A Lifer for Bill

"Olive-backed Pipit...the bird of the trip...the rarest bird on this island!"
Bill's eyes lit up with frenzied hope as I laid out the options for Brookline Bird Club's first evening on St. Paul.

Over my mountain of rice and octopus, I surveyed my 20 charges with uncertainty.  Out of the three options I'd given them--male Brambling at Hutch Hill; Common Cuckoo at Nova Stoshna; Olive-backed Pipit at Webster Celery Pits--the pipit was the one I was least stoked about. The previous day, Cory, Ashley, and I had failed to relocate it, my gut feeling was that it had skipped town.

Bill, leading his 23rd--and final--trip to St. Paul, wasn't about to be swayed. Unlike the other options, Olive-backed Pipit would be a Life Bird for him. So, after we escaped Trident's caloric onslaught, we loaded into the bus and drove to Webster. A few hours later, I dropped them off at the King Eider, still pipitless.

Two days later and Bill still hadn't gotten a Life Bird. I really hoped we'd find one for him--after all, it was his final trip. It was my day off, so I decided to go turn over some rocks that hadn't been flipped for awhile. It was a beautiful afternoon. Sunny, warm, only light winds. Just beyond the airport is a nice corridor of wet areas separated by lupine-carpeted dune bowls. We often check the wet areas individually, but I decided to just walk the whole complex.

I drove past Weatherbureau, arm raised in Rock Sandpiper salute to the lost Barrow's Goldeneye and Double-crested Cormorant. At the road's end, I grabbed my camera and binoculars and began slogging through the Mare's Tail.

When I guide, I'm constantly "on". You have to be sensitive to the needs of your groups, play off their dynamics, give them the best experience possible. You have to be adaptable, intuitive, three steps ahead of where the group's at. Your work goes far beyond simply finding them birds. You have to figure out the best way of getting everyone in the group on it, then be an ornithological encyclopedia about the identification, the life history, take a stab at explaining why it ended up on this speck of a volcanic island instead of on its Siberian breeding grounds. It's exhausting, gratifying work. To recharge, I must allow my thoughts to outwander my feet when I'm off.

I was thinking thoughts so deep they must have been heavier than my feet (swaddled in sweaty alpaca socks, entombed in rigid rubber coffins) when I saw a bird with huge white wing patches flying away from me. Huge white wing patches are not a trademark of any St. Paul regular, so I drew my binoculars and nailed the bird in my sights.

Awwww yeah--HAWFINCH. Most years, some Hawfinch end up in the Pribilofs as they leave their wintering grounds in Japan and head towards the Kamchatka. It was a Life Bird for me. Was it a Life Bird for anyone else?

The bird landed on the far side of the bowl. After snapping a "record shot", I called Scott, who was taking the Brookline Gang around that day.

"Yo."
"Hey, I got a Hawfinch in the dunes between Tonki and Tim's."
"We're heading that way."

By some miracle, when Scott's group started walking from Tim's, the bird had positioned itself optimally--to escape, it would have to fly by me or Scott, and those glaring wing patches weren't going to make a stealth escape easy.

Scott's small army and their colorful windbreakers crested the dune. The Hawfinch flew. I glared at it bouncing away in finch fashion. They were so close to getting it, this escape attempt was not permissible. I called Scott, barely out of shouting distance.

"Yo."
"It's flying your way...LOOK UP! Oh, it landed. Do you have it?"
"No."
"It must be just over the berm for you."

They marched forward, Scott raised his hand, they stopped. They had it. My anxiety upwelling receded, and I made my way to the group to be greeted by a receiving line of high fives.

During the chase, Bill's windbreaker had slipped down to his elbows. His eyes--those eyes that have been finding birds for more than 40 years--were wild, elated. He shook my hand.

"Nice going, nice going, I've been coming here for 23 years and this is my last trip. Great find, the bird of the trip. Good direction. Well-played, nice going."

