Category Archives: Planet Earth

Adhesive Acrobats: Gecko’s Sticky Feet

Gecko face

Gecko face

One thing I like about visiting the Southwest is getting glimpses of geckos and their reptilian acrobatics on trees and buildings. They can cling to just about anything and support many times their body weight.   How do they do it and what may we learn from it? Most gecko species can defy gravity due to their brilliantly adapted feet. A vertical pane of glass or even a ceiling is no challenge for them. Those little lizards really stick to it!

Scientists and biomedical engineers have been combing through hairy lizard feet for clues to their stickiness since 2000 when University of California researchers pointed to the role of tiny hair-like structures there called setae. How do geckos gain a grip on glass? The cumulative forces of microscopic “flowing locks” put a lock on it. The setae and their little spatula pads form bonds with whatever surface they touch. The firm yet flexible tendons in geckos’ feet help maintain that bond. Contact is broken when the lizards curl their toes to take another step. That rolling motion also helps keep the foot pads clean.

According to the fossil record, geckos have been around for at least 100 million years. They adapted to their environments, on every continent except Antarctica, in unique ways. They are the only lizards with vocal cords and can chirp, click, and send messages to their fellow geckos. In fact, their name derives from gekoq, an Indonesian-Malay imitation of the noise they make. Their eyes are covered with a transparent layer that they lick to keep clean and are exquisitely sensitive to color, even at night.

But it’s their feet that get the most press lately. Who doesn’t want to have gecko powers? We wouldn’t need ladders to wash windows or change a light bulb on the ceiling. What about special gloves for rock climbing or catching balls?  More importantly, we could learn from the geckos how to make products to help injured people, such as a tape that could be used in place of sutures.

Scientists at University of Massachusetts created adhesive Geckskin, named one of CNN’s top five scientific breakthroughs of 2012. At Northwestern University, Professor Phillip Messersmith and graduate student Haeshin Lee created another adhesive material, called Geckel, that can be used wet or dry and has a super strong hold–until you release it. Like a sticky note, it can be used over and over, in this case through 1,000 contact/release cycles.

In addition to applying the principles of gecko feet, the researchers copied the adhesive proteins of mussels that help them anchor themselves underwater. Gecko power plus mussel power made for one mighty strong, reusable adhesive. More inventions inspired by nature, i.e., biomimicry, are sure to come.

Gecko foot

Gecko foot


This has been another installment of Ms. Tree’s Nature Mysteries: Adventures in Biomimicry by Barbara Terao.

Bree’s Dam and the Wedding Bands

Long Pond Lake

Long Pond Lake


The people at Omega Institute are so friendly, I am offered a boat by a returning paddler before I can drag my green one to the water of Long Pond.  I thank the young woman and climb into her kayak.  I feel like a pea in a pod in my moving fiberglass capsule.  Off I go alongside the bold strokes of the swimmers, and then beyond the roped-off swimming area to round the bend of the bay.  The rain has stopped, the water is calm, and the sun is warm on my shoulders.  A half moon can be seen between clouds.

Lily pad on the lake

Lily pad on the lake

I paddle toward the lily pads on this June afternoon.  Unlike some boats, kayaks can glide through and even over the pads.  I can go as shallow or as deep as I like.  The blooming lilies have attracted insects and each yellow petal is speckled with them.  The slick green pads relax on the surface, soaking up the sun, while the small, reddish ones underneath strain upwards for the light.  Sunfish glimmer under the hull of the boat.

My new friend, Bree, taking Nancy Aronie’s writing workshop with me, told me to look for signs of beaver on this side of the lake.  I scour the horizon for felled trees as I think about our assignment to write something about “wedding bands.”  That is our prompt to get us writing, as the title of the workshops says, “from the heart.”

I almost give up on finding the beavers’ home, but then I enter a secluded alcove rimmed by their dam. The water trickling over it makes its own song and the frogs thrum along.  I float peacefully now among white water lilies, beautiful and with no bugs.  They remind me of lotus flowers that emerge pristine and perfect, no matter how mucky their source.  Lotus plants stay so clean because they have tiny bumps that repel stains to their character.  They shrug off trouble.  I should be so wise.

