People’s homes burn to ashes

The air turns yellow with smoke

We listen for evacuation notices

Deciding what to take if we have to go

People flee for their lives

One step ahead of the flames

Like a war zone

The chatter and roar of aircraft fills the sky

Heroic firefighters risk their lives

So that ours may be saved

Friends and family come together

To comfort and grieve

Our sacred wild places are reduced to ashes

Again

I miss the movies, the especially the smell of popcorn. I love to stand by the snack counter and watch the popper at work. The stainless steel tub rotates as it stirs the oil and unpopped kernels. When the oil reaches just the right temperature the staccato sound of popping begins. Slowly at first, it gathers in speed and intensity until  it sounds like a hundred firecrackers exploding all at once. Popcorn begins spilling from the lid of the tub in an avalanche of white, slowly filling the clear rectangular box that the tub sits inside of. The twin aromas of warm butter and popped corn kernels are simply intoxicating to me. Of all our senses, smell is the strongest activator of memory. Whenever I smell freshly popped popcorn, I’m immediately transported inside the comforting confines of a movie theater.

My mom always worked at the movies so I basically grew up inside a movie theater. She began as a ticket taker and candy girl and gradually worked her way up to theater manager. Up until I moved to California as an adventure seeking 22 year old, I never once paid to get into any movie theater in our area. All my mom had to do was call the theater manager and I’d be on the guest list. 

Like most small towns in the 60’s and 70’s, my hometown of Caldwell, NJ had a single screen movie theater. The Park Theater opened in 1925 and was a classic example of the movie theater architecture of that era; plush carpet, cushy seats, ornate ceilings. Saturday double feature matinees at The Park were a staple of my childhood and a rite of passage for me, my older brother Ray and our friends. Throughout my life I’ve had many a magical experience at the movies, but none stands out as much as the one I had on a cold and grey winter afternoon in 1965. 

The Sound Of Music was the big hit movie at the time so my mom took me and Ray to see a matinee screening at The Park. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were greatly anticipating the upcoming holiday and the first snow of winter that we hoped would precede it.  I don’t recall much about the actual movie viewing experience that day but I’ll never forget what happened afterwards. When the film ended, we stepped from the darkened theater into the light of the afternoon and were amazed at what we saw; it had snowed while we were inside! It was slightly more that a dusting but just enough snow for everything to be blanketed in a thin layer of white. The magic of that moment and the magic of the movies are forever linked in my mind.

A year earlier, The Park was the scene of another seminal movie moment for me. Ray and I screamed and sang along with a couple hundred other kids while The Beatles frolicked their way through A Hard Days Night. We loved The Beatles so much and this was the closest we’d ever come to seeing them live. Our dad sat stoically beside us, not sure what all the fuss was about. I remember thinking at the time how cool it was that dad had taken us. Sadly, The Park Theater was destroyed by a fire in 1974. A bank now sits on the site.

The entire movie going experience is still magical to me. Entering the dimly lit theater, the low murmur of conversation, the anticipation of the feature film, the larger than life aspects of the giant screen and surround sound. Most people leave at the end of the film but I stay until the last credit rolls and the house lights go on. Some directors add little surprises during or after the credits and I never want to miss any of those. I’ve carried the love of the movies with me all my life right up to the present day.

Ever since the arrival of the VCR and video stores, movie attendance has been on a slow, steady decline. DVD’s came along and home movie viewing improved both in quality and ease of operation. The ubiquity of online streaming services has nearly rendered the movie theater obsolete. Why shell out $10 a head to go out and see a movie when you can now watch virtually any film ever made in the privacy of your own home?

The existential horrors of COVID-19 have forced movie screens across the country to go black, further accelerating their decline. Hopefully it will once again be safe to sit inside a theater and watch a film. When that day comes, I wonder if there will be any theaters left to go back into? What a devastating loss that would be, another shared experience with other human beings gone as our society becomes more and more insular.

I’ll leave you with this thought.  If popcorn is popping in the lobby of some future movie theater and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

We were quite the flotilla. Six adults, three teenagers and two dogs heading out on paddle boards and kayaks for an afternoon on Sparks Lake near Bend, Oregon. This idyllic lake in the shadow of majestic Mount Bachelor is the perfect place to spend a lazy summer afternoon with family and friends.