Bill had gotten his Life Bird

Gale Walk

With the craze of spring migration, Days Off have been a precious resource to all St. Paul Tour guides. Although working here is living the dream, Days Off allow for activities ordinarily impossible--long walks; writing; not wearing pants. Two days ago, my legs needed stretching; my head needed emptying. I threw a journal in my pack and hitched a ride to Southwest Point with Cory and Ashley. There, I hoisted my tripod on my shoulder and set off towards Marunich.

12:30 PM. It's been a half-hour since I started walking the ATV trail from southwest, and I'm almost at the top of High Cliffs. The wind is fierce--it tangles my hair, buoys kittiwakes, slams swells into the rocks well below. The sea is angry, beautiful. I crouch as close to the edge as I dare, just above grating Parakeet Auklets, imagine my mom's disapproval. I feel so small, so alive.

1:20 PM: I've now made it to the base of St. Paul's highest point, Rush Hill. It peaks at a whopping 665 feet, and I spontaneously alter my route to take me over its summit. I've traded the guttural sounds of the seabird colony for longspur snarls and Rock Sandpiper (Frog Sandpiper?) croaking. An arctic fox whines from another slope. There is no shelter in this bowl; unsurprisingly, no birds either. Time to move on...

2:02: I still have not summited Rush, thanks to my discovery of an intriguing fissure begging to be explored. Following the fissure led me to an American Pipit and a large opening that felt like an abandoned ampitheater decorated by tundra flowers, moss, and reindeer skulls. Snow Buntings and Rock Sandpipers call from the slopes. The beauty here is more peaceful than the sea's fury.

2:58: After a harrowing walk down Rush Hill's volcanic furrows I'm now sitting on a grassy plain. I sat in some veg that smelled like sage--and on further examination, tasted like sage too. I'll make this a short stop--Tsmana's pond and house beckon from a mere half-mile away. I finally remember to take a lupine photo for Dave, and suddenly feel a twinge of guilt for the selfish pursuits of my day off. Adri, Danielle, Gunnar, Katie, Rose, Summer--you're all in my heart. I miss you. I'll write you soon.

3:29: Tsmana. There are 2 Red Phalarope on the pond--2 Red Phalarope and a LOT of whitecaps. I knew walking the shore in this gale was idiotic, but last night Scott and I talked about irrational opinions and one of mine was that a Spoonbill Sand would be waiting here for me. It was not, but Red-legged Kittiwakes are gathering mud next to me and that's pretty cool, too.

Tsmana Camp House

4:07: Wind and hunger make me angry...need I say more? I packed a sandwich, but ate it about 2 miles into my hike, back at High Cliffs. That was intelligent. It's so windy that as the waves are coming in, the opposing wind is actually blowing them backward. There is a big raft of Harly Ducks offshore; the fulmars seem to be enjoying the gale. Glad something is.

4:44. I found a bird I hadn't crossed paths with for a couple weeks--Red-necked Grebe. I pretended it was a rare bird, and thus documented it, since that would be the correct action. This documentation was less to prove the bird than it was to prove that I have a camera.

5:21: Once I saw the size of the Harly flocks along the north shore, I halfway expected to find a Steller's Eider, and I did! Steller's are the smallest eider and nest on arctic tundra. At St. Paul, they are a fairly common winter resident, and there are still a few lingering with the Harlequin flocks. Steller's are listed as "threatened", and thus a better bird in more parts of the world than, say, the Common Cuckoos that have been causing a ruckus on St. Paul this past week. It's only the 3rd time I've seen one; the walk has now been justified.

5:54: Aww yeah, made it to Cormorant arches, it's an easy 20 minutes back to Marunich. I'm ready to be done with the wind, which must be a sustained 30mph+. The gusts unbraided my hair, which induced a fit of rage when I had to wrangle my hair out of my eyes and mouth as I tried to identify a swallow being buffeted. It's moments like these that tempt me towards dreads, girl problems...

9:15: Finally out of the wind, after a dash up to the north side of the island for an unsuccessful stab at Olive-backed Pipit. Per usual, my day off left me more exhausted than the accumulation of days on, but it's a good kind of tired.