My knuckles are getting bigger lately and my wedding rings no longer fit.  They feel too tight.  I took them off and left them in my jewelry box.  Coming to Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York is my first trip without them since I married my husband in 1983.  I can put on a sapphire ring I inherited from his mother when I want something on that finger, when it looks too naked.  I’m not trying to hide that I’m married.  But I don’t feel any urgency to wear the gold band and diamond ring.  I feel okay without them.

For instance, I can grip my paddle with nothing to dig into my digits.  Is this a bad sign for my marriage that I am so comfortable without the bands of our bond?  I think it’s the opposite.  The rings are a potent symbol, but they’re not what keep us together.  They are not so essential.

We seem too different to be compatible, but here he comes.  (I can almost see him on the lake though he is home in Illinois.)  My fisherman husband rows his boat and I propel my kayak and, to paraphrase Rumi, somewhere beyond right doing and wrong doing, we meet and are refuge for each other.  Donald and I met at a Buddhist meeting.  We had a Buddhist wedding, complete with sake.  Each day we sit side by side, chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, and recite a portion of the Lotus Sutra.  That is our practice, thrumming along together to the heartbeat of the universe.  That is essential.

Above Long Pond, a territorial red-wing blackbird swoops by my head, so I take the hint and turn the boat around.  I head for shore.
















Ancient Advice for Sustainable Harvests


The passenger pigeon named Martha was kept in a Cincinnati zoo.  This September 1 marks 100 years since her lonely death as the last of her kind.  I attended a forum reflecting on Martha and other extinctions at the Chicago Botanic Garden.  One speaker I wanted to hear was Robin Kimmerer, a Potawatomi woman and Distinguished Professor of Environmental Biology, SUNY.  I also wanted to get her new book, an Orion award finalist.  She is  an expert on moss, among other things.  The heart of her talk was what she called the Honorable Harvest, principles by which we can interact sustainably with the world.  She called these ancient tenets “rules for those of us who can’t photosynthesize,” because really, when you think about it, all life relies on the sun and we rely on those forms of life that can harness solar energy and pass it on to us as food.  Let us not take them for granted.  And let us not take more than our share or, like the passenger pigeon, they will be no more.

Here are some wild harvest guidelines I gathered from Dr. Kimmerer’s talk.  She also has a chapter in Braiding Sweetgrass on “The Honorable Harvest” in which she says that these things are not usually written down but “reinforced in small acts of daily life” and apply to all “the gifts of Mother Earth–air, water, and the literal body of the earth: the rocks and soil and fossil fuels.”  These “small acts” can be practiced every day in some form or another.

1.  Never take the first one you see.  How do you know it’s not the last one?

2. Introduce yourself.  Approach the fungi or roots or whatever you’re gathering and tell them your intent.  Ask permission to take them.

3. Listen for their answer.   There are ways to communicate and receive an answer.  If you are quiet enough, you can hear (or feel) it.

4. Respect the answer.  If permitted to harvest, take only what is needed.

5. Minimize harm.  Be careful how you harvest and how you move around the area.

6. Use everything you take.  “Do eat food that is honorably harvested, and celebrate every mouthful,” Kimmerer writes.

7. Be grateful.  “The practice of gratitude is a radical act,” Dr. Kimmerer said.  It is humbling and it is part of reciprocity, giving back.

8. Share what you’ve taken.

Similarly, Anishinabeg (Ojibway) elder, Anne Dunn, let me know that wild rice is harvested with gratitude and “cherished as a gift from Great Spirit” and will “flourish and feed many generations of countless people” as long as it is treated with appreciation and respect.  The Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) gave an address in 1977 in Geneva, Switzerland, “A Basic Call to Consciousness,” noting, “The Western culture has been horribly exploitative and destructive of the Natural World.  Over 140 species of birds and animals were utterly destroyed since the European arrival in the Americas… The air is foul, the waters poisoned, the trees dying, the animals are disappearing.  We think even the systems of weather are changing.  Our ancient teachings warned us that if Man interfered with the Natural laws, these things would come to be.  When the last of the Natural Way of Life is gone, all hope for human survival will be gone with it.”

