nature – Laurie Apgar Chandler

Slow moving waters: Patsaliga Creek, near Andalusia, Alabama

Meeting aome intriguing inhabitants of a tributary of the Conecuh River

After anxiously stalking back and forth in the woods with a repetitive clicking call, this limpkin decided I was alright and strutted and posed for quite a while.

I love stumbling upon an experience purely by chance. In searching for a laundromat, I noticed a sizable body of water north of Andalusia, Alabama. Certainly, it was more substantial than the tiny, mostly spring-fed sinkhole ponds of the nearby Conecuh (cuh-NECK-uh) National Forest where I was camping. After laundry and worship at the Southside Baptist Church, I found the boat launch and a friendly bass fisherman also launching. “That way, it’s all river,” he pointed out, “just watch out for moccasins. There are plenty of them up that way.”

It felt refreshing to be on moving water again. I assumed this was the Conecuh River, which was impounded to create Point A Reservoir, just below. Turns out I was on a tributary of the Conecuh.

I calculated the current at about half a mile an hour, upstream first, just the way I like it. The limpkin called my attention with a strange, unfamiliar, piercing call that no one could miss, then segued to the clicking sound while walking. There were also many turtles out in the on again, off again sun.

I’m still working on identifying this small map turtle. I saw many of these individuals with two distinctive bumps on their peaked shells, often clinging to steeply slanted branches.

The friendly bass fisherman mentioned duck hunting up a little side creek, so I ventured up into this cypress swamp, where I quickly reached a dead end guarded by hungry mosquitoes.

I’ve been using my Garmin Etrex 30 handheld GPS on these paddles to measure distance. This out and back was a little over four miles total, with an average moving speed of 2.0 mph. I’m naturally a slow paddler who spends a lot of time drifting to look at and photograph my surroundings. For those of you keeping track, I now have about thirty-five miles on my new Oru Lake kayak.

One of many flowering trees announcing the start of spring in Alabama. This one was a species of serviceberry or shadbush, perhaps downy serviceberry.

This is the map I had to work with, an example of the drawbacks of embracing a spur-of-the-moment adventure. I launched at the upper #1, and the creek that I paddled up is not labeled.

Surprises of a quiet day: Blythe Island Regional Park, Brunswick, Georgia

A wildlife bonanza and kayaking serendipity right at camp

This campground, part of a park run by Glynn County, was my home for three nights, arriving January 23rd and departing January 26th. After the long excursion to Okefenokee, I decided to stay and enjoy the park on my last day. Chores and writing got accomplished, but I also just relaxed. While my laundry was drying in the laundromat, I walked over to the park’s public marina on the tidal South Brunswick River. The birds, there, oh my, I just couldn’t believe it!

On the dock, a pair of brown pelicans posed willingly, their fuzzy yellow heads so soft in contrast to their much coarser gray body feathers, wet from the brackish water.

A male hooded merganser popped up next. I watched him dive and preen, gazing down from behind a long fish cleaning table that mostly hid me from sight.

The snowy egret can be identified by its bright yellow feet, which I clearly saw as he stalked along.

Then there were these buddies. The immature little blue heron on the left, with its distinctive green legs, flew in first. Then came the bird on the right, which I believe is an immature white ibis.

Two youngsters enjoying the hot sun and refreshing breeze, hanging out together.

Later that afternoon, I ambled out of my camp chair, assembled the kayak, and plopped it into the water that I could see from my front window. There are two tiny lakes there, but it turns out there is a canal (or stream?) that flows out the far side. Paddling past more egrets and a shy turtle, I followed the current into the narrow passage, past longleaf pine above and rhododendron below. Once, I turned back briefly just to make sure that going against the current would be doable.

If I hadn’t stayed to relax at camp, I would have missed this gem.

Today’s mystery water plant, observed in several large matted clumps

Exploring that canal and a couple of dead end turns off of it, I ended up paddling almost three miles. Meanwhile, there was a small problem in paradise. Fires ants! Carrying the kayak down, I had been bitten four times. I recognized that stinging pain right away, but it took a minute to find them under my Teva strap. A day later, my left foot would be swollen and very itchy, with blisters where the bites were and an ugly reddish color to the front half of my foot.

I will spare you a photo of that!

Last character of the day’s wildlife bonanza was this armadillo, spotted as I drove back home with a takeout shrimp po boy from Fish Tails Pub & Grill, right down the road.

Sometimes the best days happen right at home!

Embracing hope

Chipmunk (2)

Wow, do I even remember how to write a blog post? I discover that I’m a little rusty on the logistics – navigating WordPress, ensuring the post stays in draft form until I’m ready to publish, transferring photos from my fancy new iPhone XR, but I figure it out.

