Travel Tuesday: Modest canyon northwest of Austin beckons birds, hikers

Sometimes, the best sightseeing is right in your back yard.

If not literally, practically in the back yard.

My Beloved and I discovered a hidden gem only six miles away from our Texas condo. It took us more than a year to spend some time there, and really, it is too bad, especially considering it’s an outdoor venue that is particularly alluring in a pandemic.

The gem is the Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge, about 45 minutes northwest of Austin and Lake Travis. Imagine the Grand Canyon on a much smaller scale. The comparison is apt because at one time, some version of the Colorado River probably ran through it. In practice, it means you can enjoy the place without all the crowds. And admission is free.

The promotional literature brags up this place for birders. The rugged terrain has spared old Ashe juniper and oak woodlands from logging and shelters some of the best golden-cheeked warbler habitat. Elsewhere in the 27,500-acre park, the open country supports another songbird, the black-capped vireo. Both songbirds are endangered, and the refuge is critical in preserving and restoring their homes. Because of its importance to the birds, this refuge has been officially designated a Globally Important Bird Area.

But I didn’t even notice the birds—it’s a great place to take a quiet walk. Mostly flat, it’s fairly easy to traverse, but there is enough elevation changes to make things interesting. At high points, one can see all the way to Lake Travis and beyond.

Layers of limestone, up to 1,000 feet thick in some places, underlie the refuge. In Spanish, “balcones” mean balconies and is a reference to the limestone terraces clearly visible in many part of the refuge. In some places, huge boulders litter the terrain.

Indian paintbrush flowers, also known as prairie fire, lend drama to the scene.

We hiked through the refuge in spring. As elsewhere this time of year, wildflowers can be found here, too.

There are three trailheads in the park: Doeskin Ranch, Warbler Vista and Headquarters. My Beloved and I traipsed around Warbler Vista, intending to walk a trail for 45 minutes or so. We took a few wrong turns (more our fault than poor signage) and finished our walk two hours after beginning. Oh, well. The detour was pleasant, through mostly shaded forest. The most dramatic part of our hike was through Quarry Canyon. This was like walking around a Grand Canyon in miniature. It’s not shaded though; prepare accordingly if you’re taking on this hike during a Texas summer. The refuge recommends you wear comfortable walking shoes or hiking boots, bring water and carry along protection from the heat or cold (the refuge is open 365 days a year sunrise to sunset). Birders should bring binoculars, and dogs are not permitted.

Travel Tuesday: Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

Springtime in central Texas means bluebonnets in bloom literally everywhere. Not simply gardens or boulevards but ditches and cracks in the sidewalks, too.

The bluebonnet is the state flower of Texas. Back in the ’70s, Lady Bird Johnson encouraged the planting of native plants along Texas highways in a highway beautification effort. Like cherry blossoms in Washington, D.C., or tulips in southern Wisconsin, bluebonnet blooms are a common sight in the springtime.

Though they can be seen everywhere, one of the best places to take in bluebonnets is at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center just south of Austin, Texas. My Beloved and I enjoyed an outing with my parents there two weeks ago.

My Beloved and I, in a field of flowers.

In a pandemic, the center is a great way to enjoy the outdoors and some natural beauty. Displays, gardens, playgrounds, water features, walking paths and picnic areas fill the center’s nearly 300 acres. There’s a well-stocked gift shop, too. We spent nearly two hours there and could have lingered longer.

Dad and I in a full-color pose.

Photo opportunities abound. Because entrance is limited, it’s easy to get pictures without a bunch of strangers in the background.

The center offers miles of walking paths.

Bluebonnet is a name given to any number of purple-flowered species of the genus Lupinus predominantly found in the southwestern United States. The name is derived from the shape of the petals on the flower resembling a pioneer woman’s bonnet. My father, who has planted an active wildflower garden in his yard in central Minnesota, said the Texas flowers looked like smaller versions of lupine flowers.

The center was founded in 1982 when founders Lady Bird Johnson, a former first lady, and actress Helen Hayes established the National Wildflower Research Center. The University of Texas at Austin uses native plants to restore and create sustainable, beautiful landscapes. Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush flowers were in bloom when we were there. I imagine other varieties of wildflowers are in bloom throughout the season.

Lovebirds can be observed, too.

The Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center is at 4801 La Crosse Ave., Austin. In the COVID-19 era, reservations are required in order to limit attendance and prevent crowds. Tickets are $12 for adults, $10 for seniors 65+, $10 for military and $6 for youth ages 5-17.

