The Path of Least Resistance

If you look to nature, you can find many lessons.  Nature has existed since the beginning of time, and many of its teachings are unchanged.  Without the benefit of intellect, nature just keeps going, by following instincts of survival.  It works together with its components; air, water, sun, wind, rocks, trees, plants, animals, insects, birds, everything benefits something else.

On a recent journey through Algonquin Provincial Park, I was emphatically taught one of nature's lessons.  Take the path of least resistance.

Algonquin Provincial Park, located in Ontario, Canada, is Canada's oldest park, and still one of its biggest.  The 60 corridor runs 57 km across the south end of the park; a well-maintained road that gives visitors access to trails, rivers, lakes, campgrounds, camp stores, and even lodging and restaurants.  Visitors can experience much of Algonquin right along this corridor.  But to really experience the park, you must venture into its interior, either on foot or by canoe.  Heading north will take you into a wilderness that is truly wild and remote.

I had neither the time nor the equipment to paddle to these wild places, but what I experienced on the many trails accessible by road was wild enough.

Snowmelt under the trail

Summer, Autumn, and Winter are busy times in the park, but Spring sees far fewer visitors. I was about to learn why.  Spring brings snowmelt and rapidly changing weather.  In the five days I was there, I hiked in a snowstorm, a thunderstorm, fog, sunshine, warm temperatures, cold temperatures, wind, and calm breezes. The changing weather all contributed to snowmelt, and all that melting snow had to go somewhere.  Like most things in nature, the water chose the path of least resistance and flowed freely down the mountains on the designated hiking trails.  At least, it flowed down the trail until it hit the icy ridges left behind by the snowshoers.  Then the water flowed under the trail, making it very unstable.

Snowmelt coming down the trail

Hiking was a challenge. Sections of the trail were a high narrow ridge of hard packed snow turned to ice.  Step off that ridge to the side and get a boot full of water.  Or place your foot in front of you thinking you are still on ice only to have your leg sink into a snowbank up to your thighs.  Exposed rocks appeared to provide a stronger surface, but the thin, invisible sheen of ice covering them had you sitting on your bum desperately trying to find your dignity while the rocks mocked your ineptness.  Some of those rocks were at the top of the mountain.  One slip, and you would become one with nature in a very bad way.

Two Rivers Trail, a narrow rocky ledge

Slippery ice covered rocks

 Fortunately, I had a hiking partner.  Fellow adventurer Mike knows Algonquin well, and my friend and guide was sure footed on the trail, helping me cross flooded sections and pulling me out of snow banks.

Pine Marten looking for people food

I began my journey by pulling into the Mew Lake campground in the evening, and the very first thing I saw was a Pine Marten.  This cute little creature was trying to teach me something about following the path of least resistance while he foraged for his food near the garbage cans.  As I searched for a site, I ignored the Pine Marten's advice and found that all the campsites were snowy and wet.  As the week wore on, my site opened up more and more as the snow melted away.  Then my site became an extension of the lake. When setting up camp, always look for a site with as few obstacles as possible.  Or at the very least, don't plan to go camping during the snowmelt in Canada.  When will I learn? I spent the first night drying my boots over the fire, looking at maps of the park, selecting trails, and planning my hikes to get the most kilometers under my feet in a short amount of time.  Mike would prove to be helpful in this area.  I had one goal, in addition to hiking and exploring and experiencing all that Algonquin is; I wanted to see a moose, a real, live moose.

As I hiked all week, either alone or with Mike, I encountered examples of nature's lesson to seek the path of least resistance.  The trees that grew at an angle, seeking a sliver of sunlight in a crowded forest.

The tree roots that grew on top of the rocks, rather than try to push through them.

The fog, which swirled and slinked over, under, and around everything.

But my favorite example of nature's path of least resistance was the moose markings.  I found tracks and scat and rubs and feeding signs all along the trail.  Apparently moose don't like to bushwhack any more than people do.  They followed the designated trails.  I am pretty sure moose are colorblind and weren't looking for the blue blazes marking the trail.  They simple followed the easiest path.  And when they had to relieve themselves, they did so right in the middle of the trail.

