Sex on the Trails

 We live a short walk from a discontinued road that is now an ATV trail in the summer and a skimobile trail in the winter.  When the sleds have traveled it the trail is hard packed and wonderful to walk on.  Near the house the trail is maintained by our local ATV/Snowmobile club.  A mile and a half away it connects with the ITS (Interconnected Trail System) which runs throughout the entire state of Maine.  This means Rosie and I can certainly get a lot of miles in if we feel up for it!

At least once a week I like to go out for a longer walk, 5-7 miles, on these trails and just see what’s doing in the neighborhood.  A light snow shows signs of the Fisher that travels off the mountain and comes across the trail.  This might be the same g/gal who travels through the back of our property.  Weasel tracks dart in and out of small holes and a small red fox loves to walk this trail too. 

Two weeks ago Rosie and I were about one mile from the house when I began to see urine markings along the small snowbank the snowmobiles and the groomer created.  This first marking was obviously a male that had lifted his leg and spread his yellow urine for a couple steps.  The squiggly line looked like the animal was trying to write his name in the snow!  Coyote tracks all over the trail helped me identify the culprit.  There were also the tell tail scratch marks of his hind legs “ground scratching” to spread the scent as well as demonstrate dominance.  Only a few steps later there was urine with blood in it.  More male marking and then more female marking with her blood.  She’s in heat!  It’s coyote mating season!

Coyotes, similar to wolves, mate for life and raise the pups together.  Unlike wolves they do not form a pack but form a “family”.  Coyotes usually travel and hunt alone although we have seen the mated alpha couple hunting together in our field.  The males will leave the family within six to nine months and strike off for their own territory.  The females may stay with their parents for a longer period of time eventually dispersing to find mates before the next breeding season. Thus the difference between the "family" and the "pack".

Rosie had a lot of interest in all this urine and she demonstrated her own “ground scratching” even without urinating.  Not sure what she was trying to prove but it fascinated me all the same.

So our neighborhood coyote pair are mating!   Their pups will be born at the end of March or first of April.  WIthin a month the pups will be weaned and then the parents will work together to feed them regurgitated food until they are big enough to learn to hunt for themselves.  It might be fun if we get to see the little ones in the field down front learning to hunt mice. 

Yesterday I headed out again towards where I had witnessed the urine marks. I wanted to see if there were any more signs of coyotes.  There were!  At the same place where there had been urine markings there was now an amazing amount of coyote tracks in the middle of the trail with the trail dug up in two different places.  This was obviously signs of some kind of tussle.  There was no blood, so if this was a fight for dominance it wasn’t real serious.  Nor were there any signs of a kill since there was no hair, feathers or blood.   Were these signs of the male mating with the female?  I have no idea and can only piece together the clues and make guesses.  This had happened recently as these tracks were created after the dusting of snow we had gotten in the early morning. I am aware that the coyote is going to be more aggressive during mating season and although I wasn’t really worried or feeling any fear I did find myself  taking note of any large branches that had fallen along the trail as a possible defense tool just in case! 

I do love our trails out here.  It is a wild land with acres and acres of wooded countryside and miles before any other houses exist along these trails.  There is far too much logging of it, in my humble opinion, as landowners here seem to see the trees as a commodity vs living beings. We vow to the trees on our acreage that they are safe and we will continue to let them grow; only cutting what we need to heat our home in the winter and preferring to take the standing dead or downed trees before cutting the live ones. 

These trails hold stories for me to witness who I walk this land with.  Rarely do I see other human tracks and this is fine with me.  I relish being out here alone with my dog and all the other beings who share, what feels like, sacred space with us.

2023

 4:00 am and 18 degrees Fahrenheit.  It's cold.

The snow sounds like the squeaking of styrofoam as I walk out onto the deck.  

There has been a light dusting of snow.  Two inches, not nearly enough for folks in these mountains who love their winter sports, but enough to reflect the waning full moon and its blue-white light creating a world with shadows from trees that look like wood etchings.  The treetops on the mountain shimmer under the moon, reflecting the topping of frozen confection of snow and ice. 

The stars actually twinkle.  I stare at one trying to decide if it's moving, not wanting to mistake the flashing and sparkle for a plane.  It is such a bright star that it's truly blinking and winking in this cold morning air.

I step out here every morning to send my prayers on the breeze to be carried across this valley and over the mountains. Calling in the Spirits to hear my prayers for a better world, peace to those who struggle in this life.  Asking that the anger and dark hearts of too many be filled with more love.  Asking for guidance for me in holding onto trust that all will be OK.  Trusting that the wish to "send help!" is heard.  

