8/16/19

This is a cautionary tale about fishing lines and birds, but unlike most fishing ine stories, it has a happy ending. People who fish on Big Chico Creek often leave hundred of feet of fishing line behind. Do they try to gather it up? Who knows. I was having a peaceful paddle this morning, seeing beavers, herons, grosbeaks, and osprey. I passed a flotilla of Mergansers on my way to the Sacramento River.

Later, returning to the boat ramp, I saw some wild splashing and scared away a hungry heron. But what was it trying to eat? There, caught in a mess of fishing lines was one of the Mergansers, a juvenile, struggling. With every wild turn of its head, it was drawn further underwater. I couldn’t get close enough to even attempt a rescue.

A young man in a truck drove up and pulled out his fishing gear. I called for help. He ran over, somehow made his way along the fallen tree, where the duck was trapped and cut her free. Her beak was clamped shut, with the line deeply embedded.

He handed the duck to me while he scrambled back to safety and went to grab a small scissors. I held the sealed merganser while he gently tried to snip the line. We decided best to dig in and snip even if he cut into the beak. She had to be able to open. Finally the last snip and her beak popped wide.

I was shaking hard by this time, but was able to walk to the ramp. I leaned down and set her free.

My new best friend Taylor caught it on video!

Back to the creek tomorrow, I told myself, armed with scissors to get rid of as much line as possible!

Several Years later, 3/27/21

I received this message from Taylor:

Taylor: Hi Joan, how are you? I just wanted to let you know that you inspired me to get back into photography. I’ve been fishing all of my life, but I never really felt good about it. It’s so sad to see all of the garbage many fisherman leave behind, and I’ve never felt good about actually killing an animal to eat it. When we met a couple of years ago and saved that merganser from the fishing line, I realized I should get into photography again instead of fishing. The main reason I still even went fishing was to get out in nature. Anyway, I finally got myself a DSLR and am having way more fun going out and capturing nature in photographs instead of on a hook. I am so glad we had that chance encounter on Pine Creek. Seeing all of your photos in my Facebook feed makes me happy and I hope to be able to take as good of photographs as you one day! Thanks for being such an inspiration!”

Joan: Oh my, Taylor, I just spoke about you to a large group on Zoom (my classmates at college). You’re featured in a slide. It gave me goosebumps to read your note. That was a fabulous day for me. And the beginnings of your DSLR career. How wonderful! I can send you the link, if you’re interested.

Taylor: Wow that’s awesome! I feel honored to be a part of your presentation. I definitely want to check it out. That was a great day for sure!

Joan: If you have any questions about local photography, let me know. You certainly made my day today!

Sometimes life has delightful unexpected consequences!

At birth, Charles was always alert and slept far less than he yelled. As one foot turned in (formerly called clubbed), he had two awkwards casts that clunked loudly when I lifted his from his crib.

I was accustomed to his calmer older brother, so we had our battles. He resisted any interference with his clear life plan, even as a toddler. Yes, we clashed. I was not always the mother he wanted; he was not always the child I knew how to handle. But now, as we both loved hiking, nature, gadgets, adventure, here we were, his idea, of course, about to go backpacking. I was thrilled.

I borrowed a light-weight pack and gear from a friend, followed Charles’ detailed instructions for what to pack and how, and was finally ready. My only worry, my three- year old grandnephew had managed to sneeze directly in my face while I was tying his shoe the day before we left.

We got to Lassen Park and prepared to leave. Charles carried all the food. I carried my sleeping bag, clothes, toiletries, and camera. He loped, I trudged.

We started out at Butte Lake. Could I really do it? My shoes sank into the sandy, cindery ground. A few hours and many miracles later, we reached our first camp site. Within minutes he had his tent up and mine as well. And then he went about the business of purifying water and getting ready to cook a meal. I wandered around with my camera and he literally did all the work.

The meal was good. Exhausted, I fell into my tent. As I pulled on every piece of clothing I had, I wondered if I might have made a huge mistake--it was so cold!

In the middle of the night I awoke shivering. My friend’s sleeping bag was too thin for the 39 degree night. I tried to doze. I started sneezing. By sunrise I had a full-fledged cold.

Charles traded sleeping bags with me that night. I couldn’t breathe, my nose completely stuffed, but I must have slept. My gallant son!

We were on the home stretch the next day. Charles wound up far ahead of me often, and waited patiently for me to catch up. Somewhere along that trail, aching and trudging, I realized I was exactly where I had always wanted to be with him, cold and all.

When we reached Cinder Cone, I sent him off with a sigh of relief and sat happily under a tree watching his progress.

We made it to our car. I was jubilant!

A few days after we got home, Charles called. He had a terrible cold, but he sounded happy.

I’m in a commercial building somewhere. In a conference room, a large table stretches from one end of the rectangular room to the other. About ten people are sitting around it. A meeting.

One person has a gun.

That person is pointing the gun at one person and then another at random, all the while talking in a very calm voice.

Suddenly, still talking softly, he points the gun at a man sitting across from him and shoots him through the heart. The man falls forward onto the table.

A collective gasp fills the room, but no one moves. We sit there transfixed.

The man continues to talk softly, waving the gun at random from person to person.

Suddenly he shoots a large, muscular man sitting at the end of the table directly in my line of sight. I see the blood spreading on the man’s shirt as he falls forward, his head hitting the table.

I scream and wake up.

Recent News Reports

• January 3 — Death under restraint: Geraldo Lunas Campos, a 55-year-old Cuban man, died at an ICE detention camp at Fort Bliss, Texas. An autopsy classified his death as homicide caused by asphyxia after guards restrained him. Reuters

• January — Refugees detained in Minnesota: Under Operation PARRIS, federal agents detained more than 100 legally admitted refugees. Many were transferred to Texas within 24 hours. A federal judge ordered their release and later prohibited further detention of Minnesota refugees under the program. The Advocates for Human Rights

• April — Deaths in ICE custody: At least 17 immigrants died in ICE custody during the first several months of 2026. Thirty-one died during 2025, the highest annual number in two decades. Reuters

• July — Deportations to Haiti: As hundreds of thousands of Haitians faced losing Temporary Protected Status and protection from deportation, DHS reported deporting more than 100 people to Haiti on a July 16 flight. CBS News and Department of Homeland Security

• August — Deaths connected to Delaney Hall: Edwin Lopez-Cornejo, a 41-year-old Salvadoran man, died after being detained at the Newark facility. News organizations subsequently disclosed that José Chajón-Raxón, a Guatemalan man, had died after suffering a seizure-like emergency shortly after entering the same facility. ICE released Chajón-Raxón while he was hospitalized and did not publicly report his later death. Associated Press

Next Morning after the Dream

I set out to test my new mini-camera, the camera I bought hoping I would like it but determined to return it to B&H if it was a disappointment. Sony RX10 Mark V. I piled my big bazooka (OM1 Mark 2 with a huge 150-400 lens attached) along with my new little “toy” into the car and set off, armed with some GPS coordinates from dear Liam. He had posted that shorebirds had gathered there in astonishing numbers. I prayed they hadn’t moved on.

The coordinates led me through a series of dusty gravel roads, through rice fields with high weeds blocking the view. Not a bird in sight for miles and miles. Just dust and walls of green. Finally, as I approached my destination, a sudden opening, and a huge rice field turned into a mirror-like pond. The sun was just rising. The dark shapes on the water were probably Ibis. I waited.

Yes, Ibis!

I cautiously moved to the next field, more Ibis, closer this time. I waited for the sun.

Finally, the iridescence of the feathers emerged; the Ibis moved along smoothly, feeding. I tried the video on my toy camera.

Ibis were flying in and out in waves. I took a few stills with both cameras, noticing the effort to raise the big bazooka and rest it on the window ledge. Umph, but yes, what a viewfinder! How enormous! How brilliant! How the bird filled the frame and how I could see each feather!

The toy was a different matter—tiny bird in a tiny frame; I shot many bursts and prayed. But oh, how easy it was to hold up! How comfy in my hand. I remembered, was it twenty years or more? My first wildlife camera was a Panasonic superzoom. How I loved it! How thrilled I was to zoom in and capture Night Herons with eyes so sharp and orange! It made me half love this little toy by association.

Then the Ibis started flying and I switched to birds-in-flight mode that I had already set up. Oh my, the bird detection was actually highlighting the eye! I shot a huge burst to test it out.

Then back and forth with both cameras, but soon I was only using the toy. Sitting there beside a flooded rice field, I felt my spirit lift with each ruffle of feathers, with each strange silhouette. An odd-looking almost prehistoric bird. Each takeoff was a sight to behold.

I stayed for an hour or more, but was eager to get home and see the results of this very nonscientific experiment. I didn’t really care about the science. I wanted to have a camera that I could carry through my 90s. I so loved my OM1, and would not forsake it for shooting from the car or from a tripod, but for walking distances? For kayaking? For walking across river-rock-strewn beaches and islands? Perhaps this little Sony gem, packed with AI capabilities from its full-frame relatives, the A1, for example, would suffice, or be “good enough” for me to truly enjoy it? Would that be possible?

I popped “home” into Google Maps and wound up on a dirt road that seemed endless, with ruts so deep I was sure I would bottom out! And I had to race through an area to avoid a crop-duster plane heading low across the field in my direction. I quickly switched off outside air, holding my breath all the while.

Finally, I reached an asphalt road, emerging onto it in a cloud of dust. My car and kayak aloft were now encased in fine dust. Oh well.

