When Peggy opened the drapes on our first morning in Nuevo Arenal, Costa Rica a few weeks ago, this is what greeted her: A hungry Crested Guam demanding an apple, an orange, or a pineapple. We immediately noticed the Guam’s bright red wattle, eyes and long tails. The ‘laidback’ feathers on its head can stand straight up when the Guam is excited. Thus the description ‘crested.’Actually, there were three of them. (They hung out together the whole time we were in Nuevo Arena.) Peggy immediately grabbed her camera and caught this photo of them backlit by the sun. I must say, they were quite polite, just standing there, staring at us.But we couldn’t escape the hungry look. It’s sort of like ‘Feed me or else…’We were soon sharing apples, pineapple, oranges…And even watermelon with our new ‘companions.’Even when they weren’t on our walkway, the Guams monitored our behavior from the lawn and picnic table in front of our Villa.From the lawn. Note its raised wings. I think it was about to chase a Grey-headed Chachalaca that was chowing down on a bite of pineapple the Guam considered its lunch. (See the two videos at the end of today’s post.)They also watched us from the trees behind the villa. Note the long tails.They could see in our back window…A close up.We met this Guam on a hike by Lake Arenal. It was preparing to show off its crest.In full display! “Aren’t I beautiful/handsome.”Some grooming is required. For birds, it’s called primping and is used for feather maintenance.Even down to keeping them oiled! Is the other Guam massaging its legs with its tail feathers? It’s obvious that these big birds like each other, in fact they are monogamous. But I doubt that includes tail-feather leg massages. (Any Guam experts out there that would know?)The primary dining room for the Guams and all of the other fruit eating birds in our neighborhood was a bird feeding table that we and our neighbors kept supplied. Fortunately, it was right in front of our villa. We could sit inside or on our porch and take bird photos all day if we wanted to. You’ll be seeing a few…
Normally, the crested Guams (Penelope purpurascens) are not as tame as the ones that have found an endless supply of food at the Lakeview Villas where we were staying. Nor are they ground dwellers, preferring to live high up in the forest canopy and feed off of fruit they find up there, like the figs from the ficus trees we featured in our post last Monday. Similar to the Gray-headed Chachalacas (Ortalis cinereiceps) that you will meet next, they are members of the long-tailed family, Cracidae. Above them on the animal classification system they are also related to chickens, turkeys and other Galliformes, which is hardly surprising, given their body shape. They range from Mexico in the north to Ecuador and Venezuela in the south.
The smaller Chachalacas look a lot like the Guams minus the wattles and crests. At first we thought they might be their kids, especially given their obvious love of fruit. Closer inspection and a little research quickly defined them as a different species. Beyond looks, another defining characteristic is that they travel in groups ranging in size from 6 all the way up to 20. Ours was around 12. When these large birds make their way through trees, they sound like a herd of marauding elephants (slight exaggeration, but they are noisy.) It’s said that their name, Chachalacas, is derived from a sound they make early in the morning and late in the evening. We didn’t hear it in Nuevo Arenal, but I did one evening in Monteverde. I love the name.
The ‘here’s looking at you’ pose of a Chachalaca. Impressive nose hairs.Another perspective.They would arrive at the food station en masse. Any fruit was quickly disposed of…Tails down and looking around, at half mast and breaking fast, fully up and having sup. (A little humor for my poet friends who follow this blog.)Grooming/primping Chachalaca style. Were they getting ready for a group photo?Maybe. Grin. You may wonder what the Crested Guams felt about the Chachalacas showing up and gulping down all of the fruit. The following videos will give you an idea. The first demonstrates the greed of the Chachalacas at the food table and the Guams’ response. The second shows what Peggy and I found to be a rather hilarious chase scene where the Guam kept losing track of the Chachalaca it was supposed to be chasing! (Click on the photos.)
BTW: Wednesday’s UT-OH! Post is on “first dates and squashed skunks!”
As you might have expected the Guams had little tolerance for the Chachalacas scarfing down the fruit!
The view looking up into a Ficus Tree. These are all roots!
So, here’s the question: Do you like figs? Me, not so much— unless they are located in a Fig Newton. I carried them on backpack trips for years. They were yummy. The birds and monkeys and other animals of Costa Rica don’t have my finickiness when it comes to downing fresh figs; they devour them with relish. And then they poop out the seeds. No surprise there, of course, since they can’t digest them. It a relatively common way that seeds/plants are distributed.
But here is where it gets interesting in terms of Ficus costaricana, the strangler fig of Costa Rica. The bathroom for birds, bats, monkeys and other arboreal animals that eat figs is often up in the tree tops, the canopies, which is where the seeds sprout and turn into an epiphyte. For those of you who may not be up on botany, an epiphyte is a plant that grows on a tree or other plant without harming the tree by obtaining its nutrients from the surrounding air, water and debris instead of the tree. We even saw one thriving on a metal lamp post.
This epiphyte seemed quite happy growing on a lamp post in Nuevo Arenal, Costa Rica.
The ficus is something of an exception to the no-harm rule, however. It sends roots out that eventually reach the ground and start to feed the ficus directly. The roots grow in size, surround the tree, and dig deep into the ground. At the same time, the limbs shoot up to provide sunlight for the figs leaves. Between the roots stealing water, and the leaves stealing sunlight, the fig eventually kills its host. Not nice. The process isn’t actually strangulation, but the result is the same. Dead is dead. Eventually, the dead tree rots out, leaving the Ficus with a hollow core.
