on a windswept barren island in the Gulf of Alaska, because that is where you are headed. The kind of place where your tent can barely withstand gale force winds as you cling each night to your survival suit for a pillow hoping no tsunami will find it’s way to your new beach-front property. Why would anyone endure such circumstance? To study storm petrels. Petrels are a small sea bird that spends their entire day feeding at sea on small fish. In the evening they return to land to incubate or feed their young.

In March 1989, I was finishing up my last few months as an environmental educator at a center in New Jersey when I heard the news that the Exxon Valdez split its hull, hemorrhaging gallons of crude oil into pristine Prince William Sound. Black death spread for miles with the tide suffocating the life out of the northern sea.  I did not understand how this event would impact my life. Just weeks after the spill, I accepted a position with the Marine Maritime Refuge in Homer, Alaska.  I headed north to montitor seabirds in Katchemak Bay and on the Barren Islands. The spill changed the focus of my work.

The petrels were vulnerable. They fed far out at sea increasing the likelihood of ingesting species coated with crude oil. Oil in their bellies and oily feathers would mean death to the petrels. But the Barren Islands were so far from Prince William Sound, surely these birds would be okay.

After setting up camp on East Amatuli I walked the shoreline idly dragging a piece of driftwood. What I saw horrified. Oil rose in the sand where the driftwood scraped the surface of the beach. If the oil reached the island it surely reached the petrel’s feeding grounds. How could we know for sure?

My study partner and I set out to find the petrel burrows. We would collect the stomach contents of the birds. We took turns reaching into the burrows in the early morning before the birds returned to sea to feed. We would gently feel for eggs or an adult. We would grasp the adult firmly in our hands and quickly pull it from the burrow poised and ready to collect the stomach contents as the bird regurgitated in defense. Agitated, the petrel would hurl an oily bright orange fishy smelling liquid into a strategically placed plastic bag. Labeled and sealed these bags were sent off be checked for oil to be used as evidence in a government lawsuit against Exxon. This proved to be odd but gratifying work. After two weeks on the island I welcomed the return of the boat that made me want to puke.

Carrie likened her boat to a floating hotel room. Not quite. When I think of a floating hotel I think cruise ship. No, this boat is definitely a small and cozy, home away from home, moored not far, by way of modern travel, from where oil oozes deep in the earth and dinosaurs roamed.

Bidding 2010 a Sweet Farewell

 The thrill of Autumn was a trip to Hawaii.  The islands  offered stunning beaches, clear water, lava rock (lots!) and an abundance of papayas.

Papayas at Hilo Market

Papayas became my favorite island indulgence. My quest for this fruit became an obsession. I ate papaya for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Aside from "Braking for Papaya," at every local fruit stand, snorkeling was a favorite activity. I grew up in New Jersey where I spent many blistering summer days along the coast. Splashing in salt water is familiar but sucking air through a plastic tube is weird, maybe even a bit scary. Body surfing is what you do in Jersey, not snorkeling.

The first couple times in the water with mask and breathing tube made me a bit nervous. Even though I know how to swim, the ocean and its depth prompts an irrational fear of being dragged out to sea and drowned. This fear, however, does not keep me out of the water and it certainly did not keep me from snorkeling.

Mostly, I snorkeled along shallow reefs observing an extraordinary array of shapes and colors belonging to fish. If you seek amazement stick your head underwater. I prefered to snorkel at a place called Two-Step, named for the stair like formation of lava that allowed snorkelers to climb in and out of the sea. Spinner dolphins like to rest in this area at night before spending their day near Captain Cook Monument.

No dolphins materialized during my first visit to Two-Step. Therefore, one visit to Two Step would not be enough. On my second visit, shortly after staking claim to an area of lava rock large enough to place my gear, I saw a large group of dolphins swimming offshore. The distance between the dolphins and me was beyond my comfort zone. I settled on the rough black rock, a bit disappointed, and pulled out some lunch and began to eat. After awhile I noticed a small group, perhaps five or so swimmers, in the area where the dolphins had been seen. Maybe I could do it, swim that far into the sea.


With snorkel and mask adjusted I slid into the ocean and began to swim, popping my head out of the water periodically to locate the other snorkelers who were also in quest of dolphins. Along the way, colors sparkled on the backs of fish as sunlight penetrated the reef.

Without warning the shelf gave way, I was far from the two tiered rock that offered an easy to return to my unfinished lunch. As hard as I tried I could not see the bottom.  As the water deepened  my heart rate quickened and I kicked harder and faster to match the adrenaline surging through my limbs. I popped my head out of the water looking for the swimmers. They looked like dots on the watery horizon.  I started to question what I was doing. A voice in my head ranted, "you are too far from shore, you should not be out here" and  then in the stillness of my gray blue world shapes emerged from below.  Disoriented, I stared deeper into my underwater world.  Gray forms morphed into dolphins. I saw a mother and her child and others. I swam faster, pumped my fins furiously to stay in sync to what appeared to be a dream, until suddenly, dolphins surrounded me. I swam close enough to touch the gray sleek bodies that effortlessly moved beside me. I did it. I left the safety of the land and entered the domain of dolphins.  

Two days later I looked into the massive mouths of manta rays as they rolled over exposing their underbellies in a quest to gulp down plankton. These creatures are massive and swim with grace. My eyes, as wide as a child’s on Santa’s lap, watched the manta’s feed until my skin chilled in the night. 

The islands are abundant with gifts. While hiking under the thick canopy of Kauai’s Napali Coast, I bent over to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from tree growing along the trail. I split the fruit open and immediately smelled the fragrance of Kauai. The sweetness of guava exploded on my tongue. Reaching for another, I knew I could live here; content to bear witness to water caressing the ample land.

Napali Coast, Kauai

  

I bought an ukulele in Hawaii. I have been practicing chords as the days grow short into winter. With each strum I can taste coconut, papaya and guava and see electric blue, flashy red, bright orange, yellow and iridescent green sunlight, shimmering on the backs of fish.

I am thankful for my travels and equally grateful to spend time in northern New Mexico. These past weeks have been a grand time for late night adventure. The other night I awoke in early morning dressed for cold and stumbled groggy into darkness with a pocket full of wishes, eager to see Geminids streaking through the pitch-black New Mexico sky. That was just days before a fresh foot of snow surprised us all in this La Nina winter. Recently I stood witness, in the silence of Frijoles Canyon, as the December full moon disappeared in shadow on solstice. Earlier that evening I snowshoed in the same full moonlight.

2010 has given me many gifts, the greatest being gratitude for the here and now. I never lose sight of the richness and beauty that each day offers. I am thankful for it all.

North Shore -Oahu