Life Never Stops Trying

Life doesn't always thrive.  It doesn't always succeed.  In fact, most of the time it fails.  But it never stops trying.  Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.  The urban landscape is a new one, and a challenging one, but a landscape none-the-less.

I found a few urban landscape pioneers, some succeeding more than others, under the 360 bridge at Spicewood Springs Road. 

 

I don't know what these abandoned holes were originally for, but they filled with soil, and now life is trying them out.  And the plant below is exploring the place where concrete and asphalt don't quite meet.

 

This one just got lucky.  It has an edge over plants where tires are more likely to tread.  I find myself rooting for it.  (No pun intended.)

But sometimes, you're just in the wrong place.  Men come and kill you, without even seeing you.  It's important to know where the underground sewer line is.

Even when concrete has filled a hole with a column, there is a crack in everything.  That's how the life gets in.

Radical Acceptance in the Choir Loft and in the Creek Bed

In high school, my father was my choir master on Sunday mornings at the Kenyon College chapel.  He was a serious musician and serious church musician, conferring at length with the minister to choose music that supported the sermon and the liturgy in the ecclesiastical calendar.  He loved the traditional, conservative tunes (after all, he was a classically trained organist), but he also sought to bring the new in - from hippie students strumming guitars with modern folk or rock tunes, to dissident new classical work by music professors.  Everything was welcome.  Everything belonged. That went for his all-volunteer choir members as well.  

Many a choir master is outcome-oriented; wanting to praise God with only the most beautiful, very well-rehearsed sounds possible.  That requires selective service from his congregation - auditioning people, accepting some, not accepting others, even supplementing with singers outside the congregation if need be (lend me a tenor!).  And it required mandatory Thursday night choir practice.  If you didn't rehearse it, you can't sing it Sunday morning.  You don't belong with us.  That kind of choir master is focused on the audience's - the congregation's - experience.  The purpose of the choir is to produce something beautiful for everyone else to listen to.

My father was not that kind of choir master.  He practiced what he termed 'radical acceptance'.  Anyone was welcome to volunteer to sing in the choir.  You could show up at any time, and he'd do his best to accommodate you.  And we'd offer up to God and the congregation whatever we had to offer.  This was our offering to God, and we invited the congregation to listen in.  We weren't there to fulfill the congregation's beauty expectations.


I attended Dr. Kevin Anderson's Lunchtime Lectures this year with his take on Nature in the City.  I found his approach to how to view non-human life in urban areas to be deliberately provocative.  My deliberatively vague description is an attempt to convey his approach - one of, shall I say, 'radical acceptance'.  A re-imagining, a re-setting of our expectations and judgements about the natural world that interacts with our cities.  (And indeed, even seeing urban areas as part of the natural world, albeit a new and radically different part.) 

I find this approach to ultimately be a message of hope, of belongingness, of rightness.  I hear it saying "Let's look - let's just look - at the nature that is here in our city.  Let's describe what we see without judgement, without fear, without sadness, without beauty, without purpose." 

I've been spending time on the banks of Shoal Creek, and I thought I'd practice this approach, and spend the last warm sunny day before winter began just looking at the nature in the creek by the new (and awesome) Austin Public Library.  My goal was to simply assign a 'managed' or 'unmanaged' title to things I saw.  One could also say 'planned/unplanned' 'planted/volunteer' or 'intentional/unintentional'.  I was determined not to get angry at the trash in the river, or feel sorry for the creatures trying(!) to live there.  I let those trying judgments go, and simply looked.  Here's what I saw.

We are looking north up Shoal Creek from under the Cesar Chavez bridge.  The library is to our left, a bare rubble construction site on our right.  The new arched 2nd street bridge spans the creek. 

