by aramatzne@gmail.com | 22 Apr 2018 | Musing
Part 9.
The Black Guillemots are back, bobbing their heads, and claiming their nest boxes. A cavity-nesting bird of Arctic waters, they traditionally did not nest so far north in Alaska, one reason was a lack of natural cavities more readily found in rocky cliffs farther south. A U.S. military site abandoned in the 1950s, Cooper Island, was left littered with debris – 55-gallon drums, plywood, and scrap metal. The Guillemots suddenly had nest cavities on an island nearer the pack ice where they feed. Cooper Island is about 9 feet high at its highest point, composed of sand and gravel; it disappears into the pack ice for the winter. As the island and its nest cavity debris emerge in the spring thaw, the birds return, find their mates and their previous nesting box, and start all over again.
George, the force behind this research – for more than 40 years – mapped the location of each cavity, banded the birds nesting at each site, and kept track of the schedule, arrival and departure dates, relationships, eggs, and chicks each summer. The massive data set that he is accumulating shows a shift in when birds arrive on the island, how early cavities become snow-free allowing birds to enter and begin their mating rituals, how many chicks fledge relative to the location of the pack ice. He has followed a world of questions and shifting answers about bird phenology, climate change, and the Arctic systems.
I stepped into this story only briefly, but 18 years later the impact has yet to wear off.
Black Guillemots in the midnight sun
10 June
The birds were back yesterday. They seem to be roosting randomly but have begun to claim boxes and squabble. I try to ID them, and some of my attempts are right – meaning the pairs as I identify them align with the claimed nest boxes as George previously determined.
George usually fills garbage bags with snow as a water supply for later in the summer, I did a few but they tipped and leaked, and I’m not terribly excited about drinking water out of garbage bags. Instead, I built a box in the sand, dug out the center, lined it with the tarp and garbage bags and filled it with snow yesterday. I don’t know if the tarp will hold water but the snow will last longer and I can melt it as I need it. If it doesn’t work so, I spent a few hours of labor.
It is still gray and grim out there. Since the fog came in the other day, it hasn’t left again. I couldn’t see across the island yesterday, and most of the time when I was checking boxes I couldn’t see the tent – only 200 yards visibility. Today it seems cloudy, the ice and sky are one again, though a lot of the land is clear.
The Guillemots are still circling, I hear them go over the tent – they sound like hovercraft in SciFi movies. I’ve been dragging out of bed each morning. My alarm goes off at midnight, and I get up at 0100 or 0130 or 0200. The birds got me up this morning. I kept dropping back into sleep and dreams, but I heard the hovercraft noise and was awake. They haven’t settled yet for the morning, so I am having breakfast and tea.
I saw the first American golden plovers today. Two of them flew over Pasta Pond – so named because it is not as salty as the ocean but not fresh water, either – it is the perfect salinity for cooking pasta. Beautiful birds. The ice is thawing quickly, and there is a deep layer of water on the surface, did the ice sink? Or was the pond frozen all the way to the bottom and now the thawing surface is forming a puddle on top?
This morning I watched an Arctic tern for a while. What a magnificent bird. As wolves are described as loping through a meadow, the Arctic tern is the loper of the bird world. The wings are so long and narrow with that elegant upper edge of black to the primaries. They slide through the air, very nonchalant and casual. Nowhere to go, all day to get there. When they pause to hover they open their long forked tails and the delicate feathers in the middle seem translucent, and perfectly, evenly, rounded out to the long outer feathers that stream behind them. When the tail is closed they are a streamlined bomb with a tail shaft. Watching one dive the other day it would lope along, tuck and hover, look, tuck and hover. Pulling up each time it dropped to have a better look and then wandering along as whatever it targeted disappeared.
This afternoon there were five terns, screaming, raucous creatures. Wheeling, spinning, turning and chasing one another, constantly talking. The clouds were so low that they would chase around, chattering and plainly in view and then they would be enveloped by the gray, dense air, their cries muted. They would reappear a few minutes later, out of thin air, as it were. Just there, the black trailing edge sharp and crisp, the rest of the bird hiding among the clouds.
There are now Sabine’s gulls floating around as well. They, too, are beautiful, elegant birds. A full black head, gray secondaries, and black primaries, the underwing white. They fly somewhat like a tern and have a forked tail, though not nearly so forked as the terns’. Graceful flyers, not lopers or speeders or trick fliers, just pleasing to watch.
