As One with a Place

It is very hard to really see with eyes open, let alone to hear. I closed my eyes and heard all the birds and life around me. An orchestra of incessant twitters, and a fanfare of tooting trumpets, six beats or so apart. Rustling leaves, a waterfall, with a quiet trilling underneath it all. It is hard to hear, our ears are not used to listening.  We are not used to stopping and sitting down as one with a place. The birds chirp whether we listen or not, yet we do not protect the music in our lives. The bubbling brooks often choked out by waste and trash. The music of birds and rustling leaves often marked by the thump of a tree lost. An axe to innocent hearts, silencing the melodies. Their sounds are drowned out by our cities, our cars, and by our loose, blank, gazes.

In any exploration of place, it is also important to observe and explore the little things that exist all around.

The birds are particularly alive.

Chi, Chi, Chi

Twit, Twit, Twit

At home, Tuesday, the Tree Swallows were going crazy, swooping and squawking, twittering and diving. There were at least seven. It seemed that they were fighting over one of the bird houses.

By Lake Champlain, I saw Cedar Waxwings near their nests.They hurried across the road at my approach.

Mr. Heron, of the Great Blue variety, often flies by. If I’m lucky, he’ll stop to fish on the rocky outcropping that I call, “The Point.”

On my canoeing excursion I saw other birds fishing in the lake’s waters. They approached the water, keeping their keen eyes open for fish. The slim tern I caught diving didn’t have any luck the first time, yet he emerged, shook his feathers with dignity as he flew up, and continued his dance routine for dinner.

A Common Loon was resting on the calm surface, when I glanced back he was gone. He had dived under the surface for fish.

Later on, as the sun was getting lower in the sky, a family of ducks swam by our shore. The six tiny ducklings huddled near their mother as she swam.

Flip, Flap, Splash

Flip, Flap, Splash

It takes constant observation to understand and learn, yet I know that behind the life of the birds lies the lake. I sat by the lake at 7:30 AM one morning, and although I still heard the rumble of every car passing by, I could also hear the lake’s breaths as they came to meet the rocky shore to say “Hello.”

Swoosh, Swuish

Swoosh, Swuish

My two small canoeing brought me closer to this lake. The first, there were nice rolling waves and only a few tall waving strands of seaweed could be spotted. It was about 5 PM, there were a few sail boats to catch the wind, parties taking place on the shore, and the waves sparkled.

I saw a Map Turtle bobbing around in the lake near the shore. It likes to sunbathe on our rocks, but if you get too close it hurries back into the lake. In the canoe, the little turtle hung around until we neared. He ducked his pointed nose down and swam away.

The second canoe trip took me to Black Creek. This is near a shallow area with a sandy bottom perfect for what I believe to be Freshwater Pearl Mussels, and the invasive Zebra Mussels that cling to their shells. They coated the bottom between the tall fronds of grass and between the Yellow Pond Lilies. The lily flowers hadn’t popped out of the water yet but we could still see their vibrant yellow and a hint of dark red in the petals. After this, we rowed back to the shore, and to the camp.

Slap, Splish, Splash

Slap, Splish, Splash

I learned about the lake shore on a small adventure with my cousin on the 19th, too. The plan was to go to a little beach that I had gone to with my family as a kid about one mile down the road. Upon arrival, we found a austere sign reading “PRIVATE BEACH” in black lettering. This was of no consequence to us, but it reminded me of the increase in privatized shoreline properties in Maine. These ultimately limit access to mudflats, impacting the income of people who depend on clams for their livelihood. For my cousin and me, we simply returned to our property, yet it was a weird chance to witness in just a few short years.

PRIVATE BEACH

I also had a chance to learn about telling the weather with the sky. The lake was calm, not a wave to be seen, and the sun was shining, yet far across the expanse of flat water, a deep blue cloud shrouded the shore in its darkness. At every glance, the boat moored out in the lake next door was being pushed by a breeze from yet another direction. The winds were changing, indecisive, before the predicted rains finally came.

Drip, Drop, Drip

Pitter, Patter, Pitter, Patter

Me and my cousin before setting out.

Getting ready to adventure on the lake.

Canoeing and Kayaking into the lake.

The family of ducks swimming by the shore.

All about Alburgh

In my mission to explore the state of Vermont where I live, by learning about its communities, life, history, culture, and landscape, I started the summer by visiting the Alburgh Dunes State Park in Alburgh, Vermont. The following vignette was inspired by my time on that beach and by time spent learning a little bit about its history.

The waves are alive with the shadows of dancing fish and laughter. The shore welcomes their steady pulses, yet is left only with the scattered remnants of petite shells when they retreat.The shore only has its memory, as even the feet that sink in, last but a minute, and the waves wash the time they spent together away. The small pulses of the lake move on, but did you know? The shore has traveled, too. Only, its subtle movements aren't as obvious.

So long ago, a layer of glacial till was abandoned by retreating glaciers. It eroded, and the lake’s currents brought the dust down to where it sits now, this little stretch of sand. It has been a long journey, and it is so far from home.

Yet, as each summer comes to an end, a southerly wind may blow, and the sands move on again. The dunes of sand form, separating the wetlands behind from the shores. Year after year, the sands migrate.

And as the winds blow, the waves continue their tiny pulses. They have a history, too. The memories surge as each child rushes through the waters, trying to dump the lake into a tiny hand-dug hole in the century-old sands. This lake has changed, was once an inland estuary of the Atlantic, now of peaceful freshwater. Now, it exists on its own. Many years of snow and rain have flushed out its estuarine waters. Even so, some of the same plants from that post-glacial age remain, the ones that can dig their roots into the moving sands and thrive.

I went to this park on Saturday 13th with some family members. I have included some picture of our time at the park.

 Out in Lake Champlain

A view down the beach.