Quarry Qualms

Greg Fleming Photo

There was once a time in my life when I loved the idea of The Quarry. Surely, its lava outcroppings beckoned to any off-course bird; its mossy boulder-covered walls must harbor vagrants. There also was a period in my life when I devoted too much time to imagining what my first good Asian find on St. Paul would be. I would even pore over Rare Birds of North America before I went to bed, hoping my dreams of Terek Sandpipers and Mugimaki Flycatchers would manifest themselves to reality. 

I now have entered a new phase in life. Now, I kind of despise the quarry, so much that I dream about it and wake up pissed. Additionally, I no longer wonder what my first vagrant find will be, instead wondering how long one can eat PB&J without becoming entirely delusional. These changes of outlook are connected; their nexus follows. 

Van #4 crept through the hamlet of St. Paul, its occupants scouring every roof for finches, every puddle for greenshanks. We all were on edge, sucking up any movement outside the van, straining to find vagrants from the previous day's storm that had driven even the most stalwart birder inside.

My phone whistled, increasing the tension in my gang of already-eager vagrant junkies.
"What's Cory got?"

The other tour leaders were scrutinizing the island too that morning. An incoming text could mean a breakneck ride over washboard gravel roads--or, it could just be Scott telling me about how the calm, sunny morning was perfect napping weather.

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just finding out if anyone was doing Quarry this morning, because I want to."

The suspense in Van #4 ebbed, and conversation resumed as we rattled out of town, dust cloud trailing behind. We had about an hour to kill before lunch--enough time, I thought, to work the quarry bowl and the two-track winding up to the lava fields. Even when it's not birdy, there's always solid scenery accompanied by a soundtrack of displaying Snow Buntings.

We bounced through Upper Cut. I tuned my eyes to the rocky hillside, filtered the chatter in the van. Tufted Flycatchers, splits and lumps...you know, birder things.

"I asked Scott how things were different with a female guide. He said the house smells a lot better."

I laughed and tried to think of something witty, which isn't easy to do when you work outside for like 14 hours a day.

Fortunately, some movement out my window caught my eye, saving me. It was small, brown, skulky--Asian by appearance and behavior.
"Get out of the van NOW and GET ON THAT BIRD." 
Heeding my own advice, I got it in my binoculars for a split second as it dodged rocks near the top of the hill. Even olive-brown back, short-tailed, small, thrush-like. I knew it was good.

On St. Paul, when you have good birds, even if you don't know what they are yet, you immediately get the word out to other groups, so protocol dictated I call Scott and Cory. It's Murphy's Law that places with the best birds have the worst cell signal.

"Hey Scott, I got on this small thrush-like bird running around in Upper Cut."
"You're breaking up."

Yep.

"In the upper cut of the..."
My phone stopped crackling and started beeping; the call had been dropped.

Cool. I had effectively lost the bird and infused terror over missing a rarity into the other guides.

Many stories could end here. This one, however, does not.

Matt Victoria photo

24 hours later, I was curled in the fetal position on A-dorm's couch. 
"I should ban you from ever birding in the quarry again," Scott warned. 

The mystery thrush, when relocated by our resident Sherpa, Brad, ended up being a female Siberian Rubythroat--a good bird. Good and infuriating, because it lurked in the rocks near the top of the ridge, requiring all able-bodied birders to stumble through the boulders on the hill, while those more accepting of their physical shortcomings waited anxiously beneath. 

I was an able-bodied birder. By some miracle, I still am an able-bodied birder. Getting up the ridge to Rubythroat land meant you had to balance precariously on boulders that in turn balanced precariously on the hillside. Deceptive patches of moss and lichen gave way to caverns that probably went all the way to China. After falling down several, I wondered if the rubythroat had made the same mistake and inadvertently ended up back home. 

Greg Fleming Photo

While I scrambled, I had two dominant thoughts: how much of my body I would sacrifice in order to protect my optics; the futility (idiocy?) of trying to find a small brown bird when every third step was potentially life-threatening. Note that most of us engaged in this undertaking clad in St. Paul's designated footwear--rubber boots. I have since deduced that it's generally a poor idea to engage in mountain goat activities when you're wearing rubber boots. 

