Montana Wolf

Sunday, May 28, 2017

The Spiny Truths: Return to Grandmother Tree

Teak and I setting out 
It had been seventeen years since that first visit to Grandmother Tree, the old growth Ponderosa I'd discovered above Taos. It was She I sought when I wished for respite; words of wisdom to clarify a cloudy world. She had once ordered me to grow my hair long and take to the road. Thirty thousand miles, two books and one divorce later Teak and I were trudging up the back roads on my way to the Grand Dame of the forest. It had been four years since my last visit. I had no agenda other than to pay my respect; to be sure she still towered above the forest. The day crackled with beauty. The mountainside was covered in elk sign: tracks and scat; chews and rubs on the young aspen. Perhaps I'd find a shed!

A forty-five minute climb brought her into view. She loomed off trail, and all was not well. Her needles were brown. This was not a typical needle shed. I wondered if she was dying, the first stage to becoming a tree snag. I approached her as always: put my hands upon her, circled, stopped and buried my face into her bark. It did not have the typical cinnamon smell. I sat in a cleft at her base and leaned back into her trunk; unlaced my boots and squiggled my toes into needle duff. Three deep breaths later I broke into tears. A release from the depths, with no words. I was home.

I sat beneath her canopy of birdsong. The smell of pine was intoxicating. The wind whisked through her long, dry needles. Not far away was another young aspen, covered with teeth marks. I remembered the day I had ventured to this spot and heard the clash and felt the utter power of two bull elk fighting for rights to the  cow who would bear their young. My reverie ended with Grandmother's sudden words: 
Don't dare delay your book.
Your life is a spark in time. 
 Flash! Do it!
You are not given good health to squander.

I'm not sure what I was expecting but book advice was was not on the radar.
Wild Road Home was finished but I had not yet pulled the trigger, 
trusting the wait; repeated movement in the book's favor.   

She continued: 
Thus far your life has been expanding. Soon it will begin to contract.
We ALL fade away ...

I peered into her brown needles.
Watched as puffy clouds floated above and beyond.
Fading away.

I took out a pad and wrote down her words. Digested her directive as tears welled. Then eek! -- something was crawling between my breasts. I reckoned an ant. I reached into my royal blue shirt and pulled out a gray ladybug-sized beetle. It crawled across my hand, let loose a feisty buzz and took flight. 

Take off.  Fly, Christina!

She never ceased to reassure. 

I began my goodbye. I asked forgiveness for humankind's ignorance and utter assault on the wild. I eventually rose, kissed her goodbye and thanked her. Then, I asked her for a sign.

I continued around the mountain, bushwhacking my way to favorite vistas before I began to descend. I was looking for an antler, but my eye landed upon a half buried vertebrae instead. It was weathered and decades old, honeycomb indentations covered its bony surface; mammals had gnawed away. How the heck I saw it on the limb-strewn ground I'll never know. She, on the other hand...  

I picked up the gift and savored the obvious: can't move without a spine! -- and you're in for some big moves, Christina. Indeed, within forty-eight hours I received two communications about the book. Two days later I had a dream that shook my foundation: a symbol of my current world destroyed and stolen. Ask for a sign and you get it. Sometimes in triplicate. 

I'm taking my cat stretches seriously. Strengthening that backbone. 

That evening's sunset ... brushstrokes across the sky

Thursday, February 2, 2017

This is no normal Imbolc!

Down come the holiday cards taped to the kitchen cabinets. Down come the colored lights I gingerly wrapped around the mesquite tree in the yard at winter solstice. Bright red green and blue to ward off the winter doldrums. Granted, the doldrums don't take a hold in Arizona like they do further north, but one should not underestimate the biological and spiritual downturns inherent in January's long nights. Especially if one resists sleeping more.

Welcome Imbolc! St. Brigid's Day. Candlemas to some. Ground Hog's day to others. I cherish the cross-quarter holy days for their markers. Imbolc, half way between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox, kicks off February (Februare: to purify) with Brigid, triple Goddess of flame, at the helm. Heat returns with the sun's journey north. Teak throws her coat leaving drifts of brown hair against the bed. I shed clothes in favor of radiant warmth on my skin.

Imbolc's caress is everywhere. Patches of green erupt outside my door; birdsong increases in volume and breadth. Energy explodes in the urge to mate. The birds at the nearby Cienega couple and call. Deer in rut lose their instinct for self-preservation while females' arch their bodies effortlessly over fences. I even spied a bobcat wiggling her little tail.