Between a rock and a heart place #KindnessRocksProject

Kindness rocks.

Somebody, or maybe more than one somebody, in the Austin, Texas, area housing development in which I reside during the winter months subscribes to this philosophy.

The Kindness Rocks Project™, a movement begun by Megan Murphy, encourages people to leave rocks painted with inspiring messages along the path of life. The theory: one message at just the right time can change your entire day, outlook, life.

Where I live, these inspiring rocks are sprinkled along the path to the smokehouse, to the mailboxes and along the roadways as I walk through the neighborhood. Some share a phrase, a word, a symbol. A quick scroll through Twitter reveals rocks like these are tucked along trails throughout the United States (and probably world) (#KindnessRocksProject).

Some of them look like the work of a child, but others appear to be painted by someone with more experience.

I would have thought someone with too much time and craft paint on their hands decided to paint rocks and leave them about randomly until I saw mention of The Kindness Rocks Project™ in the last (ever) issue of Oprah magazine. It’s not an isolated art project, it’s a movement. Love, Live, Pucker Up, sweetheart.

And then, forget the paint, I ran across this found-art sculpture on one of the paths over the weekend. It was a path I’ve walked before, but I never noticed this assemblage. What a beautiful reminder that I’m not alone on the trail.

I bow to you

My namaste view.

On my way to yoga practice this morning, three deer bounded across the road in front of me. While saluting the sun, a couple of fish put on a show of jumping out of the water. Their wings spread wide, a couple of turkey vultures soared above us yogis.

I spent an hour this morning doing yoga on the beach and admiring the fauna. (I also flicked a couple of wormy worms off my yoga mat, which might be considered more contempt than admiration, but let’s not focus on them.)

Any exercise outdoors can be beneficial, but for me, outdoor yoga in particular is rewarding. We begin by sitting still and breathing. This grounds me in any locale, and when I am sitting on actual ground and breathing fresh air, it’s even better.

And a beach as a location for just about anything can’t be beat. A lot of people imagine a beach as their happy place. Sand, soft and solid at the same time. Waves lapping on the shore. Unremitting sunshine. Maybe a little breeze. A beach offers all four elements—earth, water, fire, air—our yoga meditation this morning had us meditating on our gratitude for these elements. It was refreshing, even more cleansing than a good shower. For an hour, I wasn’t thinking about work or grocery lists or housekeeping to-do lists. I was thinking about the bigger picture of the earth and my small place in it. A awesome place to begin thinking about gratitude on the day before Thanksgiving.

The beach upon which I pondered my place in the universe is on Lake Travis, near Austin, Texas. Most of this man-made lake is rimmed with rocks, nearly impossible to traverse. But the water level is unusually low, revealing this bit of sandy shore.

A drought causing low water is bad news. But I found a shred of beauty, even in the bad situation.

This pandemic may be like that. Maybe you’re celebrating Thanksgiving in an odd way because of COVID-19. It’s not usual or maybe not welcome. But maybe there’s a bit of beauty to be found.

Never skimp on roses.

When I returned to my home after yoga, there was a knock on the door. I flung it open, and there stood a masked deliveryman holding a colorful Thanksgiving bouquet, a gift to myself to decorate my holiday table even if it won’t be decorated with some of my favorite family members.

I am wishing you a moment of peace to find reasons to be grateful before the big holiday. May you find beauty and grace.

Finding summer sweetness at home

A summer like no other, this summer is. Even in March, when the world went on lock-down and non-essential retail stores shuttered and Major League Baseball x-nayed spring training, I never imagined we would still be talking in July about sheltering in place and avoiding indoor restaurants and baseball games without stadium crowds.

Yet here we are. COVID-19 changes everything.

But I’m still trying to linger on summer’s joys no matter what happens in the world. Soon the nights will come earlier and the trees will lose their leaves. Gotta be mindful of the present moment because that’s all we have. Recently, I’ve been crossing things off my Summer 2020 list that I can enjoy within the safety of my own space.

June 21: Ride in a convertible (or open the sun roof).

On a trip to Starbucks one morning when we discovered we were out of coffee beans (oh, the problems in the First World), I opened the sunroof in the car and shook off the a.m. cobwebs in the summer breeze. By using the drive-through, I avoided the trip into the great unknown of unwashed humanity but still enjoyed the great outdoors.

