Category Archives: Beauty

Vernal Voices

I’m delighted to note that my new essay about the meaning of music, The Voice of Tāne: Returning Wild Musick to its Place, at a Price, has just been published in About Place Journal. Click here to read.

Fresh green of spring in West Seattle.

Soft green mornings on my deck are filled with new music these days. The calls of our regulars—towhees, juncoes, robins, jays, and crows—have been joined by more lyrical tones of recent arrivals. The chattery trill of a Wilson’s Warbler first announced spring’s arrival in our yard, his clear tones piercing the thick woods of the wetland.

Wilson’s Warbler

Soon his song was joined by the quiet, clear whistles of a reclusive Pacific-slope Flycatcher, tiny of body but proud of sound.

Pacific-slope Flycatcher

Nearby, Orange-crowned Warblers added their arched tremolo to the choir.

Orange-crowned Warbler with spider prey

Most recently, a little trio of Black-headed Grosbeaks joined the chorus. At first shy and leery, they’d disappear from my feeder as soon as I moved inside the house. But now they’ve grown accustomed to my face as I sit quietly here on the deck, and all three, two males and a female, happily gorge themselves on sunflower seeds. When they retreat to the young cedars at the edge of the deck or into the old pear tree in the yard, they warble their lovely whistling melody, a cascading waterfall of pure tones.

Black-headed Grosbeaks, male (upper) and female (lower) in cedar beside deck

* * * * *

In The Moth Snowstorm, his lovely celebration of nature’s beauty, Michael McCarthy writes passionately of his joy upon examining online GPS data from tagged cuckoos in Africa one February, realizing that their northward migration in the Congo meant that from 4000 miles away, he could see spring coming.

Here in Seattle, the arrival of spring migrants is our clue, presaging an end to our long months of what locals call mizzle, the moist grayness that’s not quite mist, not quite rain.

Incessant April mizzle

Our winter starts in November and December with stiff south winds that bring delicious big winds and heavy rains, a welcome intensity that brings our perfect summers to a dramatic close: the snuggle season where we cozy up on the couch by the fire, watching the Doug firs and the cedars sway in their autumn dance in the early dark.

Winter view from our kitchen window: Douglas Firs in the unending rain

 

But by March…April…May, we’re ready for real sunlight, not just the lightening behind the clouds as the days grow longer. This year’s been a good one, with many more clear days than we’re used to. Usually, though, the music of the migrants means we’ve made it through yet another long gray doze, and we can allow ourselves to hope for light and new energy.

My partner Rob and I are as much audio folks as visual. He’s a composer and conductor, we’re both singers, we both play in our wonderful community orchestra. Spring’s visuals—fresh green woodlands, the delicate tips of the new leaves, the brightening sky—are all important to our relief at the dawn of the season of light. But without the chatter and trills and warbles, our joy in spring would be muffled, hushed; we’d be missing half of our vernal souls.

What would it mean for us if the birds’ songs were silenced, hushed by lack of food or safe places to hide or unfamiliar predators? Over fifty years ago, Rachel Carson’s seminal Silent Spring warned of the loss of birds to chemical poisoning. We’ve managed to make real progress in diminishing that threat to the vernal voices. Yet other challenges have muted their music.

And what might song’s loss mean for the birds themselves? I imagine a little songbird, perhaps a Western Tanager, newly arrived in his spring home after an exhausting migration, happily full with seed from my feeder or native plants, excitedly starting his first song for a new love.

Western Tanager male, singing. Who’s there to listen to his song?

But where is she? Where are his fellow singers? What happens to his music? What might it mean for him, for his fellow birds, and for us when song’s silenced? And what can we do to help preserve those precious chatters and warbles and trills for our shared future?

In my new essay, The Voice of Tāne: Returning Wild Musick to its Place, at a Price, published this month in About Place Journal, I explore some of these questions in the context of New Zealand’s songbirds and their story. I hope you’ll take a look.

And while you’re reading, perhaps you can find a quiet place in the sun to enjoy love’s lullabies ringing through the soft spring air.

