Every morning when I walk to the river I see newly gnawed beaver sticks lapping the shore and remember the beaver family I once knew so well…
​
A wide slow moving stream meandered its way to the sea below my log cabin on the hill and beavers had made a solid dam and erected a domed lodge in the center of the stream. Early in the summer the parents would swim up to me with their kits as I sat quietly on my bench by the water. Watching those furry little heads with bright beady eyes peer at me curiously as they swam next to their parents is a sight that I will never forget.

This six foot high lodge was occupied by three generations of beavers. The beavers spent part of each summer “logging” the poplars at the edge of the stream. They created open mud slides that led to open water and every night I would sit on the little bench and watch these industrious creatures cut off the branches after logging and swim with their unwieldy catch to the domed lodge. Upon arrival, they gnawed smaller branches off the logs divesting them of most of the leaves, which they ate. They took others to the dam to shore it up and repair any leaks.

As long as I sat quietly the beavers went about their work as if I wasn’t even there, but if I stood up suddenly or tried to rid myself of mosquitos by waving my hands, one beaver or another would slap his tail making a great fuss! Later in the summer the beavers began to disappear under water with tender poplar branches.  Stores of those tasty leaves and sticks would feed them throughout the coming winter. The little kits could be seen swimming with a slender stick or two towards the lodge imitating their parents. There was something about those bright-eyed little kits that stole my heart.

Perhaps the most astounding experience occurred the night an adult beaver climbed out of the water and stood up only a few feet away from me. I froze, barely breathing, but spoke to this adult in a low voice thanking him for the trust he and his extended family had showered upon me by giving me such a spectacular glimpse into the beavers complex world.

As fall set in that first year beaver activity increased and many evenings I witnessed the beavers emerging from the water walking upright, using only their back legs to walk up the steep sides of the lodge with their very short arms holding mud and vegetation against their jaws and cheeks. They deposited this debris on top of the lodge, strengthening it.

By November the slow moving stream slid under skim ice. I observed the beavers from my bench for shorter and shorter periods now because of the cold, huddled in my winter coat.

After my father’s untimely death that month I thought a lot about the relationship between my father and the beavers because the morning he died I dreamed that he had become one! To have such a lucid dream on the day of his death after I had spent an entire summer submerged in the beavers’ world seemed uncanny, prescient.

As winter set in the beavers settled into their domed house that was now surrounded by solid ice. For Christmas I decided to honor my father and the beavers together by giving my friends a present. So I took my handsaw and chopped down two tender poplars after asking for permission to do so... Next I took a crowbar and bored a big hole in the ice not far from the lodge and stuffed the first poplars into icy black waters. Late that day I sat on my frozen bench and called to the beavers, telling them that I had a present for them. I stayed there until almost dusk half frozen – hoping for a sleek brown head to appear, but of course no one did.  Yet, when I walked up the hill, I felt as if I had done something important that mattered.

The next morning I raced down the hill to the stream, and to my amazement and joy, the poplar branches had disappeared! For the next three days I repeated poplar gift giving after reopening the hole in the ice, though I never glimpsed my friends.

Here in Abiquiu the beavers have a more challenging life. The river rises and falls unnaturally and these intelligent animals have had to adapt to very anthropocentric circumstances.

 After having been exterminated in New Mexico by the end of the nineteenth century (due to trapping) the beavers continue to be re –introduced to streams in the state up to the present time. Even so, many waterways remain “beaver –less” today.
 
They have also been reintroduced into their traditional habitats, including the Rio Grande Bosque, the cottonwood forest on either side of the river, one of the longest in the world. The dam-controlled river is too wide and fast for beavers to construct their dams, so they’ve had to adapt to making burrows on the banks of the river and the drains on either side of it, exactly like muskrats. The drains receive excess water from the irrigation ditches that is eventually returned to the river.
 
Our “bank-beavers,” as they’re called, mostly feed on the cambial tissue under the bark of cottonwoods and willows. What worries me presently is the extremes they are dealing with. Their beautifully crafted homes are constructed to keep the beavers safe and dry, but with the dramatic river risings these homes are also vulnerable to being flooded suddenly without warning.
 