Home

On my screen, a few terrible photos at first of dark blobs. Why oh why do I shoot when I know the light is too dim? I can’t seem to contain myself when I first arrive at my destination.

Then a few decent shots, but the birds are small in the frame.

Then a few winners. And an amazing 30-shot run of an Ibis taking off and flying. All sharp, all in focus! I’m shocked. I never get more than a few in a row with my big gun. Hmmm.

I pull up my few OM1 shots to compare. At 100% magnification, I can see the difference. At 200% it’s very clear. But at a normal viewing size, I can barely tell which is which. In fact, I have to check repeatedly.

Here is the takeoff:

Next Day, a Hiking Test

At dawn I’m at Indian Fisheries, or really the ranger station at one end of the guided walk on River Road. I walk around the buildings and then follow a somewhat rugged path through a riparian tangle toward the river. Roughly a three-mile hike, including a walk on a rocky beach. I carry only the Sony on a wrist strap, my phone, a mug of tea, and bear spray (mountain lions have been spotted along the river). I had intended to wear my emergency pendant, but forgot! I’d better be as lucky this time as I have been so many times in the past.

I record some of the path. Then, as I reach the well-known shack, a surprise.

I have never, in my long life, seen my name in graffiti art! I try hard not to take this as a sign from the universe.

I reach the clearing and head through the orchard skeletons to the beach, now so overgrown as to be almost nonexistent!

There are so few birds, and those that are there—Bushtits, Spotted Towhees, and Bewick’s Wrens—I can hear but not find in the foliage.

Finally, some subjects.

I love this little toy camera.

He had yet to become famous, had yet to become handsome, I remember only a skinny, quiet, nerdy-looking boy two years my senior. So there’s nothing more to write about him, really. Sorry.

That camp was a magnet for Jewish kids from Cleveland, Chicago, Buffalo, Toronto, and Montreal. A very special kind of place.

To get to it, we had to board a train, sleep in a berth overnight with all our summer camp friends, then hop on a big boat (The Modella) to cross Temagami Lake to get to our little island camp.

The thrill of boarding a train at age 10 without parents! A couple of hours running up and down the two sleeping cars saying hi to friends already onboard then greeting the Toronto kids who boarded before lights out. Did we sleep. I don’t recall—just screams, hugs, talk, laughter. Debarking at North Bay, then to the boat, and finally after an hour’s ride, camp.

To go sailing or canoeing, we had to be able to swim to John’s Island. Half a mile? A bit scary, but I did it. I learned to paddle a canoe there—didn’t sail much, but I loved those canoes.

It was the horse-back riding that gave me a life lesson, however.

I was a sturdy kid, not afraid of much—felt not a moment of homesickness during the entire 2 months away. I was pretty confident about my swimming from years at the beach, and pretty sure about horseback riding too, having gone on many trail rides during those beach years. So the first time we trudged up the big hill to the stables I was laughing and chatting with my fellow campers. They gave us each a very calm and aged horse that was content to walk slowly around the nearby ring.

Somewhere during the first pass, I became rigid with fear. It astonished me. I had never felt this before. I took my usual defensive stance of pretending all was fine but internally I was terrified. I couldn’t wait for the hour to be over. It seemed endless. But finally we could dismount and go back down the hill. I told no one. Every day that first week, the same. Walking around the ring, me rigid with fear, just counting down the minutes. Was I going crazy? I didn’t know, I only knew that I had to stick it out somehow. The sweet horse just ignored me and plodded on. I trembled.

After two weeks of this daily torture, we climbed the hill and I climbed my horse, fully expecting the agony to return, but no, I was released! It was that sudden. I could ride, I could relax, I could pet the horse’s mane, I was liberated! I never told a soul. I finally enjoyed riding as much as canoeing.

Within another week I took part in a circus—we were clowns in our pajamas and rode the horses around a huge stadium BAREBACK! They taught us to jump off and jump back on (how we did it, I can’t imagine) and one time during practice, my horse tried to get up the hill back to the stable, and I slid off its rump into the sand. We all laughed like crazy. I got back on.

A week later we took the horses bareback to the other side of the island and led them right into the shallow water. They walked out further and began swimming with us still aboard. I remember our delight (it was so hot that summer) and laughter as the horse poop started floating around us. Fear defeated.

What a summer that was! Leonard Cohen was there someplace, but I didn’t notice.

Some of us never learn.

Armed with my new airport strategy, I aced it! Straight to the counter for a boarding pass, TSA Pre-check, security. Darn, left a Kleenex in my pocket. It came up as an alarming bright yellow on the screen and required a total pat down. Oh well. Pre-boarded with ease, the attendant lifted my bag into the bin. All was well.

Easy arrival. Thrill to hug my dear friend Lisa. [Side note: If you own property with an old trailer on a lake you love, but have to sell it in order to retire, sell to a forever friend who will invite you back every year!]

We stopped at Nine Pipes Restaurant, across from the wetlands, to meet with longtime friends, Eugene and Gail, for lunch. We’re all a year older and it shows. We traded stories, talked as if no time had passed, as the Mission Mountains, normally so green and crisp, stood like faded shadows against the sky, smoke in every crevice.

Finally we crested the hill above Flathead Lake and viewed that glorious scene, now shrouded.

Breathing difficult, eyes stinging.

I couldn’t resist hopping in the kayak, but the ride was short, to a rock island and back, a few gulls.

So, no hiking, swimming, and kayaking, but I was busy preparing my annual presentation for the local Rotary chapter. No matter how many times I present, I still get the jitters and have to rehearse, especially the opening, over and over. That seems the only cure.

It Went Well!

The minute I stood up to speak, the jitters vanished and I sailed through it, warmed by the many nods and smiles as I told them of my new venture, the blog entitled “Our Final Birds.”

I shared my accident in the Galapagos, the pit toilet misadventure at Yellowstone, the lovely Grebe morning, and wound up with the overwhelming abundance of wildlife we had seen on Flathead Lake the previous summer: the Osprey, Pygmy Nuthatches, Bighorn Sheep, Pileated Woodpecker youngsters.

I closed with “Montana Morning,” my video set to music written by my dear friend John E. Some audience members were near tears at the sparkling clear-skied view of their beloved lake set to music.

On the Deck

It so happened that my old next-door neighbors of many years were visiting at the same time, an event we had tried unsuccessfully to coordinate many times over the years. Our schedules never meshed.

So when I waved to Shari and we met on the stairs between the two houses at 6 AM, she walking a little skinny dog, half Chihuahua and half greyhound, inherited from son Jack, who just couldn’t get his life together to care for it, we were thrilled.

All five members of her family were still sleeping, as was Lisa, so we chose a place on Lisa’s brand-new enormous deck for our excited catch-up conversation. We fell right back into our easy compatibility and talked kids and grandkids. Her first grandchild was asleep in the tiny mobile home, Dirk’s three-month-old son.

Even though I had seen Dirk one summer a few years ago, Dirk as a father was a hard concept to get my mind around. I kept seeing him as the twelve-year-old, a brilliant, dreamy kid, so unlike his cheery but scattered little brother.

We ignored the smoke as long as we could and then took refuge in our respective homes.

We never dodged in and out at the same time again over the next four days. I wondered how they managed in that tiny house: Dirk, his wife, the new baby, his wife’s eleven-year-old son, Shari, and the other grandparents, whose empty trailer and truck stood at the end of the driveway. Seven souls plus the dog packed in day after day.

We finally all gathered on their covered deck and bemoaned our plight, looking out on the deserted lake, with only a few brave—or oblivious—boaters where there used to be a fair amount of traffic.

I was heading out the next day, cutting nine days off my visit, and the grandparents were also contemplating leaving, the baby’s other grandmother having a hard time breathing.

For me, however, it was sweet to see what a lovely young man and father Dirk had become. I asked how the baby was faring with all the smoke and was reassured that they had four large air purifiers in that tiny home. Still, I couldn’t help worrying about those three-month-old lungs.

Heading Back

Because of the bleak outlook for the rest of my stay, I changed my return ticket and headed for home, so sad to leave Lisa, but badly needing to hike, kayak, and yes, breathe freely! I was cutting nine days from my visit.

Armed with my new airport smarts, I walked up to the ticket counter at 6 AM and asked for a paper boarding pass. The printer, after some hiccups, finally spit it out. I headed to the gate, where I pre-boarded the plane, found my seat, and accepted help from a heavily muscled young man, who grabbed my bag and tossed it easily into the bin. Done!

But no, not done.

A woman approached and said tentatively, “I think you’re sitting in my seat.” We compared boarding passes, which were identical, and both belonged to a woman named Jean Varda. Only one of us was Jean, and she was going on to Santa Rosa, not Sacramento!

I relinquished her seat and wove my way through the stream of oncoming passengers to find the attendant. We located my actual seat.

My new seatmate and I laughed about my plight and started chatting. We never stopped until we arrived in Seattle. Her name was Julia Gallaway. She is a professor of ceramics at the University of Montana in Missoula, and her traveling exhibit is about extinction and the disappearance of species.

I told her that I am a retired former professor and technical documentation manager, and my new blog is called “Our Final Birds.”A shock of recognition, and we settled in to explore our commonalities. We agreed that it is far preferable to look unflinchingly at what is happening, name it, and bear witness. We’re both doing our part.

I was sad to say goodbye, but by the time Julia reached Boston, I had received three or four new likes from her on my latest blogs.