July 7: Go for a run (even a short one).

On another glorious morning, I donned a beloved pair of Asics and a hat with a Nike message (and other appropriate garb) and ran around my little village. I used to run five miles at a time on the regular, but I more or less gave it up a couple of years ago when my poor feet couldn’t take the pounding anymore. Still, I jogged a mile and a half before I had to walk, so I’m still going to count myself among the folks who call themselves runners.

July 9: Eat fresh basil.

My Beloved’s garden has been (and will continue to be) a source of deliciousness. Even through we are committed to staying home, we have been eating like gourmands. I whipped up some kale-basil pesto (with walnuts instead of pine nuts), and I used it to top a freshly grilled mozzarella cheeseburger. Yum.

July 11: Make fried green tomatoes.

A few days later, the not-ready yet but plump looking tomatoes in the garden beckoned to me and persuaded me to turn them into fried green tomatoes to accompany bacon and eggs at brunch.

July 18: Eat a fresh peach.

While we’re dining well at home, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the “imperfect” peach I got on sale at a nearby farm market. It tasted perfect to me! Juicy like only a fresh peach can be. I threw in a few raspberries and some cinnamon-dusted plain yogurt, and boom, breakfast.

July 16: Watch rabbits play.

My yard continues to be a source of merriment, to me when I’m doing yoga on the patio and definitely to the family of rabbits whom I believe have a nest beneath our cargo trailer. Watching rabbits play was not on my original list, but since baby bunnies are a spring thing, teenaged bunnies are a summer one. I witnessed a trio of brothers (I’m guessing on the gender) chase each other around my yard when I was in savasana pose (yes, one is supposed to close one’s eyes in this restful pose, but the rabbits caught my eye nonetheless). Can you see him?

See him now?

This family is a little bit of redemption for me. Two years ago, there was a baby bunny massacre on my watch when we moved our RV into the driveway of the house we were renting at the time. The nest there was revealed, and baby bunnies hopped away in every direction. With gloved hands, I scrambled around to reassemble the nest, but a few hours later, I saw a satisfied-looking cat sitting beneath the camper. Not a good end for those baby bunnies. I felt terrible. But rabbits being rabbits, another family found refuge in our yard, and now they’re hopping around, probably planning their own families.

July 19: Admire lilies.

Admiring lilies wasn’t on my original list either, but I think I missed the peony season (I had hoped to celebrate the scents of summer by smelling a peony) so I needed an alternative. Suddenly, all the ditches around here are sporting the lovely orange lilies, and then this morning, I rediscovered the turk’s hat lilies in the garden on the side of the my house that were originally planted by the church ladies who volunteered here when my house was a church. These dramatic blossoms make an appearance every summer.

July 18: Attend a family reunion.

When you can’t go to the party, bring the party to you! We observed the Kulland family reunion this year on Zoom. I missed my cousin’s wife’s stellar homemade Chex Mix, but we caught up on some family news virtually from the comforts and security of our homes.

July 19: Hang sheets on a clothesline.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to cross this one off my list since we don’t have a clothesline at our house. But I talked my Beloved into making one between two of our pine trees, and I hung our sheets on it this morning. I haven’t yet inhaled the scent only fresh air can imbue on sheets, but I can’t wait to go to bed tonight. “Clean sheets night” is my favorite night of the week, and it’s going to be even better tonight!

If we’re going to be stuck at home, we might as well appreciate the simple pleasures.

Mournful cooing speaks of summer

A mourning dove lives somewhere near my house or, more likely, more than one lives nearby.

I’ve heard this bird’s mournful cooing as I emerge from sleep in my bed in the morning, when I’m lingering outside in the afternoon, and when I’m harvesting cilantro in the back garden before dinner, so he lives nearby.

When I asked my Beloved about it, he said mourning doves are like rats with wings⁠—they’re common and pesky.

But the language of a mourning dove is quite beautiful, much better than a rat’s scratching, and so it made my list of ways to savor summer.

June 28: Listen to a mourning dove.

Getting a picture proved impossible. I followed his call last week and tracked him to somewhere around the elementary school across the street from my house. Amid the tweets of other birds, you can hear the mourning dove’s call, but you can’t see him.

Even without the flashy good looks of a blue jay or beautiful scenery, the mourning dove’s call calms me. Just the simple act of paying attention forces me to slow down, and savor.

Here’s to summer.