Bank beavers tunnel into the bank below the water line and dig upward to construct nesting chambers. If this flooding trend continues the beavers are going to have to find safer places to live, although unlike beavers who live in frozen waters, our beavers can escape sudden floods, presumably because the water remains open. I have no idea if flooding results in the need to re build a home.

Meanwhile bank beavers continue to feast upon the cambium layer of willows and other trees along the banks of the Bosque. Twirling stems with their forefeet, beavers slice off bark with their incisors. Did you know that beaver teeth grow continuously and are self-sharpening? The orange front layer of hard enamel is backed by softer white dentin, enabling teeth to keep a sharp edge as the beaver gnaws trees and shrubs. The broad tail and webbed hind feet serve this semi-aquatic mammal well. Small eyes with transparent inner eyelids enable vision underwater, and the ears and nose can be closed while submerged. Able to remain underwater for considerable periods, dives may last up to 15 minutes. A layer of fat under the skin also insulates the beaver, as does his luscious fur coat.  
 
Although some consider these largest of rodent animals to be a nuisance, overall their impact on the environment around them is positive, so let’s hope our beavers can continue to adapt.
 
Wildlife biologists contend beavers could be the most low-tech, inexpensive answer that drought-plagued New Mexico has for storing up precious water and rescuing dwindling wetlands— but some of the animals are still killed every year by people who consider them nuisances and, of course, these animals can also be legally hunted.  
  

A little voice called me to the door breaking my afternoon meditation. ‘The Littlest Lizard is out and about.’  Without thinking I grabbed my IPhone, opened the door and was disappointed to see that the sun had already left Littlest Lizard’s lair, a rocky crevice in the cactus garden wall.
 
Disappointed, I turned to re –enter the house and there he was, clinging to the wall like spiderman, just inches away from my face. “Oh, there you are” I exclaimed happily as I snapped a few pictures taking careful note of his girth. He bowed to me three times.
 
 This sagebrush lizard is only about an inch and a half long (with tail) and is the only lizard that has been around for the last ten days. The other three little lizards must have fattened up enough to brumate but this little guy is so tiny that he has to keep hunting to survive the coming winter. 
 
I am pleased to report that Littlest Lizard is gaining the necessary weight. Every warm day I meet up with him and we have a conversation while he basks in the sun above his crevice or on the adobe wall keeping a sharp eye out for potential prey.
 
 And every day when he appears I run for the camera only to discover that he has disappeared like a phantom. This habit of his has been driving me crazy because I wanted just one good picture of him, a picture that would indicate that he might really be as small as I say he is. Today I may have succeeded thanks to that insistent little voice. I love the way Littlest Lizard turned around to peer at me as if to say – ‘that’s enough’ after I took two pictures.
 
Most animals I know would prefer not to have a human peering at them through any kind of lens. My dogs are a good example. If they see me coming with a camera they immediately close their eyes or turn their heads away. I’ve followed bears that led me through thick brush and briar patches turning around every few minutes to check on the progress of the annoying human with the black box and never letting me get close enough to get one decent photo.
 
Don’t ask me why but sagebrush lizards are my favorite reptiles in the world. As a child I remember going to the circus where my little brother and I could buy geckos for 10 cents that clung to our coats after being attached by a tether and pin. Of course I was too young then to understand the cruelty involved. Most of these hapless lizards soon expired. My mother showed us how to feed them by attaching a bit of hamburger to a piece of thread, and a couple survived for a while. I shudder now just thinking about those poor reptiles hanging on for life on cold winter days…
 
I’d like to think that my present relationship with  sagebrush lizards has helped to even out my unintentional childhood unkindness towards the geckos that I so eagerly bought with my allowance.
 
 When I first arrived back in Abiquiu I was distraught believing that all my house lizards were dead. The first day I ran into a very well fed garter snake that slithered into the cactus garden wall. Normally, I am very fond of snakes but when I spent three days calling for the seven plus ‘house lizards,’ and no one appeared, I despaired. With all the five - foot prickly weeds cascading over the overgrown garden and obliterating the path to the house I figured my sagebrush lizard family had all been eaten. Most of their basking territory was covered in an unruly green jungle.
 