Robin Kimmerer said at the May 2 Nature and Ethics forum, “It is not land which is broken but our relationship to land.”  She said we are in the time of the seventh fire, at a fork in the road.  Honoring our plant and animal relatives, “we can light the eighth fire of kinship” and heal some of what we have broken.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Chicago Botanic Garden

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Chicago Botanic Garden

Have a healthy harvest and enjoy!

Earth Day Persuasion

Debris tree

Debris tree

How do we do good without doing more harm than good?


My husband and I are in the habit of picking up litter as we walk along the path behind our house. As piles of snow melted away in March, piles of trash came into view, dotting the wetlands and prairie with the sheen of clear plastic, the bright colors of newsprint advertisements, and—most ubiquitous of all—shopping bags. We didn’t have to bring our own trash bags, simply loading up the ones we found before depositing them, plump as beach balls, into the trash bin along the trail.


Could we recycle them? Probably not, if they’re dirty. About 80% of newspaper is recycled while only about 7% of plastic is. More than 85% of plastic, especially if it’s soiled, goes to landfills. Lightweight as they are, bags often go sailing in the breeze to end up snagged on trees, in the ocean, or clogging storm drains.  (See the National Geographic article about plastic trash online.) One billion tons of plastic bags have been discarded in the last 60 years and will persist virtually forever. It takes centuries or longer to break down their high-density polyethylene, a byproduct of petroleum and natural gas, containing benzene and other toxic chemicals.


To sea turtles, the floating bags look like jellyfish, their favorite food. Turtles, birds, fish, and other animals die from ingesting or respirating the trash, or getting it stuck around their mouths, heads, or abdomens. Researching plastic bags online, I see that three hours of work yielded 1.4 million bags during the 2008 International Coastal Cleanup Day. Plastic bags were the second most common trash item found along lakes, streams, and beaches.

Turtle that tried to eat plastic trash

Turtle that tried to eat plastic trash


My biggest challenge at the duck pond behind our house was a plastic shopping bag mired in the middle of it. We saw it there all winter. The ducks and geese seemed to ignore it, but I didn’t like seeing that petrochemical flotsam in their midst. Last week, after the snow was gone but before the grassy banks thawed to mush, I stood at water’s edge, casting an oak branch toward the slimy bag. The branch was too short. I got some string from the house and tied it to the branch. I hung onto the string and threw the wood with all my might.  After a few flings, I lost my grasp on the string and the branch floated out of reach. I fetched it back with another branch. My husband, chuckling at the spectacle from across the pond, shouted, “Tie them together.” Good idea. The length of the two branches was sufficient to rake in the beige bag. I dumped out the mud inside and carried it away. The pond looks much better.


Collecting pound after pound of garbage is a good way to reflect on the old saying that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I’ve been composing letters in my head as I walk through the dry grass, wondering if nearby residents would heed a reminder to be more careful, such as bundling up their recycling good and tight before setting it at the curb for pick-up. The winds blast at high speeds across this part of Illinois, scattering paper from recycling bins and assorted junk from trash cans. If such a letter were in our local newspaper, would it help decrease the amount of debris along the path? Or would it just annoy readers and earn me a reputation as an over-zealous nag?


A few years back, I was irritated by just such a “do-gooder.” We happen to drive a hybrid car. We bought a Prius when they first came out and still have our old one, the kind with the trunk before they made hatchbacks. Because our two children had active lives in high school with music and with equestrian and lacrosse teams, we also got a red minivan. It was the only vehicle we found that could carry our daughter’s string bass, not to mention saddles and sports equipment and players. One day I found a note tucked under the wiper on the van’s windshield. The typed words said that, wow, what a big vehicle we had! It then said that we should get a smaller, more environmental car.


Now who would leave that note? I pictured a woman a lot like myself, concerned with the state of the planet and wondering what to do about it. She had a brainstorm to deliver these leaflets to people like me, people she assumed had to be persuaded by her (or him) to change our ways. I should empathize with, or even applaud, such an activist! Instead I wanted to slap them upside the head for being so preachy and presumptuous. This is precisely the outcome I seek to avoid. I want to write about and protect nature without turning people off by sounding judgmental or shrill.