And the Pomarine Jaegers are fabulous. I keep coming back to them. They fly somewhat like a tern though are much larger and their wings much longer. They are always silent. Sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of 6 or 7, always silent. I see them winging toward me, they materialize and pass by, uninterested in the doings of mortal beings.
The owl came to see me again this morning. I was brushing my teeth, looked up and there was the owl coming straight at me. Again it came within 15’ or 20’, looked right at me, turned on its wing and glided another 50’ before landing. It preened some, watched me, and then took once again to the wing.
There were a few flocks of long-tailed ducks, Brant, snow geese, and eiders. There are tons of Northern Pintails, another beautiful, graceful bird.
11 June
It’s foggy and thick again this morning. Now and then the sun works hard at break through. Relatively no wind, which is fabulous. I suppose as it warms up though it will begin again in earnest.
I had another owl encounter today. I walked the length of the colony and was walking along North beach. The ice is retreating, and I am finding a lot of beach hidden beneath it. I was looking across the ice, I turned to look west, and the owl was coming toward me. Again it landed on a perch 100’ away. It sat and watched, preened, fluffed, watched. I watched it and the other birds moving behind it. After several minutes it dropped low off the perch and winged straight to me. This time at eye level, straight into my binoculars, I could see its amber eyes and the golden flecks of light they emitted. The feathers around the eyes, the disk, the edges of the wings. I dropped my binocs when he filled the frame. It went right over my head no more than 10’ above me. I turned, watched him pulled up short, hover ½ a second and then glide away through the waves of moisture rising off the ice pack and sand. Am I such an oddity to them?
In the belief of many native peoples, the owl is a sign of death and deception. Are they warning me of something? Or just carrying a message of someone else’s demise? Perhaps they are trying to make me see that I am only deceiving myself with this path and life I have chosen. I have so many questions and doubts about myself that it is impossible sometimes for me to know what I am doing. Sometimes I think I have an idea, but I still wonder how I do the things I do.
13 June
I was watching the guillemots yesterday, a pair, they were head bobbing and touching bills and then would sit close to each other. The female would sometimes flatten herself to the ground, lower her neck and head and then raise her bill and cry – Here I am, let’s have at it. It made me think about how simple life would be if humans could do a little head bobbing, some bill touching, and then fornicate. Afterward, they could go back to their respective nest boxes with no one paying any attention to who had been where or what they had been doing. I think I can manage that whole head-bobbing thing.
Now, I think I must turn in for the afternoon; it is 3:00 after all. It has been warmer when I first get up, but that 0400 to 0700 shift is brutal. It is cold. If there is no sun or if there is any wind it sucks every ounce of heat out of you. Brrrrrrrrrr.
14 June
Well, my plan yesterday failed. The idea was to go to bed earlier, so I would get up closer to midnight when I’m supposed to start the morning bird rounds. So, I went to bed at about 3:15-ish. I slept through my alarm at 11:00, woke with a start from a dream at 11:43. Instantly fell back to sleep. Woke again at 12:30 and then again at 1:44 and finally got up at about 2:00. Good plan, huh? 11 hours of sleep. Guess I was tired.
Had a good morning, there was, mercifully, no wind. I did the requisite rounds, figured out the pairs and boxes. Radioed in and found out George wasn’t coming in (not surprised) and decided to give the birds the rest of the morning off. I had already been hassling them for 4 hours; they needed quality time with their mates.
I went for a walk.
All the way to the barge at the far east end. I don’t know how far it is, a few miles maybe, all sand and gravel. For a long way, the island is only a few hundred feet wide at most. The tundra is beautiful. The willows are blooming. There are a lot of meltwater ponds and birds of all forms. I collected three dead ones – two king eiders, one common eider. They are so beautiful, and their feathers are intensely dense and soft. I tried to sketch the common eider – eek. The head was the only part I liked. After a night of thick fog, it was beautiful, clear, and sunny for my walk. When I reached the farthest point, at the barge, the fog rolled in again.
I headed back, nowhere to go, all day to get there. I found two intervertebral discs from whales and, of course, lots of good stones – of which I collected many.
I walked along the south shore of the tundra. The brant have begun to lay eggs and were chasing each other and squawking as I approached. I found four red phalaropes feeding in a pond. Most of the birds pay no attention to me when I have only my binocs or as long as I don’t see them right off. I about stepped on a semi-palmated sandpiper, and it didn’t even hardly move. If I have the camera in hand, the birds are gone 100 yds in advance of me.