Our first stop was a small sandy beach which we thankfully had to ourselves. Sandwiches, drinks and snacks came out as we relaxed deeper into this sunsplashed day. Our kids Sam and Denali had other plans. They immediately set off down the beach together to explore. With no Instagram or Snapchat to distract them they quickly segued into pre-smartphone mode. It didn’t take long for them to discover that the water nearest the shore was teeming with two inch long, olive green tadpoles. Denali came running over excitedly to show me one of these critters wriggling in her cupped hands. The adults munched, the dogs splashed happily in the lake and our kids were off on their own Discovery Channel adventure. Sam came up and cut the top off of an empty soda can while Denali dug a shallow hole a few feet from the water. The can was now a tadpole scooper and the hole their new home. The kids created a similar project two summers ago in Hawaii. While hiking a deserted beach on Kauai we came upon a creek filled with small black tadpoles. Our young wildlife biologists spent a couple of hours constructing a temporary home for those tadpoles too.

Watching Sam and Denali today I marvel at how effortlessly they can turn into little kids again, they’re sixteen going on six. That childhood sense of wonder is still inside of them, simmering just below the surface and it takes but one simple thing, like today’s tadpole discovery, to awaken it. The older our kids get the fewer and further between these spontaneous moments occur. However by getting them away from the trappings of civilization and technology there’s always a chance of them occurring again.

Kids reach a certain age, some sooner than others, and it’s suddenly not cool to be a kid any longer. Why does this happen? There seems to be an unwritten chronologic age at which childhood ends. However, I know plenty of adults who manage to retain that kid spirit, refusing to “grow up”.  Kids are intuitive and sensitive and whip smart. Their wide-eyed “oh my god, look at this!” sense that everything is new and possibilities are unlimited is refreshing and magical to be around. To spend time with kids is to live in the moment, experiencing life to the fullest. I try every day to see the world through the eyes of a child and hang on to their unique sense of wonder.

On a recent camping trip I had the opportunity to spend some time with the four year old granddaughter of a friend. She and I walked along the rocky beach of a lake collecting bird feathers. I found one feather that was particularly beautiful. It was about half an inch wide and three inches long, light grey at the bottom, gradually giving way to a darker shade of grey. It abruptly changes into a band of pure white, terminating in a point of jet black.  I asked my little friend Raya what kind of bird she thought this feather came from. She paused for a moment, opened up her dark rimmed blue eyes as wide as they could go and exclaimed, “A rainbow bird!” 

May we all continue to see the rainbow birds of the world.

Would you like to be part of my barefoot wish? We could walk hand in hand dodging rainbows on the beach in Hanalei with cool rain falling on our heads and warm sand squishing between our toes. Clouds slip past the sun and the rainbow colors become so intense that our eyes fill with joy tears. We run faster and faster  filling our lungs with the sweet salty air as we try to reach the end of the rainbow before it melts back into the furry green mountains. We’re nearly there and can almost touch the colors. A pod of dolphins gets there before we do. They leap with childlike abandon, spinning and flipping towards the rainbow, absorbing the vibrating colors until each individual is now a rainbow of its own. This is my barefoot wish.

It’s one of the more unusual sounds in the bird kingdom. Beginning on a low note it gradually rises in pitch and speed, spiraling up and up, note by note until the sound just disappears into the forest air. It’s the sound of a wood faerie’s flute. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush always fills me with longing.

I first became aware of this mysterious and rarely seen little bird on my maiden trip to the Oregon Country Fair in July of 2000. The fair takes place inside this enchanting little forest within a larger property just outside of Veneta in western Oregon. During that fair I camped inside “the eight” (the fair’s main pathway being shaped roughly like the number 8). The eight is smack dab in the middle of the forest and birds abound inside this little slice of Eden.

Like the opening notes of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s classic Wooden Ships or the scent of spring’s first blossoming freesias, the Swainson’s Thrush’s song transports me immediately to a specific place and time in my life: the dappled green pathways of the country fair. It’s morning, hours before the public comes in. Vendors are beginning to open their booths, lines snake back from Liberty Coffee and other places serving the beverage that fuels the fair. In a few hours this pathway will become a human sea but right now it’s so peaceful and quiet. The recycle crew pass by in their rattletrap truck, cleaning up from the previous evening’s revelry. Sleepy eyed people are just waking up, or just going to bed, it’s hard to tell which. A trio of waif like young girls, all flowing hair and skirts, skip by wearing fairy wings and blowing bubbles. A man on stilts dressed like the Mad Hatter waits in line behind me. We are serenaded by an impish looking fellow sporting a bushy salt and pepper beard. He softly strums his banjo for us folks in the coffee line. The whirly copter atop his rainbow baseball cap twirls to the beat. The way the morning light filters down through the trees gives the pathway an underwater quality. I feel as if I’m swimming through a tranquil green pool. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush serves as a soundtrack to this calm before the storm scene, it’s the perfect background music to the fair’s magical, medieval vibe.