After all, one of my reminders to myself on a regular basis is to avoid “shoulding” on myself. I don’t want to “should” on others either, telling them what they should and shouldn’t do, “guilting” them into compliance. That’s one way to make people go suddenly deaf. I could do more harm than good.


What does persuade people to act with the greater good in mind? Perhaps peer pressure. A sign was posted at a petrified forest asking people not to take bits home with them. Trouble is, the sign mentioned that pieces of petrified wood were disappearing from the park at an alarming rate. The message, for some people, was, “Everybody does it.” The rate of pillaging went up rather than down. This is why, instead of the “just say no” campaign, our kids’ high school started spreading the word that the vast majority of students do not smoke, drink, or do drugs. The goal was to normalize staying sober and healthy. Just say yes to intelligent norms.


How do we normalize diligent trash containment and also the use of reusable bags when we shop? (See One thing I can do is clean up this patch of the world.  With no butts on the ground, smokers won’t see it as a giant ashtray.  With no random bags or papers stuck in the grass, people may just chase the next one that gets away.  It sets a standard.

I can write a letter, too, asking my neighbors to remember the land. Remember the birds.  Earth Day, April 22, is for everybody.

The pond is clear of bags

The pond is clear of bags



Ducks in Mid-Winter

A guy working on our roof said, “I see a hundred ducks down there.”  He is a hunter of ducks.

So are prowling coyote and the peregrine falcon, aka duck hawk, looking over the pond from a perch in the oak tree.  I’ve seen feathery remains under that tree. No wonder the ducks are so skittish.

As I approach them this morning, the sun is not yet up.  Their patch of water remains open though it is twelve below zero.  The marsh grass is coated with frost and I am out here with bare hands on my camera, trying to record the winter white.  As usual, the black ducks and mallards sense the presence of me and my dog and rise into the air en masse.

Some birds angle gradually out of the water.  But these are dabbler ducks.  Nature artist Roger Tory Peterson noted, “When they fly they do not skitter or patter like heavily laden seaplanes taking off, the way diving ducks do, but spring straight into the air, then level off.”  To see more pictures of ducks and hear their quacks, click

Someone from a warmer state asked if all the animals here die in the winter.  This year, it seems like a fair question!  It has been exceptionally cold in Illinois and the entire Midwest.  How do the ducks survive?  Whether in Central Park or our prairie wetlands, they can stay for the winter as long as they have open water and access to water plants for food.

For starters, they wear the same insulation I have in my coat: feathers.  Down can keep them warm to temperatures well below zero.  With their fat reserves and high metabolism, they can maintain an average body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit.  Like us, they can shiver if they must.

Their scaly feet have specialized circulation that keeps them from freezing.  Ducks are also smart enough to take advantage of solar energy, turning their broadest surface–their backs–toward the sun.  Also, with their hair-trigger reaction to movement, they definitely get enough exercise to keep themselves warm!

We watch the birds arc to the east and then, noticing that the dog is lifting a paw in discomfort from the cold, we head for home.  Judging from the groundhog’s reaction yesterday, we have more than enough time in the weeks ahead to learn about winter survival.

Ducks at dawn

Ducks at dawn

Dad and the Atomic Age


On July 1, 1946 my dad, Sgt. Frank Wolf, sent a letter to his grandmother from Bikini Atoll with a special postmark for that day: “Atomic Bomb Test.”  “Be sure and save this envelope,” he wrote, “as it may some day be quite a collectors’ item.”

On July 1, fifty-four years later, Dad died of a type of cancer associated with radiation exposure.  And in July of 2013, I received a letter informing me that the U.S. government would be sending a check to me and my siblings in compensation for our father’s exposure to nuclear fallout.

Dad was what we’d nowadays call a nerd.  A skinny guy, his nieces and nephews called him Uncle Peewee.  To his math students, he was Professor Wolf.  We four kids just knew him as Dad, the one who got us up early to go fishing and who couldn’t resist a bad pun.