I walked away from the phalaropes stepping across a narrow channel that connected two large ponds. As I put my foot down at the edge of the channel this thought went through my head, “Is that a bear track?” Sure enough. I stepped back and looked around for more tracks. The track I stepped in – the largest bear track I’ve ever seen – was the cub. Mama’s print was as wide as my foot is long and about the overall size of a dinner plate. Big Bear. That changed my perspective on the possibility of seeing one. Of course, I would still love to see one, but maybe with some space between us. The tracks weren’t fresh, but I find it hard to believe prints, two sets no less, could have survived the winter, so, perhaps a few weeks? How much was open when I got here? Was that channel thawed already? There was a huge chunk of ice still in the channel – substantial enough for me to walk across… did the tracks survive the winter or did I have visitors recently? It has been so foggy, they could have walked past my doorstep, and I wouldn’t have known. Like the tundra swans on the pond yesterday. They appeared in the fog and just as mysteriously disappeared in the fog. I spent a lot more time looking around after that. Not surprisingly. Don’t want to startle a bear the size of a VW bug, especially if it’s with a youngster. No, that’s not a good idea.
George did not return today. The plan is that he will be in Barrow tomorrow and will find some way to get here on Friday. I’ll believe it when I see it. I suspected from the start that his idea of dates was a fuzzy one.
Dave didn’t have any products for me to guess today. I got him instead to teach me some Inupiaq words. I like them a lot. They sound real – not arbitrary sounds that form words but more like sounds that are things. And I like the way words are combined to create place names like Anaqtutuvuq – the pass where caribou leave their waste – more or less. An’noogaluk
Tundra sandpiper
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 16 Apr 2018 | Musing
Joy is the only emotion available when this bird comes to visit.
Spring Bluebird
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 15 Apr 2018 | Roads Taken
Part 8. The Guillemots make their entrance.
A Black Guillemot comfortably settled on a whale vertebra.
6 June
A sad day. It seems my little sparrow friend is gone. I don’t know if he went off in search of a mate, tired of singing into the void, or if he was eaten by the owl. Either way, it’s been awfully quiet in camp. He was singing from the top of the antenna when I got up and while I was drinking tea and eating but when I came back at 8-ish to make radio call he was nowhere to be seen and I haven’t seen or heard him since. The snow buntings are still coming to eat rice and to chase each other but it’s very quiet and lonely without the little sparrow. I even said good morning to him today. Sad.
I went and sat on the table, the highest point on the island, early this morning (0300-ish) to write a letter and to watch the world in the beautiful gold and pink light of the midnight sun. There was a new moon crescent on the horizon following the sun, though it must have set around 0330 or 0400 since I couldn’t find it again after that.
All sorts of birds were around, a few of each in groups or alone, sneaking up on me and disappearing again quickly. The owl, of course, a turnstone, some black-bellied plovers. And then, a whole bunch of black and white birds with bright red feet. Oooo boy. Big day, the crew’s back. They flew around in a circle, looked everything over and then disappeared again the way they had come. They were around all morning after that in ones and twos and threes. One pair landed on a nest box for ½ a second. It was pretty exciting.
The sun has been out almost all day, too, so it’s mild (in relative terms) and I am sitting outside now without gloves (though in my wool pants and parka). The wind is pretty strong and I’m trying to hide from it.
7 June
Just a few words. I’m tired and wind burned and ready to sleep. There were a bunch of guillemots today. Circling and squeaking and roosting. The scope is difficult for me to use. It’s mounted on a shotgun stock but that means you have to hold it all the time and it gets wiggly with the wind and the cold and the length of time it takes to ID a bird (by the combination of color leg bands on each bird). I had better luck walking up as close as I could and using my binocs. They fly sometimes but it was still better and they flew sometimes anyway with the scope.
There were two good sized flocks of king eiders today. They were beautiful. The red phalaropes seem to be here with some strength too. And the Pomarine Jaegers. Cool birds. They slide in and are suddenly upon you with their long gliding wings and elegant trailing tail feathers. Too bad they are parasites…
Funny. I don’t much miss humans. I talk with Dave for 10 minutes a morning. Even with the radio lag it’s fun, and I laugh a lot. I’ve guessed 3 of the 4 products he’s given me. I should quit now.
I was busy today. Watching birds, still trying to find some of the nests and checking them all for snow clearance. In between, I go back and forth to the tent for food and lots of liquids. If I could work without food and drink to keep me going in the cold and wind I would probably be done in a few hours. Instead, it seems to take the whole day.
