Just look what we're missing!

Marian, our MD neighbor, took a picture of our MD house in Clarksburg with its blanket of 28” +/- of snow. This picture was complemented by the images Marian took of Addie and their house, and our other neighbor’s pictures of Todd almost to his hips and over his boot tops snow-blowing their deck! And further complemented by other friends’ images of a McLean neighborhood awaiting a snow plow, Corcoran St NW with barely tracks down the center, not to mention images posted on facebook from all around the area. And finally, corroborated by almost 200 images posted in WashingtonPost.com . The last time we had that much snow, we had to dig pathways for the dogs to go out for bathroom breaks. If you’ve nowhere to go, it’s a winter wonderland; if you have to get to work, you wonder if you’ll get there intact. Start getting cabin fever, and you wonder if the salt truck and snow plow have abandoned your neighborhood to the snow sharks. Not that you would care when you’ve been shoveling snow for hours and you haven’t reached the mailbox yet, but this is an El Niño year, and from what I heard on a weather story the other evening, this is the worst El Niño in a decade or more. El Niño brings snow, ergo a stronger El Niño brings more snow! Here in southwestern New Mexico, we are receiving snow in sympathy with the east coast: the snow started to fly mid-afternoon today and by nightfall there was a good ½ inch on the ground at 6,500’. Oof…ouch – watch where you’re aiming those snowballs!

Morning visitors: A crowd showed up for brunch. On the buffet were the juniper, some grass, the few remaining oak leaves and the tender tips of the younger piñon pines. You’ll notice that there is a stark line on the juniper tree. And the cause of that demarcation – the deer can’t stretch her neck any higher. There are times you’ll see the deer standing on their hind legs and stretching up into the tree to grab a bite, but because they can’t maintain that stance for long, they don’t prune the trees quite so vigorously and cleanly. But drive through this neighborhood and notice that all edible trees have high-water, or more aptly, high-deer lines. You can, however, cruise other areas that are less populated and you see fewer deer-pruned trees. Do the deer just prefer the higher-priced spread? Are our junipers and cedars more appealing to the gourmet mule deer? Or is it that there are more deer here than there is browse? The trees and bushes are more noticeably trimmed this year than last, following a season bearing more fawns than last. Where there’s food, there are babies. A natural phenomena. Or natural if it were occurring without human interference and was allowed to balance itself over seasons. But that doesn’t happen here. Here, people feed the deer. So the deer are doing what all creatures do in times of plenty – they have been multiplying. And now, it’s winter and there’s not enough to eat. And so the trees and shrubs are fodder, stripped to the point of damage. Where does it end, other than badly?

But they are cute and interesting to watch. Here, twins scratch twin itches.

On a different note, the avian patterns are changing to greet the changing season. The western bluebirds are as garrulous as ever, but the tone of their conversation has changed. Until recently, they gossiped in flocks, genially and at length; now they argue and grouse as they stake out territories in preparation for their mating dances. The most adventurous of the migrants are showing up, singing from the tree tops on the sunny days and huddling among the branches on cold, wet days, silent and perhaps wishing they were still basking in their winter get-aways. And those who stay all year are carrying out their own migration from the base of the trees to the tips, reversing their fall trip to the cover of the ground. Bendire thrashers are singing, often from trees across the road from each other. They liven up my walks, just as I eavesdrop on the bluebirds.

And yet, although the birds are tuning their spring songs and the trees are budding up, the snows have held all in abeyance, waiting. Spring is not yet here. It may look like spring is arriving, and it may sound so, but it does not yet smell so. So far, the air still has a cold crisp flavorless edge to it. On damper days, especially at dawn, the juniper’s turpentine tang is prominent. But the softer perfume of spring is still absent. Soon, though; soon.

What's that I hear? or: Finally, a River Runs Through It

This is the high desert. Although I don’t think of it that way – plenty of green, after all – that’s what the experts say. In the desert, high, low and in between, there are three types of watercourses: perennial, intermittent and ephemeral, the latter being most typical. An ephemeral stream is one that only runs with water under certain conditions. There are plenty of ephemeral streams in our area; in our neighborhood alone we cross 3 or 4 stream beds walking Nutmeg and the house in which we’re living is bounded by two. I’ve wondered when they would run full. We’ve been here one year and three months. I’ve seen trickles, dribbles, slicks and droplets. But no stream, crick, run, or riffle. Not even during the monsoons we had last summer. Now, that’s here in Silver. Up in the Gila is a different story. There are perennial creeks and streams up there; the forest at elevation gets 30-40 inches—yes, those are zeros after the 3 and 4—of rain most years and the record snow depth (although not from one snowfall) was 12 feet; this at elevations of 9- to 10,500 feet. The Gila is not high desert, being made of up as it is by the Black Range, the Pinos Altos Range and the Mogollon (pronounced locally as Muggy-yown). But we are. So: few perennial creeks, few intermittent creeks, but many many ephemeral creeks. So: enough didactics and a little more real-life experience.