My last trip, as I mentioned in a previous post, was not exactly a bowl of cherries. Flying to the Galápagos had the advantage of being, in my imagination at least, “the trip of a lifetime.” Now, two months later, I’m heading to Montana for my annual visit to my old home on Flathead Lake and to one of my dearest friends, who is now the proud owner.

I found myself longing to cancel! Not that I don’t long to see my friend, the lake, the Osprey, the Eagles. I simply dread the trip. It looms over me, dark and threatening.

I picture dragging my many items from the car to the kiosk, struggling to insert my card, juggling everything, holding up the line. And then the damn security check, where, for some reason, I set off so many alarms in that circular chamber that they determine, every single time, that I need to be patted down from head to toe.

Finally, I am set loose to gather my wits and find the gate, still fearful of holding up the line because I can’t get my heavy camera bag aloft. I must rely on some well-muscled young man who will be glad to help, but there I am, in fact, holding up the line.

Because ChatGPT sometimes helps me solve these kinds of logistical problems, I pour all this out in one long plaintive paragraph and wait.

Thinking . . .

At first we explore the idea of a wheelchair. But we determine slowly that I really like walking through the airport, getting a little exercise before sitting for hours. Not ready for that.

So then what? How to solve each problem at each stage.

We explore fewer items and different packing arrangements. My rolling camera bag is too heavy. That’s a fact. I can’t bring myself to pack my $7,500 long lens in my checked bag. That fills me with panic, as I just spent a large sum to get it repaired after the accident. My laptop in the outside pocket makes it even worse. But carrying it in my underseat bag with the CPAP is too hard for me for long distances.

The camera bag stays too heavy. The laptop stays in it.

Bonus! When I examine the CPAP bag closely, I see it has an outside zip compartment perfect for my onboard snacks and even holds my small phone/wallet combo! I toss the old unwieldy underseat bag back in my closet.

Tiny victory!

We establish another scenario together:

John drives me to the departure area. I wear my two smaller bags, and he sets me off pulling my two rolling bags behind me. I do not stop at the kiosk for a torture session but march straight to the ticket counter. I ask for a paper boarding pass and help getting the bag onto the scale.

Another small victory. The black cloud is a shade lighter.

Once free of the rolling duffle, I sail off to my next huge hurdle: security. This time my boarding pass and ID are handy, and once through, I tuck them back into the tiny case and slip it into my CPAP bag.

ChatGPT and I tackle the full-body pat-down next. When I raise my hands in the circular chamber, what kicks off all those alarms? My hip replacements? My replaced shoulder? Zippers? Bra clasps? Watch? Ring? Hearing aids? Who knows? I can’t do anything about all my titanium parts, but I can eliminate all zippers and metal. I’ll wear tights, a T-shirt, a light long-sleeved top, slip-on shoes, and a claspless bra. I may even remove my hearing aids, watch, and ring. If they still decide to pat me down, I give up!

The final hurdle is actually getting onto the plane and stowing the camera case. Armed with advice from ChatGPT and one successful previous experience, I intend to march right up to the counter and play the age card. “I would like to pre-board as I am a bit unsteady and I need help getting my rolling bag up into the bin.”

If this works, we have yet another small celebration.

If you’re wondering why I need such precise instructions, you’ve never watched me go through an airport. My brain begins to fibrillate and loses connection to the rest of my body. I have to know in advance exactly what moves to make so that I don’t fall into a quivering heap.

Just ask my friend Sharon.

2. I’ve Lost Control of My Blog Entries and Book Chapters

I decided many months ago that I would create a book by compiling all my blog entries with all their photographs into a book to leave to my children. They haven’t asked for or shown any interest in a book. This project arises from my longing for such a book from my parents. My curiosity was piqued after they were gone, unfortunately. My children might go through the same evolution, and if they do, they will have “Our Final Birds” as a physical remembrance. I still like the idea.

However, recently, as I approach my 90th year, I’ve noticed that I can no longer rely on my memory to track what goes where. Was I ever capable of that type of careful tracking? Probably, as I was a project manager for a while, but if truth be known, the organizing part of the job was probably carried out far better than the precise tracking.

Oh dear, I found myself thinking the other day, did this blog ever get into the book? And oh dear yet again, here is a chapter that was never posted as a blog--and where did I put that terrific idea I had for a new blog. Oh Oh OH!

I heard tell that ChatGPT or Claude could handle tasks like spreadsheets, so I tried out the idea on Claude.

Claude created a splendid spreadsheet. I was so impressed. It had a place for everything, several tabs at the bottom. A true worksheet! And there were listed all my items!

But when I looked more closely, I determined that several items were missing or already outdated. Where exactly was Claude getting its update from--not from me! From some old fragment of a chat? Not a good sign.

I wanted to give up the whole project! Too big to handle. 40-plus chapters already and I’m not even three quarters of the way through?

Then I remembered, both Claude and ChatGPT were pretty good at helping me figure out strategies. In a moment of pique with Claude, I turned to ChatGPT to help me.

After a long question and answer period similar to the air-travel inquisition, ChatGPT extracted from me what the true problem was. I am very experienced with spreadsheets, especially ones as well constructed as this one. That was NOT the problem at all!

The real problem was that I couldn’t remember to update it, no matter how many good intentions I had. More questions finally elicited a workflow pattern I did stick with. I ALWAYS uploaded a PDF semifinal draft to ChatGPT for copy edit--to catch my multitude of typos and inconsistent capitalization of bird names, etc. Each time ChatGPT returned a final version, it would offer me a checklist:

Added to the Book?

Substack draft created?

Tracker updated?

My job was to make sure I could answer Yes to each prompt. Hitching a new habit to an old tried and true one might just work!

Another tiny victory.

3. I’ve Become an Unreliable Correspondent: Email Overload

My Gmail account runneth over. Just deleting political and commercial items takes a chunk of time and sometimes I delete or fail to return to important items, real friends requiring answers, real appointment reminders, real requests for information about my photographs.

Case in point. Janet, the daughter of one of my dearest long-time friends who died a few years ago, had just sent a message that I marked with a star to answer later. Later came, but the email seemed to have vanished! Yes, there it was in my trash. My heart rate returned to normal.

I learned many years ago that if I don’t handle a piece of email immediately, it might never get handled. Thus, I knew the rule: pick up a piece of paper once, read an email once, deal with it immediately. Following it is another story. I recognize my failure. I tried to have Google organize my inbox but it did not help me. What to do?

I turned to ChatGPT again. Sure enough, within a few minutes I had confessed that answering emails immediately just took too much time. I always put it off to the afternoon when I might have more time or feel more relaxed or not be caught up in a rush to leave the house. “I’ll get back to it” was simply not true.

Had I tried dictation? Yes, I had, but the amount of correcting required took almost as much time as typing myself. Are there any apps that do a better job?

Before I knew it, I had a solution. It’s called Wispr Flow and there are others that are just as good, I’m sure, but this one truly works for me. I found most of my friends very understanding about my occasional bloopers and I could answer most emails immediately and so efficiently, I was shocked.

4. I Can’t Find My Critically Important Chats

This one really disturbed me. It falls into the huge category called AI Unreliability. How can a piece of software become such a good sounding board for ideas and then turn around the next day and be unable to find the topic we had just explored?

This was different from simply misplacing a file. I had poured my reasoning into these conversations that I might never be able to reconstruct in quite the same way.

It happened repeatedly. Where on earth had we explored the migration patterns of Osprey? If that discussion took place inside a chat about photography, or something totally unrelated, it was simply not findable by ChatGPT. AI software does not keep track of each word. It searches for patterns. Searching for Osprey or Migration came up with zip!

Another example: I wrote a long description of my friend Dan Druid, who died of AIDS in the 1980s. It was an emotional deep dive for me, and I wanted to capture some of what I had written in the chat for my blog about him. But weeks had gone by, and the chat was buried. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find it! ChatGPT couldn’t find it. What to do?

I could remember enough to know that what I had written mattered, but not enough to recreate it. What a loss!

ChatGPT confessed and apologized up and down but could not offer much help. One suggestion was to request an archive of all my chats, download it, and search through it. The very thought made me weary.

An enormous dump of every conversation I had ever had? No thank you!

I wanted one dependable place where I could preserve the parts that mattered and find them again by searching for the actual words.

Finally, ChatGPT suggested an app called Obsidian as a good candidate for what I wanted. I liked the name.

I wanted a literal repository that would remember every word I put into it.

David Sedaris keeps a daily diary, a handwritten paper diary.

I am not David Sedaris, and I was not about to begin filling handwritten notebooks at 89.

What I found in Obsidian was a framework that let me copy and paste critical passages in a tidy little folder-based system. Once stored, a click on the magnifying glass, a typed-in word, and the return is so fast it takes your breath away!

A gem indeed!

5. And Furthermore . . .

Ironically, just this morning, I discovered yet another problem. Apparently, when I copy and paste long passages from either Claude or ChatGPT, huge gaps can appear in the text. Everything is selected, but when pasted into Obsidian, large swathes of text are simply missing.

To be sure to get everything, one must copy one small segment at a time.

I am running out of patience!

Should I throw in the towel?

With four wins under my belt, I think I have my answer.

Whenever anyone mentions grebes, Pied-billed, Western, or Eared, this Lewis Carroll Jabberwocky floods my mind. Outgrabe becomes outgrebe, I guess. And I can’t stop reciting the whole stanza.

