The trail
June 24, 2024–Austin, Nevada, USA: Somewhere along Big Creek going up the canyon between Austin Campground and Kingston.
Temperatures: mid to high 80s / Transportation: 2007 Rhino Side by Side
Apology: I read another writer’s blogpost very recently, probably within the past two days, yet I cannot find the post so that I can credit the writer for the idea, which was wonderful, and directly lead me to go out on a nature notes day today. It was one of the happiest days I’ve experienced lately, and that happiness is only dimmed by the fact that I cannot find the original post that inspired me. If that was you, and you read this, please respond so that I can thank you properly!
The Task: Spend time in nature and record everything you notice. Size, shape, color, activity … whatever you observe. *The post that I mentioned above actually provided much more detailed suggestions, but, alas, I cannot find it…
None the less, it was a delightful day!
One of my favorite journals. A gift from a young man named Andrew.
My Notes:
Birdsong—melodic, about 8 beats per measure, sweet and easily heard above the rushing-over-rocks downhill gurgle of Big Creek. The birdsong and watersong complement one another.
Big Creek
We are sitting in red canvas chairs underneath the shimmering coin-sized leaves of five or six trees. These shore trees aren’t known to me. The leaves are similar to the Aspen nearby, but the way the trunks grow together in clumps and their branches reach out bush like is very different from the neatly ordered Aspens. Also, the bark on the spreading trees on the creek bank is a dark gray with knotholes and markings that are dark horizontal slashes – smiles and frowns – and some wide patches, some as long as my arm, that look as though the bark has been cut and peeled off. Is that something people do?
The Aspen grove is about twenty feet away from the water, a small grove. Their bark bright white and peppered with black ink splotches like Rorshack tests. What do you see in the ink blots?
The creek bank is grassy and sun dappled.
Aspens
I can’t spot the singing bird.
The mountains rise up around us. Soft slopes of lime green dotted with dark green dwarf pines here and there. The mountains darken in their march toward Kingston. Each one darker as it rises above its smaller brother to the fore.
Mr. P getting his feet wet
Cornflower blue sky.
White whipped cream clouds.
And still the bird sings and the creek tumbles down, articulate in the way that only water can express.
Life itself.
LakeArrowheadLadyWriter 