He took keen interest in his work as an engineer in the Army’s technical division, producing U-235 from uranium—even if he was kept in the dark about WHY he was doing it.  Stories of the U.S. atomic weapons project came out after the fact—from Enrico Fermi’s first self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction at the University of Chicago, until the first successful test of the bomb three years later.  Terms like “nuclear fission” were coined by scientists as they gleaned what the split atoms could do.   Secret nuclear research accelerated to a hectic pace with the events of World War II.


In July 1945, J. Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Manhattan Project, sent two of his fellow scientists a cryptic letter inviting them to join him for “our fishing trip.”  They knew what he meant: the new device called the Gadget was about to go off in New Mexico.

The blast on July 16 was equal to 15,000 tons of TNT, surpassing all expectations.  People in three states reported seeing the flash.  Brigadier General Thomas Farrell, a close witness, admitted that when the test began, “there was in everyone’s mind a strong measure of doubt.”  Its success “was a justification of the several years of intensive efforts of tens of thousands of people—statesmen, scientists, engineers, manufacturers, soldiers, and many others in every walk of life.”  He called the effects of the bomb unprecedented and terrifying, yet also “magnificent.”

The success of the Manhattan Project in producing and detonating its astonishing gadget meant it could then be used in warfare.  The atomic bomb let loose on Hiroshima, Japan was essentially the second trial of the new technology.

My husband’s cousin, Reiko, lived in Hiroshima.  She was at her desk on the morning of August 6, 1945 when the bomb fell.  She was eight-years-old.  The other third-graders rushed to the window to see what caused the big, white flash.  Reiko did not look up from her schoolwork until the glass in the window shattered.  As the atomic cloud swelled over Hiroshima, tens of thousands of her fellow citizens were already dead.  100,000 more were injured, including many of her classmates.  Almost half of the 320,000 people of Hiroshima would die from the effects of the bomb by the end of the year.

Reiko walked to her home on the outskirts of the city.  She and her mother went out in the evening and took food to the ash-covered people fleeing the devastation.


The next use of the atomic bomb was three days later in Nagasaki, causing more devastation and killing more than 70,000 people.  On August 15, Emperor Hirohito announced the surrender of Japan.

The fourth use of an atomic bomb was the one celebrated with the special postmark on Dad’s letter, after the War.  Four days later, at a Paris fashion show, a new swimsuit named after the bombsite debuted: the bikini. A cartoon series depicting the atomic age of 2062 was developed called “The Jetsons,” imagining a tricked-out, high-speed world of the future: a hovercraft in every carport, a robotic maid in the kitchen.

Having worked at Oak Ridge laboratories for the Manhattan Project, Dad wanted to see the uranium-fueled technology in action.  For that fourth test, he was watching from the U.S.S. Haven beyond the lagoon.  With the lightning-bolt insignia of the Special Engineering Detachment on his shoulder, Dad must have felt part of the power surge carrying America into a new age, ready to apply his training.  He got his chance when he was assigned to be a radiation monitor for the next test in the lagoon of Bikini Atoll.


Dad wrote about that day, “It was an interesting mix of people in the Radiological Safety Section.  My particular team of radiation monitors consisted of a Major from the Army Field Artillery, myself, and two others.  The Major was appointed senior monitor.”  This appointment, Dad told us, was based on rank and not expertise.  The Baker explosion (click to see photos and video) was detonated underwater in the Bikini lagoon at 8:35 on the morning of July 25, 1946.  Two hours later, my dad and his team entered the lagoon in their small landing craft, accompanied by a gunboat.  They had a Geiger counter and an ion chamber for measuring radiation.

The team headed for the middle of the lagoon, keeping their eyes on the Geiger counter.  Dad noticed, “As we got closer to the target center the readings went up.  Then rather suddenly they dropped to almost nothing.  I told the Major I thought we might be in heavy radiation.  He looked at the dial on the counter and said that I must be mistaken since the needle was at zero.  As we headed closer to target center, I decided that this was not the time to explain how Geiger counters work, ignored the Major, and went to the cabinet in the rear and got out the ion chamber.”