It all started with a set of GPS coordinates.

I’m lucky enough to know a young man obsessed with finding birds in this county; he’s brilliant, a talented scout, and utterly tireless. Now and then he sends me a tip.

This one was hard to resist.

“a Pied-billed Grebe nest in an irrigation canal close view, 3 eggs and two babies that hatched in the last 2 days. [GPS coordinates]”

He included a request to tell no one.

Why are grebes important to me? I love watching family interactions, especially those of grebes—the riding on the back is, well, adorable. The little ones are striped fluff balls that float like fuzz on water. They swim like tiny lightning. They nuzzle and poke under the parent’s rear feathers to get a ride—how can something that new and that little climb aboard? I especially wanted to see them being fed. What’s not to love? Worth devoting a morning to, for sure.

That night I put the GPS coordinates into Google Maps. Forty-five-minute drive, not too bad. I set my alarm for 4:30, planned to be out the door before 6, and there before 7. A plan.

I once again appreciate the adaptive cruise control in my new used Corolla—I had no idea that simply not holding my foot on the gas, my leg tensing on and off, used up so much energy. But driving with the car adjusting its own speed when another car appears on the highway in front of me—what a boon! I drive relaxed. And at 89, my energy allotment for the day is not unlimited. So this saves me a good chunk of the energy it takes to stay focused for hours on birds that do nothing but doze.

And that’s exactly what happens on this morning.

I drive through a maze of fields and irrigation canals in Glenn County, the roads narrowing, a few paved, most gravel. And finally: “You have reached your destination.” The announcement jolts me to attention, and I drive slowly, searching every inch of the vine-covered narrow canal.

I see nothing that looks like a grebe. No nest, no eggs. Nothing.

I get out of the car and walk a short distance, and there is movement—an adult, a tiny head peeking from under the feathers around its neck.

Thus begins the vigil.

Back in the car, I slowly lower my big lens and rest it on the window. Through the viewfinder I watch the parent glide along, the little one motionless. Then the other parent appears, and they glide along together for a bit. I edge the car along, hoping for some action, wanting to take video, but not with the car engine running. I see the nest! One egg still sitting there. And a chick is just leaving.

A large truck turns the corner and heads toward me, with me parked on the wrong side of the gravel road. Do I have time to get out of his way? No, so I sit tight and wave as he veers around me. I hope he sees my lens and understands, but I can’t help feeling like an intruder on what is probably his daily route.

They glide forward; I inch along behind them. They turn and glide back. I reverse gears and try not to back into the canal.

The other adult has another chick on its back. No—two chicks! Three chicks altogether, not the two I had expected. Suddenly the two chicks dive off, speed toward the other parent, and crawl aboard. I try to get some shots, but the angle is bad and the shadows deep.

The chicks settle down, but then there is another exchange. I catch that one, I hope.

And so it goes for an hour, an hour and a half. I wonder, aren’t they hungry? Once aboard, they nap. The parents glide about. They too seem serene and in no hurry to hunt for food.

I should have brought someone along—I’m sure it would be okay to bring one friend, but I’m overly obedient. Yet, there is something to be said for being alone. I like concentrating solely on paying attention. It becomes a meditation of sorts; watching, fully aware, noticing every move, every insect, every shift in the light. I feel fully alive in those moments, even when I’m aware of the ache in my hand hovering over the shutter button, the awkward twist of my back, the pressure on my elbow.

The moments tick by one by one. I know from experience that the minute I look away, distracted by a sound or my own body or my phone—that’s when the action will take place. Ten minutes, twenty. Amazing how the time does pass.

I grow hot and turn up the air conditioner. It’s already 90 degrees and there is no shade, just fields and canals. I remember reading horror stories of people caught in the desert, with no gas, no air. They are found days later.

Back to attention.

It’s already 9:30, time to use my FUD (Female Urinary Device). Right out here in the open? I delay and delay until I can no longer.

I open the front and back car doors to make as private a little restroom as possible. The gods were with me this time—no feeding took place while I broke my attention.

Back in place, I bargain with myself. Another 15 minutes. And if no action, I leave.

I bargain again: 10:30 is my limit. Then I leave, feeding or no feeding.

Suddenly the chicks become lively. They jump off. They poke at the adults; they open their little beaks.

Mom and dad seem to confer, and dad—the smaller one—starts diving. Or what I have decided to call Dad. I don’t really know. Two of the chicks wait and spin expectantly, the third still riding on the other parent’s back.

I turn off the motor and start a video.

The crayfish appears, and the long wait is suddenly over. The parent tears it into tiny pieces and feeds the chicks one by one. I had spent nearly four hours watching grebes doze and glide back and forth for these few minutes.

Was it worth it? For sure!

And there is my new breakfast: no caffeine, no cereal, no toast lathered in butter. Cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, and blueberries. Served plain, I hate it, but thanks to stevia, I actually love it! Thankthelord.

And if it’s a kayaking day, I’m reminded almost every step of the way. Because I tend to forget important items, I now have a checklist by the door. But on this morning, I don’t see it! So I rush about gathering up hat, repellent, sunscreen, sunglasses, extra battery, phone, camera (yes, I’ve even forgotten THAT). I don’t recall ever needing a checklist in the past—but then can I trust my memory even in this?

One day I was to meet my buddy John at 5:30 AM, so after checking the list I left the house at 5, reached the boat launch at 5:20, but had trouble parking evenly in the dark. Then I started unloading my kayak, even got the straps off, wondering where John was as he’s usually there ahead of me, when suddenly I remembered I was at the WRONG place. I rushed to get the kayak lashed down and up on the car again and dashed over to River Park—not even stopping to call to warn him I’d be late.

Finally launched, we float without even paddling for a while, watching the sunrise light up the tops of trees and slowly lower into the brush and then onto the still water, glinting here and there in soft ripples. We breathe.

When we pull over to an island and I swing my legs out of the kayak to stand up, it takes several tries before I can rise to my feet. There it is again, but now I smile and thank my lucky stars I can still be there, cool in the early morning, happy and alive.

It was 1953.

On my first day, I reported to work and was given a long white gown to wear that wrapped around me and tied at the waist. I spent a day shadowing one of the nurses, watching her (herself 8 month pregnant) gently patting the tiny arms, backs, and fingers with a warm damp cloth, casually bundling the clean baby in a flannel blanket, tucking the little package under one arm and shaking the warm bottle, tipping it over onto her wrist, and when, as often happened, nothing came out, grabbing a tweezer from the counter and jabbing the tip of the nipple, shaking a few drops onto her wrist again—then settling awkwardly into a chair with baby propped on her huge belly. Baby on baby.

Burping, it turned out, was an art that took me weeks to master. Some babies were easy, and some never seem to let a bit of air in or out. I always worried that I was doing it wrong.

That first day I followed as she walked down the corridor with a little bundle that the mother was going to breast feed. (There were only one or two in those days.) I studied her easy give and take with the new mom, watched how she helped the little mouth find its way onto the nipple. This was to be part of my job? Yes, it was.

Countless times she would take a tiny folded diaper from under a tiny crib and push two huge diaper pins through the thick cloth on each side of that tiny, wiggling, doll-like belly, without jabbing into it accidentally. Could I master that?

Then she would start the whole process again for the second round of feeding and changing.

The very next day, I was placed in charge of an entire row of new-born babies, to bathe, feed, carry out to mom. I have only a blurred memory of that day.

By summer’s end, I could push those diaper pins through with almost as much ease as my nurse model. And by summer’s end I also knew that each infant was different, some relaxed, easy, supple, some energetic, some screamers, some seeming to be fully alert and tense at all times. I had thought a baby was a baby. I was so wrong.

Two parts of the job were hard. I never got used to them.

A baby boy under my care was to be circumcised at 10 am. I was to wheel him into the circumcision room, wait for the doctor to arrive (most pediatricians were men), watch the nurse prepare the instruments, then my role was to lean over the baby on the small operating table, place my elbows on either side of his head, hold his arms and legs still with my forearms. As the doctor unscrewed the little bell apparatus and placed it on the tiny penis, I would have to tighten my hold. Even before the actual cutting took place, the little fellow would start bellowing up into my face, and then louder as the clamp was tightened, and the swift cut with a scalpel, and it was over. It took seconds! The doctor would disappear and the nurse would step in with a gauze sponge, quickly diaper the screaming form and hand it to me.

I would walk back to the nursery and try to comfort him. Usually that would take only a minute or two, but not always.

I took this responsibility very seriously.

One day I arrived a little early, and was headed to my row, when a nurse asked me to help.

A baby lay on the hard counter in the laundry area. Another nurse was wrapping it in a blanket, but then she took a second blanket and wrapped the entire baby into a closed bundle. She gave the little form a hug and handed it to me. I was to take it up three floors to the autopsy room and put it into the refrigerator there. I remember feeling strange, but apparently I simply took that baby, walked down the corridor to the elevator, got in, punched the proper number, stood at the very back, and tried to look normal as passengers entered and left before I reached my floor. I remember feeling relieved to be alone again in the corridor. I found the room, headed straight for the refrigerator, avoiding looking at anything else. I didn’t want to see what was on the table. I placed the little form on a shelf, and noted that there was someone’s lunch next to it. I left quickly.

I don’t remember the ride back down.

That happened only once during my first summer.

The second summer, a baby died, and I watched the nurses dress it carefully in what looked like very fancy infant clothes. This little one was going directly to the funeral home. I recognized him! My stiff as a board hard to feed baby! I had sensed that something was wrong—and it was. I leaned over and touched the cold cheek to say goodbye.