The constructed rock walls have plantings of mostly, if not all, natives.  The plantings shift from neat and formal garden arrangements on top, to more haphazard and 'natural' looking as they descend to the creek bed.  The creek bed then remains as it has been.  It's a flow from left to right and top to bottom of very managed, to looking like it's not managed, to unmanaged.  Note that many of the same kinds of plants which are planted in the rock wall are also growing in the unmanaged areas.

On the far bank, the plants are unmanaged, though the large liveoak is protected from the construction area with border fencing. 

There's another tree inside the construction area that's protected, though unintentionally so.  The electricity station for their construction needs is an island of life inside the fence.  Plants grow in every space possible under the electric boxes, and a tree has shot up.  No one's paying attention to it.  The liveoak, we know, we intend to keep safe and alive.  The electric tree and her entourage will not share that fate.  Same goes for the yellow flowers exploding just inside the construction fence.


It's common to see animals in the creek.  This afternoon, I saw a bird, looking like the first of three pieces of white trash, fishing the rapids, and a cormorant dive-fishing in one of the deeper pools.  I also saw turtles sunning themselves on a natural limestone ledge next to a concrete sewer entrance.  Hold up; that's not a natural limestone ledge - that's spread concrete.

The mix of managed and unmanaged was clear on the hillside beyond the rock walls.  The giant old pecan in the background now shares space with a newly-planted cypress tree (now brown till the Spring).

I tried not to feel or judge as I looked at this urban landscape.  To start - and end - with just looking at what is.  But it was awfully hard to not feel sad for the bird wading through trash to find a fish, all the while enduring the constant construction noise.  And not to judge the planting choices made, or rue the future demise of another lovely cypress tree that was obviously not in the 'right' place, or wonder why in the world no one had cut down an invasive non-native yet. 

It was freeing to simply look at all the life in front of me, living their afternoon in the city, in the glorious sun.  Everyone offering up to God what they had to offer.

Hiking with Geeks

Geekdom was in all its glory on the trail at Bright Leaf Preserve this Sunday.  About fifteen Hiking with Geeks members came out on a chilly morning to experience nature and "detox" from technology (according to their website).

It was a chilly wait for everyone to show up, then more standing around as we all introduced ourselves and how we geek.  After someone said they'd be warmer if we could start hiking, I kept the hike introduction short, and Bill Dodd, Phillip Russell, and I led them into the hills. 

I wanted to plunge their senses into the life around them.

We crushed blue ashe juniper berries in our fingers and smelled the scent of Christmas from the aromatic resin.  We deliberated over what "edible" meant.  These berries aren't poisonous, and they are technically edible, but I don't suggest eating one.  (Since juniper is an evergreen, these juicy berries are technically cones, as in pine cones.  But that's a technicality I usually don't bring up.)  It is closely related to the juniper species that lends it's flavoring to gin, and people always find that a fun bit to know.

I did invite them to taste the tart red berries (actual berries, not cones) of the evergreen sumac.  Someone spotted the small hairs covering each berry, and how large the seed was compared to the thin film of very tart fruit covering it.  One guy mused it would take 400,000 berries to make a pie.  'Bout right, I'd say.  With 400,000 cups of sugar added.  A woman who hadn't brought water with her rued the inability to wash that tartness out of her mouth.  (See?  You should always bring water with you when you hike - you never know when, or why, you'll need it.)

We held gorilla snot in our hands.  Not every group of hikers is lucky enough.  Just a few days after a heavy rain (and a night and morning of SNOW!) these normally crispy black colonies of single-cell cyanobacteria called nostoc had swelled with all the water they had absorbed, and started to photosynthesize.  That meant a green, gushy mess in our palms.  To their surprise, this stuff is edible - you can even buy it at health food stores. 




We inevitably came across some scat (poop) on the trail.  Someone challenged the group to pick up some coyote scat.  "It has a nutty aroma" they joked.  This sample showed how omnivorous a coyote can be.  The end part, with it's characteristic "twist" as the last bit comes out, was a mass of grey hairs (most likely squirrel)  But before that, this one had eaten some berries of some sort, with the large seeds making it out the other end.  I figure those who ate the evergreen sumac seeds might see the same thing, if they cared to look closely enough the next day.