We were on our way to a waterfall when a hollow ficus tree became part of the trail . We had just crossed a rickety Indiana Jones type bridge. Peggy provides perspective. The waterfall is off to the left and will be featured in a future post.Another advantage of the hollow ficuses are that they provide great opportunities for tree climbers. Proving the point, our grandson, Connor perches about 15 feet up.One of the hanging roots that hadn’t yet reached the ground, provided a monkey-style swinging vine for our youngest grandson, Cooper. Had he hung on with one hand and pounded his chest, he could have been Tarzan!Another view looking up into the ficus tree. This giant was about a hundred yards away from where we were staying in Monteverde. The owner of the VRBO, Tobi, had taken us over to the tree and demonstrated swinging on the vine!And finally, our most unusual view of Ficus tree. The owners of this property called it simply La Raiz, the Root, and charged us $2 each to visit. The ‘root’ was well worth the price.It spanned a small creek and formed a bridge.A side view.Peggy on the other side of the bridge. I thought the roots made good candidates for rendering in black and white.Our son Tony thought the bridge provided a great place to sit. I’m pretty sure the boys would have made their way across the bridge, but parents (and grandparents) vetoed the option.Instead, they were all over the roots. A close up of our grandson Chris among the roots. His interest in bio-tech meant he spent much of his time in the jungle checking out the various plants. His bedroom resembles a greenhouse.The extent of the roots was impressive. These would have originally been under the ground but the creek had exposed them. It’s easy to see how the roots could have out-competed the host tree for water.Peggy and I preferred photographing them to crawling on them, wisely so, I suspect.
My next post: UT-OH Chapter 14: Surviving Baseball Bats and Dynamite Caps
While the Diamond Spring’s Firehouse has been rebuilt from when we were children, it still stands in the same location. It was about a block away from where we lived. The siren was loud. The sign at the top says Station 49. It’s appropriate. Diamond’s first firehouse was built in 1849 along what is now Highway 49. In comparison, this is the firehouse not all that different from what it looked like when I was a child, which I featured in my last post. As I recall, they did rebuild it once when I was a child. Pop wired it.
If it sounds like parental supervision of our bad behavior was somewhat lax in my growing up years, that’s because it was. There were times when our parents, or at least Mother, provided tacit approval of our misdeeds. Returning the cherries we confiscated from Pagonni’s orchard or the frogs from Pavy’s Pond was never an issue. They were quietly added to the pantry and happily consumed by all, including Pop. No questions asked.
Once we were even encouraged to break the law.
Because the dirt road we lived on circled the graveyard, the County decided it should be named Graveyard Alley. No one living on the road was asked for an opinion or informed of the decision. The signs simply appeared one day. Mother was infuriated and fired off a letter to the County Board of Supervisors. She was not going to live on Graveyard Alley! Nothing happened, there wasn’t even a response.
Marsh and I were given marching orders: Sometime around midnight go out and remove the signs. We carried out the charge with enthusiasm. No neighbors complained about this obvious act of vandalism since they weren’t particularly happy about living on Graveyard Alley either.
The County replaced the signs. We made another raid and this time the County got the point. They changed the name in honor of an old fellow, George Croft, who was an original resident. We all liked George. It became George’s Alley, which it still is today.
I’m convinced we inherited our trouble making potential from our mother. Pop was a good man who had avoided marriage until he was 38. He was the type of guy who served on the Vestry of the Church, was a Boy Scout leader, and was always available to help out a neighbor. I am sure there were times he wished he had avoided marriage for another 38 years. A lesser man might have said bye-bye and been on his way. But he took his role seriously and pushed on, through thick and thin.
Mother could be something of a ‘wild child,’ wilder than her wild children. Going to fires in Diamond Springs was an excellent example.
Pop was a volunteer fireman for Diamond. As an electrician, it was his job was to show up at burning houses and shut off electricity. When the siren wailed, he was off and running, as were all the other volunteer firemen in town. It was serious business.
For Mother and for us, it was high entertainment. We also took off at the sound of the siren, jumped in whatever old car we had, and sped along behind the fire truck. The time of day and activity of the moment didn’t matter. If it were three in the morning, we would jump out of bed and throw on our clothes; if we were eating, the meal would be abandoned; if we were playing, the toys would be dropped. Nothing could compete with a good fire. Our devotion to disaster was right up there in the same league as it is with today’s news media.
The star performer was someone’s house. There was excitement, danger and pathos. Firemen blasted away with their hoses in a desperate attempt to save the home while the unfortunate family looked on in dismay. But the climax, the Fourth of July finale, was when the roof and walls would crash down and shoot sparks and fire high into the sky. I did keep my oohs and ahhs to myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice whispered that our family outing was not totally appropriate.
“Your mother chases fire trucks,” one of my little buddies jeered at me in an argument.
My response at the time had been, “So…,” but later in life I would ponder what the towns-people must have thought about Mother, two or three kids, and a dog always showing up. Pop must have been terribly embarrassed. I remember him telling Mother once to stay far behind the fire engine and far away from the fire. He did it under the guise of being concerned for our safety. I now suspect he hoped we wouldn’t be recognized. But he never did have much success in telling Mother what to do. The siren’s call was not to be denied— for either one of them.
Monday’s Post: It’s back to Costa Rica where Peggy and I will show you a ficus, which I would bet is unlike any ficus/banyan/fig tree you have ever seen before unless you have been in Monteverde. No photos this time, I’m keeping it as a surprise. Here is a banyan tree we visited on the Big Island of Hawaii last year, however…
Bob Bray with his wife Linda and the world traveling Bone. Bob and I have been friends since the first grade. Here, he and his wife, joined in supporting me on my trek down the PCT to celebrate my 75th Birthday. (The trek ended up being 750 miles instead of 1000 because of several forest fires in 2018.) We would have been 12 at the time of the Wham-O-Caper.
While I had graduated from my would-be juvenile delinquent days, I was able to pull off a couple of capers without my brother’s influence. The first involved living up to Bertha Bray’s expectations.
For some unfathomable reason, Bob’s parents bought him a Wham-O Slingshot. I mean, how in the world can you expect a kid to be good when he starts playing with his Wham-O? The fact that I owned a Wham-O as well almost guaranteed trouble.
Bob and I agreed to meet for a clandestine hunting expedition. It had to be clandestine because I was still on Bertha Bray’s ‘do not invite’ list. Things were going great until we came upon the old abandoned hobo’s shack that was next to the Southern Pacific railroad track about a quarter of a mile from Bob’s home. Typical of such structures, it had been created out of anything that was available for free: old metal roofing, miscellaneous boards, an occasional nail, a thrown away mattress, etc.
Bob and I looked at each other and had a simultaneous thought. Out came the ammo for the Wham-Os: A shiny new marble for Bob and several BBs for me. We took careful aim, counted down, and let fly, using the derelict old building for target practice.