Imagine my shock the fourth morning when I called out to my friends for a final time while attacking nasty weeds with a pair of clippers (that eventually left me with horrible blisters and bloody hands) when my favorite female lizard suddenly materialized with her very distinct markings. She was so plump! Thrilled to see her I moved slowly towards the wall. When she bowed to me I knew she remembered me and was  acknowledging me as her friend. This lizard lets me pet her, and sure enough after a bit of conversation I was able to stroke her velvety back a few times before she moved away. Is she some sort of lizard “watchdog - woman” looking out for her own kind I wondered, because by mid afternoon most of my lizards appeared in their usual spots as if they had been there all along.
 
 Why three days of invisibility? Did these lizards think I abandoned them? If they only knew… I thought about each of them every day all summer long. Unfortunately, I was missing a couple of adults; they never returned. But now I also had four new baby lizards – one of which was barely an inch long.
 
When the first hard frost hit early in October most of the adults disappeared quite suddenly except my favorite mother, her mate, and another pair that still appeared on warm afternoons. My beautifully marked mother was now so well padded that I wondered how she had room to swallow even one more ant! I last saw the mother who I have now re-named the “watchdog lizard” ten days ago. The four little ones continued to appear until the end of the first week in November. Now I only see Littlest lizard. I am delighted to see how canny this little one is, always keeping close to cover. As long as I am there without a camera he is quite friendly although he will not tolerate my touch (I actually have no idea if this lizard is a male or female because he’s too young to sex).
 
Now that the days are short and the cottonwood leaves are drifting to the ground even on windless days I know my time with the Littlest Lizard is coming to an end, but I am reasonably certain that this appealing little fellow will see another spring… and I shall be joyously awaiting his return.
 
A natural history note on bowing:
 
 Bowing is a part of spring mating rituals and I have witnessed this behavior many times, but I have also learned that it is a form of communication that these lizards routinely use with me. I have never read anything in any literature about bowing with respect to   general communication. When a lizard bows to me s/he is conversing in his/her own language.
 
A second note about having a personal relationship with lizards:
 
Both humans and non – human animals have limbic systems within their brains that are closely involved with the regulation of emotions especially in the amygdala. The limbic system was present in the ancestors of reptiles, mammals, and birds. It is an ancient emotional activation system that we share with countless other species. The love I feel for my lizards is real and evolutionally ancient. I have no doubt that these relationships are reciprocal.

All month I have been on alert listening for the calls of the Sandhill cranes as they continue their migration south. Last year a good number of cranes spent the winter here landing in the neighboring field to find food, and roosting down by the river in the riffles…
 
This year, except for a few sightings and an occasional singular “brring” call by a few, the cranes have been absent. The river is so unnaturally high that it is ripping the shore away in chunks; the torrents of raging water are drowning the riffles where shorebirds once landed to rest or fish. Even the solitary heron has moved on. It is hardly surprising that the Sandhill cranes are not staying overnight even if they pass by overhead.
 
I also suspect that the cranes’ migratory routes have shifted, although as yet I can’t find supporting evidence for my hypothesis in the literature. We do know that one of the consequences of Climate Change is that many migratory birds are shifting their routes or not traveling as far south as they once did. The cranes used to have three distinct flyways that flowed into one great artery the further south they traveled, and conversely fan out with some cranes flying as far as west as the eastern coast of Siberia during the northern spring migration. These days it is hard to predict what may be happening.
 
Although it is almost the end of November I have only seen one good size flock of twenty cranes flying over the house; this group was traveling due west. I have seen a few in very small groups of two, three, and five in number, and I know that my neighbors and I had a couple in their field.
 
Seeing and hearing Sandhill Cranes has to be one of the the greatest joys of living near the river in Abiquiu, and I keenly miss their presence and haunting calls.
 
This year’s trip to the Bosque del Apache assuaged my loneliness. For one whole day I was steeped in wonder and gratitude that such a place even existed (I almost forgot that this refuge is also open to hunting. This “create a refuge and then shoot the animals” is normalized behavior for all state Fish and Game organizations).
 
To have so many cranes and snow geese along with harriers and other raptors, eagles, ducks, herons, sliders, fish, deer visible all at once while listening to crane and geese cacophony put me in state that I call “Natural Grace,” where nothing but the immediate present matters. At one point I met a couple who asked to take my picture. When I asked why they both said in union -"Why, you are so beautiful, you look like you belong here." Evidently, the cranes had transformed me!
 