Don't be deceived by my griping. I love St. Paul, I love rare birds, and there's a good chance I'll be tempted into the quarry again tomorrow.

Taming the Tiger Beer: Prelude

Sabah, Malaysian Borneo, March 2015

If you asked me a year ago where Spring Break 2015 would take me, I doubt I would've come up with anything exotic. If I've learned anything about life though, it's that mine is defined by its beautiful unpredictability. (To put things into perspective, I write this a few feet from the Bering Sea watching a bunch of Aleut kids engaged in serious nerf gun warfare.)

It was a string of remarkable events that led to my sojourn to Borneo this month. Subsequent posts will elucidate the island's wonders and our shenanigans (and hopefully tantalize you to the point of letting me guide you and your friends there next fall!). This post, however, will serve as a primer, setting the stage and introducing the key players of the next chapters.

It was a long night in the midst of a long winter; Katie (one of my nearest and dearest travel and mischief partners) had come over to my house for dinner and drinks. (My aptitude for cooking and her aptitude for eating are quite compatible.) While I cooked pasta and white sauce, Katie mixed tequila and grapefruit juice.

I feel that tequila is probably behind the, uhh, conception of many things, some of them less-benign than spontaneous spring break travel. After some serious work on the bottle, our own creative juices began to flow.
"Al, I'm so tired of being cold."
"Me too! Let's go somewhere warm for spring break."
"We totally should! Where do you want to go?"
"I miss Asia. What about Borneo?"
"Let's go to BORNEO!"

Borneo is a locale ever-intriguing. It's portrayed as a jungle-carpeted region overflowing with unique flora and fauna, alluring to anyone desiring eco-adventure. When I lived in Palawan, I was not far from the ferry to Borneo. My employers quickly squelched that dream though; the Sulu Sea has pirates and they were concerned I might classify as desirable cargo. When I returned to the States though, I didn't give up the dream--in life, you just have to be too determined to be defeated. It is at this point that the third key player enters the story.

Michael was a 2014 victim of my Kirtland's Warbler tours. If I wrote a factual book about our partnership, it probably would be a bestseller--in the fiction section. Michael has a unique problem: he has copious amounts of money, yet minimal time to think about its best allocation for adventures. I have the opposite problem, although it's not unique: minimal money, and copious time for planning adventures I can't afford. It's one of my favorite procrastination activities. For about the last year, I've been Michael's trip planner. One of the perks of this job is that sometimes, he takes me with him.

"Do you think Michael wants to go to Borneo?"
"Duh probably. Let me text him."

Indeed, Michael thought that paying for the three of us to spend two weeks in Borneo was a great use of his money. So did we.

So, on Friday March 13th, Katie and I (and later JP--Katie's boyfriend, with benefits and Gunnar, who Katie, JP, and I share as a boyfriend without benefits) headed to New York. Katie and I would fly to Kota Kinabalu by way of Hong Kong the next day.

#UCOC, NYC

This night was noteworthy in its own regard, and involved skipping down city streets, annoying cab drivers, and seriously considering using our hotel pool for the purpose of giving fly-fishing lessons. However, even that is far less interesting than the adventures that were soon to befall us in Borneo, so the next post will jump right into those. Stay tuned!

Blue-eared Kingfisher, March 2015, Lower Kinabatangan 

Oh, CANADA!