So what is the source of my longing? In a world filled with contrived and generic experiences, the Oregon Country Fair is a truly unique event. What began over 50 years ago as a ragtag gathering of hippies has grown over the years into a quirky, let your freak flag fly celebration of artists, musicians, dreamers, fun seekers and visionaries. My annual immersion into this bacchanalian scene is to be given a glimpse into what it’s like to be truly alive and free in a society that values neither freedom nor life. Acceptance and love, things that people are literally dying for, are found in abundance at the fair. For participants and organizers alike the possibilities really are unlimited among the forests and hayfields of the OCF.

By far my most favorite and magical place at the fair is the open air communal showers and sauna known as The Ritz. The walls, floors and benches are all exquisitely wood crafted. Water heated by an enormous wood burning furnace flows continuously through several rows of shower heads. Inhibitions are shedded along with the dust and grime as we all shower together. There’s a large circular fire pit surrounded by wooded steps and benches where people sit to dry off. A crackling blaze is kept going at all times. A small stage stands before the fire pit where acoustic music is performed. Performances are usually done au natural. My favorite gig ever as a musician was on that stage. Me and two close friends played and sang, naked as the day we were born.  The Ritz is an enchanting place whenever you’re there but at night it is transformed. Everything is bathed in a soft orange glow from the fire and subdued lighting. In the showers, steam swirls around all of the beautiful naked bodies making  them appear as if they’re moving in a dream. Everything is warm and peaceful. The snap and pop of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation and the hiss of the showers combine to create a meditative aural soundscape through which this scene is played out. If a return to the womb is possible, The Ritz would be it.

While immersed in the fair, I always feel a bit sad and nostalgic even while in the midst of the festivities. I guess it’s because Monday will eventually come and  I’ll have to say goodbye to all of this until next year. To say that you never want something to end is such a cliche but you know what? If my Bill Murray Groundhog Day moment were to be set at the country fair, then bring it on! I could lie on my back at night in the cool grass of Chela Mela Meadow, watching the stars and listening to the giggles of happy trippers. Then it would be on to The Ritz. Park me underneath a shower head and let the hot water run over me like a baptism. The smokestack from the furnace is painted with a Native American osprey motif. I’d watch the sparks fly from its mouth and become fireflies as they disappear into the Oregon night. I’d awaken each morning not to Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe but to the song of the Swainson’s Thrush. Longing.

Unmasked faces

Smiles

The progression from frown to grin

Lips, mouth and teeth form

That uniquely human expression of joy

Beyond borders, beyond cultures

We all smile in the same language 

But now

We’re forced to rely on eyes alone

And struggle to read what’s hidden 

Human touch 

Hugs

Playful, chaste, sensual

The best ones are grounding and deeply fulfilling

Goodbye hugs,

Welcome home hugs

Melting into one another hugs

Breathe in the scent of skin and hair

As you pull each other close

But now

Break the six foot barrier

And you’re a vector of death and disease

Repelled

Like the opposite end of a magnet

The sign on Highway 1 for Doran Beach showed that the parking lot was FULL. Since it was late afternoon  we figured that some people would most likely be leaving by now so we headed there anyway confident that we’d find a place to park. The road to Doran winds downhill through a small grove of tall cypress trees. As you break through the trees you catch the first glimpse of the beach. This is a gem of a place. The beach stretches over two miles from a rocky point at its southern end to the inlet of Bodega Bay in the north. Rolling dunes give way to golden sand that’s glittering like jewels on this crystal clear day. The sun dances on the water, making diamond patterns upon its surface. Gentle waves break rhythmically onto the shore,  scattering tiny plovers that are drilling the wet sand in search of food. Cirrus clouds are broad, brushstrokes against the azure sky.