The Wham-O actually comes with a manual that tells you how to use it. It’s a serious slingshot!
To this day, Bob claims he saw his marble harmlessly strike the building while my BBs were smashing a window to smithereens. I of course saw Bob’s marble hit the window dead on while my BBs weren’t even close. The current occupant of the not abandoned home, who was washing dishes behind a willow bush in a small stream, saw something entirely different: two little boys smashing his pride and joy.
He let out a bellow and came charging up the trail. As he should have. Once again, the Mekemson Gang, along with its newest recruit, was on the run. The good news is that we escaped. The bad news was that the hobo recognized Bob. He went straight to his house. Mrs. Bray’s worst fears had been realized. (For the 50thAnniversary of our Wham-O Adventure, Bob sent me a slingshot. Bertha probably rolled over in her grave. Or maybe she chuckled.)
A prize 4-H pig at the Modoc County Fair in Northern California.
Tony Pavy’s prize pig was another case where Marshall was totally innocent. Tony had a large pond with bullfrogs, a hundred or so acres of scrubland, and a wooded hillside that housed a number of gray squirrels and blackberry vines loaded with the sweet, juicy fruit. His attitude was similar to that of Jimmy Pagonni: Children were not to be heard or seen on his property.
As with Pagonni, we didn’t allow Pavy to keep us from our appointed rounds. We would slip in at night to harvest his bullfrogs and during the day to harvest blackberries or bring down a squirrel. Tony had a very effective way of getting rid of us. In a very loud voice he would yell, “Mama, get my gun!” and we would streak out of there.
A couple of friends and I were hunting for the squirrels on his hillside when the unfortunate incident with the pig took place. But before I tell the story, I need to digress and provide some background information.
Growing up in Diamond Springs in the 50s meant having a gun and shooting things. At least it did if you were a boy. We graduated from BB guns and 22s to deer rifles and shotguns. Obtaining your first rifle was an experience similar in importance to obtaining your driver’s license, except you could get one a lot earlier. Before we were allowed to hunt, however, certain rules were pounded into our heads. We had to take a course sponsored by the National Rifle Association. These were the years when the NRA’s primary concern was about hunting and hunter safety, not promoting the use of automatic weapons.
I learned from the NRA instructor that it is important to know what you were shooting. This might seem obvious, but flat-landers out of Sacramento often had trouble making the distinction between a cow and a deer. Of a much more serious nature, every so often one would mistake another hunter for a deer. Wear red hats and bright clothes, we were taught. There were other things we weren’t supposed to shoot as well. People’s houses for example. Robins were also high on the list. They ate their weight daily in bugs. It was okay to shoot ‘vermin’ such as ground squirrels, jackrabbits, coyotes and the scrub jays that pecked away at pears. In fact there was a bounty on jays, $.25 per head. Marshall used it as a money-maker.
My usual preference was for watching wildlife, not killing it. I made an exception for gray squirrels. The thrill of the hunt combined with my appetite for a delicious squirrel and dumpling stew my mother whipped up overcame any reservations I had. All of which brings me back to the pig.
Gray squirrels have about the same appreciation for being shot that you or I might. To avoid this unhappy circumstance, they take off leaping through the trees. The one we had marked for dinner was jumping from limb to limb in a live oak tree on the hill above Pavy’s with all three of us shooting at it when we heard a bellow from the barnyard.
“Mama, get my gun! They shot my pig! They shot my pig! Hurry, Mama!”
I don’t know how fast Mama moved but we flew. By the time Ernie Carlson, the County Sheriff, and a Diamond Springs resident, caught up with us we were far away from Pavy’s and about as innocent as newborn piglets.
“Excuse me, boys,” the Sheriff remarked when he pulled over in his car and rolled down his window, “I don’t suppose you know anything about Tony Pavy’s pig being shot.”
“No, sir,” we replied respectfully in unison. We had rehearsed. Besides, we were technically correct. We hadn’t shot Pavy’s pig; we hadn’t even shot the squirrel. It was a ricocheting bullet that did in the pig.
Ernie looked at us dubiously.
“Pavy told me there were three kids about your age,” the Sheriff said as he continued to build pressure, hoping that one of us would break.
“We’ve been out in back of Ot Jone’s Pond,” I argued indignantly. And we had been. So what if we had arrived there out of breath.
“Well, you kids behave yourselves,” the Sheriff said with an ominous I know you’re lying tone.
We breathed a joint sigh of relief as he rolled up his window and drove off. Once more we had avoided a fate we probably deserved. I suspect now that Ernie was not one hundred percent dedicated to finding the alleged pig murderers. Tony was not universally loved in the community for several reasons, of which threatening to shoot kids was one.
For example: My father did some electrical work for him for free. As he was leaving, Tony asked, “Would you like one of my geese for dinner?”
“Sure,” Pop had replied, assuming Pavy was offering it as thanks for his four hours of work.
“Good,” Tony had replied, “that will be five dollars.” Pop was more than a little irritated. He had a hearty laugh years later when I told him about our adventure with the pig. I wisely avoided telling him at the time, however. His perspective on our miscreant behavior softened substantially with distance and age.
Friday’s Post: One of my classmates in grade school insults me by saying “Your Mother Chases Fire Trucks.” So what if it was true.
An early photo of the Diamond Springs Firehouse with Volunteer Firemen. The siren that called the Volunteers, including Pop, is on the right.
Our jungle night hike in Costa Rica introduced us to the Owl Butterfly in addition to the tarantula, pit vipers, and scorpions we featured on that post. Some fun, huh. This owl butterfly photo was taken during the day at the Monteverde Butterfly Gardens, where we visited to see it, and other butterflies of Costa Rica, up close.
The owl butterfly is so named because the large spot on the lower part of the wing. It has a matching spot on the other wing that resemble an owl’s eyes when the wings are open and seen from below. It’s called mimicry. One theory is that predators see the eyes and decide that fleeing is a better option than chomping lest they end up being the chompee. Another theory is that the predator sees the eyes and thinks that they represent the head of the butterfly, bites down, and get a mouthful of wing instead of the body. Given that the owl butterfly is one of the giants of the butterfly world with a 6-8 inch wing span, it has plenty of wing left to still fly. Either theory leaves the butterfly free to complete its goal in life, which is to breed and have babies, i.e. lay eggs.