Singing Bellbird, Tiritiri Matangi, New Zealand

 

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Seeds in Seams

With gray Antarctic seas rocking our ship, I hunkered down with a dental pick and got to work on the Velcro. The Akademik Ioffe was pulling up to our first landing on the glorious island of South Georgia, just north of the Antarctic Circle, and our expedition leaders had cranked up biosecurity measures.

2013-1-2_0059-South Georgia profile-©Trileigh Tucker

Approaching South Georgia

South Georgia, for all the rocky strength of its mountains and the sweeping power of its massive glaciers, is fragile. Although restrictions on hunting of whales and fur seals have allowed those species to rebound—we regularly had to dodge grumpy fur seals draped across beaches, the most harrowing part of my Antarctic experience—the island’s ecosystem is now threatened by two subtler menaces: climate change and the introduction of invasive species.

On site, we couldn’t do much about climate change, and the island’s British government has, incredibly, just succeeded in vanquishing the land’s rodent problem. But we could help prevent the colonization of the South Georgia lowlands by non-native plant species.

Which is why I was sitting in the ship’s cold mudroom, surrounded by muck boots, life jackets, and an enormous, mysterious piston-like device supposedly used for sonar “investigations” in the ship’s past life as a Russian research vessel, picking almost-invisible seeds out of the worn seams of my bright red rain jacket. That’s what Velcro is designed for, after all: catching and holding tiny things. You’d be amazed how much plant material is hidden in the folds and pockets and other in-between places in our cuffs and zippers.

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Seeds and vegetation in Velcro in sleeve cuff, paperclip for scale. Note not just the “big” seeds, but the tiny little specks. All of this had to be removed before landing on South Georgia.

Finally clean and seedless, our group loaded into Zodiacs and sped toward the shore. Like Shackleton, our first stop was at King Haakon Bay, where in 1916 he had landed a small crew in hopes of crossing the forbidding mountain range to find salvation on the other side of the island at Stromness. Unlike Shackleton, we were armed with cameras and binoculars, with the assurance of a plentiful meal and fresh-baked chocolate dessert at the end of the day. We set out to get to know this realm of remote beauty.

1_0014-King Haakon Bay, South Georgia-©Trileigh Tucker

King Haakon Bay, South Georgia

The dramatic sightings of South Georgia, of course, were the hundreds of thousands of penguins who filled the glacial valleys around the island.

King Penguin colony, St Andrews Bay-Trileigh Tucker

King Penguin colony St Andrews Bay, South Georgia

More modest but just as inspiring was a South Georgia Pipit.

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South Georgia Pipit. Larsen Harbour, South Georgia

This unassuming-looking little bird is part of the island’s success story, rescued from almost certain extinction by disciplined international efforts to remove its predators, rats, from the entire place. Global warming could still melt glaciers enough to provide increased rat habitat, with consequences for the little pipit, but for now, he and his community are doing fine. They can find healthy food in the form of native plants—with our help in de-seeding invasives from our Velcro.

* * * * *

I’ve long been unexpectedly attracted to the seams in our places, the in-between nooks, the overlooked vacant lots.

Vacant_Lot_of_Osaka_Rinko_Line (Wikimedia Commons)

Vacant lot, Osaka Rinko Line. By 暇・投稿 (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 I love walking through neighborhoods as I go on errands, noticing where the wild things live. When I lived in the urban core of Seattle’s Central Area, my walking route often took me past an overgrown lot that had somehow escaped development. It was a narrow slot between houses, a standard 3000-square-foot city lot—but it supported big trees and thickets of blackberry plants where hidden birds chittered. Trails wound through the brambles, paths worn by kids’ sneakers as they explored this urban micro-wild. I hoped that somehow it could be preserved to provide a much-needed island of nature, a green refuge in a gray block.

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A temporary meadow in a vacant lot on Harvard Ave E in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. Photo by Joe Mabel; caption provided by photographer. Used by CC BY-SA 2.0. File available here.