11 ways to savor summer down, 97 to go

Conscious that more urgent topics deserve attention, I am nonetheless savoring this sweetest of seasons. Please don’t judge. Even the highest-minded of us can appreciate a distraction once in a while.

I’ve determined that one way to savor summer is to record me savoring it. Let me count the ways. Here are a few of the 108 ways I’ve savored summer so far:

May 23: Pick a dandelion.

I didn’t actually pick a dandelion, but this bunch is one of the biggest I’ve seen. Fortunately for some weed-killer-wielding landscaper, it wasn’t in someone’s yard; I found it on the side of the road in an asparagus patch (stretching along behind the dandelions there). I hadn’t harvested wild asparagus before, but it was a bit of a game, picking spears out from among blades of grass. My Beloved and I walked for about 300 yards, finding a couple pounds of spears. Technically, I think eating asparagus is a way to savor spring, but it was still delicious on Memorial Day weekend.

May 24: Eat corn on the cob.

It shouldn’t be so delicious so early, but my Beloved picked up fresh corn on the cob at the local mushroom farm, and it was as sweet and tender as I expect it to be in July.

May 28: Get a pedicure.

My Beloved and I ventured out for a pedicure. We wore masks, and we agreed to wash our hands upon entry (the technicians washed our feet). It felt like an extra-special treat this year especially.

May 29: Smell lilacs.

I spent an hour one morning exploring my own yard. The white-flowered bushes that line most of the perimeter are in frothy bloom this time of year, and three lilac bushes decorate the row. They are as sweetly perfumed as they look.

May 30: Fill a birdbath.

It wasn’t on my original list, but one can’t fill a birdbath in winter in the upper Midwest because it freezes solid. I filled my mother-in-law’s birdbath after my Beloved power washed it clean. Her birds can appreciate even more crystal clear splashing now.

May 30: Picnic.

If you dine on a picnic table, it’s a picnic. My Beloved and I enjoyed some Chinese take-out in the park.

May 31: Drink wine outdoors.

My Beloved and I subscribe to Zerba Winery’s wine club after we tasted this particular brand of the nectar of the gods during a jaunt through Washington state a couple of years ago. We imbibed on a bottle of Cabernet Franc on the patio while my Beloved grilled a couple of steaks.

June 3: Take a twilight walk.

Summer light is just different in Minnesota. The angle of the sun, the long days—something just makes an evening walk in my home state stand out. During a visit with my Adored stepson, his fiancée and my granddog, I accompanied them on a twilight walk. You can even see the almost-full moon there among the treetops.

June 4: Take a boat ride.

My Beloved invested in a new-to-him boat this year, and I joined him on the St. Croix River on what he called the maiden voyage (it was actually his second outing, but this boat ride lasted longer than just getting the engine up to full speed and down again). I assume this will be the first of many boat rides this season.

June 5: Mow the lawn.

I lent a hand to my stepson by mowing his lawn. Naturally, I mowed it on the diagonal because I think it looks better that way. I classify this act as a way to savor the scents of summer, though I can’t say I truly appreciate the scent of freshly cut grass; I was thinking too much about working up a sweat.

June 6: Lay on the ground and look at the clouds

On an absolutely perfect 60-degree morning, I practiced yoga on my stepson’s back deck. While in savasana, I gazed at the clouds drifting by rather than closing my eyes. They look almost tropical, these are the leaves of the rather unique hackberry tree in my stepson’s yard.

# # #

How are you savoring summer?

A frog’s call signals spring

Call me bold. Or myopic. Or just plain crass. But while the rest of the world mourns the potential loss of a million of the planet’s eight million species in what scientists warned yesterday would be described as the most comprehensive global nature loss ever, I’m celebrating one species: Frogs.

When spring comes, it sounds like there are a million of them.

Our former house bordered a nature preserve. It was really just a detention pond in a large suburban neighborhood, but it sounds better to call it a nature preserve. It was filled with turtles and frogs (and other creatures) with which I would occasionally cross paths while running on the nearby paths and streets. Turtle are a quiet neighbor, but frogs are not. At least not during mating season. The trill of the frogs’ song saturated the air to the point my brain cancelled it out.

It’s not until I moved to this new house, which is not near standing water, that I noticed the absence of the frogs’ peeping. But recently, as I was driving on a back road with the windows open, I noticed the distinctive frog ribbiting as I passed the puddles in the farm fields. Pass a puddle, the sound clamored. Pass a dry spot, the sound died away. Clearly, these farmers aren’t using too much pesticide; even their transient mud puddles attract residents. It was glorious, actually, hearing the frog calls. Such a clear sign of spring.