The eggs hatch into tiny caterpillars that come with a voracious appetite and quickly grow in size. Molting frequently, they change their looks each time. The caterpillar on the right is a younger version of the caterpillar on the left. The large hole in the banana leaf is why the big caterpillar is so big. It’s also the reason why banana farmers aren’t particularly fond of these insects that can grow 5 to 6 inches long off of devouring their plants before entering their chrysalis stage.From the perspective of the banana leaf, these owl caterpillars must look like one long gut approaching. The biggest one is about to enter the chrysalis stage of the metamorphous from caterpillar to butterfly. The first step is for to dissolve into a nutrient rich goop. Specialized cells that survive the melting process then utilize the nutrients to develop into the adult butterfly.The owl butterfly is quite beautiful when seen from above with its wings in open position. Here it was busy consuming watermelon that staff had left out for it. On the right is another one of Costa Rica’s best known butterflies, the blue morpho.Here a number of blue morpho are simultaneously hatching out of their chrysalis at a special hatching station that the Monteverde Butterfly Garden maintains for this purpose. Their wings have to dry and harden before they are ready to fly.Peggy found this blue morph chrysalis looking leaflike out in the Monteverde Butterfly Gardens. The chrysalis of the owl butterfly, btw, resembles the head of a viper. Both the leaf and the viper chrysalises are two more examples of evolutionary mimicry.A blue morph resting on leaves.A blue morpho gave us a brief glimpse of the vibrant blue color of its inner wing that gives the butterfly its name.
And now, for a quick look at some of the other beauties we photographed at the Monteverde Butterfly Gardens. Given that there are between 1200 and 1500 species of butterflies in Costa Rica, I’m late with this post, and my mind is on butterfly overload, I didn’t have time to pin down all the names.
Set off by green, a Green Longwing Butterfly. Great camouflage. One of a number of butterflies that pretend to be dead leaves. This may be excellent camouflage on leaf litter covered forest floor. Not so good here.Red spots. This may be a ‘see me, see me’ look as opposed to camouflage. The caterpillars of some butterflies feast on plants that are poisonous to birds, lizards and other predators. The poison is transferred to the butterfly. Instead of hiding, the butterfly, announces its presence with bright colors that are designed to tell predators ‘You really don’t want to eat me.’ Other butterflies may adopt the same colorization in what is known as Batesian mimicry. They aren’t poisonous, but who’s to know the difference?Lunch. Butterflies, unlike caterpillars, sip nectar with their long proboscis instead of eating leaves. This is a HeliconiusSara (I think.)This sulfur colored butterfly is using its proboscis to sip watermelon juice. Note the color of the proboscis. Many Costa Rican butterflies take advantage of fallen, rotting (translate fermenting) fruit for food. They can actually become a little tipsy.This one looks like the same species as above with its wings open.Brown on green.I call this a finger butterfly since it landed on Peggy’s finger and refused to get off. It may be a Crimson Longwing.I’m going with a Malachite Butterfly on this one.And this one as well even through the colors are dramatically different. But note how close the pattern of their spots is. The butterflies often rested on the screens that kept them in the butterfly houses. Maybe they were longing to be free.Peggy’s favorite, a Starry Night Cracker Butterfly.And a final beauty. This is a Variable Cracker Butterfly. The unusual cracker name is said to come from the noise they make when they are flying.As for what noise that is, I lifted this: “The Cracker butterfly gets its name because the males are able to produce a crackling sound, reminiscent of bacon cooking in a frying pan. They make the sound when they take off, by twanging a pair of spiny rods on their abdomen against their anal claspers.” Not sure about the anal clasper but it brings a vision to mind.
Next Post: It’s back to UT-OH with two more final tales about the Mekemson Gang. There’s the issue of how I lived up to Bertha Brays expectations about my leading her son astray (although there’s an issue of who led who.) And there’s a question about why Tony Pavy wanted to shoot me. It had to do with his pig.
Night tours are big in Monteverde, Costa Rica. Every corner seems to advertise one. Take a dash of the exotic, throw in a pinch of danger, add a competent, knowledgeable guide— and how can one resist? No wonder there were at least 10 companies to choose from. There is big money to be made. We paid our $300 and off we went. We had an excellent guide, Marvin. He found us each of the big three, don’t mess with me, attractions, plus more.
This iridescent, blue-green fellow was one of the creatures we came across. Actually, our youngest grandson, Cooper, spotted it first. Our son Tony claimed ‘That’s because Cooper is closest to the ground.” You will recognize this blue-green insect for what he is. A scorpion. I’ve seen many over the years. But never one of this striking color. They all pack a mean sting. Costa Rica claims that no one has ever died in the country from a scorpion. Well, except for that one girl…This one seemed almost tame in comparison. Our grandson, Chris, found it crawling up the wall behind him where he was watching TV at our VRBO. “Grandpa,” he yelled, “You have to see this.” “Well, hello,” I said, to the scorpion, and sent Chris scurrying for something to catch it with. He came back with a martini glass, i.e. large top, shallow bottom. Not ideal for catching something that packs a wallop in its tail, but great for a double martini if you get stung. Make it a triple. I slapped it over the top of scorpion but missed the offending appendage. It was swishing around trying to find me. I turned the glass right side up and he slid to the bottom, looking thoroughly peeved. “Just be glad it’s me,” I told him. “Anyone else and you’d be a grease spot on the wall.” It waved its tail at me in a single digit salute. I took him over to our balcony and tossed him out of the glass into the shrubs below. Chris, Peggy and I made a pact not to tell anyone else in our household. Mom might have had them packing.Next, on our pitch dark night, Marvin found a baby green pit viper known by the scientific name of Bothriechis lateralis, or if you prefer something you can pronounce, a side-striped palm pit viper. Apparently, they like to hang out in palms. Note its distinctive triangle shaped head: A sure sign you are dealing with a viper. Translate poisonous. There would be no trying to catch it! Least of all in a martini glass. I took this photo.Marvin, carried a spotting scope that gave us another view of the side-striped palm viper. He used Tony’s cell phone to take a photo through the scope. Here, you can see the stripe along its side. We each carried flashlights so we could see the trail plus light up whatever we wanted photos of. Not too far down the trail, we found an adult side-striped palm viper and Marvin took this photo through his spotting scope.I focused in on the upper part of its body. The viper, like New World monkeys, has a prehensile tail. It can use it to wrap around a limb while it dangles and relaxes. Or, he can whip it out to wrap around and retrieve dinner in the form of lizards and small rodents. While poisonous, few people die from its bite. Not so the lizards or a tasty mouse. The final member of our trio, a Costa Rican zebra tarantula, also known as the striped-knee tarantula. Peggy took this photo. These large spiders dig deep burrows into the ground which helps regulate temperatures. It’s reported that they often live together in large numbers. One was enough for us, but I must say, it was quite striking.Just so this post doesn’t give you nightmares, our night tour also produced less threatening species. This is Lesson’s Motmot seen through Marvin’s spotting scope. An owl butterfly. Marvin told us it was one of the largest butterflies in Costa Rica. It has large spots on the lower parts of its wings that resemble owl’s eyes when its wings are open.