The day was perfect – absolutely no wind and temperatures that were so mild that I was able to sit on the ground watching cranes/snow geese through my binoculars until the sun finally set, and many groups of cranes and snow geese had taken to the sky. I recorded the birds calling out to each other, and now whenever I listen to my tape I am transported back in time to that wondrous day. I am so grateful to have been there.

We know from fossilized records that the Sandhill Cranes are one of oldest birds in the world, and have been in their present form for 10, 30, or 60 million years (depending on the source). They have apparently maintained a family and community structure that allows them to live together peacefully and migrate by the thousands twice a year. Sandhill Cranes mate for life, and in the spring the adults engage in a complex “dance” with one another. During mating, pairs throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—an extended litany of coordinated song. Cranes also dance, run, leap high in the air and otherwise cavort around—not only during mating, but all year long.

In their northern habitat, the female lays two eggs a year in thick protected areas at the edge of reed filled marshes. Before nesting these birds “paint” their gray feathers with dull brown reeds and mud to reduce the possibility of being seen by a predator. Born a couple of days a part, the second chick rarely survives. The fuzzy youngster that does (if it survives the first year – delayed reproduction and survival rates factor into the difficulties inherent in crane conservation and to that we must now add Climate Change) stays with its parents for about three years before reaching sexual maturity and striking out on its own, but even then the adult stays within the parameters of its extended family, and it is these families that comprise the small groups of cranes that we see flying together. During migration, a multitude of these groups travel together. There are no leaders and often it is possible to observe what looks like an unorganized random group or diagonal thread made up of cranes flying above the ground. In every roosting place there are a few cranes that remain awake all night alerting their relatives to would be predators.

I think it’s significant that these very ancient birds have survived so long in their present form. I’ll repeat my original question: Could it be that cranes understand the value of living in community in a way that has become foreign to humans who seem hell bent on embracing the values of competition, power, and control on a global level? Perhaps we could all benefit from watching Sand hill cranes with rapt attention.

​Recently I had an astonishing experience with some Harvester ants. I have been intrigued by the conical, volcanic mounds these ants construct ever since I came to the desert. When I moved into the casita one large mound sat across my driveway. Sometimes I would stop and visit with these very busy little creatures marveling over their industrious nature. Last spring when I planted a juniper not far from their mound I noted that the ants never attempted to bother me. Of course, I was respectful and careful not to disturb them.
 
We have lived here in peace until my recent return to Abiquiu. One day, without my knowledge, someone totally flattened the roof of their house. When I took my little Chihuahuas for a walk Lucy suddenly started screaming like a banshee. Frightened out of my wits I snatched her up and ran back into the house. My poor dog was in agony. Inspecting her foot, I discovered that she had been bitten by an ant. I instantly removed the ant who was curled up as if dead in a ball. Within minutes it was clear that something was very wrong with Lucy because she became ill. I frantically called my vet for assistance… when the Benadryl failed to work my vet told me that Lucy was allergic to this ant’s venom and if bitten again might die. Lucy was sick for days, and although she has recovered to some extent, she still favors the back leg where she was bitten. I continue to carry her out the door and down the driveway where she feels safe enough to go to the bathroom.
 
When I first approached the ant’s squashed house later that first afternoon these once peaceable ants attacked me viciously, but who could blame them? If my house was flattened I would be angry too. After donning my rubber boots I went back to the remains of the mound and asked them for forgiveness… I did this day after day, and by the fourth day the ants although wary, were no longer swarming around my feet, although some of them lined up in front of me as if ready for another unpleasant incident. I kept my daily monologue going until the ants realized that I meant them no harm, and now we are living once again in harmony. Unfortunately, Lucy is still afraid and remains at risk…
 
Naturally, I wanted to know more about these particular ants, especially with regard to our former peaceful co-existence. Researching, the first thing I learned was that  although they are larger than most species and have two of the most formidable weapons known among insects-large, pointed mandibles and most efficient stings-they are not quarrelsome, and fight only in self-defense. They are so peaceably inclined that other species of ants are allowed to come into their clearings and throw up their tiny crescent-shaped mounds of earth.
 
Sometimes the small ants attack and chase the mound-builders that pass by! Apparently Harvester ants carry this peaceful disposition to a point where they permit the common termite and some other species of ants to live with them in the chambers of their nests and to partake of their stored food. This information confirmed what I had learned from living with these creatures. They certainly weren’t out to get us. Poor Lucy was bitten by the ants by mistake in self defense.
 