I was sitting down past the tanks listening to the silence when this whirring, rushing noise came up behind me. It was a flock of king eiders. The sound is indescribable. I feel like someone should yell, “Incoming!”
I made a most excellent lentil soup for dinner and threw a handful of those sesame stick crunch snack things on top of my bowl. It was yummy. Sleep.
8 June
Another clear, beautiful day. The moon is up to ½ full. It was in the southern sky when I got up at 1230. It set sometime around 0300. I missed where it went.
I found and IDed a pectoral sandpiper today and saw 3 long-billed dowitchers go whizzing by and was able to ID them, too. I wandered down the beach this morning and came upon the Arctic tern and a Dunlin. Fabulous birds early in the morning.
The guillemots of course returned. I’m still checking and finding nest boxes. Still trying to sort them all out and now there are birds floating in and out. I will probably have better luck IDing the boxes by watching which birds land on them. Some of them are real buggers.
The birds are beautiful, intensely velvety black. The Velvet Void of birds. They were squawking and make cool noises in the air and on the ground. You hear their wings very clearly in the air and they mew on the ground.
I suspected for several days that there were at least two short-eared owls and first thing this morning, sitting on the table, drinking tea, I see two raptors gliding in. They both landed about 50’ from me. Turning, checking, watching, nervous that I was there. Then, one at a time, they took to the air, straight toward me, checked me out and wheeled away to land 100’ farther down the island. They sat and watched me again for a while before they made their way east along the N shore. It is so wonderful to see them up close. They know I’m not right. I don’t fit in the world as they remember it and try to figure me out. They don’t appear afraid, just cautious. I wonder if they are nesting on the island. I don’t hear their mating cries and they seem to go across the ice regularly – I often see them going or coming that way – I would love to be able to get close enough for some photos. I suppose I will have to lay in wait, sneak up on, and generally be PATIENT. Egad, surely not that!
Past noon as I was finishing up the nest checks I happened to look up and noticed the fog moving in. It was gray and dark in the west and the pack ice was obscured to the north but the bluffs were visible to the south and there was blue sky on the eastern horizon. As I assessed this, I stood and watched everything shut right down. In a matter of about 5 minutes, the bluffs were gone, the blue in the east was gone, the farther boxes were obscured and the tents were fogged in. Amazing. It’s been pretty well closed-in since. Though it does seem to be trying to clear. I’m ready for sleep.
Red Phalaropes on the lagoon
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 8 Apr 2018 | Roads Taken
#7, I believe, in the series. The summer of 2000 I spent on an island in the Arctic Ocean studying seabirds. Largely alone for the summer and left to my own devices, I watched the fog and the birds, did my work, read, wrote, and enjoyed the world unfolding its Arctic magic.
Fast forward to 2018. This fall I am participating in a science and art residency called The Arctic Circle taking place in Svalbard, Norway. The intent for my time In Svalbard is to weave together the stories of previous time in the Arctic as a biologist, this new adventure in a different Arctic scene and season as a writer and photographer, and the ongoing changes in our global landscape. Please join me for the adventure, Artistry in the Arctic
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The following is an excerpt from my 2000 journal. I’ve been on Cooper Island only a short time and the Black Guillemots, the object of my summer study, have not yet returned to their breeding grounds. My camp consists of three dome tents, one for me to sleep in, one to cook in, – good to keep food and sleeping people apart in polar bear turf – a storage/guest quarters tent, and a radio antenna that intermittently works when the fiberglass pole holding it is not blown over.
Camp Fog
4 June
It’s been a week. I’ve been here one week. There seems to be an absolute lack of sun. A few days at a time, fine, but a week? It’s light 24 hours a day and still no sun. How can that be? Permanent dense cloud cover. I wake each morning, open the tent and hope that something will have happened to clear the skies. But, no, it is as black and gray and cold as it was the day before. The horizon is as flat and gray as it was the day before.
The WC sparrow has been singing all morning, starting at about 2 am. Poor little guy. I think he is off course and wonder if a mate will ever appear for him. The male snow bunting continues to elude me. Each time I set up the camera or get it all ready and, he is in my sights, I wait for just the right scene, just turn this way, look up another second, and he’s gone and, I’ve still not gotten a photo.
Snow flurries are moving through again. There have been squalls off and on all day. It’s nice. Not warm, but nice.