Jacob Norris photo Unity's dangerous proximity to Quebec was one of the biggest things compelling me to attend here. This year alone, I’ve ventured there four times: once when I was driving from Michigan; then over fall break; then in January, and now this last weekend. Each trip has given new adventures—beluga whales; northern lights; sleeping in a van in subzero weather; playing mandola to serenade a belligerently drunk man to sleep/make my escape. Sometimes I go by myself, sometimes I’ve managed to convince my Unity partners in crime to go with me. This last time, Gunnar and I decided to take our new Outing Club officer roles seriously and we organized a trip to Quebec—and, even better, the school funded it. The trip filled up immediately, and we spent the weeks leading up to the adventure getting excited for poutine and winter fun in the Laurentides Parc National des Jacques Cartier, Katie Schick photo On Friday afternoon—the day of departure—11 of Unity’s finest (plus our staff chaperone) filled our van with exuberance, anticipation, and instruments we’d plundered (with permission of said chaperone, of course) from the SAC. Our start was a bit shaky—backing the trailer in the parking lot turned into a 60+ point turn. Our hopes of a dramatic exit may have been demolished, but our journey quickly became a wealth of stories, adventures, and new experiences...  Van Band; Jacob Norris photo Music:  I love many things about Unity; one of them is the abundance of musical talent. (If you don’t believe me, let tomorrow night’s talent show knock your socks off! 8:00 at the SAC be there or be square!) Before our departure, we realized the necessity of a Van Band; immediately upon this epiphany, we dashed into the Student Center to borrow a guitar and banjo. Over the weekend, our Van Band cropped up many times. The most memorable edition was Saturday night. We’d paused at the hostel to let our poutine digest before driving out aurora chasing; naturally, an impromptu jam session was in the makings. The guys, rushing upstairs, intercepted me, rushing downstairs. We all did the sensible thing: sat down, jammed out, and marveled over the fantastic stairwell acoustics.  Stairwell Band, Jacob Norris photo Hostel: For a mere $17/night, we were able to rent a room in Quebec City. We probably spent at least that much in gas trying to find the damn place; in Unity, we don’t really have the phenomena of one-way streets, skyscrapers, and abundant pedestrians, so this was our first real cultural adjustment. We asked at least four people for directions and had the chance to lust over Mountain Equipment Co-op’s window displays from all angles as we circled the block clockwise, then counter clockwise, then somehow approached it from kitty-corner. The hostel was nice, though—notable features: the shower was big enough for Summer, Katie, & I; breakfast was clutch.  Quebec City; Connor McNulty photo Poutine: We are an exceptionally food-motivated group, and I think we talked more about poutine than anything else. Poutine should probably constitute its own food pyramid—it is a balanced meal of carbs, proteins, and fats. The best poutine we encountered came from Mo’s, an establishment clearly founded on genius, since not only do they have pulled pork and barbecue sauce poutine—they also have beer taps AT THE TABLES. Dangerous place, I’m telling you. Anyway, we ate so much poutine that we’re brainstorming writing “Poutine”, a parody of  the song “Codeine”. We’ll let you know how it goes.  Jacob Norris photo Friday’s sunset:  The beauty of the drive seems proportional to the distance from Skowhegan: the further away, the prettier your surroundings. Mountains, frozen lakes, ice-jammed rivers, general wild. The sunset Friday was breathtaking, so we pulled over next to a snowbank on 201 N to appreciate the shit out of the scene above Moosehead Lake. Appreciating the shit out of a sunset, when done right, involves van-standing and snowbank-floundering. The latter was a nice way to make the sauna-like interior of the van seem almost welcoming for like 30 seconds.               Connor McNulty photo The Border: The border crossing north of Jackman is nothing extravagant. It’s basically a shack that separates many miles of conifer, snow, and moose from many more kilometers of conifer, snow, and moose. This time, Gunnar decided our best strategy would be to blast the Canadian National Anthem as we rolled up to the little booth. The border guy was unimpressed with our taste.                 “Turn the radio down”  Once we had successfully navigated the border, we blasted the Canadian National Anthem no less than three more times.  Parc National de Jacques Cartier, Katie Shick photo

 Parc National de Jacques Cartier:

Conveniently located a mere half-hour from the inner workings of Quebec City, Parc National de Jacques Cartier is a beautiful expanse of public land in the Laurentides. The park has something for any outdoors enthusiast—skiing; snowshoeing; hiking; fishing; canoeing; camping… and, it has bathrooms. Really nice bathrooms that deserve their own special mention. Apparently, poutine wreaks havoc on the intestines, and as we drove down the river valley on the (bumpy, winding) entrance road, I think we all had the same thoughts.