These ants live throughout the Southwest in large colonies in gravel-covered mounds, each located in a cleared circular space. Beneath the beautiful humps are chambers and galleries that penetrate the earth as far down as ten feet. These chambers and galleries serve as store- rooms, nurseries, and workshops.
 
The ants cannot tolerate the presence of vegetation near their mounds, and the workers clear it away by use of their well-adapted mandibles. Plants probably get in their way and retain moisture after a rain, favoring the growth of destructive fungi. The ants cover the mound to a depth of from one-half to one inch with a layer of coarse particles selected from the surrounding detritus (including bits of turquoise I’ve heard people remark), making the slope steep. They also add soil that has been brought up from below.
 
In many of the mounds like mine the ants go and come through one opening, in others they have two or three such entrances. These gateways are usually located about one-third the way up from the base to the summit of the mound. They commonly face east, southeast or south.
 
At night, or on the approach of a rain-storm, the openings are closed by the workers. During the summer the ants begin to close them shortly before sunset and open them between eight and nine o'clock in the morning.
 
Except for an unbroken layer just beneath the gravelly surface, the whole mound is honeycombed with chambers and galleries. The nest has both sealed and unsealed storerooms filled with seeds.
 
Like many other ants these mound - builders have queens, males, and workers (sterile females). The workers dominate the colony and can number in the thousands. The workers are armed with stingers. The workers also gather seeds of various kinds and carry them into the nest. The hulls are torn off, carried out, and dumped at one side of the clearing, and the plump seeds are stored away in the underground granaries. These storerooms, packed with seeds of various kinds, may be found from an inch or two beneath the gravelly covering down to the lowest chambers, those beneath the frost line.
 
As I watch ‘my’ friends the ants patiently re –building their former home it is impossible not be impressed by these diligent animals who go about living their lives in such a peaceable manner. Perhaps we humans could learn something about generosity of spirit and communal living from our neighbors, the mound builders?
 

I met a man on a rumbling train who had hooks in his hat.
 
A fisherman, I thought with the usual dismay – brutal images of dying fish gasping for air exploded in thin air. Memories of my grandmother who took her eight year old granddaughter fly fishing also flooded my mind (my grandmother was a professional fly fisherwoman). I caught my first fish in the brook – a six inch trout. After landing the desperate creature my grandmother said, “ now we must kill it so the fish does not suffer.” And she looked for a stone.
 
Hit it over the head” she instructed handing me a rock she picked up nearby, and I did.  Tears welled up. It broke my child’s heart to murder such a shimmering rainbowed creature.
 
When we got home that day, my grandmother praised me lavishly for my catch, promptly gutted the fish and fried it in a pan for me to eat. I forgot the anguish I had experienced, basking in my grandmother’s approval. The fish tasted delicious, and to this day I eat fish and other seafood.
 
As a lobsterman’s wife I learned quickly how to cook crustaceans by sticking their heads in boiling water so they would die almost instantly.
 
No fish ever suffered after it was hauled into our boat. I killed each individual myself, enduring ridicule in the process.
 
My grandmother had taught me well.
 
Yet, becoming a fisherwoman never appealed to me.
 
Instead I became a Naturalist…
 
When the man on the train began talking I politely asked him what kinds of fish he caught. “All kinds” he replied with obvious enthusiasm. Inwardly I groaned, quickly changing the subject to the hooks on his hat.
 
Each one was unique, and all were beautiful and when I told him I had a childhood friend who tied flies he took off his hat and gave it to me to inspect. After admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of each lure the man surprised me with his next remark as he replaced the hat on his head.
 
 He exclaimed, “I love to catch fish but I never eat them! I throw each one back. If you look carefully at the hooks you will notice that none of them have a barb.”
 
How had this observation escaped me? Sure enough, each hook was barbless, and I understood that this way the fish could be caught and returned to the sea unharmed. I was suddenly overjoyed to meet the man with the hat. With words of deep appreciation I happily shook his hand, exclaiming how wonderful it was to meet a dedicated fisherman who released his catch!
 We went on to discuss the merits of conservation with regard to freshwater fishing. Suddenly the man  removed his hat again.
 