I thought long and hard and landed firmly. But friends objected: It makes me sad. Don’t use it. It’s too dark.

Something in me rebelled. I would usually take such advice, but this time I overruled it and went with my choice. Yes. But why?

Because the “Our” includes everyone on this planet, including me. And Final fits better than Remaining or Resilient. If they are not truly the final birds on earth, they are most assuredly the final birds I’ll encounter here. So it fits!

And I was keenly aware that it carries a hint by way of a slant rhyme to final words. Enough said.

Thus, Our Final Birds!

Every year since I fell in love with birds some twenty-seven years ago, they seem harder to find. Not always. Sometimes they are very plentiful.

April 4, 2022

I remember the summer I visited the Mendocino Headlands, and there were thousands of Murres perched on a small island cliff just offshore. They looked like miniature penguins, and suddenly they began pouring off the cliff into the sea. They rode the waves for twenty minutes or so and flew back up onto the cliff by the thousands, just to pour off again. What a sight to behold—and capture.

Video here.

But more and more frequently there are empty nests or nests that fell in the wind. Perhaps mysterious eaglet deaths, caused by bird flu. Or suddenly the hawks are gone from a certain area. Or when I return to a formerly birdy place, there are no birds.

The statistics tell the story: since 1970, North America has lost nearly three billion breeding birds, about one in four.

And last but not least, facing my mortality directly, this decade could bring my final bird outing. If I’m lucky, I’ll be reviewing the day in my dreams as I depart this earth.

These may be not only my final birds, but perhaps my final words.

If these past ten days are any indication of what’s to come in this decade, well fine! I’m happy with it.

April 29, 2026

We agreed to meet at the Mulberry bush. John and I parked ourselves not far from the familiar bush on a walkway in a Chico neighborhood. Almost every year we see a mix of Tanagers, Cedar Waxwings, and Phainopepla all grabbing a good berry breakfast. This day was no exception, with the added treat of an Ash-throated flycatcher.

But at first, we had our usual wait. All was quiet, not even morning walkers or joggers on the path. Were the berries ripe enough? Were we too early, too late? Would they show up? As time passed, we calmed our worries and fell into our usual quiet chatting about our lives, as we kept a close eye on the big cottonwood tree that often acted as a bird launching station. In their own sweet time, the main characters came on stage.

First, an Ash-throated Flycatcher pair.

Followed by a Phainopepla and finally a hungry Western Tanager.

A colorful morning!

May 6, 2026

It was a very gloomy day on the river. We paddled over satin-smooth water to a small island near a rocky bank known locally as the Washout. An Osprey flew over us to the opposite shore. But oh dear, the nest that had been there and occupied by a sitting female a week ago had vanished. A familiar sight, gone. We watched the Osprey perched above the now-bare limb. Yes, we remembered, there had been days of unusually high winds recently.

To avoid mourning the loss, we walked the length of the island with Kona. John is training her not to chase the Killdeer and Spotted Sandpipers that nest here.

Suddenly up flew several Nighthawks that began circling overhead. And then more. So maddeningly hard to capture in their erratic flight, sudden dips to catch bugs, more like swallows but bigger. Ah, at last, caught one with an open mouth.

I went to bed mostly happy that night.

May 8, 2026

On this day we drove to a special path on a hillside about an hour outside of Chico looking for Lazuli Buntings and Yellow-breasted Chats, our brilliant local visitors. The valley is still recovering from a wildfire that ripped through it years ago. Lush greenery interspersed with huge, charred monuments. The tiny, gem-like buntings seem to enjoy posing on them.

The path was rough, strewn with rocks, lined with poison oak, and I felt the full weight of my six-pound camera as I trudged along. But the ornithological ornaments renewed me over and over.

I don’t find it sad at all that I go to bed on nights like these and dream happily, fully aware that my years are surely coming to a close. Perhaps soon or perhaps in ten or more years—who knows? I’m fine with it.

I just hope the birds stick around, too!

[Writer’s note: I wrote this blog before going to the Galapagos—I had no idea that I would have an accident that could clearly have been fatal. A little reminder of the finality of “final.”]

Down down down down down
Falling falling falling falling
Falling through the air, through the air

I’m lying on the living room carpet, eye on the little yellow light at the bottom of the huge record console, shiny polished walnut, listening for the hundredth time, Ginger Rogers playing Alice on the Disney record from 1944. The scratchy sound of the needle on the 78 Decca record. The roughness of the rug, the little light, still with me at 89.

Alice’s fall is woven into my 7 year old self, deeply there in the voice of Ginger Rogers. How I loved that record, her adventures with the Mad Hatter, her sense of growing smaller and smaller as she set out to explore that world. To this day I adore rabbit holes. In fact, I am a madwoman who wants to explore them all.

Can you imagine the promise of AI to someone who wants nothing more than to follow a rabbit into a hole? Curiouser and curioser, and the answers come faster than anyone can absorb, about birds, about cameras, about Africa, Antarctic, about human consciousness, about AI itself, about politics, about the universe. The answers to my questions fly in. Down down down down, falling falling falling, through the air, through the air.

Where to begin? Where to store? How to organize? How to live with such riches! And is it all true? Is it all accurate? Or is the Mad Hatter coming up with some of it?

All this is twirling in my brain this morning.

Fact is, for a curious person, AI can be a time sink, a thrill a minute, insights coming so fast and furiously that one can lose track and wake up suddenly wondering where am I?

Down down down, the visual tactile and emotional event came back to me fully created as if I were living it again.

I leaned on my AI pals to explore it more fully--could Claude find the recording for me? Within seconds I had it the real thing, but now in mp3 format right into my ear. Excited, I wrote about it. And Claude, warned not to be a flatterer and to give constructive criticism, helped me cut the chaff out of my first draft.

And then Gemini led me through the history of records from the early cylinders to streaming. Oh my. I’ve been witness to almost the whole range, 78 shellac, heavy, easily scratched, through 33⅓ LPs, cassette tapes, cds, and finally to my current playlist, available to me while I shop at Safeway. Good grief, so fast, the whoosh of time from 78s to Spotify!

AI has helped me explore this little rabbit hole so easily. Too easily? Am I getting lazy? Shouldn’t I have to go to the library and track that history in person, examine primary sources, see for myself. Is AI cheating me of a deeper experience or is it giving me momentum for my writing and helping me go even deeper. I haven’t a clue at this point, but I’m enjoying the process of finding out.

Maybe that’s the point. I love the hunt. I feel a creative excitement, and want to capture it. If AI helps me travel quickly to a source, so much the better.

Every now and then, Claude or Chatgpt gets carried away and writes a paragraph for me. I’ve set a rule so many times, but it’s training to be helpful and engaging sometimes takes over. Annoyed, I shout out in type or by voice NO NO NO you are NEVER to draft anything. Remember, I write, you comment only!

And we’re off to the races.

The memory, the little yellow light, the carpet, the voice of Ginger Rogers, the scratchy sound, the zip of the needle across a shiny surface, all mine, all connected to the thrill of discovery for a child, the adventure, the willing descent into a different world to meet up with whatever creatures crossed her path and travel with them for a time. All that is mine, deeply mine, woven into my very being by Ginger Rogers on Decca records.

I’m an explorer and now in my dotage, as they say, I have a powerful tool to help me. Not fully trustworthy, I know. Just yesterday Claude claimed that Wordsworth wrote these lines in The Prelude. And they are clearly from Tintern Abbey.

A sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air

Goodness gracious, says the Alice in me, this is fun!

A translucent-green wall of water rises a few feet from my face--the perfect wave for a seasoned surfer to fly through the forming tube, but shockingly close. Our panga driver is trying to climb it before it crests. As this thought forms I see Sharon across from me, trying to edge to the rear of the boat, her back to the wave. Suddenly she is airborne. And so am I.

The moment stretches somehow and I have time to pray she stays inside the panga, to realize in horror that our dream trip had turned to nightmare, to register that we are cresting the wave and free-falling, panga and all, on the backside, that the rough nylon on the panga floor is heading toward my face.

CRASH!

Every bone in my body reverberates and I pray for my year-old shoulder. A shoe is pressing hard against my arm. Sharon is in the boat, thank God!

I hear the driver’s rapid calls for help. It sounds like Panga! Panga! Panga! but I’m sure that’s wrong.

I try to move, but make it only inches from the shoe before a wave of nausea takes over. I feel myself losing consciousness and know I should try to get my head below my heart, but how? I squirm into a better position my head curled downward, and then I just lay still.

The tableau as seen from above, a volcanic rocky shore, dotted with craggy islands covered with iguanas. A lone panga speeding to the mother ship, parked far out beyond the surf line, a trail of hikers on the main island setting out, two old ladies prone on the panga floor, and a worried driver bent over the tiller, trying to will us past top speed.

Somehow we are lifted up and carried onto the Integrity, our home ship. Sharon is seriously hurt, her shoulder is clearly compromised and excruciatingly painful.

She is sure it is dislocated, and in her confusion she keeps repeating “I need a doctor! What happened? I don’t remember anything! I’m so sorry!” And I keep trying to explain. “We were trying to get through the surf and got caught by the wave, crested it and crashed down on the other side.” And we begin again “I need a doctor! What happened? I don’t remember anything! I’m so sorry!” “It wasn’t your fault! It was a crazy accident.” “I need a doctor!” She finally came back to herself after the shock.