One day I saw a big white square glaring on freshly-installed posts: the inevitable Notice of Proposed Land Use Action. It didn’t take long for a graffito protest to appear: “Neighbors – how can we stop this?” Another responded: “Let’s meet,” with a proposed date. But a couple of months later, as I approached the block, I could see a bright gap in the sky where trees had provided cooling shadows. Construction had begun. I stopped to chat with one of the workers, who told me, “Yeah, a Microsoft guy bought it. Planning to build one of those mega-mansions, fill up the entire lot with a big fancy house. Kind of a shame. But that’s always the way it goes, isn’t it?”

Robert Michael Pyle writes in his marvelous essay Eden in a Vacant Lot, “…nothing is less empty to a curious, exploring child”—and I would add, to spunky wildlife trying to make its way in a challenging urban setting—”than a vacant lot, nothing less wasted than waste ground, nothing more richly simmered in promise than raw ground.” Seeds of a child’s love of nature, seeds of nature itself, are planted in these wild seams.

* * * * *

We’re now beginning to see that these urban seams may provide some of the seeds for wildlife recovery. A recent article in Yale 360, Habitat on the Edges: Making Room for Wildlife in an Urbanized World, outlines the ways in which undeveloped space in cities can act as refuges for species squeezed out of areas denser with people. Even areas as narrow as 25 yards wide can significantly help to increase biodiversity, notes author Richard Conniff. He describes a British effort in which conservation-commercial cooperation is generating new attention to the ragged land along rail lines as wildlife habitat: not just nature-by-accident, but purposeful enhancement of unexpected natural spaces. While Conniff acknowledges that much more habitat is needed for true species preservation, these neglected spaces offer small islands of hope.

Weeds_and_wilderness,_The_Haddington_Branch_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1447693

Weeds and wilderness: The Haddington Branch. Caption from Wikimedia Commons: When the North British Railway decided to miss out Haddington, this did not go down well in the county town. A short branch line was built linking Haddington and Edinburgh via a junction at Longniddry. The railway was closed to passengers in 1949, but there is quite a strong campaign to reopen it. The seed rich embankment is a useful resource for the finches now that winter sown crops are becoming more popular here. (Link to file and attribution is here.)

Seeds in the seams are sources of wildness: sometimes a threat, sometimes a treasure. But unless we learn to pay attention—to consider the overlooked, the in-between, the generative gaps—we won’t be able to tell the difference.

2013-10-6_0016-Thistle seeds-©Trileigh Tucker

Thistle seeds

Storylines in Sepia

After years of planning, I was finally heading for the Galápagos: my long-awaited retirement gift to myself. I had bid a teary farewell to my last-ever group of natural-history students. I had enjoyed the closing parties: the celebration for all my university’s retirees, the reception for the new faculty emerti, the departmental gathering just for me. I had packed. I had given my last final exam, turned in my final final grades that same day.

Forty-eight hours later, Rob and I were, at long last, on the plane to Guayaquil, Ecuador. We spent a couple of days recovering from jet lag by basking in the soft tropical air by the wide brown Rio Guayas, watching mats of vegetation float by on their journey toward the Pacific, fifty miles away.

Vegetation mat rafting toward Pacific on Rio Guayas, Guayaquil, Ecuador

Recuperated and restored, we finally departed for the islands themselves. I was giddy with excitement at the prospect of wandering through a tropical paradise filled with exotic birds, which had been so critically important to my hero Darwin.

But I’d been so busy bringing closure to a thirty-year career that I hadn’t wedged in a lot of time for trip research. So when our planeful of fellow voyagers started its descent into Baltra, I’m embarrassed to admit I was startled by the bare brown landscape below me. Where was all that lush jungly green we’d admired around Guayaquil?

Isla Baltra, Galápagos. Photo by Diego Delso, delso.photo, License CC-BY-SA, shared on Wikimedia Commons.