Moose scat on the trail

All week, I hiked, looking for a moose.  I hiked lowlands, marshes, river banks, forests, and mountaintops.  Treacherous trail conditions made it feel like I was not on the path of least resistance.  I slipped, slid, climbed, got wet, sunk, fell on my knees, my face, my shoulder.  I had to be carried across a river on Mike's back, since he chose the path of least resistance by wearing the proper boots and I did not.  I stopped, I waited, I listened.  I look at tracks and scat and followed.  I enjoyed myself immensely, but I did not see a moose.

The morning I was set to leave, I decided to hike one more trail alone, ever hopeful that I would see a moose in the early light, maybe going to the river for a drink.  As I approached the trail, a new sign had been tacked up at the trailhead.

This wasn't news to me.  I had been hiking under these conditions all week.  But what was new was the 10 trails that had actually been closed, due to flooding. I had already hiked through water, so I started hiking the Whiskey Rapids trail, even though it was posted as closed.  How bad could it be?

Most certainly, it was not the path of least resistance.  By the time I reached the lowlands, about 3 km in, the trail had disappeared under water.  I couldn't even find the trail.  I tried another trail.  The small bridge I hiked across earlier in the week on the Track and Tower trail was now half submerged.  

Much to my disappointment, I realized that my search for the moose was over.  The conditions had become too rough for me to hike safely alone.  It was time to head home.

There are about 3000 moose in Algonquin Provincial Park, and I hadn't seen one.  I put my bruised and battered body in my truck and took stock of my injuries.  I had multiple bruises, a twisted knee, a sore shoulder, and a thorn in the back of my head that is still there.  Putting the truck in gear, I left the trailhead for the long drive home.

But nature wasn't finished teaching me yet.

Driving down the smooth road of the park, with the seat heater on to ease my aches and pains, drinking a hot cup of coffee and listening to my favorite playlist, nature handed me a gift.  If you want to see a moose in Algonquin, take the path of least resistance.

My Beautiful Beast

Many thanks to my friend and fellow explorer Mike for encouraging me to explore your world, and for a great week of hiking and campfires and laughter.  Most of all, thanks for this beautiful beast!

The Best Snow Day Ever?

Today, my daughter had a snow day.  Again.  It's all just part of the cosmic conspiracy to keep me from writing.  However, contrary to what people think of me for hating snow days, it's not an entirely selfish reaction, it's just that I know how the day will go.  While it's true that I won't get any writing done, it's also true that my daughter loves snow days only until 9:00am, when she wakes from a glorious sleep and delights in the fact that she got to sleep in, only to remember that the day ahead will be long and boring.

The roads were pretty bad today, and the wind chills were brutal, so she couldn't call her friends to go sledding, or to come over and build a snowman.  Many of her friends live out in rural areas, and I was not willing to drive the slippery roads to pick them up, and their moms didn't want to bring them here either.  So my little Bean, while refreshed from catching up on her sleep, spent most of the day on the couch, watching mind-numbingly stupid shows on TV.  Bean is far too active a girl to enjoy a full day of TV.

Meanwhile, I shoveled the sidewalks and plowed the driveway.  An hour later, I did it again.  I did laundry, fixed the dryer, and checked emails.  I tried to write, but Bean kept calling out to me from the couch.  She made plans with friends, and would yell, "Mom, can I go to so-and-so's house at noon?"  and I would holler back my permission.  Ten minutes later, the plans would fall through.  Bean made plans with friends all day, but nothing ever came of it.  I gave up trying to write, hovered on the fringes of depression, and took a nap.

But then a funny thing happened on the way to my depression.  I found a way to love snow days, even if only for a moment.

After my nap, I sat down in front of my computer and was scrolling through social media sites when Bean wandered into the kitchen and sat down next to me.  She was complaining about how bored she was, when she suddenly exclaimed, "Mom!  Look at that bird!"