A doctor in a nearby National Geographic ship tries seven times to relocate the shoulder but fails. No anesthesia! Sharon returns much the worse for wear. Much worse really, as we find out later, it was later diagnosed as a severe separation, not a simple dislocation.” The seven yanks may have caused further damage. Wince!

We try to plan our departure from this remote place and finally a plan forms. We head for Baltra Island--the tour company has booked our many airline tickets and transfers, making sure we have help along the way. The alternative was to wait for Sharon’s friend to arrange a private plane to take us from Quito home, but that plan required a delay for getting permits to enter Ecuador. We take the first option. Perhaps a mistake.

The next thirty hours are a strange jumble of pain and misery on boats, vans, small airplanes, larger airplanes, somehow managing, with help, heavy camera gear, and underseat bulging bags (mine with the **&%&^%*CPAP machine), and two large duffels. We had a variety of assistants on various vessels--I remember many smiling sympathetic faces, but little else. Once when I saw Sharon try to lift her camera bag into the bin on one tiny but packed craft, I screamed “Sharon! Stop!” And she hissed back at me never to do that ever again! We were at our limits. We had a good laugh about it later.

And later finally came.

When we landed, at long last, in San Francisco, Sharon’s dear friends, Mark and Don, were there waiting. Mark drove Sharon in Sharon’s car and Don and I followed, to Sharon’s to drop off luggage and catch our breath. Don left, and Mark and I took Sharon to the Kaiser ER.

It took hours, of course, of sitting and waiting, watching dozens of other unfortunate emergency cases come and go, before Sharon was seen, tested, and found to have a very bad separated shoulder with a sharp bone fragment floating about. She was given a new sling and sent home to await a consultation with an orthopedic surgeon who would decide whether or not she needed surgery. We left and finally collapsed into bed at her home in Larkspur.

Charlie was very happy. So were we.

They say that everything happens for a reason, but Sharon and I have searched high and low for one, skeptics that we are. The ultimate reason remains mysterious, but we know one thing.

Our friendship is forever.

************************

A few photos. First a giant tortoise:

A Blue-footed Booby taking off

Galapagos Brown Pelican in breeding plumage

Female Magnificent Frigatebird that sailed with us one morning

Volcanic i

sland dripping with iguanas

Flightless Cormorant, marine iguana, and Sally Lightfoot crabs sharing the lava

Blue-footed Booby

Lonesome George, the last known Pinta Island tortoise, preserved at the Charles Darwin Research Station

Sharon and her friend Charles

Passengers viewing the Flightless Cormorant about 15 minutes before the accident. Our ship, the Integrity can be seen in the distance.

Sally Lightfoot crab on black lava. The foam keeps the joints flexible.

American Flamingo

Marine iguana warming itself on black lava after feeding in the cold current

Sunrise the morning after the accident

This turns out not to be a casual thought. It’s a way of structuring my days so that large parts of them are decision-free and worry-free.

These are the things I don’t have to worry about:

• What to wear - I have a uniform for cold days, medium days, and hot days. I just have to make sure I have enough of each item, pants, t-shirts, jacket, etc. so I always have something clean to put on

• When to go out - I want to be where I’m going before first light

• Where to go - I want to go where I know there will be wildlife action

• What to bring with me - I have gear ready to grab—camera, tripod, tea, snack, mosquito repellant etc.

• What my goal for the day is - I want to bring back at least a couple of photos that I really like

Once these decisions are made, they’re made. I don’t revisit them. That’s the point.

While I’m out there, I have no worries at all. I drive around or I stand and watch. I admire the scenery, the sky, the mountains. I know that eventually something will fly or walk by. When I come home, I sort through my photos, edit a few.

All these many hours, up to 8 or 9, I am off the hook. My life hasn’t suddenly become less complex. It’s just that during those hours, everything is on hold. That turns out to be enough.

And then there is the rest of the day.

Here is what I worry about when I am NOT in the field or editing my photos in my office.

• Responsibilities to family and friends

• Responsibilities to my community, to the world

• Are my dear ones healthy? Are my friends ok? Will the world survive?

None of this goes away. It just waits.

My hobby keeps me sane, in a blissed-out state for many of my waking hours. Nothing is solved. It’s suspended.

A year or so ago, I was standing on a dirt road watching for Short-eared Owls. A car came speeding by and kicked up dust as the sun was setting.

Another keeper, an owl approaching with the sun shining through his wings.

Blissed Out on the Hillside

Here is another example. It takes place on a hillside where I look out on an eagle-nest vista. As we drive up and park, I can feel the shift happening. It never fails.

Very often, the sun has not yet reached over the hill, the eagle mom is motionless, and the only sound comes from the occasional passing car or coyotes howling in the distance. I fiddle with my camera, trying to keep one eye on the nest and peripheral vision everywhere. It’s cold, I put on gloves and my extra hood. I grab my tea and take sip, check my settings.

Oh, damn, he just flew in, missed it! The eaglet pops up for a second then down. the mom jumps to the side of the nest as dad maneuvers the branch into position. Then I start shooting and the struggle with the branch, the eaglet almost in the way, begins. My camera is silent, the only sign of photos being taken is a flashing green box around the scene in the viewfinder. I let up my finger as the dad turns his back and the chick goes down again. Somewhere in those 50-100 shots I just took is a keeper.

I smile and take my eye off the viewfinder to check the previous photos on my camera, knowing I might miss a fly-out. I do miss it. I laugh at myself and say out loud “You idiot!” and turn back to watching.

These small failures matter for a minute or two. Missing the shot, fumbling the settings. I berate myself and laugh, none of it carries weight. The next great opportunity might show up at any moment.

Soon I am completely blissed out. Four hours pass in a dream of all shades of green and blue. I shoot the comings and goings, the feeding, the preening, the nest repair. I take home 3000 photos and a full heart.

Poems about Old Women

Does being old play into this off-the-hook concept? I’ve asked myself that.

We have a Class of ‘58 “Sister List,” and we send email about passing events, getting old, advice about topical pain meds, when to move into senior living etc. etc. We’ve gotten older and older since it started some thirty or so years ago, and now at 89 and 90, we are certifiably “old.” We can, therefore, instead of writing about how we would imagine being old as many poets do, we can write about the actuality. Mel, herself a published writer, sent out this poem one morning, written by Kate Barnes (poet laureate of Maine) when she was a mere 60 something.

Future Plans by Kate Barnes

When I am an old, old woman I may very well be
living all alone like many another before me
and I rather look forward to the day when I shall have
a tumbledown house on a hill top and behave
just as I wish to. No more need to be proud—
at the tag end of life one is at last allowed
to be answerable to no one. Then I shall wear
a shapeless felt hat clapped on over my white hair,
sneakers with holes for the toes, and a ragged dress.
My house shall be always in a deep-drifted mess,
my overgrown garden a jungle. I shall keep a crew
of cats and dogs, with perhaps a goat or two
for my agate-eyed familiars. And what delight
I shall take in the vagaries of day and night,
in the wind in the branches, in the rain on the roof!
I shall toss like an old leaf, weather-mad, without reproof.
I’ll wake when I please, and when I please I shall doze;
whatever I think, I shall say; and I suppose
that with such a habit of speech I’ll be let well alone
to mumble plain truth like an old dog with a bare bone.

I didn’t really like the poem, but this image spoke to me: I shall toss like an old leaf, weather-mad, without reproof. That line felt true.

When Mel sent out a second challenge Why doesn’t someone really old like one of us write a poem, I was ready. And this popped out.

All I Want to Do by Joan Robins

All I want to do
Is get out onto the creek
And find me an otter or three
A Wood Duck and a Mink
An Osprey with a giant fish
An Eagle trying to grab it

All I want to do
Is get out onto the bay
And watch the Grebes dance
A Least Bittern balancing on a reed
A Stealthy Muskrat returning to his den
A Beaver, a fluttering Kite

All I want to do
Is get out to the ocean
And watch the Whimbrels dig for tiny crabs
And hear the Oystercatchers’ raucous notes
And nod to the passing Loon
The Harbor Seal heading for an important date

All I want to do
Is bear witness to this wild show
That plays upon a nearby stage
All green and blue, all sun and fog
And know that it will sure reprise
After we say good night

I somehow stumbled upon a reliable way to step out of the pull of responsibility and worry and into a different realm. The world is still there when I get back. But for a few hours, I’m off the hook.

And oh my, did I ever. I kept querying Claude about how he could get a second opinion even though the wait times for referrals to most places like Davis and UCSF were four to six months. Claude mentioned e-consults with major centers.

What? How? I felt my heart speed up and my face get hot. Give me step-by-step instructions, please. And there they were, but still a little thin. What about insurance? What other hitches to look out for? Dig deeper for anything I might have missed. A long pause. I mean a LONG pause, as I stare at a “Claude is thinking” message.

Finally, out pops this infuriating statement:

Your primary can refer you to a specialist at the Mayo Clinic, the Cleveland Clinic, or UCSF for a teleconsult and there is a possibility your insurance will cover it if the request is framed properly.

IF I HAD ONLY KNOWN.

Back in the fall, I had a stroke while kayaking on the river. Then AFib arrived. I was making frantic dashes to the ER and trying desperately to get in to see a cardiologist, which took two full months after the first attack. When I finally did get in, it was a brief visit: stay on your meds. But my meds were causing my active life to crash in little pieces around me. One drug, Amiodarone, kept me wired, unable to sleep through the night for weeks, then months. I begged my primary care person to get me a second opinion at Davis. A four-month wait.