"What you practice becomes stronger."  I choose to practice gratitude.  I choose to practice kindness.  I choose to practice honesty.  I choose to practice faith and trust in this wide Universe and to stand in silence, on this deeply cold morning in the light of this brilliant moon.  I choose to practice gratitude.

Mornings in the mountains

 On these cold, clear mornings I rise early in the dark; the "bewitching hour" as some think of it.  I get the coffee going and then walk out onto the frost covered deck.  The quarter moon has set so the stars in our world blaze brilliantly in a sky free from all light pollution.   I stand still to let my eyes adjust and then look for the Hunter with his bejeweled belt, standing century in the east.  

Over the top of the mountain I find Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, one of my favorite constellations.  These sisters turn my thoughts to my own sisters.  I mourn the loss of one of them, not that she is gone from this world but she has chosen to be gone from my life.  I send prayers asking for help with the navigation to forgiveness for myself and my own peace as well as peace for what remains of my family.

I search for the Big Dipper, tilted and spilling over these days.  I follow the arch of its handle to the bright star, Arcturus ... "Arch to Arcturus" as I was taught.  Arcturus now hovers, barely visible, on top of the mountains that frame this valley.

I breathe in and stare in wonder at the Universe that is on display for me on these mornings.  I raise my arms in greeting to my ancestors, and to all the loved ones gone from this world and so greatly missed.  In this season of "thanks giving" I send my thanks up into the heavens, gratitude for all that I have, all the love that I am embraced by, all the blessings bestowed on me over all these years.

My dog, Rosie, now jams herself between my legs reminding me that it's cold as I feel her shivering.  I bend low to hold her tight with my thighs and to wrap my arms around her.  She wiggles with delight but continues to shiver.  I ask her, "want to go inside?" and she is at the door before I have time to stand up.  Back inside, with a hot cup of coffee, I return to a warm bed.

Mornings in the mountains.

(Photo credit, David B. Lovejoy @ Lobster Lake)

Rain

 It's raining.  For several days it has rained on and off. This is the rain I remember of
my youth; clouds gray and hanging low with rain falling all day.  To receive this gift of water just before the ground freezes and the snow flies means our wells will be filled for the coming winter.  Our streams on the property are swelled and gushing with small waterfalls along the path, the song sounding, at times, like children's laughter as the water tumbles over rocks and dead trees.  It's glorious.

Recently we spent a few weeks in California.  The wedding of the oldest boy called us out there.  The event was filled with family, laughter and love and these two amazing humans created a ceremony that was beautiful and loving.  It was up in the mountains outside of LA at a year round resort called Big Bear lake.  The lake, like most of the lakes in CA, was a reservoir created by a large damn.  This lake is surrounded by vacation homes with docks and boats no longer at the waters edge.  You must walk by the dock, now sitting in mud with vegetation growing up all around it, and continue for several more yards before reaching what is now the water line.

This was a theme throughout all of California where beautiful reservoirs had receded 100's of yards away from their original water line.  What was once a big "lake" now looked more like a sorry bathtub, brown and murky waters, complete with a ring around the edge.

The west is drying up.  We felt the intense heat of the days, witnessed the brown, dead leaves on the prickly plants. Hiked through the dust of a parched land.  The orchards and farms are drying up.  They put water into this dead soil to nourish plants vs people.  And the people put water into their lawns.

Do they understand how low the water line of their reservoir is?

Are they aware that their water is running out?

That fires are consuming the forests and smoke is choking the air?

This world is changing fast.  Drastically fast.  

And we are not changing our use of water along with it.

In Maine, it’s raining.  We have water.  But those of us living in the north must face the fact that at some point we will no longer have peaches, oranges and plums all year. The produce aisle is going to be shrinking with its offerings. We will need to eat according to our seasons. We will need to grow our own food. For the severe drought in the West affects all of us

The sun is bursting through the clouds spreading a promise of drying up the rain soaked land. I will take a walk on our trails where the fallen leaves of Oaks and Beech trees have thickly covered the path with their brown coloring that shines in the morning light turning the path into a trail laid with copper. The Birches and Poplar trees throw down their bright yellow, round leaves and look like gold coins strewn on top of the copper. We are rich with the colors of the season.

We are rich with the rains that fill our wells, bloat our streams and raise the level of our lakes.