5 June
It was dead calm and as gray as could be again when I awoke this morning. I decided to find more nest sites while there was no wind so off I went. I watched the sky and the clouds. There was a bit of snow in the air – enough to accumulate on the sand. As I wandered from site to site, I realized the horizon was drawing in and, the world was looking a little foggy, visibility down to about 100 yards. Being hungry, I headed back to eat and watched the world close in on me. I’ve been reading and eating and, then this bright, strange light seemed to appear in the northern sky. What? The sun? Could it be? It exists after all! Sure enough! I stuck my head out the door, fog all around, visibility 200 yards. Blue sky overhead and by gods, the sun on the edge of the fog. WooHoo!
I radioed with Dave at the research facility this morning. He had me play Guess the Product – he reads the ingredient list from food packages to me and, I have to guess what the item is. First ingredients this morning: corn syrup solids (egad!), partially hydrogenated oil… it turned out to be (I didn’t figure it out) coffeemate!? Starting with processed sugar and hydrogenated oil. Yuk. If I correctly identify the product, it gets sent to me on the next boat. I asked if I guess a product I truly wanted would I get that instead? Always scheming, but, alas, he said, “No.” Oh well.
The white-crowned sparrow sings on.
The coolest couple of things happened this afternoon. The fog was clearing out. The blue sky and sun were winning the day. I could hardly just sit in the tent. I collected up my stuff and set off up the north beach heading east. The fat, lazy seal who lies out there was indeed there. I stopped to see if it was just one as the profile seemed different. Satisfied that it was the same, I turned to continue my walk and saw motion above me. There was a rough-legged hawk (of course my first thought was Gyrfalcon – always optimistic) about 20’ up and 20’ in front of me, just hanging there. He rode the wind past me and turned to look down at me and then rolled away on his wingtip and floated out over the ice. He was glorious; all the patterning was sharp and precise. One primary feather was missing from the right wing, but otherwise, all the color and texture was perfect. As I watched him go way out, I marveled at what else could happen today. I watched the seal again. With the binocs to my eyes, a shadow passed right in front of me and at the edges of the glasses. Pulling binocs away, I looked to see who was blocking the sun’s path. This time immediately above me was a short-eared owl. It seemed startled by my sudden movement and turned body, wings, and head to look right into my face from 15’ away and just above me. Then it too wheeled away on a wingtip, and I watched it go a long time. I had only walked about 20’ again when it came back at shoulder height, 10’ from me, dipped and tucked in front of me and rode along the air on the edge of the beach. Wow. What marvelous things these creatures of the air. How I envy them.
I continued my stroll along the beach edge, watching the owl stay ahead of me, perch, land on the ground, ride the air. I can see the snow sublimating, like heat waves shimmering over a prairie, the moisture rises, distorts, creates new illusionary worlds, mirages in this land of snow and ice.
I walked and watched as the fog came in from the south and east, enveloping the island, the pressure ice, the owl. I turned back toward the tents, distant blobs on the horizon but visible, in time to see them engulfed by fog from the south and west. The world was closing in around me, taking the few identifiable objects on the island and obscuring them. Of course, as rapidly as they disappeared, they reappeared. The fog rolling across the island on its way north, over the pressure ridges, over the ice pack, across the sea, and on.
Now, sitting in front of the tent, the air is cold, the breeze brisk, the sun strong. My sparrow friend alternates between singing and feeding. The buntings fly in and out. A different short-eared owl flew over the camp to check things out. I do hope the little sparrow doesn’t become owl food. I would miss him. Perhaps his unrequited love will drive him to such despondency he will throw himself at the owl hoping to end it all. How melodramatic and anthropomorphic, but a fine tale, nonetheless.
It is peaceful, calm, glorious. The sky everywhere but straight north is as blue as is imaginable and then some. I have been sitting and thinking and sitting and waiting and writing and working and thinking. Nowhere to go, all day to get there, and no one to check up on me. Life is good.
The little sparrow and I take turns making music. He sings for a while and then flits off to feed or preen, and I play, well, try to play, my flute. When I get frustrated and quit, he calls again. We respect each other’s singing needs. He, of course, has a lovely voice and sweet song. I squeak.
The ice loosens its grip as the fog lingers.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
by aramatzne@gmail.com | 1 Apr 2018 | Roads Taken
The continuing story of summer alone on an Arctic Island studying seabirds…
Cooper’s nighttime layers of light, cloud, ice, and sand.