The original owner of Bright Leaf, Georgia B. Lucas, was a cat lover.  Many people find this the single most interesting thing about the place.  In fact, this was the single fact that one local wildlife manager that I met knew about the place. 

One of the hikers was here this morning because of the cats.  She had been told about the preserve and it's cat story at a neighbor's yard sale the day before.  Unfortunately, she was anxious to see the cats, and I had to let her down that this was a bit of history, and not a feature of today's hike.  When Ms. Lucas died in the mid 90's, her existing cats were taken care of and lived out their natural lives.  Phillip told us he had had the pleasure of knowing the last cat - a grey long-hair named Fluffy.  I like to joke that Fluffy turned into the grey concrete cat statue overlooking the driveway.

Sometimes, plunging your senses into something means taking stimulation away from you.  We enjoyed thirty seconds of silence in a valley that's tucked away enough from the human world, that sometimes, like this morning, you get lucky and can't hear the traffic on 2222 or Mopac, or a leaf blower or lawn mower or construction, or a plane, or a bird, or even wind through the trees.  Nothing but the forest being. 

Finally, we had a rare treat for any hike, but especially for one so large and talkative.  Someone spotted a buck to our left, and we stopped the group and tried to be quiet and see.  A second buck was spotted, but both of them decided very quickly to high tail it (literally) out of there.  Serves me right to be so certain when I told them we wouldn't see deer with such a noisy group.  The world outside is full of surprises.  And I like it that way.

Bright Leaves on a Dark Morning

   Most people would have chosen yesterday, with its warm temperature, sunshine and vivid blue sky, to capture the brilliant colors of the changing leaves here on Mt. Lucas.  I chose to take advantage of the weather by paddling on Dry Creek and Lake Austin, taking in the last of the season's dragonflies, and disturbing a great blue heron, numerous ducks, and an osprey.

So this morning, I thought I'd take those pictures I never got to yesterday, even if they aren't quite as brilliant, with today's cold rainy grey.  They were their own rays of sunshine, and the water helped boost the colors.

A few Cedar Elm leaves.

A foot-high (Balcones) Escarpment black cherry.  This tree is endemic to the Escarpment, meaning it lives here and only here.  It's also considered rare. This little one is the daughter of a large one that grows in my yard.  May she grow many more daughters!

This pearl milkweed vine was very happy this summer,
climbing about 15 feet up using an American Elm. 
It has kept its leaves, even as the tree shed its own.

And of course, the lovely reds of a young, three-foot high oak
bordering my driveway.  I nurtured her after the 2011 drought,
and she had grown two feet since then, but s/he and I soon
will have to negotiate access to sun with access to driveway.

Lastly, the completely accurately named Flame Leaf Sumac. 
This one came to me as a volunteer in an abandoned pot
where a non-native big box plant had died.  Sometimes it pays to procrastinate.

Shoal Creek Conservancy's Historic Bridges Tour

I spent a wonderful Saturday morning with fifty other people on the banks of Shoal Creek.

Ted Lee Eubanks, with help from Charles Peveto, Ted Siff and several historical bridges and interpretive guide experts, led us from the mouth of Shoal Creek on the shore of Lady Bird Lake upstream to Duncan Park between 9th and 10th streets.  We were treated to a wealth of knowledge about Austin and these bridges by this international expert who has turned his attention and research skills to downtown Austin.  We're so lucky to have him!  Ted ended the tour in the park under the shade of some 400 - 500 year old live oak trees. It had taken us two hours to travel those ten blocks.  And Ted had led us through hundreds of years of Austin's history.