Frogs are among the planet’s few fully amphibious creatures, as much as home in water as they are on dry land. But water they demand. As I was walking my granddaughter this afternoon, I could hear a frog’s bre-ke-ke from a half block away. I traced it to the decorative pond in the yard of a neighbor.

Couldn’t see him. But definitely heard him.

Winged signs of spring

I’m neither a birder nor a photographer, but I got a real show when I visited my parents in Minnesota recently.

Some people mark the beginning of spring by sighting a robin, but in my parents’ neck of the woods, one might see all kinds of springtime birds. There are 442 species of birds on the official list of Minnesota inhabitants, but I’m not talking about sorts of everyday chirping birds just about everyone has visiting their backyard bird feeder. My parents’ home is remote enough to be nestled on the edge of river, or you might call it a “crik” or possibly a swamp, all depending on the time of year and inches of precipitation. A number of large birds also inhabit the area, apparently because it’s well stocked in fish and small game and whatever else birds eat.

Most of the time, the photos I take of birds (of any size) look something like this:

See those two blobs in the middle there? Those are two sandhill cranes. You’re just going to have to trust me.

As we drove up to my parents house the first afternoon we arrived, a solemn looking bald eagle observed us from his perch in the middle of a field. Of course, I didn’t have my camera at the ready; I just swiveled my head as I engaged in a staring match driving by. The nest he shared with his mate was clearly visible in the leafless tree bordering the creek, and we saw him frequently during the course of the week as we drove by into town. Eventually, I figured out to have my cell phone camera in hand.

His head is white. Again, trust me.

The bald eagle, once an endangered species, now flourishes across the United States. Even if you’re not all that interested in birds, he’s quite a sight, frequently appearing on lists of the world’s most beautiful birds.

This bald eagle wasn’t much for photo shoots. He flew away when I got out of the car.

I also saw a red tail hawk and a pheasant. I’m pretty sure I saw a turkey vulture, too. Here’s my shot of the pheasant.

Yup, he’s there in the middle, walking away from me.

The birds that put on the most fantastic show were the wild turkeys. Dad lent me his binoculars to observe the males fluffing up their feathers in order to get laid. When they’re strutting about, they look just like they do in those handprint paintings kids do at Thanksgiving with their tail feathers spreading up vertically, sort of like a less colorful peacock. Lots of drama in that mating dance.

The large bird I saw most closely was attracted to the bird feeder in my parents’ yard. I heard it before I saw it though: The pileated woodpecker.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a nature girl, but I was amazed to see all these distinctive large birds within a mile of my parents’ house. They were quite beautiful and impressive, bright spots on the otherwise brown not-quite-spring-yet landscape. Signs of more colorful days to come.

Travel Tuesday: The redwood forests

We cut down three 70-year-old trees on our property last week, and it made me unreasonably sad.

The Chinese elm trees were mostly dead, and it was time for them to go, but I miss them and it made me think of a trip a couple of years ago to northern California when we drove through the Redwood forest.

You may have sung the lyrics to “This Land is Your Land” when you were a youngster, but a walk through the forest here will have them ringing in your head for days: “From the redwood forest to the Gulf Steam water, this land is made for you and me.”

Look up and behold, in a Redwood forest, you feel like you’re in a special place.

California’s coastal redwoods, which grow on the northern coast (the scientific name is sequoia sempervirens), can grow up to 377 feet tall, the tallest living things on earth. Like the related sequoia trees, redwoods are long lived, due in part to their bark, which can be up to a foot thick. That bark protects a tree from cold and from forest fire.

Our trip two years ago through California included a drive and walk through the Redwood National and State Parks, an experience I can’t recommend highly enough. Being there, breathing in the piney air and feeling the silence as much as hearing it, one is reminded of dinosaurs and is tempted to believe in dryads and wood nymphs. The trees are alive, and they might be smiling or frowning or about to reach out and touch you. No wonder one of California’s stereotypes is of tree huggers. Even a logger’s gotta love a tree like that.

Standing among those majestic trees reminds me I am nothing, and my life, however long it is, passes in a blink. The “little” trees we removed from our property are gone, but not forgotten.

If nature is a place of worship, the redwood forests are cathedrals. Worth a trip.