Next up, the Mekemson Kids Did It: Something go wrong in Diamond Springs? Who do you blame? Like the gunslingers of the Old West, we developed a reputation that far exceeded our capacity for mischief.
I mentioned in my last post that there were no photos of the Pond or the Woods. They were victims of the endless march of ‘civilization.’ Fortunately, and I should add, so far, there are still wild places on earth. Costa Rica has many. Some, such as Monteverde, are attracting hordes of tourists. There’s good and bad news here. Among the good is that the tourists provide Costa Rica with a welcome source of income and the opportunity for the tourists to enjoy the beauty and wildlife of Costa Rica. The bad news is the incredible commercialization that goes along with it and the impact. It’s similar to when the large cruise ships drop thousands of people onto the small Greek Island of Santorini, or our most popular National Parks in America turn into traffic jams in the summer. But enough on that. The tree above was a new one to me, a fern tree. There are more photos below after my UT-OH chapter on the Woods.
Part 2: The Woods
The Woods, like the Pond, earned a capital letter. To get there I walked out the back door, down the alley past the Graveyard, and through a pasture Jimmy Pagonni rented for his cattle. Tackling the pasture involved crawling through a rusty barbed wire fence, avoiding fresh cow pies, climbing a hill, and jumping an irrigation ditch. The journey was fraught with danger. Hungry barbed wire consumed several of my shirts and occasionally went for my back.
Torn clothing and bleeding scratches were a minor irritation in comparison to stepping in fresh cow poop, though. A thousand-pound, grass-eating machine produces acres of the stuff. Deep piles sneak up your foot and slosh over into your shoes. Toes hate this. Even more treacherous are the little piles that hide out in the grass. A well-placed patty can send you sliding faster than black ice. The real danger here is ending up with your butt in the pile. I did that, once. Happily, no one was around to witness my misfortune, or hear my language, except Tickle the Dog. I swore him to secrecy. He knew many of my secrets. It’s a damned good thing he couldn’t talk.
For all of its hazards, the total hike to the Woods took about 15 minutes. Digger pines with drunken windmill limbs guarded the borders while gnarly manzanita and spiked chaparral dared the casual visitor to venture off the trail. Poison oak proved more subtle but effective in discouraging exploration.
I could count on raucous California jays to announce my presence, especially if I was stalking a band of notorious outlaws. Ground squirrels were also quick to whistle their displeasure. Less talkative jackrabbits merely ambled off upon spotting me, put on a little speed for a hyper Cocker, and became bounding blurs in the presence of a hungry greyhound. Flickers, California quail and acorn woodpeckers held discussions in distinctive voices I soon learned to recognize.
From the beginning, I felt at home in the Woods, like I belonged. I quickly learned that its hidden recesses contained a multitude of secrets. I was eager to learn what they had to teach me, but the process seemed glacial. It required patience and I hardly knew how to spell the word. I did know how to sit quietly, however. This was a skill I had picked up from the hours I spent with my nose buried in books. The woodland creatures prefer their people noisy. A Curt stomping down the trail, snapping dead twigs, and talking to himself was easy to avoid, while a Curt being quiet might surprise them.
One gray squirrel was particularly loud in his objections. He lived in the top branches of a digger pine beside the trail and maintained an observation post on an overhanging limb. When he heard me coming, he would adopt his ‘you can’t see me gray squirrel playing statue pose.’ But I knew where to look. I would find a comfortable seat and stare at him. It drove him crazy. Soon he would start to thump the limb madly with his foot and chirr loudly. He had pine nuts to gather, a stick home to remodel, and a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed lady to woo. I was blocking progress. Eventually, if I didn’t move, his irritation would bring him scrambling down the trunk for an up-close and personal scolding.
After about 10 minutes of continuous haranguing, he’d decide I was a harmless, if obnoxious aberration and go about his business. That’s when I begin to learn valuable secrets, like where he hid his pine nuts. It was also a sign for the rest of the wildlife to come out of hiding. A western fence lizard might work its way to the top of the dead log next to me and start doing push-ups. Why, I couldn’t imagine. Or perhaps a thrush would begin to scratch up the leaves under the manzanita in search of creepy tidbits. The first time I heard one, it sounded like a very large animal interested in little boy flesh.
Occasionally there were special treats: A band of teenage gray squirrels playing tag and demonstrating their incredible acrobatics; a doe leading its shy, speckled fawn out to drink in the small stream that graced the Wood’s meadow; a coyote sneaking up on a ground squirrel hole with an intensity I could almost feel.
I also began to play at stalking animals. At some point in time between childhood and becoming a teenager, I read James Fennimore Cooper and began to think I was a reincarnation of Natty Bumppo. Looking back, I can’t say I was particularly skilled, but no one could have told me so at the time. At least I learned to avoid dry twigs, walk slowly, and stop frequently.
Occasionally, I even managed to sneak up on some unsuspecting woodland creature.