Today is no ordinary trip to the beach. Since shelter in place took effect in mid-March we’ve been locked down along with the other 39.2 million Californians. The entire Sonoma County coast has been closed. This is the first day that beaches have been opened and we’re taking advantage of it.

Like the prescient refrain of Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, I really didn’t know what I had until it was gone. Stepping out of the car with my family I was hit with the intoxicating smell of the ocean, the sound of the waves and the sight of people as delighted to be here as we were. I was nearly overcome with emotion. I just stood there for a few moments, breathed deeply and tried to take it all in. I felt such gratitude. My family and I were safe and together at a place where we’ve shared so many special times. The fear and paranoia that’s been sitting on our community like a fog has at least temporarily been blown away by the wind and the sun and the waves of this most magical spot on the planet. We grabbed our gear and headed down the beach. I love walking barefoot in sand. It takes some extra effort to get from Point A to Point B so I always feel a small sense of accomplishment when I get to where I’m going.  Small waves played out in our path, the frigid water felt invigorating on my feet. I was seeing Doran Beach in a whole new light. There are many people here today. No one wore a mask, no one needed to wear a mask. The beach is the ideal place to practice social distancing. As I saw the joy on people’s faces I realized that one of the things I’ve been missing most is seeing people smile. It seems like all of us here today are letting out a collective sigh of relief.

The ongoing Covid-19 crisis is showing us something that we all know intrinsically but sadly too often forget and that’s how quickly the things we love can be taken away from us. One lesson that I continue to learn is the importance of living in the moment. That’s easier said than done but nowadays I’m trying like hell to cherish and appreciate what I have when I have it. As things gradually loosen up and we begin to get back to some semblance of normalcy, I’ve got some advise for you. If there’s a friend you want to see, make plans with them today. If there’s a place you want to visit, go now. A restaurant? A movie? A favorite hike? How about hugs? Oh my god, when this thing is over and it’s safe to do so, there are a few people I plan on  hugging whom I may never let go of. Do it now! Savor the moment! Take part in life! Joni’s words have never rang truer.

Don’t it always seem to go

That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone

The Santa Rosa plum tree in our backyard is wizened and has many tales to tell. Her age is a mystery to me. So many beautiful moments in our family’s history have occurred within her arms and in the shade of her leaves. A chronicle of our children’s lives can be traced through this tree.

Sam and Denali (twins) were born in March. Their first summer was a hot one. We spent much time with them in the shade of the plum tree on a bright red bedspread we had. They had yet to master the art of crawling so we’d occasionally have to flip them. “Tummy time” was a precursor to crawling. Like all new parents we took many photographs of our kids. The red bedspread features prominently in a particularly memorable photo shoot, an example of which is among the favorites we’ve ever taken. The photo is a close up of our two babies from their bellybuttons up. Sam is looking off to the right wearing the same 100 watt smile he wears today. Denali is looking straight at the camera, her serious expression pondering the meaning of it all. Their ivory bodies stand in stark contrast against the deep red background.

In a blink infants became toddlers and our venerable tree takes on another function. There comes a point in a day of caring for the twins when we simply needed to find a safe place they could not escape from just so we could catch our breath. The answer: tree swings! We hung the swings side by side from the tree’s lowest and sturdiest horizontal branch. We’d strap the kids in tightly and start pushing. Sam and Denali would squeal with delight the higher and faster they went, their hair flying in the wind, smiling with the pure joy that only children know. We used these swings until we just couldn’t squeeze either of them in any longer.

Now trees are meant to be climbed and our plum is no exception. When the twins were tall and agile enough they’d range over the tree like two monkeys. One of her branches hangs out over the top railing of our deck and provides gangplank like access to the rest of the tree. When they first started climbing the tree I’d stand on the ground looking up at them, terrified at the prospect of a fall. They of course were fearless, hopping from branch to branch with glee. It wasn’t long before a requisition was submitted for the construction of a treehouse. The configuration of her branches does not lend itself to an actual house so I did the next best thing. Out of salvaged plywood and 2×4’s I built a sturdy platform about seven feet off the ground, later adding a second platform higher up the tree. The kids affixed various ropes and handholds throughout the tree. These platforms have staying power and are still occasionally in use today.