We gathered at the new library (stunning, by the way - it was my first time inside and I loved the open common spaces, artwork, and very friendly and helpful staff and volunteers). Ted led the group to the artificial island built in Lady Bird Lake at Shoal Creek's mouth.  Then he laid out the story of how intricately Austin's story is woven into the story of Shoal Creek, and described the events that occurred right where we were standing (sans artificial island) that set in motion Austin's founding.


We began our journey upstream, crossing under the Cesar Chavez bridge, where a great blue heron was fishing, then passing the new arch bridge, and stopped at the old railroad bridge and Third Street bridge.

Ted told us some of the many fascinating layers of history that co-exist here, including the layers of limestone that the waters of Shoal Creek have exposed over time. 












Next stop was the West Avenue bridge, where Shoal Creek takes a hard turn and travels east for a few hundred yards, before turning south again to empty into the lake.  Major construction of the creek bed and banks is underway here.  So major, that the creek at this point is basically a pipe.  (Look to the right of the machine in the photo.)







We descended again to creek level and travelled under the magnificent arches of the Sixth Street bridge.  Like almost everyone else, I had no idea what a beautiful bridge I drive over all the time.  Changing up your perspective on things you see everyday can be so rewarding!

This bridge is bordered by The Grove Wine Bar (in the Cirrus Logic building) on the north, and Hut's Hamburgers on the South.  You had no idea there was a bridge there, did you?  And I can't wait to see the creek from the patio of The Grove soon! (Talk about change in perspective.)

Just a few feet on from The Grove's patio, we were treated to a Cooper's Hawk hanging out on a rock in the creek bed.  He stayed through all the ooos and aaaahs and cameras.  We passed under the 9th street bridge, hearing and smelling the Mexican Free-Tailed bat colony living there, and gathered under those stunning live oaks in Duncan Park, across from the Shoal Creek Saloon.

Nature Hike - October

A Texas spiny lizard had just caught a praying mantis in its jaws for breakfast.  

"Or was it brunch?, one of the hikers asked.  

Was that a mimosa I saw on the limb next to him?

This was playing out on a cedar (ashe juniper) limb a few feet above our heads.  From this vantage point, we could see the lizard's underbelly heaving with great gulps of air after what must have been a chase, catch and struggle.  

Now, both lizard and mantis (half in and half out of the lizard) were still, except for the heaving belly.  (No doubt the mantis was doing its version of heaving, but insects breathe by absorbing air through holes in their exoskelton - no muscle was getting a workout pumping lungs.)

As predators and storytellers, I fancy we're inclined to root for the predator.  We know (or imagine we know) the story in its mind, and the desired outcome and resolution to his story.  In this case, the resolution was a lizard's full stomach.

Susan Andres captured the moment a mantis became a lizard's breakfast.

But a circle of life allows us to stop at any point on the circle and view events from that vantage point - and that vantage point's morality and story line.  So one member of the hiking group just had to stop at another vantage point and speak up for the mantis.

"Poor thing".

Indeed, I had just had a close encounter with this species a few days before.  It landed on my window glass one night, attracted to my living room light.  I marveled at its brilliant green.  Its small, compact form.  The intelligent swivel of its large eyes on that impossibly small neck.  I could swear we had a "moment".  And then it was off into the night.  But today, I was celebrating breakfast and rooting for the lizard's story.  

As we hiked, one young eight or nine year old boy couldn't grasp the circular trail we were following.  He kept asking if we'd been here before, swearing he recognized the place.  Both his father and I discribed to him the route we were taking: uphill half way - down hill the rest.  His father cupped his hands into a circle.  

"See?  This is where we stopped - halfway."  

But the boy couldn't rise above in his mind's eye and view the circle, let alone choose a vantage point to stop at and tell a story from  He was still young enough that he was telling other people's stories - his teacher's, his father's.  But he was practicing for the day when he would begin to tell his own stories.  When he would be able to rise above, choose a vantage point, and sing out what he saw.

His father marveled at the lizard up a tree - he'd never seen that before.  

"What's it doing up there?" he asked.  