I will take a walk and stroll along one of our stream trails and be serenaded by its' bubbling song so like the joyous laughter of children.

Be well everyone,

Mary

We saw a white deer the other night.  Native Americans referred to these extremely rare animals that are all white as “Ghost Deers”.  Our deer has a brown head, but its entire body is ghostly white.  

Such a sacred sighting as it ran across the shore on one side of our lake while we sat in our boat noting it.  At first we thought it was a white dog, but none of our neighbors have such an animal.  The realization that it was a deer brought us to our feet.  It disappeared into the trees only to reappear swimming strongly across the lake.  Keeping a very respectful distance from it with our boat we got to see it leap out of the water and disappear into the woods of the distant shore.

So incredibly white.  

Striking in this unusual color

Amazing.

I immediately began to offer a prayer to the setting sun as this sacred sighting certainly seemed to ask this of me.  For the first time in my life I did not pray for any family member or for myself but, rather, I prayed for our country.  I prayed for peace and unity among the people of the current un-United States.  I prayed for sanity to return to the elected officials who seem hell-bent on derailing our democracy.  I prayed for those in need to receive and for the greed in so many blackened hearts to ease so that abundance may rule the land.

I prayed for love to rule, not the hate that drives someone to take up a gun and shoot indiscriminately into crowds of people.  

Or classrooms filled with the most innocent of us, our children.

I prayed for Love to become our religion.  Not a certain God.  Not a set of rules that dictate right and wrong of others who don’t follow, or believe, in these same rules. Or the same God. 

“God is love”, but not if you insist that it is YOUR God who must be the One.

Gods rule my heart, filling me with joy and gratitude. These Gods offer me gifts of a white deer, a Bald Eagle, the cries of the Loons, the slashing of the dark woods and fields with the bright lights of Fireflies, a dome over my head, evidence of the Universe, on crystal clear nights.

I prayed for our country.

I prayed for all of this. 

Which is also offering prayers for myself, my family, my friends.

For all of us.

I also pray for another sighting of this miraculous, rare individual who we now know shares these fields, woods and lake with us.  The chances for an Albino deer being born are 1 in 30,000.  I don’t know what the statistics of seeing one is.  I leave it to be extremely rare!  

A once in a lifetime sighting.  

A gift ... from whatever God you may believe in.

 

 September 2021 Dave and I organized a trip to the Maine north woods that, with a little planning, offers camping on a completely secluded beach on a seven mile lake.

This group of friends wanted to spend four days and three nights camping.  There is no internet or cell phone service out there.  For some this was a little concerning, for if any emergency might arise we would be unable to dial in for assistance.  This is what Dave and I love about these trips!

The second day of our trip rain came in the morning and lasted on and off all day.  Dave is the tarp master so we were all hunkered down much of the afternoon under a tarp, playing cribbage and eating too much.  As the evening gray turned into the dark of night the storm intensified and the rain became torrential!  The wind picked up and began to howl.  With the rain pounding the tarp and the wind smacking into it we could barely hear each other talk.  We all stood in our head-to-toe rain gear, staring out into the darkness, marveling at the streams of water running off the tarp. The ground under our picnic tables was awash, making it impossible to really stay dry.  Dave closed the tarp down and secured it; we all knew we were protected until we got brave enough to head to our tents.    

As I stood there with everyone,  feeling the power of this storm, I had this intense need to get out into it ... to escape the protection of the tarp and stand in the dark alone with this storm surging and pounding my solar plexus!  As I walked out into the abyss everyone gasped and began yelling for me to come back, that I was crazy!  Maybe I was at that moment.  But what these people didn't know about me is that I've always gone out into the storm.  

Growing up my siblings and I would go down to the beach when the tropical storms of August, remnants of hurricanes further south, would come up the coast whipping the ocean into a frothy frenzy.  We would strip off our protective outerwear and go out into that surf with its gigantic waves!  Holding hands, digging our heels into the sand to keep from being swept away by the undertow, we would scream and duck the oncoming giants.  

I've also been one to go straight out into a blizzard, with winds that turn soft, feathery snowflakes into lashing little knives that cut into my bare face.   Leaning into the gale I would turn to the sting of the harsh snowflakes and walk into the storm.  Always feeling more alive.

And so, I walked out into the night as rain pounded our little campsite and the wind whipped the lake into caps of white topped waves.  I screamed into the gale, knowing my friends couldn't hear. Opening my arms to the torrential rain I felt that storm beating into my chest and the rain streaming down my exposed face. I felt more alive in that wild moment. I was a wild child opening to the power of the night, the power of the storm, and embracing it.