Tis the time to pay homage to earth's awakening. Light a fire to welcome back the sun from winter's southern house. Longer days warm the earth. The metaphor is melt: loosening, the beginning of flow. Contemplate what thaws; ask what remains frozen. The wheel turns; the spiral unfolds into the ephemeral.

Let there be no mistaking, however, this is no normal Imbolc. These are gut-wrenching times as we experience Mother Earth under assault. What thaws, for me, is the resolve to act on behalf of our planet home, justice for all and the wild; my daily reach to sisters and brothers in solidarity; the countless phone calls to Senators; the marches. My solitary life has shifted, making holy days like Imbolc more pertinent than ever. The seasons and wildscapes nurture my spirit; help me to maintain balance.

While tonight's fire will welcome the sun's return I will remind myself that I am not alone. The fires of resistance burn bright. Hell'YA.

Great-horned Owl 


Wild Road Home, my latest book, is finished! 
Watch for a release date this spring.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

A Taste of WILD ROAD HOME, coming soon, spring release!

Sharkstooth Peak 

Six days until my Alaska departure. Thus far I had scribbled my name across divorce papers, cashed CDs and traded my lavender Toyota truck for a trailer-towing V-8 Ford. Beauty for brawn. Packing boxes choked off my mountain view as I checked Verizon coverage in remote places. I roused, stepped onto the balcony and gazed at distant Sharkstooth Peak. Enough already! I hopped around a cardboard box, grabbed my pack and headed one last time into the Colorado high country.
The air was eerily warm for early June. Up, up I climbed, through the virginal green of newly-leafed aspen; across rushing streams of snowmelt and mountain meadows lush with marsh marigold.  Then just like that, tree line ended and I emerged into barren expanse. Exposed. The air thinned as exhilaration took hold. Ah yes, there it was again, that invincible woman-alive feeling, the connection with infinite possibility. I stared up at the twelve thousand foot saddle and caught my breath. Two-hundred feet to go – almost there – the trail disappeared under snow. I treaded gingerly across the sun-softened drifts, ten steps from solid ground when I sank through to my crotch. Mountains were ripe with metaphor. I struggled free with my hiking stick and trudged on up the steep slope.
I set my soggy self below Sharkstooth's craggy point; beheld familiar peaks south to New Mexico and west to my beloved Sangre de Cristos. I opened my water bottle, gave the first drink to the mountain and took a swig. Then I stood, feet apart, arms upraised and faced northwest, to Alaska and the nameless future before me. Praise be, I uttered, here I come.
Quests have no itinerary. I didn’t know if my tracks heading north would be there to follow when I returned south. Perhaps, like this day, they would melt into the earth, diminutive amidst nature's grandeur. Of this I was certain: a quest was little about reaching the door and everything about walking through the doorway. Stripped of the roles and rituals born of habit and protection, one traveled naked as a newborn. Light and darkness shaped the shadows, illuminating the way, one holy, hell-bent moment at a time.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Going Coastal: Shake Down at Sea

My arrival at Yaquina Outstanding Natural Area was not planned. It was a last minute acceptance as a seasonal Interpretive Park Ranger, following an interview that confirmed I could go up and down 114-lighthouse spiral steps several times a day and walk on seaweed-slick tide pool rocks. Yes, I assured the interviewers, I could explain Yaquina (ya-quin-uh) to the public -- I'd written about the wild and told her stories for years. Silly me: I wasn't aware that the field of interpretation had a body of literature and a national certification. My first two weeks in June were comprised of classes to acquire that certification and glean the natural history of Oregon's rocky shores. It was a straight-up learning curve. Of all my staff and college intern cohorts, I was the one without a degree that related to biology or oceanography. My inner-mountain west naturalist years had met their limits.There wasn't much rabbitbrush on the beach.

Yaquina Head, outside of Newport, stretches a mile into the Pacific. The basalt, rough lava headland was cooled and worn by weather and tides for eons. Rock clifftops were now spring breeding locales for thousands of penguin-like Common Murres. The headland's shallow coves were feeding grounds for summer resident Gray Whales; the steep cliffs were claimed by breeding Peregrine Falcons, fastest animal on earth. Their three chicks grew and fledged before my eyes. I had landed in one of the most captivating places on the planet, with a position defined by the changing tides and the ferocious beauty of the Pacific.

