Room with a View

So I was sitting in my living room this evening, watching House on TV.  Every once in a while, I'd see a violet-green swallow fly past the windows.  Hooray, hooray, the swallows are back.

Then I glanced up at the mountain ridge that runs the length of this valley.  For a moment, I thought I was seeing things.  I reached for the binoculars, then I took a photo.  The area I focused on is through the top center right window, under that patch of snow that looks like the old peace symbol.

This is what I saw:

There are twenty mountain goats in this picture.  Twenty. 

You might have trouble seeing twenty because two at the far right are standing next to each other and look like one goat.

Some years ago, I was lying on the couch watching the mountain and listening to the evening news on TV.  I counted 31 goats spread all across this ridge.  Suddenly every goat up there began moving towards the center, just to the left of where these goats are now.  Within a few minutes every goat on the mountain was in a small place maybe fifty feet across.

They were so thick I could no longer distinguish them individually.  They remained there for about fifteen minutes, then sauntered off in all directions.  I again verified the count of 31 goats as they separated.

I thought about that for a while, why they suddenly stopped what they were doing and gathered at a central point.

I reckon they were deciding where to go for dinner.

By the way, I occasionally see bears on that mountain, too, but they are more frequently seen on the mountain behind me which is still covered in snow.

♫♫♫ Oh, Happy Day ♫♫♫ and Litter Notes for May 8, 2011

♫♫♫  ♫♫♫  OH, HAPPY DAY   ♫♫♫  ♫♫♫

I am certain, without a doubt, no question about it-- using the words of a familiar gospel song to announce what has made me so happy is NOT politically-nor-any-other-kind of correct.

But listen.  One takes one's happiness where one finds it.  The line from my septic tank to the leach field has finally thawed and I no longer have to pump my septic tank every three or four days.

♫♫♫   OH, HAPPY DAY!!!!!  ♫♫♫

Here's some more good news:

I have finished picking up litter in the Moose Pass Section of the Seward Highway  north from Mile 36 to Mile 46, with the exception of an area alongside Summit Lake, and am now working in the Silvertip maintenance section.  

Here's the bad news for Ken and crew:

There are 46 yellow bags of litter waiting for pickup on the sides of the highway.  But listen, Ken and crew:  It's fine with me if those bags stay out there for a while.  I like to think it makes people think twice about tossing stuff from their vehicles.

Odds, Ends, and Curiosities

See this miserable excuse for a tree?  It's an alder.  I'm showing it to you because this is what I've been dealing with the last few days.

This is their growth pattern:  Multiple limbs spreading out in a circle.  I chose this one to photograph because it's remarkably in the open.  Usually they are densely packed, limbs intermingling, providing sanctuaries for litter.  I hate them.  One thing worse?  Willows!!!!

I was about dead when I spotted something white in the alders.  My feet hurt.  My hands ached.  My shoulder was threatening to strike.  I'd pushed myself too far that day.  I was thinking very seriously that this would be my last year picking up litter.  Then, I reached for this white paper towel with my grab  stick.  Neatly nestled on the towel was a pile of rabbit pellets.   I laughed out loud and reached for the camera.

I'm sure the rabbit didn't know what was under the snow when he left his pellets.

Today was better as I didn't push myself too hard.  I spotted what I thought was a chunk of foam stuck on a branch.  When I got closer, I realized it was a slab of snow, about 14" by 14".  Apparently heavy snow had pushed the tree branch to the ground, and subsequent snowfalls froze the branch in the snow.  As the snow melted, the branch sprang back up, taking a slab of snow with it. 

Found these new boat and trailer registrations yesterday.  Trying to find a phone number to let the owner in Eagle River know.

Another item I dragged home with  me.  It's been through the laundry already.  Will make a nice packing blanket or bed for someone's critter.

And today's biggest find is an uninjured Blackberry.  Battery's dead, though.  I'll see if I can find the owner.

♫♫♫  Oh, Happy Day!!!!  ♫♫♫

♫♫♫  Oh, Happy Day!!!!  ♫♫♫

I put the sewer pump away!!!! 

Total bag count to date:  132 

Litter Notes, May 6, 2011

Ten in the evening.  Alpenglow from the setting sun is kissing the mountain peaks goodnight.

My body wants to be in bed; my mind says otherwise.

The two are at odds with each other these days, with the mind biting off large chunks of chores and the body protesting vehemently.  It's spring and most of the snow and ice is gone.  That means one thing around here:  Litter picking season is in full swing.

With the last of the firewood stacked in the woodshed, I've begun picking up litter along the highway, totally ignoring all the chores I should be doing at home.  There's only one place I want to be and that's out walking the ditches, filling yellow bags with beer bottles, diapers, and fast food wrappers.

It's become an obsession.  Each spring when I begin, I fear this might be the last season I can do this.   Last year it was my shoulder;  this year it's the ankle I injured in Mexico a couple years ago.  A couple days ago I didn't think I was going to make it back to my truck, the ankle hurt so much.  As I was limping along the last hundred yards to the truck (picking up litter, of course), it dawned on me how I could placate the sniveling, whining, complainiing ankle--turn around and walk the other way!  DUH!

It was that simple.  I hurt the ankle by hyper-extending it inward.  When I walk the ditches facing traffic, that's the way the ankle bends along the sloped shoulders of the highway.  If I walk with traffic (not quite as safe), the ankle bends outward, which is okay.  Mostly.