Sam and Denali continued to grow and their play became more sophisticated. One evening they had the notion to string a zipline from the lower platform to our apple tree, a whopping 15 feet away! Carol and I watched with amusement as together they figured out how to engineer the thing. It ended up working perfectly, and they zipped happily back and forth between the two trees well into the night. I have video footage as evidence. The zipline remained operable for months until both trees leafed out in the spring.

In the summer of their 13th birthday the kids attended a week-long camp at Vertex Climbing Gym. Rock climbing became their new passion. They returned home at the end of camp and immediately began screwing hand holds into the trunk and thicker branches of the plum, which has now become an impromptu climbing wall. They rigged harnesses out of rope and carabiners and like Hillary and Tenzig up they went. Sam and Denali both eventually became members at the gym (Sam is on the climbing team). The plum tree was one of the places where they honed their mountaineering skills.

Two months ago, the twins turned sixteen. The zipline has long ago been dismantled, the climbing wall holds mostly rotted or fallen off. Surprisingly enough the tree platforms are still intact. The tree swings, long gone in a yard sale, have come full circle. Sam has always been good with his hands and  recently built a sturdy new swing out of wood. And the tree? Like all living things that have been around for a while she’s begun to show her age. Numerous cracked and dead branches have recently been removed. More and more lichen now mars the once smooth surface of her bark. However, her long arms still reach towards the sky, her leaves still provide us with cooling shade in summer. She’s still home to myriad birds and a squirrel who we affectionately refer to as Mr. Nibbles because of his propensity for munching apples up in the treehouse. And the plums? For nearly two decades they have nourished our family, our neighbors and so many of the kids’ friends. Watching Sam and Denali bite into a sun warmed plum, red juice dripping down their chins, is to see them taste the essence of summer. There are many green plums ripening on the tree’s branches right now, in fact, and summer is on the way.

The other night Carol and I were watching a movie. Like most people, we’ve been watching lots of movies lately. This was a sweet independent film about a struggling improvisational comedy troupe set in New York City, the type of film we’d normally pay to see at our locally run theater if it weren’t currently shuttered. Anyway, there was a scene early on in the film set in a crowded pub. The actors and their friends were there to unwind after a show. They were all drinking, sharing food, laughing, hugging, you know, living. My initial reaction was, “Look at how close they’re sitting to one another don’t they know that’s not safe?” Shelter in place and social distancing are barely a month old and already a scene like this looks foreign to me.

Five weeks ago most Americans were going about their lives as usual. COVID-19 was here but no one seemed to be taking the threat seriously yet. Then a basketball player tested positive and the NBA suspended its season. Things changed overnight, literally. Shelter in place, social distancing, people walking around wearing face masks. It seems like we’re all living some surreal nightmare. I keep expecting Rod Serling to step into our living room at any moment to warn us about “the signpost up ahead.” What made the Twilight Zone so scary and so real was the way in which Serling showed the terror ordinary people  like you and me would experience when faced with an unexplainable phenomena. We could relate to his protagonists, they could be us. Well right now that ARE us.

When this nightmare is over, and it will end, future generations will judge us by how we acted during this crisis. We can chose. Are we going to be toilet paper hoarders? Someone who stockpiles hand sanitizer and price gouges it on eBay? Or are we going to keep a level head, take care of ourselves and our loved ones but also do what’s best for the health and well being of the communities in which we live? Calm, kindness, caring and humor are some of the virtues that will help us all see this through

There’s a darkness hanging over the world right now, there’s no doubt about that, but rays of sunlight keep stubbornly breaking through. If you wade through the doom and gloom of the daily news, you’ll find countless acts of love and kindness happening everywhere. On my daily walks and bike rides I’m seeing more people outside in my neighborhood than ever before. Families playing with their kids, dog walkers, joggers, bikers. Smiles, nods and friendly greetings abound. I passed a woman the other day while biking the Joe Rodota Trail in Sebastopol. As I rode by she flashed me a radiant smile and used both of her hands to trace a huge heart in the air. We may be six feet apart right now, but we are united as human beings.

A songwriter friend of mine recently played me a new song of his where he poses the question: “What kind of lemonade are we going to make from these lemons?“ As you all know, there are a hell of a lot of lemons out there right now. My heart goes out to the thousands of people who are dealing with the death of a loved one or the loss of a job or business. How do you even begin to deal with those types of personal tragedies? Maybe, just maybe, COVID-19 will help us all realize that we’re not just a bunch of countries separated by artificial borders but a global family. We’re in this together and together is how we’ll find our way out. Perhaps this is the dawning of a new era of global cooperation where we can not only defeat this virus but also find ways to once and for all tackle seemingly intractable problems like climate change, poverty, and racial inequality. Positive? Idealistic? Well, I’m an elementary school teacher a father of twin teenagers who are just beginning to come into their own. I have no choice but to have hope for the future.