I cleaned up the camp yesterday. Reset the bear fence, packed and covered the extra gear and food. Set the extra antenna against the barrel holding up the antenna in use. The white-crowned sparrow has been sitting on it ever since, using it as a perch to call for a mate. Poor little guy, I wonder if he is supposed to even be here or if he is the only one so far north. I wonder if he got blown off course. He’s good company, anyway; he hops around camp eating rice and oatmeal and he chirps and sings to me. He doesn’t take off instantly the way he did at first but is still pretty wary. Yesterday he sat on the antenna and sang. I got my flute and played a few notes, he talked back to me; we were only sitting a few feet apart. He watched me; I watched him.
It’s about 2:30 am. It was and is dead calm this morning, no wind at all. I need to get out for a stroll before ithe wind comes up and kills me again. Except for the sparrow, no other birds are anywhere. I saw only one goose yesterday. They must be lying low after the storm the day before.
I forgot to write about the Inupiat couple who visited the other day – or about one thing – several greater white-fronted geese flew by as we were talking. The man called to them in exactly their voice – he was good – and as they went by the woman said, “Bang, duck soup.” I’ve always wanted to be able to do calls like that. And I always appreciate the need for food.
I walked to the west end of the island. It was early morning – no wind. I collected a lot of stones along the way. Smooth, shiny-black stones of all shapes and sizes. I walked back, ate again, and went to the east end of the island. It seems all of the Lapland longspurs live at that end of the island. The snow buntings are everywhere. I saw the black-bellied plovers again and a pair of Baird’s sandpipers. Also a female pintail. The white-crowned sparrow sings on.
I was just assaulted by 3 beautiful little common redpolls. Sitting with my back to the wind, they came zooming into camp and landed within 5 feet of me. The tripod is between my knees with the zoom set up but they were so close I couldn’t move. One landed on the bear alarm line, the other 2 on the ground. The sparrow joined them and fed for a minute. The one on the line flew right at the camera and me, at the last second went over my head. I’m wearing the parka with the fox ruff, sitting very still so I suspect they had no idea I was human. There seems to be an influx of creatures today. The south wind has brought out all the little beasts.
It’s funny, this whole 24 hours of light. I guess no one said 24 hours of sun – I haven’t seen the sun since I’ve been here. I get up at midnight; stay up all night. It’s light out. I stay up most of the day and it’s light out. I go to sleep early in the evening and it’s light out. But the nights are silent as if everyone is sleeping and it’s not until about 4 am, the time when all self-respecting diurnal birds are awake, that there is any sound or movement by the birds. They seem to keep their usual schedule regardless of the light. Why not rest during the busy part of the day, feed while everyone else is sleeping, when there’s no competition? Hmmmm. Interesting.
I’m not having any trouble sleeping in the eternal light or getting up at midnight or 1 am but I do get sleepy early in the morning – 6 am-ish, right after lunch as it was – how does my body know that it’s nap time then just like it is at 2 pm in June in Maine? I wonder. What will I do when I go back to the regular schedule and the regular days of light and dark? Yuk.
I’ve been trying to get photos of the male snow bunting. He is resisting and each time I’ve had a good opportunity I’ve let it go. Silly me.
It is remarkable to be out here where there is no sound. No voices. No cars, very few planes. There is the wind in my ears and in the tents. The calls of the birds and nothing else. No wind in the grass or the trees. No water. No music. I try to play my flute but unless I sit in the warm tent my fingers are too cold (and even then it’s hard). I’ve been trying to play a little every day and want to move up to the actual music part of the book, not just the fingering practice – though I have enough trouble with the fingering and can’t read music so… The book explains all of the symbols and meter and all but I have so little experience I’m still struggling just to understand the basic language. So the birds hear me practice and the sparrow even answers back to me : )
Sitting in the tent sometimes I think I can hear music. I’m not sure what it is but it is a regular, repeating rhythm. Every time I stick my head out of the door it goes away. I’m perplexed by it. I thought it was the wind in the nylon for a while but then I realized I could still hear it when there was no wind.
I also hear crows regularly. I know that they are not here but I hear them. The warriors are with me and are keeping me strong.
I walked on the Arctic Ocean today. Just stepped right out there onto the pack ice and had a stroll. I can’t part the sea but I can walk on an ocean.
Join me this fall on The Road not Taken Enough when I go to Svalbard on an Arctic Circle residency Artistry in the Arctic.