Although the Galápagos Islands are on the equator, which is generally pretty rainy around the globe, it turns out that they’re desert islands. Three cold ocean currents converge there, chilling the air enough to discourage the cheerful abundant plant growth of coastal Ecuador. And the islands, created just a few million years ago by a volcanic hot spot, are so removed from the mainland that it’s hard for plants and animals to get there to colonize and soften their rocky faces. (Some of those floating mats we’d seen on the Guayas may have brought the first seeds.)

At Baltra we boarded the friendly Samba, our floating home for our fortnight in the Galápagos.

The Samba, anchored at South Plaza Island, Galápagos

Lava was the language of landscape on each island we visited. Its dialect might be pahoehoe (smooth) or a’a (craggy), but in each place, fractures in the fresh-made land told stories of its birth from water, birth in fire.

Lavascape, Vicente Roca, Isabela, Galápagos

Lava landscape at Punta Moreno, Isabela, Galápagos. Volcan Alcedo in background, showing classic shield shape of basaltic volcanoes

Viewed from a higher perspective, these fractures tell the deeper stories of the island’s sepia faces. The curved concentric cracks around Darwin Bay at the island of Genovesa were formed when the underlying magma pool drained and the rocks above it collapsed.

Concentric fractures around Darwin Bay show where volcanic caldera collapsed (Genovesa, Galápagos)

To those who can read its wrinkled language, this lava landscape tells its life story: tales of explosion and collapse, of inexorable erosion and stressful seas.

* * * * *

We tend to think of beauty in terms of smooth curves and vibrant colors. Look what shows up when I do an image search on “beauty in nature”:

Results of “Beauty in nature” image search. (I had previously deleted cookies to avoid influence by past searches.)

The resulting images are bright, oversaturated, mostly with a soft feel. So the face of the Galápagos’ harsh landscape, with its craggy wrinkles and sepia palette, might seem unlovely; hard to love. But such fractured faces have their own beauty.

Galápagos Giant Tortoise. Urbina Bay, Isabela. Giant tortoises can live over 200 years.

Giant Tortoise. Charles Darwin Research Station, Santa Cruz, Galápagos

Marine Iguana. Punte Espinoza, Fernandina, Galápagos

Climbing such challenging landscapes brings its own rewards as well as new vistas:

View from peak of Bartolomé Island, Galápagos

Lava Lizard on Marine Iguana. Punta Espinoza, Fernandina

Wrinkles bring character and depth to noble coppery visages:

Brown Pelican. Puerto Ayora, Santa Cruz, Galápagos

* * * * *

Somewhere in my family’s photo collection is a bunch of old black-and-white photos of my older relatives. Among the great-aunts and second cousins once removed, there are jagged holes. These are where my grandmother Mimi cut her face out of the photos. She was recognized as a beauty in her youth—

My grandmother with my infant mother, about 1925. Photo from Susan Adger.

—and I’m guessing that she couldn’t stand to see her face with the wrinkles etched by hard times and good: the storylines of her life.

Searching recently through the vast photo collection in boxes in my father’s attic, I could only find a couple of images of my grandmother that had escaped the sharp edges of her scissors—including this one from my mother’s wedding day.

My grandmother with my mother on her wedding day, 1954

Over her decades, my mother’s smooth face grew similarly storied, and even more beautiful than in her youth.

My mother in her late 50’s

And now it’s my turn to work toward the peace my grandmother could never achieve regarding wrinkles.

Trileigh, photo by Benjamin Drummond, taken as part of the Natural Histories Project (http://naturalhistoriesproject.org/)

Like the Galápagos Islands’, like my mother’s and her mother’s, my own wrinkles are the storylines of my life, rendered in sepia. All of the women in my family, as all women and men everywhere, are born from water, formed of fire, sculpted by exuberance and by wear.

Bright colors and smooth surfaces aren’t the only shapes beauty takes in landscapes, reptiles, pelicans or people. Those that catch my eye and touch my heart are the etched, lined, fractured faces—the ones with the wisdom of wrinkles.

Galápagos Giant Tortoise, Santa Cruz, Galápagos