If the birds and the animals weren’t present, they left signs for me. There was always the helter-skelter pack rat nest to explore. Tickle liked to tear them apart, quickly sending twigs flying in all directions. There were also numerous tracks to figure out. Was it a dog or coyote that had stopped for a drink out of the stream the night before? Tickle knew instantly, but I had to piece it together. A sinuous trail left by a slithery serpent was guaranteed to catch my attention. This was rattlesnake country. Who’d been eating whom or what was another question? The dismantled pinecone was easy to figure out, but who considered the bark on a young white fir a delicacy? And what about the quail feathers scattered haphazardly beside the trail?
Scat, I learned, was the tracker’s word for shit. It offered a multitude of clues for what animals had been ambling down the trail and what they had been eating. There were deer droppings and rabbit droppings and mouse droppings descending in size. Coyotes left their distinctive dog-like scat but the presence of fur suggested that something other than dog food had been on the menu. Some scat was particularly fascinating, at least to me. Burped up owl pellets provided a treasure chest of bones— little feet, little legs and little skulls that grinned back with the vacant stare of slow mice.
While Tarzan hung out in the Graveyard and pirates infested the Pond, mountain men, cowboys, Indians, Robin Hood and various bad guys roamed the Woods. Each bush hid a potential enemy that I would indubitably vanquish. I had the fastest two fingers in the West and I could split a pine nut with an imaginary arrow at 50 yards. I never lost. How could I? It was my fantasy.
Daydreams were only a part of the picture. I fell in love with wandering in the Woods and playing on the Pond. There was an encyclopedia of knowledge available and a multitude of lessons about life. Learning wasn’t a conscious effort, however; it was more like absorption. The world shifted for me when I entered the Woods and time slowed down. A spider with an egg sack was worth five minutes, a gopher pushing dirt out of its hole, 20, and a deer with a fawn, a lifetime.
It isn’t surprising that I became known as Nature Boy by my classmates, given all the time I spent in the woods. I considered it a compliment.
The hanging bridges of Monteverde gave us a unique opportunity to study both the canopy and the forest beneath. There were six bridges at Treetopia Park. At 774 feet, this was the longest. It was also more open. The canopy towered over most of the bridges.One bridge provided us with an opportunity look down on a fern tree. The leaves were a definite clue that we were looking at a fern.As did how the leaves unfold or unfurl known as Circinate vernation. This has always fascinated me about ferns. I have many photos of different species. But given that there are 10-12000 or more know species, I have a few to go…Here’s a different species at Treetopia.And another. Both tropical and temperate rainforests provide ideal conditions for ferns to grow. Some can be giants. We spotted these down on the ground from the hanging bridge. I wish I had a person down on the ground to provide perspective. They would have made my 5 feet 11 inches appear small.
I’d love to show you a photo of the Pond, or the Woods. Unfortunately I didn’t take any photos of either when I was young. I went back a few years ago to photograph the sites that were so important to my childhood— and life. The Pond had become a large gas station and the Woods had become a trailer park. It’s called progress. There was money to be made.
Instead you have a gorgeous sunset photo over Monteverde, Costa Rica taken by our grandson, Cooper, who is in the eighth grade. Our son, Tony, his wife, Cammie and their three boys, Connor, Chris, and Cooper have joined us this week. We are situated up on a high hill surrounded by rainforest. It even has vines that are safe to swing on and a view that looks all the way to the Pacific Ocean. We sent the boys out with our cameras to explore the surrounding woods and take photos of what they found most interesting. There are more pictures after today’s UT-OH tale.
Part 1: The Pond
There came a time when the Graveyard no longer met my wandering needs. I started traveling farther and farther afield, 15 minutes at a time. That’s how far the Pond and the Woods were away. They were where I played and, more importantly, where I developed a life-long love of the natural world. As such, they earned a capital P and capital W. First up: The Pond.
There were a number of ponds in the area. Oscar ‘Ot’ Jones had one on his ranch for cattle; Caldor had one where logs waited for their appointment with the buzz saw; Forni had one over the hill from his slaughterhouse, and Tony Pavy had one that was supposedly off-limits. But there was only one capital P Pond, the one next to the Community Hall. If I told Marshall, my parents or my friends I was going to the Pond, they knew immediately where I would be.
It was a magical place filled with catfish, mud turtles, bullfrogs and pirates. Although the Pond was small, it had a peninsula, island, deep channel, cattails and shallows. In the spring, redwing blackbirds nested in the cattails and filled the air with melodic sounds. Mallards took advantage of the island’s safety to set up housekeeping. Catfish used holes in the bank of the peninsula to deposit hundreds of eggs that eventually turned into large schools of small black torpedoes dashing about in frenetic unison. Momma bullfrogs laid eggs in strings that grew into chubby pollywogs. When they reached walnut size, tiny legs sprouted in one of nature’s miracles of transformation. Water snakes slithered through the water with the sole purpose of thinning out the burgeoning frog population. I quickly learned to recognize the piteous cry of a frog being consumed whole. Turtles liked to hang out in the shallows where any log or board provided a convenient sunning spot. They always slid off at our appearance but a few quiet minutes would find them surfacing to reclaim lost territory.
By mid-summer the Pond would start to evaporate. The shallow areas surrendered first, sopped up by the burning sun. Life became concentrated in a few square yards of thick, tepid water, only inches deep and supported by a foot of squishy mud. All too soon the Pond was bone-dry with mud cracked and curled. Turtles, snakes and frogs crawled, slithered and hopped away to other nearby water. Catfish dug their way into the mud and entered a deep sleep, waiting for the princely kiss of winter rains. Ducks flew away quacking loudly, leaving only silence behind.
Fall and winter rains found the Pond refilling and then brimming. Cloudy, gray, wind-swept days rippled the water and created a sense of melancholy that even an eight-year-old could feel.
But melancholy was a rare emotion for the Pond. To us, it was a playground with more options than an amusement park. A few railroad ties borrowed from Caldor and nailed together with varying sized boards made great rafts for exploring the furthest, most secret corners of the Pond. Imagination turned the rafts into ferocious pirate ships that ravaged and pillaged the far shores, or primitive bumper cars guaranteed to dunk someone, usually me.