Radiation levels were actually beyond the capacity of the Geiger counter to measure.  When Dad got the ion chamber set up, its needle climbed and kept on climbing.  The Major saw they were in radioactivity ten times above the recommended limit and ordered the landing craft and gunboat to get out of there.

“We headed back to the entrance of the lagoon as fast as we could go,” Dad wrote.  Their boat, it was found later, was so contaminated from radioactive fallout it could not be used again.

My father, in his youth, was optimistic about the possibilities of the Atomic Age.  As he grew older and worked for peace and environmental causes, he would have agreed with Enrico Fermi who said that scientific advances have certainly “led to technical and industrial applications that have revolutionized our way of life. […] What is less certain, and what we all fervently hope, is that man will soon grow sufficiently adult to make good use of the powers that he acquires over nature.”

We now know the horrifying consequences of nuclear warfare and can, with maturity, wisdom and united effort, prevent its use in the future.  May we make good use of the knowledge and powers we’ve acquired and work together for a healthy, beautiful world. 

news of Dad at Bikini Atoll

News of Dad at Bikini Atoll

Geese at the End of Summer

Canada Geese

Canada Geese

It’s supper time and there’s nobody on the lake.  Just me and some geese.

I count 31 of them.  Now and then they honk or rise up and flap their wings a bit, but mostly they just float.  I’m not sure how they do it, but they float in two straight lines.  Are they practicing formations for migration?  I want to paddle closer to them but I don’t want them to be disturbed and fly away.

I steer clear of the birds and go north to the lily pads.  They look tattered and wind-blown this time of year.  The best of summer is over, I guess.  I pluck out a Coke can and some plastic debris and throw it in the back of the boat to discard at home.  Then I allow myself to drift back towards our dock.

Suddenly the geese are on the move.  First one group takes off in a flurry of splashing wings and then another.  I expect them to form Vs as they fly away but they fall into lines again and undulate northeast over the pine trees.

I am reminded that the whole summer has gone by and I’ve hardly written a thing.  Sadly, we had a dog sicken with Lyme disease and die.  Happily, we had a daughter get married.  Plus we moved.  Now I want to find my way back to my desk and get some lines down on paper, let my thoughts fly.

Here are some parting “words” from geese in flight:

September reflections

September reflections

Ecology and the Road

A good place to walk

A good place to walk

It seems that the more we improve our roads the less hospitable they are to people.

I remember hearing an engineer at a town hall meeting reveal his proposal for an “improved” road by our summer home.  Our neighbor, Mrs. Miller, stood up and said, “Over my dead body!  I will lay down in front of your bulldozers before I let you turn our road into a four-lane highway.”  As a child hearing her words, I pictured her soft body on the earth, gray hair nestled in fallen pine needles, as heavy machinery roared toward her.  I believed her—that she would lay down her life to save the forest—and I have come to understand her passion.  She loved that land like life itself.

Mrs. Miller fell in love with the north woods of Minnesota by tending it for all of her years.  For me, I fell in love with trees.  I am happiest when I am climbing a tree, or at least sitting by one.  Every trail I walked and every fort I made out of meadow grass brought me closer to the land.  I was wooed by the peace and beauty I found there.  It got harder to go play outside as I got older, but now I am trying to make it a priority.  Just as our mothers told us, I am telling myself: go out and play.  And here’s another childhood mantra: stop, look, and listen.  I try not to rush through my nature walks, but, rather, take time to open my senses.

To know the land is, usually, to love it.  I believe that loving nature is the beginning of conserving it.  Caring about it makes me want to care for it.  It seems to me that ecology is an inside job. “Environment” may be defined as something outside myself, but the seed of environmentalism is found within me.  How do I care for myself and how do I care for the planet?  Mother Earth offers me her talents and, in turn, I use what small gifts I have to protect, enhance, and appreciate her. 

Mrs. Miller brought her passion.  My father brought research about road regulations that he’d gathered at a university library to prove that the requirement for the width of the road was not as the engineer had claimed.  My family and our neighbors loved that land and we showed it.  The road was repaved but remained two lanes, and trees and meadows were saved.  And it is still a good road to walk or bicycle along.

