{"id":2241,"date":"2012-04-29T15:37:37","date_gmt":"2012-04-29T23:37:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/?p=2241"},"modified":"2012-04-30T07:50:17","modified_gmt":"2012-04-30T15:50:17","slug":"sunday-morning-walk","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/?p=2241","title":{"rendered":"Sunday morning walk"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/eaglesnest.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"573\" alt=\"[IMAGE] eagle mom and chick\" \/><\/p>\n<p><font color=#4F4E81>&#8230;click to listen:<\/font><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"\/RealAudio\/LullabyforZachary.mp3\" style=\"text-decoration:none\"><\/a><\/p>\n<p><a href=\"\/ASJazzFilmTV.html\" style=\"text-decoration:none\" target=\"_blank\"><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/moregn.jpg\"\/><font color=#4F4E81>&#8230;about the music<\/font><\/a><\/p>\n<p><i><font color=#346513>An old lullaby from this chick&#8217;s 80&#8217;s synth era, for this new chick.<\/font><\/i><\/p>\n<p><a href=\"http:\/\/twitter.com\/share\" class=\"twitter-share-button\" data-count=\"none\" data-via=\"alex_shapiro\">Tweet<\/a><script type=\"text\/javascript\" src=\"http:\/\/platform.twitter.com\/widgets.js\"><\/script><\/p>\n<p>Above: a heartening sign of spring. There are actually <em>two<\/em> fuzz-balls in that nest, but only one kept poking its head up to see what the world looked like this morning. I don&#8217;t blame the other one. I often refuse to poke my head up to see what the world, or even my coffeemaker, look like this early in the day.<\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s worth noting that the &#8220;nest&#8221; is about one ton&#8217;s worth of everything you see below the chick&#8217;s head, resting 80 feet or more up the incredibly strong branches of a Douglas fir. Eagles&#8217; nests should be included in the seven wonders of the world.<\/p>\n<p>When I made plans a few days ago to take a nature walk with friends on Sunday at the crack of dawn*, I failed to remember that I&#8217;d be at a late-running, wine-infused dinner party with other friends the night before [*Okay, not the crack of dawn, but 9am, which feels very much like the crack of dawn to me. Especially when I blithely, dumbly smile and blurt out, &#8220;Oh! Come over for coffee around 8:15.&#8221;]. <em>What was I thinking??<\/em><\/p>\n<p>I don&#8217;t know what I was thinking. But I&#8217;m awfully glad that I wasn&#8217;t thinking, <em>&#8220;now that&#8217;s a silly idea; you&#8217;re not a morning person, and you&#8217;ll want to sleep in.&#8221;<\/em> No, thank goodness I wasn&#8217;t thinking that. Actually, thank goodness I just wasn&#8217;t thinking. Otherwise, I would have missed out on the mama and chickie above, seen on this morning&#8217;s deeply peaceful walk through the wildflower-infused meadows and prairie land to which I gaze from my desk every day. American Camp is among my favorite places on planet Earth. And stunningly, I can see my house from it. I am beyond grateful to live where I do.<\/p>\n<p>So, in the wee hours that most normal people refer to as &#8220;morning&#8221; and which I refer to as &#8220;the middle of the friggin&#8217; night,&#8221; my pals and I, accompanied by very kind Ranger Doug of the National Park Service, filled our lungs with the unspeakably wonderful scent-combo of overcast sea air and newly blooming plants, and ambled through the windless, almost-warm almost-mist. To the east is Griffin Bay: <\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/griffinview1.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"266\" alt=\"[IMAGE] Griffin Bay\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>With buttercups and green green spring green grasses in the foreground.<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/redoubt2.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"261\" alt=\"[IMAGE] redoubt\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/griffin3.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"266\" alt=\"[IMAGE] Griffin Bay\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>Mount Finlayson looms between the two &#8220;sides&#8221; of San Juan Island on its narrow southern edge. At 392 feet, it&#8217;s far from a mighty &#8220;mountain,&#8221; except to the perception of my pathetic thigh muscles each time I summit, which during the remarkably steep incline of the final 50 yards, deem it not only Mighty but Supreme and Omnipotent.<br \/>\nNo, we did not climb it this particular morning.<br \/>\nI guess I was thinking, after all. Just a little.<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/finlayson4.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"266\" alt=\"[IMAGE] hill view\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>Here&#8217;s the view from the top, looking west at Vancouver Island, in a photo taken last summer when my muscles were more awake:<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/mtftop.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"300\" alt=\"[IMAGE] hill view\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>And here it is in the other direction, from which you can see the atolls strewn off the south of Lopez Island:<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/mtftop2.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"300\" alt=\"[IMAGE] hill view\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>That was last summer. But it looked remarkably similar this morning. Not much changes here.<\/p>\n<p>Meanwhile a fox hung out on a far more climb-friendly rock, and took in the view to the sea, and to the rabbits&#8230;<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/redoubtfox1.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"300\" alt=\"[IMAGE] fox\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>As did an immature bald eagle&#8230;.<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/eagleseaview.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"247\" alt=\"[IMAGE] eagle\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>As its parent went grocery shopping&#8230;<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/eagleseaflight.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"287\" alt=\"[IMAGE] eagle\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>And a pair of geese reflected on what the day might bring, while the sea reflected their beauty. <\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/lowflyinggeese.jpg\" width=\"400\" height=\"178\" alt=\"[IMAGE] geese\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>All the while, mama and chick calmly observed.<\/p>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"\/blog\/blogpix\/eaglesnestclose.jpg\" width=\"150\" height=\"142\" alt=\"[IMAGE] eagles\" \/><br \/>\n<span style=\"clear: both;\"><br \/><\/span><\/p>\n<p>I don&#8217;t know what they&#8217;re thinking. But I&#8217;m so glad I wasn&#8217;t thinking. So, so glad.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>&#8230;click to listen: &#8230;about the music An old lullaby from this chick&#8217;s 80&#8217;s synth era, for this new chick. Tweet Above: a heartening sign of spring. There are actually two fuzz-balls in that nest, but only one kept poking its head up to see what the world looked like this morning. I don&#8217;t blame the [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2241","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-musings"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2241"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2241"}],"version-history":[{"count":34,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2241\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2275,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2241\/revisions\/2275"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2241"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2241"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.alexshapiro.org\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2241"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}