All these months, I have been “blogging,” but just in my mind. A thought comes, perhaps I even jot a few notes, or snap a picture, but that is all. Always, I search for the perfect block of time, the most creative frame of mind, a window where blogging will not keep me from finishing my almost-finished book.

March 23rd is a new day.

Yesterday was the 11th anniversary of the loss of my husband Chris. Today is the 11th anniversary of forging onward, of choosing hope, of the start of a new life that has brought unanticipated blessings. In the Bible’s King James Version, Hebrews 11:1 reads,

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Thanks to a conversation with a reader at one of my author events last year, this quote opens chapter 9 of the new book. I love the process of searching for quotes, a mosaic of words that both touch me and add depth to my writing. In chapter 9, a chance encounter at Stair Falls on the Penobscot River’s East Branch introduces two new characters who become, for me, evidence of faith fulfilled.

This day, as we embark on uncharted waters, as I did 11 years ago, let us choose hope.

Let us intentionally search for it in the everyday life that continues to surround us. I will look most fervently in nature, where yesterday I took refuge in a sheltered nook, silent, warmed by the spring sun’s rays. Focusing on gratitude replacing fear, I shut my eyes until I heard a scurry of dry, papery leaves. A chipmunk sprang up on the old stone wall. Alert, vibrant in the glow of the afternoon sun, which shone pink through his tiny ears.

I had found my hope for another day. May you find it, too. In conversation with a friend. In freshly baked bread, enduring music, well-stacked firewood, or garden plans. In a news story of teachers sewing masks at home. Embrace hope, my friends, and take care!

May you find fireplace birds

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
Dr. Suess

We christened them the “fireplace birds,” but of course they had another name. In those shortening days toward the end of August 2009, the Allagash was a quiet place. As Dad and I canoed from Umsaskis Bridge to Michaud Farm, the cool mornings and chilly swimming were more than compensated for by moose heavy with antlers and the beautiful solitude of the river.

Our cheeky friends first visited us at Lock Dam. Hopping contentedly among the ashes of the fire pit, focused on pecking who knows what, they were surprisingly tame. The colorful male and his drab partner were a species new to us. Dad and I love our birds, especially new ones, and felt their presence yet another gift of the late summer wilderness. Imagine our surprise, the next evening, when we discovered two more in the Outlet campsite on Round Pond.

Dad and I will never forget those birds, or the midnight stampede of a moose through our campsite and down into the river with a mighty splash, or our first otter family in the Musquacook Deadwater. A journey is so much more than the destination. One of my hopes for this summer is to absorb the experience, treasure the moments. And which parts will live on in my stories, in the memories of my heart? I don’t know, of course. But if you ask me why I will live on tuna and granola, portaging in the pouring rain and paddling into the wind, with sweat and bugs my closest friends, I go because of the fireplace birds, whatever they will be.

Oh, that’s right, you would like to know what those birds were, right? White-winged Crossbills, Loxia leucoptera, a finch that feeds almost exclusively on spruce and tamarack seeds, eating up to 3,000 in a single day!

The slow road home

Coming home last Sunday, I took the scenic route. Somehow my GPS knew that I had some time for exploring. (For an instrument so obsessed with the word “recalculating,” it is still pretty smart.) This is the Martin Bridge, a covered bridge built in 1890 on a Vermont farm. It is the last privately-constructed covered bridge in existence in the state and was designed to be especially tall to accommodate wagons piled high with loose hay. Feeling the need to stretch my legs, I wandered the property, found an old dump, and saw lots of red-winged blackbirds. The prize, though, was a bobolink. It looked vaguely familiar, but I had to consult the bird book at home to learn its name.

God in Nature’s Song, a poem

Oh, how I long for spring. Every inch of brown and muddy earth seems a victory, wrestled back from the tenacious hold of winter. The mud may suck and clutch at the soles of my wellies, but at least it isn’t frozen, at least not on the sunny afternoons. I will ignore today’s weather forecast, which shows snow of varying amounts on five upcoming days!

I’m back on the lake for a time, caring for my dog and cat friends. Here I will watch the ice as its character changes, until finally it will be gone. The kayak rides promisingly on top of my RAV4. Paddles, PFD, seat, are all handy in the back. It won’t be long.

While we’re waiting, here’s a poem I wrote on another early spring morning…

God in Nature’s Song

Tendrils of rosy mist swirl in tantalizing morning dance,

as God hints,

Beech leaves rattle, delicately breaking winter’s icy silence,

as God whispers,

Spires of deepest feathery green climb the endless azure sky,

as God beckons,

Raindrops drop a gentle soothing patter on an unnamed lake,

as God sympathizes,

Lady slippers shyly bow, delicately framed in darkest brown,

as God rejoices,

And those who truly listen, pause in understanding wonder,

as God speaks.

Inspired by Romans 1:20 – Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.