By the road in Minnesota

By the road in Minnesota


Wonder Walk: Hiking for Health

Hiking in Costa Rica

Hiking in Costa Rica

The first Wednesday of April is National Walking Day.  This is one way the American Heart Association promotes habits that keep our heart happy.  Whether you walk alone or with others, the idea is to get moving.  If you can connect with nature while you’re outside, so much the better.

Buddhist author Thich Nhat Hanh leads walking meditations at his retreat center among the sunflowers of Bordeaux, France.  In Peace Is Every Step he reminds us, “Be aware of the contact between your feet and the Earth.  Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.”

Librarian Ann Vogl and English teacher Cheryl Gorsuch decided to hike the Ice Age Trail–all 1000 miles of it.  It took them five years, getting together on weekends to do a bit at a time.  They often talked while they walked and got to know each other very well.  They also got to know thirty counties of Wisconsin as they followed the edge of the last glacier!  Upon achieving their goal this month, Gorsuch commented, “I think you see so much of Wisconsin at a personal level, foot by foot, step by step.”

Mark Hirsch is another inspired Wisconsinite.  Every day for a year, he walked to a 163-year-old Bur Oak, took a picture of it, and got to know it very well.  It became “That Tree” project, completed just two weeks ago.  (See  People who saw his photos posted online got to know the oak, too, and shared their stories of special trees.   So whether we hike a thousand miles or walk to the same place every day, there are benefits from the physical exercise and the connections we make.

Though I like taking sociable walks with friends, I pay more attention to flora and fauna if I go quietly by myself.  I can pause and watch birds to my heart’s content or lean against a tree until I have set down roots alongside it.  For heart health, a rapid pace is best, and I do like race-walking.  But for peace of mind, I like to pause and appreciate my surroundings.

Kathleen Dean Moore of Oregon writes in Wild Comfort: The Solace of Nature of walking along a river by the Cascade Mountains.  She couldn’t help but take her stress with her.  “Already,” she says, “just a few hours into the weekend, time feels short.  I hurry to relax before I have to go back to my complicated life.”  She pauses to watch the river, a tortoiseshell butterfly lands on her arm, and her awareness shifts.

“Lucky.  If I hadn’t stopped to watch the river, if I hadn’t worked up a sweat in this unlikely sun, if I hadn’t pushed my sleeves up past my elbows, I might never have discovered how to drink in the peace of this time and place, every warm drop.”  Moore continues, “This is what a human brings to the world–the ability to take notice, to be grateful and glad, glad for the river swinging by, for the sun warming my shoulders, for the breeze lifting the hairs on a butterfly’s back.”

May you get lucky on April 3 and every day.  Don’t hurry to relax.  Take your time and have a heartfelt walk.



Porcupine Discovery

North American Porcupine

North American Porcupine

I was face-to-face with a porcupine that lay so still in the crook of some pine branches that I wondered if it was dead.  Thrilled to see wildlife, I was also startled and scrambled back down the tree as fast as I could go.

I didn’t know porcupines could be that big and I didn’t even know they climbed trees!  Maybe it looked so big because each one has about 30,000 quills.  And maybe it was sleeping during the day because porcupines are nocturnal.  They climb trees with their long claws, eat pine needles, and then, apparently, take a nap.

I was nine and I’d crossed the road from our northern Minnesota house to sit in my favorite spot by Goose Lake.  The prickly rodent must have liked it, too, perched in the tree with an excellent view of the water.  If I’d known more about it’s kind, I would have had the confidence to climb back up the tree and take a second look.

Jamie Sams (Medicine Cards, p. 85) says, “Porcupine is a gentle, loving creature, and non-aggressive.  When fear is not present, it is possible to feed a Porcupine by hand and never get stuck by its quills.”  Searching on Word Press, I, indeed, saw a porcupine named Thistle fed by hand.  (The video has had millions of hits, because it is pretty darn adorable.  Plus, the critter has hiccups.)  Thistle could be an ambassador for what Sams calls its special medicine: “the power of faith and trust.”  This tells me I have some things to learn from these prickly critters.

I just hope we don’t run into one with our dogs.

Quills in a dog.

Quills in a dog.

Quills ready for defense.

Quills ready for defense.