I stopped the drug on my own, was scolded but determined. Stopped all caffeine, all alcohol, put myself on a low carb diet. Slowly I got better (The half-life of Amiodarone is 6-8 months!) By January I was doing well enough that the electrophysiologist, who took the time to absorb the full picture, agreed I was fine, and told me to come back in a year.

I had survived my treatment. Barely.

Now I find out I could have had an e-consult back in November. If I had known.

Face flushed, hands shaking, I turned to Emily Dickinson to calm myself.

The Judge is like the Owl—
I've heard my Father tell—
And Owls do build in Oaks—
So here's an Amber Sill—

That slanted in my Path—
When going to the Barn—
And if it serve You for a House—
Itself is not in vain—

About the price—'tis small—
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight—Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.

Eventually I fell asleep.

In the morning, I sent this note to my friend.

Hi,

I just learned something I wish someone had told me during my own medical ordeal: you can get a formal second opinion from a top medical center without ever leaving home. Given what you’re dealing with, this seems worth pursuing.

There are two routes.

Route one: Ask your primary for a teleconsult or e-consult referral to a major medical center specialist. Then call your insurer and ask specifically: “If my primary refers me to a specialist at UCSF or another major center for a teleconsult, is that covered?” Some plans do cover this. Worth a 10-minute call before assuming it isn’t.

Route two: Pay out of pocket for a written second opinion directly from a major center. No referral needed.

• UCSF — most practical if you’re in California. Go to ucsfhealth.org/second-opinion. Flat fee of $900, paid out of pocket. Written report typically delivered 7–10 days after records are assembled. Not all specialties covered, so check first.

• Cleveland Clinic — strong for complex cases. Go to clinicbyclevelandclinic.com. Written report only: $1,690. Written report plus virtual visit: $1,990. Insurance does not cover this service.

• Mayo Clinic — possible, but less straightforward for remote written opinions. Go to mayoclinic.org and request an appointment. A coordinator will assess your case and determine fit. Some cases handled remotely; others may require in-person.

I now picture my pal Claude as a wise old owl.

I sure wish someone had told me this sooner. I might have avoided the whole amiodarone debacle.

That’s why I’m telling you — you, reading this now.

It was Monday. John and I had been looking forward to a nice sunny kayaking day on the river. This time he would unload at Scotty’s, drive down to Big Chico Creek boat launch where I would pick him up, leaving his car there for when we landed later on.

He loaded his gear in my car--we always forget how much gear there is--paddles, seat, life jacket, drybag filled with sun screen, dog and human treats, fleece jacket, first aid kit, and other could-come-in-handy-items. My gear filled my trunk so his went into the back seat along with Kona who by now was wildly excited and ready to GO. On to Scotty’s.

John helped me get my kayak on its rickety wheels, and we both gathered cameras and phones and were almost ready to roll down to the loading platform. I leaned over to tighten my wheel strap when I heard it.

CRACK! A high pitched yelp from Kona.

John rushed to grab her from the road.

“NO NO NO NO NO” I realized I was screaming and stopped.

Was she hit? Stupid question, but it came out of my mouth.

John’s face was white. Yes! I saw her fly and roll onto her back. Bastard kept going!

Where should we take her? The emergency vet? No no, I want to go to my vet, let’s go. We realized we couldn’t just go; I had to reload my kayak. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking, I was sobbing. Finally got the damn thing up faster than I have ever done it. We drove silently back to his car. Kona was somehow sitting up. I pictured internal injuries, a broken leg, and god knows what else. The whole car smelled of fear, pungent. I tried not to breathe it in.

At his car, John transferred his gear and then, carefully, his dog.

We drove back once more to load his kayak and then, finally, we could leave.

I’ll follow you.

He drove through the morning traffic to the vet. Not open yet of course. Chris was on her way. Finally we were led into a small examining room, Kona limping slightly. Chris arrived and Kona tried to greet her but cried out in pain.

I left them, knowing John would call me as soon as he knew anything.

Four hours later the call came. They had to anaesthetize her to do X-rays and other tests, put a few stitches in her leg. But nothing turned up, no other bleeding, no broken bones. She had to recover from the sedation and take it easy for a couple of weeks.

SHE WAS FINE.

I wept at my end, he at his.

I hung up, I wept some more, and then I sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. Some allergy kicked in with such force that I ran to CVS to gather up all their drops and pills that promised relief.

No relief, just constant sneezing, eyes watering, nose running as if a faucet was fully open.

Then I noticed the flies.

There were a few on my patio sliding door. A few more buzzing the light shade. I went to find my flyswatter and when I returned there were more.

That evening I swatted 30 flies and checked with Claude to see what was going on. The answer was not comforting. Apparently a small animal must have died recently in the wall of my apartment. A perfect breeding ground for maggots and thus the flies finding their way through some crack into my living room. An exterminator would spray, but be unlikely to find the exact location, and most likely the flies would continue to multiply.

I decided to use the mechanical method and, surprisingly enough, I never got any better at it. Between sneezing and blowing my nose, I missed more often than not. But the next night I managed 50, and vacuumed up the little carcasses. I found myself apologizing to them, after I realized that my comfort meant their complete obliteration.

Am I sad or happy to report that this allergy-ridden, wildlife photographer and nature lover, after two more days of killing, did in fact wipe out the infestation?

I am somewhat ashamed, but also relieved.

And yes, if you ask me, calamities do come in threes. But they come in very different sizes.

A Cautionary Tale (or Tail)

Whatever you do in life, make sure you never, ever, travel to the Tetons and Yellowstone at 85 in the grips of Type A flu.

On Day two, leaving Elko, when the throat starts to tingle, turn that car around and go home. Rest. Return another day.

Do not go forth and take photos of the Tetons, waterfalls, moose, elk, gorgeous mountain scenes and leave a treasured $4000 lens along a side road somewhere never to be found.

Do not continue to Yellowstone and the adorable black bear family, the wolves weaving paths on the hillside as they travel to bring back nourishment to their pups, and of course, if you must drop your phone in a pit toilet, make sure it’s one with a full complement of paper seat covers that have so filled the pit as to make retrieval possible (Hold my feet John, I’m heading down!). Empty the two wall-mounted containers of Purell into your open palms and phone. All will be well.

Lie abed in a gorgeous vacation rental for two days, after a trip to the hospital assures you and your companion that you merely have Type A flu, not Covid.

Prepare for the trip home, leaving most gear behind, and make sure you arrive in time to VOTE. Democracy is ON THE LINE.

Feeling a little better this morning, 15 days after a decision to travel forth with a tickle in my throat.

I once thought I was invincible at 85.

No longer.

And here are a few photos taken while feverish . . .

John and I had met years earlier at a wildlife refuge, standing side by side capturing Pintail courtship flights at Llano Seco Refuge. He showed up so often I assumed he lived nearby—but no, he had a three-hour drive from Lake Berryessa. Obsessed with wildlife photography, like me, and just as obsessed with politics.

After years of crossing paths at Llano, Sac Wildlife, owl nests, eagle nests, we finally took that fateful trip to Yellowstone together.

And somewhere in that miserable drive out of Yellowstone was the first hint of what would come later, the songs, the humor. He kept humming a tune and making up funny lyrics about a woman who nearly fell into a pit . . . and each time he started, I cried STOP.

It was a painful trip but it bound us together forever.

One evening, a year or so later, in one of our frequent evening phone calls, I described a morning of kayaking on the river with my other friend John, how peaceful it is, how his new dog, Kona, hops in and out of the kayak and chases butterflies, how we start out in the dark to catch the beavers and otters. I stopped myself when I realized I had been going on and on.

Next day, in my email, there was a message called John, Joan, and the River, these lyrics with many more stanzas, a big .wav file attached.

John, Joan and the River

Every Friday morning, ‘bout half past five
They load up the kayaks, Kona by their side
John brings the coffee, Joan knows what’s ahead
They chase the light on the morning creekbed . . .

Oh. My. God.

The words blurred. I listened again. And again.

Images kept appearing and fading in my mind. Finally I ran to my computer and started building a collection of images to go along with the song. He brought the raw song, and I found the images to match.

Three hours later, I was copying the lyrics and pasting them on a video track–trying to hit the exact timing of the song. Long work for a newbie, but I was lost in it. By afternoon I had a finished video called John, Joan, and the River. I sent it to both Johns. They were as amazed as I was. Probably, I was the only one to shed tears, however.

That same summer I was babbling on and on about kayaking on Flathead Lake during my Montana visit, and again, within hours I had a MontanaMorning.wav file in my inbox. I probably should be more careful about my enthusiasms when talking to John E! Again, he caught the feelings so beautifully, and ther AI voices were perfect. What a gift he had, and what a gift of a friend.

December of that year, I found myself wracking my brain to find the perfect birthday present for my friend Sharon, my best friend of many years and many travels. Our ten-year rift was behind us and I wanted something special. I called John E. Happy Birthday, Sharon.wav soon arrived. I was pretty much struck dumb.

Then, not long after, our intrepid photo buddy Steve McDonald died of cancer. I had many photos of his corner spot at Llano Seco, now empty. We all sang Right Corner of Forever together at a memorial breakfast on that platform.