Outside the window, where I keep a bird feeder filled with seeds, was a Blue Jay, one brilliant bird among the many nuthatches and sparrows.  Then Bean shouted and said "Look, there's three more!"
She asked what kind of bird they are, and suddenly I found myself in my element, teaching her about Blue Jays.

Google Images

Bean moved closer to me, and I pointed out the coloring of their feathers.  She asked how to tell the difference between males and females.  Blue Jays do not exhibit differences among males and females by their markings.  Instead, you must observe their behavior.  I told Bean to watch each bird, and tell me what they are doing.  One bird would land, and the other three would follow.  The same bird would call out, imitating a hawk, and the other three would call out too.  When the one bird flew off, the other three followed.

The bird initiating the behaviors is the female, while the males imitate her, trying to impress her.  Mating season starts soon!

Blue Jays are a close-knit family unit.  Mates are monogamous, and males are fairly involved with nest-building and rearing young, though the female has the final say in all matters.  (Maybe that's why Bean is drawn to them!) They are very social birds, and will warn other species of birds of danger.  Blue Jays are also highly intelligent, and can be a bit aggressive at the bird feeder.  Bean was enthralled by them.

Sorry about the quality, pictures taken through
windows are never good!

 Then the best thing of all happened; a Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker made an appearance!  It swooped in, ate from the feeder, then flew off to land on the trunk of a nearby tree and started pecking at it.  Bean and I laughed as the Sapsucker backed down the tree trunk, and in that moment, I was so glad she'd had a snow day.  I would have missed this moment with her, sharing what I know and am passionate about and seeing her delight.  I'm not trying to sound cliche here, but it was a beautiful thing.

I don't care about the rest of the day.  I forgot about my frustration at interrupted schedules, I didn't dwell on the fact that I wasn't accomplishing much.  For that moment, Bean wasn't bored, she was at my side, sharing something wondrous.  She wasn't a teenager; she was my girl again.


The next time Bean has a snow day, which will most likely be next week, I might even suggest a snowy walk in the woods.  Who knows?  Maybe we'll see an owl, or a red-tailed hawk, or wild turkey.  I can show her rabbit tracks, deer tracks, and coyote tracks.  It's quite possible we could simply walk silently, and she might begin to understand the serenity I feel in the wintery woods.

Bean, and my other children, are a gift to me.  I have always believed that, even when I don't show it. Today, Bean was my gift, my reminder to slow down, breathe, and take in the moment.  If I can give that gift back to her, teach her to be interested in the natural world and to learn how to really observe what goes on around her, then I was a good mom, at least for a moment today.  The rest of the day?  Eh, maybe not so much, but I think Bean cherished our moment as much as I did.  Then a friend called, and she left.  Her warmth stayed with me.

I hope you had a simple moment of joy today, and every day.  I will remember today as the best snow day ever, at least for a moment.

Kissing Fishes

In May 2014, I began my dream job, educating the public about nature.  As a Nature Guide, I was given a fantastic week of training, then given the freedom to design the programs I would present.  On being shown to my "office"(I use the term loosely, since it also doubled as a maintenance room and employee locker room, though I was told I was lucky to have a work space at all) I spent a day looking through the programs other Nature Guides had presented before me, and panic set in.  I knew nothing!  What was I thinking, believing I could educate the public in the natural sciences?  So I did what I always do in stressful situations, which also happens to be a part of my job requirement; I went alone into the woods.

It was there, exploring the natural areas in which I would be working, that I found my balance again.  I saw a deer with twin fawns, their leaps and bounds awkward while the doe gracefully glided over fallen trees.  I knew she was teaching them by showing them.  I saw a snake (eeeeek!) sunning itself on the boat launch, realizing I would have to get used to seeing snakes, and not hyperventilating.  I saw turtles, birds I could not identify (add "birding" to the list of things I need to learn), and trees natural to the area; red pine, black cherry, cottonwood, hickory, elm, and countless ash trees on the ground, their majestic trunks felled by a tiny invasive bug.  I began to count how many things I did know, things I learned by being in nature, not in a classroom.  An idea began to form about how I would present my programs.