“They’ve got really nice bathrooms in the visitor center.”

“They’re not going to be nice after I’ve been in there.”

 Both statements were accurate. The bathrooms were lovely: sunny, pleasant-smelling, warm, and filled with the sounds of Common Loons and American Woodcocks. All in all, it was probably the most cathartic dump I’ve ever experienced.

Connor McNulty photo

Several pounds lighter, we picked our poison—some took snowboards, others strapped on snowshoes; I joined the cross-country ski gang. We asked the park ranger for an “interesting” trail, and she happily complied. Maybe, “interesting” means something else entirely in French because this trail was “interesting” in the fact that it nearly killed us all. It was the end of the month; maybe the park had some fatality quotas to fill…

Katie Schick photo

    Although the trail was extremely challenging, it took us through the most beautiful places I’ve ever cross-country skied. We traveled through mixed forest next to the river, then up a small mountain alongside the edge of a cliff. That’s when it really got “interesting”—gravity kept tempting our skis over the cliff face, the hills were so steep we had to sidestep up, and the snow was waist-deep. It was challenging, beautiful, and I was so sore that later, I woke up in pain.

Although we pursued different winter sports, I think we all had challenging, beautiful, and physically taxing experiences at Jacques Cartier. Several people told me that day was some of the best skiing they’d ever done—this is music to any trip leader’s ears! 

Aurora:

Later on Saturday, after another hefty Poutine dose to combat the cold, we drove back to the park because we’d caught wind that the Aurora would be active that night. Many times I’ve tried to see the Aurora, many times I’ve failed. However, tonight was the night—looking north from the visitor center gave us a splendid backdrop of mountains and unspoiled night sky; eventually, as the moon set, the Lights became more and more active. We watched them dance above the mountains until the cold became unbearable, then went back to our hostel. This definitely was one of my trip highlights.

 All in all, the trip was full of fun and learning opportunities. We’re already plotting some more epic trips for this semester’s roster, and Gunnar, Caroline, Emily and I are hoping to make Unity’s Outing Club the best that it can be. Contact any of us if you’re interested in joining; we’ll welcome you with open arms!  

This gorgeous picture compliments of Connor McNulty. 

Cryptic's Choice 2014

One of the most valuable things I learned about myself this year was that I actually don't loathe poetry. Thank you creative writing!

One of the other valuable things I learned in 2014 is that my whole being gets stagnant when I'm not trying new things and pushing myself out of my comfort zone.

So, I thought it was fitting that my last blog post of the year be my first shot at haiku. Here's 2014, more or less...critique away if you desire :)

One of many good nights in the jack pines...

Getting a dumping

Lake effect don't mess around

Stopping my going

Irking my candor

Superficiality 

Why can't you be you?

Gonna make mistakes

Frank Sinatra in the air

I did the right thing

Vomit the pain out
Phone is shorting from the tears

Thank you for the hurt

Footsteps chase my own
Is that how it worked inside?
One dead, one got life.

All in one weekend

Taught me to shift, her to steer

My dad is a saint

There's a storm coming
Kirtland's sing bombastically
Uppies wolf whistle

Sun kisses bare breasts

Paddling topless through cattails

You're welcome bitterns

I will not wear shoes
They separate from the earth
My toughening feet

A swish of the line
Ply the fly, flirt with the trout
Dance with the current

Your screens enter first
Preventing you from sensing
Life in the moment

Cherry pie and rum

Made spectacles and stories

This is 'Murica

Your words were full of
Flattery, empty promise
They cooked me a trout

Wearing a long skirt

Because last night's was too short

You have a girlfriend

Blueberry mouthfuls

Mosquitoes buzz in my ear

Stomach has regrets

That Jack Pine soundtrack
Hermit Thrush and machine gun
Nighthawks overhead

Kiss until we're numb

Standing in starry river

Wish it were different

Small fingers grasp mine
Balancing on beaverdam
Bring kids to nature!