Common Murres

Peregrine Chicks

Teak, Hobo and I made Yaquina bay our home. Six miles south of the headland, it was a serene balance to the raucous energy of the open sea. I walked Teak every morning along the bay. She chased balls as I completed my stretch routine, readying body and spirit for the day's work ahead. Some days I stared at mud flats, other days the high tide swelled up to the steep banks. No matter the tide, however, I was in company with a Great Blue Heron who, well, took me under her wing.

It was as if she sensed I needed her. My job demanded every ounce of physical and creative energy I could garner as work on my book came to a halt. I hadn't talked so much in years; it was like an all-day book event over and over. I'd long considered the Great Blue the symbol of patience and perseverance as I watched them stand determined and still as death staring at the water, waiting for a fish to dart within reach. I greeted Heron every morning. I didn't think a whole lot about it until the morning she appeared in front of me, through the mist, on the trail. In all of my observant years, I'd not seen a heron do this.

Not too long after she perched on a dilapidated fishing dock. My stretches finished, I walked to
within ten feet of her and said good morning. She looked at me and proceeded to stretch her three-foot wing straight out, followed by her long spindly leg. Then she did it again. She had observed me stretching for weeks and now she mimicked me. Her communication brought me to tears: patience and perseverance would see me through. I took heart.

The summer flew by. I thrilled to watch the Peregrine dive at 240-mph. I tucked my chin and walked into driving wind and rain to reach tide pools that brimmed with colorful anemones, urchins, chitons and the occasional octopus. I excitedly pointed out visitors' first whale sightings, answered their questions, and spoke with passion of the Gray Whale mother and calf I observed in the Baja birthing lagoon years ago. And six to nine times a week I led a forty-minute historic tour to take visitors to the top of the tallest lighthouse in Oregon. "My" lighthouse: a working masterpiece.

Autumn equinox looms. The murres have migrated to the ocean, their giant rocks eerily empty and quiet. The swirling, diving whales will soon migrate south, as will I. Hitch itch has set in. It's time to unfurl the road map of initiations, a karmic tangle of purpose and desire. This place of changing tides has had her way with me. It will be awhile before I can set the rhythm to words. I will give muse all the patience and perseverance she needs, with a wink to my long-legged friend.

Nursing Harbor Seal

Gray Whale and Cormorants


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Monday, April 18, 2016

Bobcat Medicine, Excerpt from WILD ROAD HOME, the next book

I was grinding the morning coffee beans when movement caught my eye. About thirty yards outside the sliding door, across the little river, was a bobcat. She sniffed grasses and alder thickets in no obvious hurry. I glassed her striped body. She was small with sharp edges. She proceeded to the mineral block, looked at me for a few seconds and disappeared into the brush. I hadn't asked for a sign, but had just received one. 
For the next few hours I delved into Lynx Rufus. Cat energy had long permeated my soul. I was a Tiger by the Chinese calendar. I’d had several potent encounters with mountain lions and a jaguar had named me. With this sighting I moved from big cats to small, from thick, mighty tails to minute bobs. 
Bobcats were solitary prowlers of the dawn and dusk, immersed in a silent, secretive world, like crepuscular me. They prowled through river bottoms; I prowled, pen in hand, through thickets of imagination. Bobcats were stealth hunters with keen senses. They had an uncanny ability to blend in and survive their environment. They averaged two to four feet long (including the tail), fifteen inches tall and twenty five pounds. The bobcat was my competition when it came to spotting a snowshoe hare. The white wonders were the bob’s preferred diet. Thus far I’d seen many tracks but not the hare. I longed to spot one again. To catch those pointed ears with my camera. 

The bobcat was often associated with wind in mythology and paired with coyote. Coyote as chaos, bobcat as order. My friend across the river was also considered the cosmological protector of Venus, the evening star and Goddess of love, which happened to be my astrological ruling planet. In my ancestors' Norse mythology, bobcat was associated with Freya, Goddess of love, beauty and destiny, who rode a chariot pulled by two cats (to whom Hobo, of course, claimed to be a direct descendant).
They range far and wide

A bobcat traveled up to seven miles a day and had a range of one hundred square miles. I would be lucky to see her again, as I reviewed the qualities she symbolized: stealth, power, camouflage and clairaudience – hearing sounds and voices not audible to most. Lynx Rufus. Lynx, from the word for light. So named for gleaming eyes; the ability to see in the dark, traits I could sorely use at this point.

Prime time for Bobcat

-- excerpt from WILD ROAD HOME, next book in the "Courage to Quest" series. Thanks for reading!!