I returned to my office for additional research, and I realized my idea was not original.  There is a wealth of information available about guided nature programs, written by people who feel exactly the same way I do.

As the summer schedule commenced, it quickly became obvious I was on the right track.  I was initially amazed by the amount of science the kids in my groups knew.  Some kids even added facts to my presentation, which delighted me.  As the days continued, the realization hit me that I had learned all the same things in elementary school, many years ago.  I had just forgotten it all until recent years when I started spending more time outdoors.

It is very important in my job to be knowledgeable.  But so many of the kids I interact with are already pretty knowledgable, so I refined my focus to two challenges.  The first is to present them with relevant information that goes a little beyond what they are taught in school.  I was researching a program about owls, knowing these kids would know the basics; owls are raptors, owls can't move their eyes, owls can move their head 270º, owls glide through the air soundlessly, and they are nocturnal.  They eat their prey, then regurgitate the parts they can't digest.  Then I came across an interesting tidbit, checked a few other sources for validation, and made up a story to tell the kids while we walked in the woods at night, calling for owls.

The story is about a family a black crows who torment a sleeping owl all day.  The owl is their predator, so they bully the owl all day, diving through the air and pecking and screeching, disturbing the owl's sleep.  I never knew that crows did this.  Then one day, I was in my own back yard, splitting wood, when a commotion caught my eye.  I looked up, and sure enough, an owl was swooping through the air above me with a flock of crows in hot pursuit, pecking at him while he sought refuge in a hollow tree.  I was enthralled!  Maybe I have seen this before, but I didn't know what exactly I was seeing.  How thrilling it was to watch this phenomenon of nature and truly understand it.

Therein lies my biggest challenge as a Nature Guide.  How do I find a way to help these kids remember what they learn?  We all learned about the animals and the environment, the rocks, the trees.  As we grew older, our interests became narrower, and at some point we forget everything else. I want to be a part of creating a generation of kids who don't forget nature.  The challenge became one of connecting kids with nature, of creating a strong enough connection that they continue to seek time outdoors even as they grow into adults.

For me, seeing the crows chasing the owl created a connection.  This is the kind of thing you can't plan, you can't incorporate it into an educational program.  So I sought the help of experts, like Michael Caduto and Joseph Cornell, and my favorite, Jon Young and his book about Coyote Mentoring.  These people are a few of the pioneers of connecting people with nature, and their books have helped me guide my programs toward a more enriching experience.

I had to learn how to use a child's natural curiosity with whatever was at hand.  On one particularly beautiful Saturday morning, I took a group of kids fishing.  Most were squeamish about baiting the hook, or touching their catch.  Then one young girl caught a nice Bluegill, and before throwing it back, she kissed it.  The other kids squealed, but I threw some enthusiasm into the situation and explained that real fishermen kiss their fish before they throw it back.  I then told a story about an old man who would kiss a small fish, then throw it back in the hope that when the fish got bigger, he would catch it again and eat it.  The kiss was a sign of respect for the nourishment the fish would someday provide.  Pretty soon I had 30 kids begging to kiss a fish.

It was a nice segue into a discussion of food chains, which was unplanned but beneficial.  More importantly, the kids connected to the fish, and understood the role it plays.  They kissed a fish!

My job is awesome.  I learn more from it than I teach, and together with a group of kids, teenagers, even adults, we explore and discover and connect with our natural world.  If those experiences stay with them as they have stayed with me, more people will care about life, balance, and all living things.   In even the smallest of ways, I did a good thing.

http://www.christmascrostics.com/Snow_Fleas.html

Now that winter is firmly upon us and I am not leading groups of people through the woods, I am spending my time researching even more information and finding fun new ways to present programs.  If you are a parent, or an aunt or uncle, grandparent, here's a fun winter fact:  If you see the kids eating snow, fill a glass with the snow and bring it inside to melt.  If there are tiny black dots in the melted snow, tell the kids they've been eating snow fleas, which are a good source of protein!  (Then tell them to stop eating snow!)

Happy winter, happy exploring, and try to get outside today!