She called diamonds trump
Daddy Longlegs fed the fire
She took it alone

More new horizons

Belugas, poutine, spruce trees

Fueling wanderlust

Lighter, pot, paddle

Gonna make swamp gas fireworks

Blazey Badger smiles

Usually we jam
Purple juice staining my walls
This time, we jellied...

Slept in Central Park

Thought we might get arrested

Stood up for our home

Walls refuse to fall

My hand between him and heart

Not ready for this

Make bread on Fridays

Then spear rats with kitchen knives

You're fun to live with 

Your money can buy
Fake tits for your trophy wife
But won't buy you abs

Streaming tears, again

Too much laughter and ginger

Overflow with love

Gray Jays on my hand

Otters sliding on the ice

Mom I hope you're proud

If my writing works
Through a documentary
Resurrect the dead

The Beckoning Tree

Most of the time, I consider my height an asset, but not this afternoon as I push my way through the clogged deer trail. I stop to untangle my hair from the briars firmly attached to my hair and realize my reluctant playing of the Absalom role. This happens pretty frequently; it is an understatement to say that feminity doesn’t come naturally to me. I spent one fall afternoon trying to flush Ammodramus sparrows by bushwhacking through a brushy field. Afterwards, midway through a date at a sushi joint—a sushi joint with bathrooms classier than any place I’ve ever lived—I discovered a substantial matt of burdock lodged in my tresses. Long legs and long hair can be advantageous, but I’m probably undeserving of them both. I impatiently reclaim my hair from the thorns. My quest may involve snarled hair, but the end result will be a detangled brain. Although the trail around me is thick with undergrowth to thwart my passage I push down the trail towards a thin place.

Albeit patience-testing, the walk is not long nor arduous, and it meanders over land that my family has revered for generations. I’m answering a tradition, one prompted by love and the desire for reflection that spurs me across field, swamp, and forest to The Beckoning Tree.

                Leaving the sandy field, I step into a fine fragment of northern hardwood forest. There’s no trail anymore, so instead I let a deeper pull guide me towards my goal. Over mossy hummocks, through swaley spots threatening once-dry socks, over fallen trees—I press on. Just before I enter her presence I push through a screen of young trees, which her crown towers above.

                She’s a gnarly old sugar maple; for many years, my family has made the pilgrimage to talk with the Beckoning Tree. Her lower limbs unfurl away from the trunk, reaching out to grab you and draw you in. Her domain is always shrouded in a strange quiet that settles you. She’s ever receptive to people seeking solace and slow time.

Slow time is one of the things I miss most from the Philippines. There, it is a natural part of life. Here, you have to make a concerted effort to find it. If you’re not vigilant, it’s so easy for life to become a sanity-annihilating whirlwind of keeping up—keeping up with work, with friendships, with technology.  On every side we’re assaulted by information. Society tells us that silence is no longer crucial. The last week of the semester was sheer hell for me. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been in a classroom yet it was only yesterday that my brain stopped short-circuiting itself.

                So many people retreat to places like the Beckoning Tree in search of the same peace that I am. The spiritual capacity of nature is far from a novel idea, and it’s been exalted by many nature writers like John Muir, Thoreau, and Sam Campbell. Sam, describing his own sanctuary in Three Lakes says, “Here, silence and solitude are so profound as to be almost visible, beauty extravagantly lines the trail-sides, and the tranquility of eternity rides the breeze that sways the pines…it is my sanctuary…while I am sure that this mental state of peace, receptiveness, patience, free of hatred and vain striving, can be attained anywhere where one will honestly seek it, I know that the contemplation of natural beauty and grandeur is of tremendous aid.”

                Sam realized the need for a place—a sanctuary from the world. One representing not only retreat, but a spot where the curtain separating earth from spiritual realms ebbs, allowing you to see something of heaven itself. They’re places where it’s easier to listen to your inner voice, or the voice of God. Even though the world tries to thwart our seeking of higher things and places, nature is always inviting us to come and replace stress with the inherent silence and quietness of soul we experience from an environment conducive to thinking. It’s important that we find our thin places; one of mine is at the Beckoning Tree. Where are yours?