“I want you to have one of these hooks,” he said quietly handing the hat to me. “We are kindred spirits.”
 
I chose one small perfect fly and carefully wrappd it up in a paper napkin before putting it in my purse. Thanking him.
 
When I got home that night I already knew where the tiny hook would find home. I have a beautiful Norfolk pine and hanging from one branch is a tiny flask that Iren once gave me that I periodically re-fill with our river water. The diminutive bottle is tied to one end of the string and I carefully attached the barbless hook to the other end.
 
Every time I walk by that tree I give thanks for the water that flows from Red Willow River and I remember the man with the hat who loved his fish!
 
But there is more to this story. On my birthday this year Iren and I met someone who had a fish he had recently caught that was still gasping for breath in a plastic bag. I begged him to kill it, offering to do it myself. My offer was rejected and afterwards, Iren, who is a vegetarian, thanked me for trying to save the fish, acknowledging that the experience had been too upsetting for her.
 
Of course, I understood why.
 
Within two weeks of this painful incident I met the man with the hat and now when I pass by my tree I think of Iren, the man, and me. One of us eats fish; the other two do not. But all three of us abhor animal suffering. And that hook has become a symbol of hope. Perhaps there are more us out there than I thought! 

I am already missing the stand of staghorn sumac that was growing on the road near my house here in Maine. This time of year I look to the ornamental sumac groves for the first signs of fall. These small trees turn the most exquisite sun yellow, deep orange and flaming red as the season progresses as well as providing the birds with clusters of dark red berries that evening grosbeaks, northern cardinals, ruffed grouse, turkeys, robins, chickadees, woodpeckers, and others feast on throughout the coming winter and spring. Deer, elk, and moose browse on the leaves and twigs. Some butterflies use this food to feed their young and sumacs provide nectar for bees and other beneficial insects while providing great shelter for many more wild creatures.
 
In Maine many consider these small trees a nuisance but elsewhere, like in New Mexico, the plant is sold and grown for its vibrant color. I don’t know how many folks know that this plant is so beneficial to wildlife.  
 
The staghorn sumac is just one of many sumacs that are found all over the world, and most look similar. This large shrub has compound leaves, meaning each leaf is composed of several leaflets. Eleven to thirty plus leaflets are arranged in opposite pairs along a stem which droops gracefully towards the ground. The leaves are toothed along the edges, the branches fuzzy. Clumps of small greenish flowers are inconspicuous but form an upright cone that yields red berries by late summer.
 
Sumacs are not fussy about growing requirements and thrive in open places, hillsides, along the edges of pine forests and country roads all throughout the northeast.  There are some species that are well adapted to desert areas because they are particularly drought tolerant. Sumacs control erosion because they have shallow roots. They like to grow in groves to develop complex root systems that support the whole group.
 
One cousin is poisonous. This sumac can easily be identified even if it looks similar to other sumacs because of its penchant for swamps and other wet places. It likes to have its feet in water. This species has a thick trunk and sturdy branches; it produces sprays of drooping smooth white berries in the fall. The plant can cause an unpleasant rash.  

Humans have enjoyed sumac berries, which have a zingy lemon taste when picked at their peak, typically in late summer or early fall. They are packed with vitamin C. Soak berries in hot or cold water and then strain to make a refreshing drink or a gargle for sore throats. If the drink is too sharp for your taste buds, add a little maple syrup.

Other sumac parts have been used in a variety of ways: fresh sumac stems have been used in basket weaving, the tannin-packed leaves and bark have been used for tanning leather and the roots have been made into teas that help stop bleeding. The leaves and berries are used to make dyes.

The trees have multiple trunks and pithy, hollow stems. The wood is good for many things, including whittling, making pipe stems and making a natural “tap” for collecting maple syrup from a tree. Unlike poison sumac, ornamental sumac brush can be safely burned, and the smoke can be used by beekeepers to calm the bees during hive maintenance.

Ornamental sumacs are highly adaptive, and there are different types for every region of the United States and Canada. Sumacs are also imported from other parts of the world and naturalized in North America. Another advantage is that they appear to be impervious to many plant diseases. Once established they spread easily.

It wasn’t until I lived in New Mexico that I thought of them as a garden addition because there are so many varieties growing wild around here.