On his own, he wrote and delivered Joan Never Got the Memo. When that one arrived unannounced in my inbox, to borrow from Emily Dickinson, I felt “as if the top of my head were taken off.” He GOT me!

They’re in a playlist called Music Videos by Johnny and Joanie (private joke).

Joan don't do normal, never has, never will / If there's a straight road ahead, she'll head for the hills. That pretty much covers it.

1942

Why do I remember crossing Hertel Avenue holding Aunt Sadie’s hand, which, because I was so small, was at the level of my ear? Probably because what happened next was imprinted indelibly on my little-girl mind. We were headed to the Kiddie Shop. My best friend Linda was holding her mom’s hand on the other side. (She wasn’t my real aunt, but Linda and I were inseparable, so she was to me.) We stopped at the show window in front where there was a huge poster. Aunt Sadie gave an audible gasp and her hand jerked. I looked at the poster more carefully to see why. Three little kids playing on a very green sunny lawn. OH! A black swastika shadow, menacing, terrifying. I don’t remember the shopping, just the poster, then and forever after.

I was 5. It was 1942 and WWII was in full swing.

After that moment, I was a slightly different child, apparently, on the lookout for more scary items that came my way.

1944

My seven-year-old self knew that spying on people was bad, but there I was in my second-floor bedroom and there they were below, just feet away, on their screened porch playing Sorry, the whole family bent over the board, Mom, dad, two kids and a baby of 2 running from lap to lap. They were lit up by a kerosine lantern. They were shouting SorrrrEEEEE as someone got bounced back to Start.

It was summer at Bay Beach Ontario Canada, and out front, a wide sand beach and, to a 7 year old, endless waves of Lake Erie. After a day of swimming, drippy castles, hot dogs, French fries, and loganberry--it was no different summer or winter--I had to be in bed by 7:30. I tossed for an hour, as the light dimmed. I heard the neighbors’ bare feet brush the sandy porch floor. I peeked through the rails of my bed, pressing my sun-burned cheeks against the cold metal like a small prisoner and stared down at the glow next door.

They were renters, not Jewish, and we hardly knew them even though they were a lively family and very friendly. But we had our own large group of family and friends that came out to visit from Buffalo every day—some lucky enough to be invited to dinner. My mom raced around, cleaning, shopping, gardening, cooking, banning all sand from our new linoleum floors. She was beautiful with a long single braid that she pinned up later as she relaxed on the beach with her friends. My dad would arrive from his dental office later in the day and immediately set out in his rowboat with its 8 hp motor to sit and snooze—a small speck on the lake.

That was August 1944.

Jewish families were being incinerated with astonishing efficiency.

1945

Life magazine was often lying around the house, and in 1945 when I was 8, I saw this and many other pages like it.

But how did it shape my behavior at the time? It didn’t. It just scared and horrified me. We never spoke about the war at home. It was like a dark ugly mess that we kept from our sweet-smelling shiny home. That summer, we were at our beach front summer home on Lake Erie. My mom always hired young cleaning women to help in her war against sand on her polished linoleum floors. That year she hired a Polish woman who had a little girl with her that I was supposed to play with. I resisted because she was funny looking, skinny, with bad teeth and straight short bowl cut hair, and very little English. I wanted only my familiar Linda so we kept away from her. I knew from whispers that they were refugees from Poland, but with my hard child’s heart, I kept away. I’m sad for that little me. I knew better even then.

1952

But my heart was in for a big lesson on this subject in 1952 when I opened Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. I was 14. I read with total fascination and horror, hanging on every word. I easily put myself in her place, saw the world through her eyes, I WAS her. The confinement, the personalities confined with them, the fear, the boredom, the everyday worries, the adolescent emotions, it changed me forever.

I could never again see the world through the rosy glass my mother polished to such a shine daily. Never view the world as a safe place for everyone again. When the book came to an abrupt end and I found out what happened to her, I was devastated. What a waste! How could that possibly happen? But as my mother’s daughter, I retreated once again.

1954

I went back to my safe and secure life, my all girls high school where I was a star even though I was Jewish. There were 3 girls, me among them, counted as the smartest in our class. One was discounted because she was so strange, acting like a 50 year old professor at all times. The other was athletic and popular, belonging to one of the sororities that Jewish girls were not asked to join, and then there I was, sort of pretty in a dark-curly haired Jewish kind of way, had a habit of smiling a lot and staying out of trouble, got straight A+s, wrote prize short stories, and starred in the class play.

I ran for Class president against the athlete, got all the other sorority votes, the 4 Jewish votes, and other misfits votes, so I won!

History receded into the background during the 50s, while I finished High School, went off to college, got married, and started a family.

2017

My dinner on my lap, the tv blaring, I look up to see clean-cut young men and women holding Tiki lamps and chanting “Jews will not replace us!” on the streets of Charlottesville, Virginia.

And before I can take another bite of spaghetti, they run a clip of Trump smiling and mildly offering that there were “very fine people on both sides.”

2025

When I hear this attributed to Netanyahu, “We are going to fulfill our promise that there will be no Palestinian state. This place belongs to us,” the tragic irony of that statement penetrates my peaceful world of birds and nature.

2026

And now our mad president has threatened to commit war crimes. I didn’t believe my own eyes when I read this just last week on Truth Social, “Tuesday will be Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, all wrapped up in one, in Iran. There will be nothing like it!!! Open the Fuckin’ Strait, you crazy bastards, or you’ll be living in Hell – JUST WATCH! Praise be to Allah. President DONALD J. TRUMP.”

Perhaps I’ve lived too long?

HUH?

Yes, and he pointed to a nasty graph on a printout of my sleep apnea test. You stop breathing and your heart gets an electrical jolt 20 times an hour.

Oh!

He leaned back in his white coat and, with a kindly smile, assured me that he would never force me to use a CPAP machine but that he would strongly advise it. Every time (twenty times per hour!) your brain is starved of oxygen, the part of your brain that goes first in Alzheimer’s is damaged.

If I want to keep up the hourly jolting, continue rushing to the ER at 2 AM with a flopping fish instead of a heart in my chest, going blank while kayaking—yes, I could ignore his advice.

I went home to ponder and wait for the call from the CPAP store.

The thought that I approach suffocation many times every night! An old image popped up, unbidden, unwelcome. On safari in Africa, our first nighttime ride, a leopard leaps up and grabs the snout of a young Impala in his iron jaws. It holds tight as the Impala ever so gradually goes limp. I try to erase the image, but it keeps returning.

I want as many more early mornings on the river watching the sunrise as I can get!

Three weeks later when the call came, I ran over to claim my box. The young woman, who obviously had never personally tangled with this mess of tubing, straps, and cords explained the water compartment and the difference between cushions and nasal pillows. She had me pull on the mask as she turned on the air. My first surprise was that it was harder to exhale than inhale.

On the way home, I bought the last two jugs of distilled water on the Safeway shelf, and my education was just beginning.

For the first two weeks I juggled that little hose in front of my nostrils all night long. It was hard to breathe.

Try the other kind, the little pillows that go up your nose a half inch, said a serious CPAP-user friend. Ok. I brought home two sizes of those, but they were even worse than the old cushion. Trying both sizes reminded me that my cushions also came in two sizes. I fished around in the original bag and found the larger version. Suddenly I could breathe easily—the size had been wrong all along! I got my first 7 hour night! Only 5 events. A small victory.

The next hurdle was chipmunk cheeks, whereby my rather large mouth with widely spaced teeth is a bit too large for my tongue to cover, apparently. Suddenly a puff of pressurized air sneaks into my mouth, and the mouth tape I use to avoid dryness won’t let it escape. My cheeks inflate, I wake and somehow expel the bubble. I can’t describe the escape route exactly. I fall back to sleep. It happens again. And again.

[Yes, the mental picture I’ve created is as Harpo Marx ridiculous as it sounds. Mouth tape, eye mask, tubes under my nose, straps all around, and a hose emerging from the top of my head.]

How to fix the chipmunk cheeks? My young adviser had never heard of such a thing. But it was widespread on the Internet, with advice to turn down the pressure. And I tracked down some sneaky instructions for changing settings hidden from the user. Aha!

I carefully pressed and held both icons on the small screen at the same time (see the image below) “Entering clinical settings, continue?” YES! I played around with the ramp time and the pressure settings for many bubble-filled nights until finally settling on the one that kept the chipmunk away most of the night.

I looked at the machine more carefully now. What was that little tab sticking out at the top? Hmm, I gave it a tug and out it came. The phrase “If you break it you own it” came to mind. $1200? I bent down to look into the little slot and it certainly resembled the SD card slot on my camera. I asked Claude about it and sure enough, if I put a card in for a few nights, I could get a complete clinical readout—the same one the Dr. can access remotely. I grabbed a card.

Two days later, Claude guided me to the software download I needed to read the card. OSCAR loaded, a huge grid appeared on my screen.

Whoa! I copied the grid and pasted it into Claude. Explain this report in terms that a distracted teenager could understand, please.

Here is the reply greatly condensed.

You crushed it. The doctor said 20 events an hour, and you’re running at 2-3. Your brain is getting oxygen. The leopard let go. (Yes, I had mentioned my Africa experience)

Off I went to photograph a little Great-horned Owl family at 6 AM.

I hadn’t felt this rested since I was a child!

The dappled sunlight, the leaves, those eyes.

When I climbed into bed that night I welcomed the tape, the mask, the apparatus, the tubes, the buttons, the puff of air streaming up my nose.

I fell into a deep sleep.