I'm now working twelve miles from home, but there's a mile and three-quarter gap distance that I haven't yet cleaned.  I have to bite off those chucks in little bites because I get so discouraged.  A couple years ago six miles of highway was re-done and upgraded, but after it was paved, the contractor put down glue-on lane striping.

Notice how pieces of the lane striping is missing?

That's because it's all over the sides of the road.

When the snow plows come through in the winter, pieces of that striping are scraped up, littering the sides of the road.  No matter how much litter I pick up, the shoulders still look a mess.  I get what I can, but that lane striping is like cigarette butts, which I also don't pick up because the human life span is far too short.

Gully's been here.

When I finally dragged myself back to the truck this evening, the bag count reached 103 bags.  Some explanations are required.  Not all the bags are full.  I carry them until the shoulder says, "That's it.  I'm not playing anymore."  So, I tie off the bag and leave it on the side of the road.

Sometimes I leave a partially filled bag if there's something large, like a tire, that won't fit in the bag.  Or, if I've finished with a section and the bag isn't full, I'll leave it rather than take it home.  Most of the time, though, either the shoulder or the hand complains about the weight of the bag.

I'm going to bed.  I'll let you enjoy the photos of some things I've found so far:

A high school advanced mathematics book.  It was in a foreign language even though most of the words appeared to be in English.

A mint set of coins, sealed in plastic.

I found a money tree, but it had only one bloom hanging on it.  It was a twenty, though, so that was nice.

I was working along Jerome Lake when this collection of vehicles gathered next to my truck.  About the time I got back to the truck, a tow truck was there to haul away the offender's vehicle.  I'm guessing DUI, or an outstanding warrant.

Bones from a young moose.  Filled a whole bag.

That's a Red Bull can hanging in the bushes.

A green shark squirt gun, six bags of new ear plugs, and a piece of inner tube I need to make a gasket for my pump--the one I'm still using to pump my septic tank down because the line to the leach field is still frozen!%#(##(!!.

This was a first.  An electric meter.

This is something I do not understand.  Why do people buy these expensive bottles of water and throw them out unopened or after drinking very little?  Also, in the last week I've found a liter bottle of unopened beer, as well as four 12-oz. bottles of beer.  Because the regular bottles of beer are usually found with five empties, I reckon by the time someone has drunk five beers they don't have any idea they're throwing out their last full one.  But a whole liter?

Two wheel weights, a porcupine skull, a black rubber strap, two golf  balls, a stop watch, and I don't have a clue what that brown thing is.

I've already found three of these, though this picture is from last year.  RVs store their drain hoses in rear bumpers and these are end caps.  I usually find the drain hose a few miles down the highway.

Night, night.

Litter bag count:  103

Mountain Lights

Cloudy, with rain.  That was today's weather forecast.

So, when I went litter-picking early this afternoon, I took rain gear with me.

No rain.  Instead, the sun warmed its way through the clouds and turned Lower Summit Lake into a reflective mirror as I walked along the highway.

Stolen sun, I call it.  "Stolen" because it was supposed to rain. 

This evening around 9:30 the sun was punctuating the clouds in the west, and there was just something about the way it was backlighting those mountains that I liked.

Remember, you can click on these photos to enlarge them and then click again for full screen. 

A little later, the air turned golden.  I went out, expecting a dramatic cloud scene, but the sky was clear.   No spectacular mountain scenes.  When I came back inside I noticed that golden light shining through the shamrock that sits on a window ledge.

Stolen sun, the end of a beautiful day.

And stolen sun, like stolen kisses, is much sweeter by far.

Wherefore art Thou, Juliet?

Wherefore art thou, Juliet?

Romeo?  Is that you, Romeo?  Are you back here at Tern Lake and looking for Juliet?

She hasn't been able to fly, you know, since someone shot an arrow through her wing.  She's trying, Romeo, doing some therapy on those wing muscles.  

Last I heard, she was ruling the roost at the Northwest Wildfowl Farm in Everett, Washington. She goes by the name of Marshmallow down there.   I'll see if I can find out more, and let you know.

(PS:  You really need to wash your neck, Romeo....)

Well, hello there....

 

Uh, whatever you are.

Bitchin' about the Weather

 

Raining at my house,

Snowing up the road.


Perfect weather for (stop me if you've heard this one before)....

...ducks.

What the ???

This doesn't look like spring!

Gotcha!

 

Late last night I heard the news

of the end of a tall, gentle-eyed man

with murderous evil in his heart

and thousands of deaths at his feet.

I watched for hours as the news poured in,

watched as people gathered

in front of the White House and at Ground Zero.

They cheered and chanted “USA! USA! USA!”

Was it my imagination, when I turned off the TV,

did I stand a little straighter?

Were my shoulders back a little farther?

Was the White House a little whiter?

Was Ground Zero a little brighter?

Did we return some swagger to our troops?

Today some ask if it is proper

to celebrate the killing of a man

who ordered the deaths of so many,

who caused the loss and maiming of many more,

who hid behind a woman in his final moments.

That is not why we celebrate.

We mark the years of grieving,

the suspicion that perhaps we weren’t equal to the task,

that maybe we’d slipped, that we were too soft.

The lungs that today expel the air

that passes through the larynges

that transforms those breaths to cheers

in celebration are not for the death

of a coward who sent others to do his evil.

Those cheers are for one purpose:

To lighten the souls of those we’ve lost,

and the hearts of we who mourn them,

that they might soar higher.

Yet, in my heart I feel

the life of my friend Chris

and of all the other lives lost because of this madman

are worth far, far more

than the lives of tens of thousands

of men with evil in their hearts.