In late spring, the Pond became a swimming hole, inviting us to test still cold waters. One spring, thin ice required a double and then triple-dare before we plunged in. It was a short swim. Swimsuits were always optional and rarely worn. I took my first swimming lessons there and mastered dog paddling with my cocker spaniel, Tickle, providing instructions. More sophisticated strokes would wait for more sophisticated lakes.
Frogs and catfish were for catching and adding to the family larder. During the day, a long pole with fishing line attached to a three-pronged hook and decorated with red cloth became irresistible bait for bullfrogs. At night, a flashlight and a spear-like gig provided an even more primitive means of earning dinner. The deep chug-a-rums so prominent from a distance became silent as we approached. Stealth was required. A splash signified failure as our quarry decided that sitting on the bottom of the Pond was preferable to joining us for dinner.
Victory meant a gourmet treat, frog legs. Preparation involved amputating the frog’s hind legs at the hips and then pealing the skin off like tights. It was a lesson I learned early: If you catch it, you clean it. We were required to chop off the big feet as well. Mother didn’t like being reminded that a happy frog had been attached hours earlier. She also insisted on delayed gratification. Cooking the frog legs on the same day they were caught encouraged them to jump around in the frying pan. “Too creepy!” she declared.
Catching catfish required nerves of steel. We caught them by hand as they lurked with heads protruding from their holes in the banks. Nerves were required because the catfish had serious weapons, needle sharp fins tipped with stingers that packed a wallop. They had to be caught exactly right and held firmly, which was not easy when dealing with a slimy fish trying to avoid the frying pan. But their taste was out of this world and had the slightly exotic quality of something that ate anything that couldn’t eat them.
Next up on Wednesday: The Woods. On Friday, we will focus on some of our Costa Rica adventures.
Chris, who is a sophomore in high school, had watched a capybara as it disappeared into the woods. Later when he was visiting a waterfall, one did him the courtesy of hanging out long enough for a photo.Connor, who is a junior, actually preferred to have a photo of himself taken up a banyan tree without a ladder. His passion for high places reminds us of his dad when he was his age. Here are the boys together at the base of the banyan tree: Chris on the left, Connor in the back, and Cooper on the right.Our other activity of the day was to explore the forest canopy on hanging bridges. There were 6 different bridges. This one had a glass bottom you could see the jungle below. That’s grandma, Peggy, down on the end. Next up on Wednesday, the Woods.
This is the fourth post in our focus series on Burning Man including one on mutant vehicles, one on sculptures, and an overview from our last trip to Burning Man in 2023. Today, I am going to feature the Temples of Burning Man, which are both beautiful and sacred— as suggested in the headline. A quick look at the Temple of Grace above speaks to the beauty of the structures. I will provide examples from seven more years below, plus an introduction to what Burners will see this year. Given that there have been 25 Temples so far, my objective is to simply provide a sample. In our 12 years of attending Burning Man, we have never seen a temple that we didn’t consider special.
The process of selecting and building the Temple each year starts with various artists submitting proposals to Burning Man for different designs. This is an artistic rendering of the temple selected for 2026— James Gwertzman’s proposal for the Temple of the Moon. His inspiration was the Queen of the Night desert flower, a flower that blooms and dies in one night. The design rendering of the Temple above is by Gwertzman, and the dawn rendering is by artist Annie Locke Scherer. (Burning Man Journal)Artistic rendering of the 2026 Temple at night. (Burning Man Journal)Artistic rendering of the inside of the 2026 Temple. (Burning Man Journal)Early morning view of the 2014 Temple of Grace at Burning Man. Temples are funded by a major grant from Burning Man plus fundraising. A close look at the structure speaks to the amount of work that goes into building one of the temples. It is mainly done by volunteers. The work starts as soon as the project is chosen. Wood is cut prior to Burning Man and then brought to the site. Depending on the complexity of the project, a volunteer crew of 100-200 people arrives at Burning Man 2-3 weeks before the event to assemble the pieces.Looking up from inside the Temple of Grace.The 2013 Temple of Whollyness at Burning Man was a pyramid-shaped structure of interlocking wood that used no nails, glue, or metal fasteners. It was surrounded by four smaller pyramids.A large altar or ‘cairn’ constructed of black, igneous basalt was located inside the Temple. Cairns are normally large piles of rock arranged in a cone-like formation as a way to mark routes through wilderness areas. I’ve often followed them, or their smaller cousins, ducks, as I’ve hiked and backpacked through the wild regions of North America. In case you are wondering what a ‘duck’ looks like…The temple was filled with them. The symbolism was obvious: Helping people find their way. This photo also shows how some of the wooden, interlocking devices were use to build the Temple.The 2010 Temple of Flux at Burning Man stressed impermanence in life. This photo was taken from the Man looking out across the Playa to the mountains of the Black Rock Desert. While the creators of the Temple noted that their inspiration came from desert canyons carved by wind and water, I thought that the outer structure resembled a sand dune, a perfect example of impermanence. The people on the pathway are biking/hiking between the Man and the Temple. At night, the poles held lit lamps. The buildings in the back were an urban representation of Wall Street. It was located close to the fence that marks the boundary of Burning Man.One of the entrances to the Temple of Flux We included the Temple of Heart in the Post we did on our 2023 trip to Burning Man. Unfortunately the rains hit the day before we had planned to visit it. Everything we saw from the outside was beautiful, however. I read that it took 1000 volunteers to build the Temple.The 2007 Temple of Forgiveness at Burning Man. This Temple was created by David Best, who was responsible for the design and building of several Burning Man Temples. Looking up from inside the 2007 Temple of Forgiveness.The top of the 2009 Fire of Fires Temple was designed to look like flames, reflecting that temples are burned on the last day of Burning Man.The Fire of Fires Temple at night.Of the Burning Man Temples that Peggy and I have seen, the 2015 Temple of Promise was one of our favorite because of its beauty and design.Early one morning, we joined hands with a few hundred other Burners surrounding the Temple as the sun rose.This back view provides a perspective on its cornucopia-like structure.A daytime view inside the Temple of PromiseThe Temple of Promise at night.My rendering of the Temple of Promise in black and white. Note the single lamp.The theme for the 2012 Burning Man was fertility. The name of that year’s temple was Juno, a Roman goddess of fertility, motherhood, and childbirth.This is an early morning photo of the Temple of Juno by our friend Tom Lovering.The Temple of Juno at night.Looking up inside the Temple of Juno at night. Note the intricate carving.A large courtyard surrounding the Temple of Juno provided places for people to gather and relax. It also provided space for Burners to leave messages expressing love, grief, hope, fear and anger, as well as thanks for blessings received. Literally thousands of people leave messages annually, most inside of the Temple.Sometimes, it seems like every inch of available space is used. A quick glance gives an overview on the breadth of messages. I particularly liked the one in the upper left hand corner: “Goodbye to who I thought I was.” More than one person has left Burning Man with that perspective!Another example. Numerous pets are also memorized: a final opportunity to say goodbye.A loving tribute to Zippy: Zippy’s ball, hairbrush, and bed.Whatever the message, it burns along with the Temple on the last night of Burning Man each year. This is the Temple of Juno going up in flames, releasing the thousands of messages that Burners left in, on and around it— honoring those who have passed on, expressing love for those who still live, and letting go of anger, hate and other negative emotions. Our Burning Man focus next week will be on unique structures found out on the Playa such as La Llorona, the large ship seen above.