In the morning the lake was calm and like glass.  Loons called warnings as an Eagle flew over.  Clothes and tarps were laid out on rocks in the sun to dry.  Over breakfast everyone made a comment about my going out into the storm, "Mary, last night you were drunk!".  

I only smiled.  

Perhaps I was drunk, drunk on the power of that night. Drunk on the feeling of being so alive when standing out in the storm. Drunk on the gratitude I felt about my life at that moment and being able to stand on this secluded beach with great friends and experience being wild!

WATER

 Water.  It’s an amazing substance too frequently taken for granted for all the magic it brings to this earth.  Water is chemically known as  H2O.  Two Hydrogen and one oxygen.  The universal solvent.  It is life.  It is found in every living thing on earth.  It exists in three states: solid, liquid and gas.  Solid will melt to the liquid state and the liquid state will evaporate into the gas form.  It tends to break its own rules though.  The process of sublimation has the solid form going directly to the gas. 

My walk yesterday was through the crust of snow that fell the night before.  Getting out into the morning I could feel the air warming and the snow changing to rain that was immediately freezing on my jacket.  When water becomes super cooled it can exist in the liquid state but below its freezing point, thus freezing on contact with any surface it hits …me, for instance.

Passing a small Beech tree I marveled at the effects of the freezing rain on the leaves that still clung tenaciously to their branches; the dried leaves quake in the breeze, brushing against each other to sound like a Shaman's rattle. The frozen surface of the brown leaves turned them into burnished copper.  The Hemlocks dip with the new weight of ice crystals collecting on their feathery fronds; a glittering of fans over me as I pass through their grove.

My dog,Rosie, and I head down towards the trail we have named “the gorge”.  This trail is narrow and rocky and follows one of the three streams that flow through this land we claim as our own.  Entering into this darker wood with its high bank on one side the rain no longer hits my jacket with a PING as the denser foliage of the coniferous trees shield us from above.  There is a different energy along this trail, quiet, calm.  It’s always green in this “gorge” with the bright green of the mosses that grow on all the rocks and the Christmas Ferns along the trail remain a deep green all through the winter months.  I look for tracks along the stream bed; the small pads of the Mink as it runs along impossibly thin ice that hovers over the flowing water.   A raccoon came down to the deeper pool and the tiny skittering of the weasel tracks show her scampering from rock to rock in search of small rodents or insects hiding in the crevasses.  I love this trail.  The footing is difficult but the mood is always easy.

I can see a fog rising off some of the snow still in the field.  Sublimation.  Fog also hangs heavy over the mountain, clinging to the various ridge lines and obscuring the summit one minute and twirling and swirling upward exposing the summit the next.  Having grown up on the coast of Maine there is a term, “pea soup” that refers to surface clouds so dense you can see only a few feet in front of you.  I remember walking along the beach in this opaque fog.  A beach at low tide in a pea soup fog creates a very small world; one with visibility of only a few feet all around you.   You exist in the moment of one footstep at a time within a monotonous landscape of sand.  Shadows loom up ahead becoming recognizable only when they enter within a few feet, emerging as a large piece of driftwood or another person walking in the opposite direction.  It was the only time that I felt I was truly present in the moment.  Unable to see anything in my future and the past lost to the fog. I traveled, one step at a time, through a dense cloud of water.   

Today the lake looks like molten mercury, smooth, charcoal gray and still.  No loons break it’s surface or call across the shores now.  Winter is here and they have gone to the sea until next spring.  

Soon there will be ice forming on this body of water.  My husband will watch it closely and determine when it is safe enough to walk down with skates in order to glide across the black mirrored surface.   Once the snow falls I will walk across the lake to the opposite shore and the trails on the other side.  The frozen water allows me to walk on top of the lake! Amazing!

I am remembering a friend who once was in love with a man from Barbados.  He came to Maine during the winter to witness “the big chill”.  We took him to a small pond by the beach to experience skating.  He pulled up beside me and grab me around the waist whispering in my ear,
“Mary, how do they do this?”  

“Do what?”

“THIS!?” he said as he gestured to the frozen surface of the pond.  He opened my eyes to just how miraculous “this” is; this body of water that we can walk and play upon!

Water. It is all around us. A wave of water bursting between our mother’s legs introduces each of us to this world. We are water. We can’t live without it.