"Oh yes," I said, "Lizards often climb trees.  That's clearly where their breakfast is."

Towards the end of the hike, as we paused to inventory the life that had found a recently formed small stream, this father asked one of the broadest, if not best, questions.  

"What good are green spaces like this in town?"  

It wasn't a challenge to prove it, but rather a genuine curiosity.  As I often do, I opened the question to the group.  

"Why are y'all here today?"  They looked at me blankly.  "You chose to get up on a Sunday morning and be in nature.  Why?"  Still silent, blank stares.  

I supplied their answer for them. "Because it makes you feel good.  We like being in green spaces.  So there's one reason that's about us. (the story told from our vantage point on the circle of life)."

A golden cheeked warbler on an ashe juniper.  This endangered bird
breeds only in the Texas Hill Country.  It needs these particular hills
inside the preserve to raise its young

"Another reason urban green spaces (the current industry term) are good, is that it's a refuge for other species who live here.  It may be that a species needs this particular area to live.  So that's a reason from other species' points of view.  Also, all these trees help keep the temperature of the city down.  And, if we don't pave this over, flooding won't be as bad because this kind of ground cover slows the water down."  

I saw heads nodding and smiling during all this.  I could tell they either knew much of this already, or readily understood and appreciated it.  So perhaps their silence had been shyness at answering a question, or they hadn't articulated these things to themselves before.

We watched the lizard with its breakfast for a few more minutes.  Susan got her great shot (shared above), and we moved on down our circle trail, looking for more circle of life encounters.

Paddleboard Cleanup Rules

I recently helped clean up trash at the mouth of Shoal Creek and a stretch of Dry Creek, while on my paddleboard.  Here are some things I learned.  Enjoy!

You should be completely comfortable knowing how to manipulate your boat in tight situations.  This is no time to try to figure out how to paddle.

Spot a piece of trash.

Do NOT paddle over to it and pick it up.

First, look for snakes. Then, look for poison ivy.

If there are snakes, look for another piece of trash elsewhere. 

If there is poison ivy, plan your escape paddle route, incorporating wind direction and speed.  Evasive ivy paddling trumps all else.  Be prepared to drop the hard won trash to save yourself from the ivy, if need be.

When everything works out in your favor - 

Pick up the piece of trash.

Don’t forget about the poison ivy nearby.

Be careful, there are often sharp rusty edges involved.

If it’s a closed container, don’t open it and pour it into the water.  It could be coolant. (Sorry L)

Dry Creek bottom smells different than Shoal Creek bottom.

VCR tapes last a long time in water.

Trash is quickly covered over with muck.  The best time to pick up trash is within a day or two after a big rain.  I know there was a ton more trash to pick up, but I couldn’t see it, so now it’s part of the river bed.  This is why I don’t walk in urban water barefoot.

There will be spiders.

If you see it, pick it up, no matter how small.  One Styrofoam bead looks exactly like the fish food I feed my koi.  Seems like it may be more dangerous to fish than an intact styrofoam cup.

Bright red things are not necessarily man-made.  That one texas mountain laurel seed that had settled on the shoals of shoal creek fooled me.

Fishing line and tackle is horrible.  Pruning shears work well to clip branches off trees when you can’t get the line untangled. 

Pruning shears don’t float.

Fishermen who leave line and tackle behind on trees (or even in fish, leaving them to slowly starve to death) should occupy the lowest level of hell when they die. 

Put the trash in the trashbag.

Open trashbags are sails.  You’ll need to figure out how to not make yours a sail, until you’ve put enough heavy trash in it.  This means incorporating wind direction and speed into your plan.

Congratulations!  You just cleaned up your first piece of trash!

Repeat.

Stop when your bag is full.  Or when you’ve had enough of this.

Paddle to shore.

Make a fun animal out of your trash and post it to social media.

Don’t touch any part of your body until you’ve washed your hands.

Wash your hands again.

Wash your phone, too.