My next blog-a-book post this Thursday will be my childhood experiences of “looking for God in all the wrong places.” While I don’t have a photo, I thought that this picture I took at Burning Man below is relevant…
Art comes in many forms at Burning Man— from massive sculptures, to mutant vehicles, impressive buildings, costumes, performances, photography, murals, etc. There is no other place in the world that inspires as much creativity for a one week period.Today, I am going to consider some of Peggy and my favorite sculptures from our 12 years of visiting The Black Rock Desert. Where else could one find oil tankers welded together?Or Medusa.Not a ‘do’ you could get (or want) from your local hairdresser.Can you imagine the amount of work that goes into putting these creations together?While Medusa may give you nightmares, many of the sculptures are created with a sense of humor. Meet the Queen Bee with enormous boobs.Or join me as I photograph the nostrils of the sphinx…You probably didn’t see this coming.A 20 foot tall goofy rabbit. (Tom Lovering took this photo.)As I recall, these colorful characters were outside the Silicon Valley Village. Was there a message for us? The one on the left looks a bit like Elon.I really liked this dog.And these cats.It isn’t surprising that a flying saucer crash landed at Burning Man. It is located, after all, in the Nevada desert and all the ETs wandering around have to come from somewhere. This baby flying saucer, on the other hand, was a bit surprising.Was the Man keeping an eye on Junior from his flying saucer perch? There is plenty of mischief one can get into around Burning Man. Adult supervision is required…(Photo by Tom Lovering)Like dancing to this wild rabbit fiddling away at Center Camp. It’s not the dancing that would impact baby flying saucer, it was dancing into the wee hours as Burners do. Babies need their sleep. (Photo by our friend Don Green.)This guy, listening to the rabbit, came close to losing his pants while getting down to boogie.The little fellow might run into a dragon.Or, worse, a dragon guarding its egg! That’s one ferocious momma.Best to pass by when it’s sleeping.Then, there is pitchfork man who was seriously unbalanced…And monstrous bugs hatching and spreading out over the Playa. (Photo by Don Green.)One certainly wouldn’t want to run into this horny spider with crossed swords after dark.Or a Texas longhorn emerging from the Playa.The little guy needn’t worry, however. There is plenty of love at Burning Man.The key is letting go of your ego…And believing. For example, this monster robot was just out walking with his dog and carrying a flower.The large pink rabbit let a little kid run up and hug its leg.And the giant butterfly invited folks to relax and enjoy the view. (Photo by Don Green.)A 50 foot tall couple was willing to share hugs…And the ferocious looking Coyote was only howling at the moon.Babies (inner children) reached out to each other, providing hope…And lots of aliens cleverly disguised as topless Burners were available to look out for baby saucer. (Otherwise, they might be stuck on Earth, which they had serious doubts about at this time.)A lighthouse was available to provide guidance…To wherever in the world the little guy might want to travel…There were plenty of bicycles to borrow for local transportation (some fixing required).And a rocket ship to provide a boost into outer space if needed.Woohoo!And now that the baby flying saucer has been taken care of, here are some of our other favorite Burning Man sculptures…These blocks seemed to be reaching for infinity…A head made of bricks was Earthy, according to his forehead.A mask with glowing eyes stared out at passing Burners. Not sure what this was meant to signify, but it has always been a favorite of mine. One wonders where all of the Burners are. But if you get far enough out on the Playa, they are few and far between. Big feet, big heart? Yes, there is a person up there. A general rule at Burning Man is, if it can be climbed, it is climbed.Ghost tree made out of bones. No climbing this. A sign told Burners to stay off. But….no guarantees.Mirror image. Every time we passed by this sculpture, someone was taking a selfie. Usually posing. I took a photo of myself taking a photo of myself while sitting on my bike. Flight.Lotus flower with a distant view, which brings us to…Giants. This was from 2006 Burning Man. Several giant male and female statues were facing an oil derrick. The oil tankers shown at the beginning were from the same year. “Hope and Fear: The Future” was the theme.The human body has fascinated artists forever. Burning Man was blessed with these sculptures. There were three in the series. This was known as Truth Is Beauty.And she was beautiful at night as well as during the day. The sculpture was constantly changing color.R-Evolution was another of the three giant sculptures by Michael Cochrane. A close up. Note the internal structure, which also shows up prominently in the two photos above.And finally, Bliss. My favorite because she is obviously having fun.I’ll conclude with this close up. I had fun playing with both the form and colors. Like much that happens at Burning Man, these sculptures rightfully received world-wide attention. I was surprised to find that one of my photos even showed up in a French poetry magazine. (They didn’t ask, but they did give credit.)Next in the Burning Man Focus Series, we’ll take a look at the striking and unusual Temples of Burning Man.
On Thursday, I’ll post the next in my UT-OH! blog-a-book series: The tale of how MC the Cat barely avoided having his danglies cut off, which, much to his dismay, would have ended his tomcatting ways.
Wandering through Time and Place 