My friend Gail walked with me one day on my regular morning Nutmeg-walk. We walked through the neighborhood. It was about when we crossed the 3rd dry creek bed that she said, approximately, “I really like to hear the creeks when they run. They don’t run too often, mostly in the winter when we’ve gotten a lot of snow.” I was put on notice. We have gotten a lot of snow. A “lot” is several snowfalls of 2 to 6 inches each. At that moment on that walk, the stream beds were still ephemerally dry. Another snowfall and a couple of days later: I stepped onto the patio just before dawn with Nutmeg and while I waited for her to sniff and pee, found myself listening intently, trying to identify that sound. That noise. That…bubbling. Gurgling. And it dawned on me (pun intended). The creeks were running. For my loved ones of the East, you might think I wouldn’t forget that sound. Or you might think I would not even notice what is so commonplace, there. Spend a year in the high desert where the only things running in most stream beds are lizards and dust devils and that sound becomes an event.

So we hustled over to our property, which just happens to have a large arroyo running across the eastern end, with – usually – a dry stream bed. Not dry now. And not just a trickle. A wide, full, bubbling stream with pools and riffles and rapids and meanders. You bet I took pictures. You bet I took video with sound. Now, anytime we wonder whether life has deserted our little stream and when it might come back, we can just run the video and listen. This is what it sounds like when the snow melts and the rain soaks down from the sky islands of the Gila and turns our ephemeral stream into a running, living thing.

And then, last Saturday, I took Nutmeg out much earlier than usual. In fact the sun had only just come over the ridge to light up the fields and yards. What the sun lit up was a world of diamonds and spun glass. A heavy frost had fallen during the night, and every grass blade and stem and seedhead, every tree leaf and fir needle, even the hairs and spines on the cholla cacti and yucca were coated in moisture that had frozen into crystals. Wherever I looked, from ground to the tops of the trees, the sun created a fairly land of sparkle. It was enchanting. Of course, I was without a camera. I took in as much as I could, literally breathing in the beauty and magic. By the time I got around the block, the intensity of the sun was melting the ice crystals and coatings. Trees and grasses were literally smoking as they gave up their moisture into the warming and drying air. But for a few moments…transported.

Post-it Notes

In spite of the calendar, the sap must be running – the tips of the cottonwoods are greening and other tree tips are getting fuzzy. Last year I noticed evidence of the rising of the sap in February. Here we are, the middle of January, and the evidence is plain—after a short winter nap, hints of spring.

Last week, Nick noted that bluebirds were checking out the birdhouse on the back patio. They departed with no lease applications submitted. Yesterday, I saw a Titmouse exploring the neighborhood. Flitting from chair to table to chair, considering the view. Except the view of concern was the exposure to threats. Finally decided to peek inside; disappeared into an apartment on the lower level. I waited…10 minutes went by…no egress. Had the Spring’s rental been agreed and a deposit of eggs made already? What other reason to stay? But it’s only mid-January.

The law of Murphy’s dog: The less time available to walk the dog, the more interesting smells there are to grab the dog’s attention. C’mon, Nutmeg. We gotta get going!

Rabbit hit by a car and expired on the side of the road. Discovered because of the Unkindness of Ravens gathered around as we approached. The next day, the rabbit’s remains gone, we found only fur and tracks. Nutmeg intrigued by the smells of unseen raiders and me trying to identify unknown prints, we spent 15 minutes with our noses pointed at the ground.

Thursday, we had 3 seasons of weather. Sunny, mild, cloudless, cloudy, cold, damp, rainy, snow falling and blown horizontally, sunny and mild. I had a date with Gail to walk after work, to bird, and a beer. A fire, wine and good conversation instead.

“Dirt is a guys’ thing.” Nick’s quote to me as he left to oversee the digging of a perk-test-trench on our property. I posted this note on Facebook . Repeating it here with picture. Don’t let her fool you – Nutmeg arrived after the fact and could only wonder at the size of THAT dog!

So we’ve “broken ground.”

Note the strung-out house lines, approximately at first-floor level. Lower level at ground level. All rooms first and below, face south except Nick’s office. While watching the videos, please turn down the volume. I didn’t know I was breathing into the camera’s ear!

Last night: an evening of music. Peter Mulvey the main draw – the first of the Mimbres Arts Council’s folk series. Folksy but bluesy, too. Funny, sad, profound. An unusual approach – Letters from a Flying Machine – he tales letters he’s written to his born and not yet born family members with audio accompaniment by the drone of the aircraft’s engines. An opening act by Nicole Reynolds. Strong guitar; sweet, moving, loving lyrics. A voice of an 8 year old: breathy, almost carrying her tune. Matching her diminutive stature.

Another wall needed. Another picture to hang. Manzanita Ridge has a collection of signed R.C. Gorman posters. Managed to choose only one: Young Navaho Mother, 1991, Adagio Galleries. Did I mention, signed by Gorman and framed?



I’ve run out of sticky notes for now. Next week: Red Paint Powwow. Missed last year in favor of a hike in nice January weather. Not to be missed this gathering.

What post-its are on your mind? Sonnie