Perhaps we should start right here in our own neighborhoods. If we do, I think we’ll discover that the person with the American flag flying from their front porch and the person flying the rainbow flag have more in common than they both realize. If you’ve never taken the time to get to know your neighbors, I’ll bet you’ve done so by now

People all over the world want the same things; a safe and healthy place to raise their families, meaningful work, economic stability, clean water to drink, clean air to breathe, food on the table. If this virus has shown us anything it’s shown us that we’ve only got one planet and we damn well better figure out how to share it. Deeper and more meaningful cooperation globally and locally, perhaps that’s the lemonade we can make from all of these lemons. Well, we’ve got a tree full of lemons in our backyard and plenty of sugar in the cupboard. I’m getting started right now!

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

John Lennon

It’s a subtle announcement. I mean if you’re not listening for it you’d think it was just another random chirp from one of the many birds that call our part of the world home. But this one is different. This little chirp tells me in no uncertain terms that winter is over, kaput, has bitten the dust. Spring, in all her glory, has definitely arrived.

Like a delicious orange popsicle on the most glorious sun splashed summer day, the Hooded Oriole announces its presence with a flash of brilliance across the morning sky. This is a strikingly beautiful bird. It is fairly small, 8” long with a 10” wingspan. Its electric orange body feathers are framed by black wings with white bars and a jet black mask from its eyes to its chest. When the sun hits this little bird, it practically vibrates.

The Hooded Oriole makes its appearance in our neighborhood every year within a few days of the spring equinox. There’s a tall fan palm tree in our neighbor’s yard and that’s where the oriole makes its home until the end of summer. All throughout spring and summer, I watch it make its rounds from the fan palm to the tall eucalyptus trees in the lot behind our back fence to the plum and apple trees in our backyard. On most mornings I can see my little friend perched atop one of these tall trees welcoming the first rays of sun with its lilting and lyrical song. 

What makes the oriole’s presence around our home so special is that it’s a migratory species, wintering on the Baja and the Yucatan peninsulas in Mexico and coming north to breed. One of the reasons I so appreciate this bird is because of its fleeting nature. I love  every time its electric orange body flashes in and out of the green foliage. Come the end of summer it’ll be gone until next spring. Seeing the Hooded Oriole every year is a rite of spring that I look forward to; it is grounding, comforting and a touchstone of normalcy and beauty in these strange and uncertain times.

Another seasonal visitor to our yard and one that arrives with even less fanfare than the Hooded Oriole is the diminutive and feisty Rufous Hummingbird. At about the same time as the oriole, this 3” long dynamo can be seen zipping between the two feeders on our deck and the tops of our fruit trees. Its rusty reddish-brown feathers and white neck stripe easily distinguishes it from our years round resident the Anna’s Hummingbird. The Rufous’ time around here is even more fleeting than the oriole’s. While the oriole stays through summer, this little hummingbird is only passing through our area on the way to its breeding grounds in The Pacific Northwest, Canada and Alaska. Its migration route of 3,900 miles is one of longest in the avian world. I’m lucky if I get to see it for a week. I go out on our deck with my Nikon and telephoto lens every day hoping to somehow capture and preserve some of it’s beauty and intrigue on film. Then one day it’s simply gone; the Rufous Hummingbird has vanished as quickly as it arrived. I feel so lucky, so incredibly blessed that this tiny bird chooses our backyard every spring as one of the way stations on its trip north.

How is it that these two species of birds manage to find their way to our backyard every year? Lifespans of up to six years have been recorded for both species but more than likely they’re not the same individuals that make the trip every year which makes their arrival even more inscrutable. In a world where no stone has been left unturned and nearly every inch of our planet has been trod upon, exploited and inhabited it’s nice to know that there are still some uncharted waters, some mysteries still left to be solved. How the Hooded Oriole and Rufous Hummingbird manage to travel such great distances and arrive at the same place at basically the same time every year is a miracle and a mystery that I hope is never solved.