Since the popular tourist town of La Fortuna was only 30 miles away from Nuevo Arenal where we were staying, we decided to drive over and check it out. La Fortuna had avoided being destroyed by the violent eruption of Mt. Arenal in 1968 and used the continuing volcanic action over the following 40 years to draw tourists from around the world. While the volcano ceased its activity in 2010, its smoking top still provides a popular attraction for visitors.
Mt. Arenal looms above the Costa Rica town of La Fortuna, a mere 6 miles away. It was cloudy when we visited so we couldn’t see the smoke that that escapes from the top. The red sign on the right proclaims Vulcan Arenal and points toward the mountain. A fan palm reaches out from the right. We were on the Big Island of Hawaii last year when Kīlauea was erupting, so we understand the attraction of a live volcano— as long as it is behaving itself.This photo from Wikimedia Commons of Mt. Arenal during its active but non-destructive phase shows why millions of tourists would have made their way to La Fortuna.Signs along the road advertised different ways tourists might want to enjoy the mountain. Options here included on the back of a horse, from a zip-line, or on your feet. The unreadable sign down on the right pushed using ATVs. For more laidback tourists, several hot springs— created by underground water’s close proximity to lava— demanded a visit. Numerous storefront operations along the streets of La Fortuna were eager to sign up visitors for these, and other tours. For example, one could repel down a waterfall, hike on hanging bridges, tour chocolate and coffee farms, or go on wildlife tours. The latter included seeing sloths.Good views of Mt. Arenal can be seen from anywhere in the town, including behind Iglesia de La Fortuna de San Carlos, the town’s Catholic Church.A small but attractive town park in front of the church featured Costa Rica’s flag…A large heart where visitors could have a photo taken. Peggy decided that I should be in one. And…Bunches of Cana lilies. These beauties, which can be found in flower gardens around the world, are actually native to Costa Rica.A block away, we found a mural featuring a jaguar and a woman. The thrush seems to be whispering something in the girl’s ear while its cousin, a robin, looks on.For lunch, we decided that eating in the lava lounge (on the right) was appropriate.A painting inside displayed an exploding Mt. Arenal. Peggy insisted on taking a photo, a challenge since the glass covering it reflected light coming in from the windows.
We thought the message was clear. An exploding volcano might be a mind boggling sight, but it isn’t something you would want in your backyard. The name of the town reminded me of the Roman Goddess, Fortuna. She was the goddess of fate, and could be rather fickle, bringing both good and bad luck. La Fortuna was on the good luck side. The nearby villages of Tabacón, Pueblo Nuevo, and San Luís were on the other. They had been completely destroyed by pyroclastic flows in 1968. The explosion had been so powerful that it had tossed up massive lava bombs weighing several tons. The giant boulders had been thrown a distance of a half mile traveling at speeds of 1300 miles per hour. If volcanos played baseball, I’d want Arenal on my team!When I went to use the men’s restroom in the restaurant, I found a kitty litter box right next to it, complete with a kitty taking care of business. How appropriate! Peggy and I laughed. We had to take a photo. The Lava Lounge is known for its rescue work with stray dogs and cats roaming the streets of La Fortuna.A sign on the wall declared “Love for all living creatures is the most notable human attribute,” a sentiment we agree with.After lunch, Peggy and I wandered around the small town checking out various shops. Peggy, whose love of chocolate is legendary, had to buy a dark chocolate bar. It came with this interesting wrapper. The label on top declared it as Nahua Costa Rican Chocolate. The Nahuas are an indigenous tribe of Mexico and Central America, ancestors of the Aztecs. They would have used chocolate extensively, consuming it as a bitter, frothy beverage known as xocolātl. Cocoa beans were also used for money. If you are familia with the movie Chocolat, Vianne would likely have been a descendant of the Nahua.On our way out of town we passed an artist’s studio with this statue. A carved sloth is climbing on the tree behind. A primitive monster posed above Earth. Was it going to gobble up the planet? And why did my mind jump to politics?Our trip to and from La Fortuna from Nuevo Arenal produced several interesting sights. This large truck demonstrated the width of the road. Passing wasn’t much of an option. When two large trucks met each other they slowed to a crawl, almost stopping to get by. Bridges along the road narrowed even further, with room for one vehicle at a time. While there were rules about who went first, using them felt like Russian Roulette to us, especially on a blind curve. We wondered why a number of cars had pulled off the road. We discovered that it was to watch a band of coatis foraging for food. They have long sharp claws for digging and a tough nose for ferreting out food.This guy had a dirty nose to prove it. We read that their diet ranged from insects to fruit. Tarantulas and scorpions were downed with the same enthusiasm they used for other items on the menu.Costa Rica is a ‘grow your own fence’ kind of place. Shove a stick into the ground, wait for it to root and grow limbs, connect the trees with barbed wire, and voila! you have a fence.The fences can be quite impressive once they grow out. And they don’t rot, which is a real problem in Costa Rica with standard wood posts. When Costa Ricans do choose to use fence posts, they are made out of cement.Restaurants ranging from a roof on poles to more elaborate establishments were found along the road. Each providing an adventure in eating. This Toucan Lane restaurant came with its own toucan out front There was a good chance it also came with a bird-feeding station that attracted toucans in the back. The sign in the background declared “That’s how fairy tales taste.” I’m not sure what the ‘taste’ referred to. Toucans?We passed over the Lake Arenal Dam coming and going.And were also treated to several views of the lake. That’s it for today. Next on UT-OH, I will take you to Sierra College where my conservative upbringing was put to test. President Harold Weaver and College Trustees review plans for the soon to be finished Sierra College in 1961. It was brand new when I arrived in that fall. While I would go on to UC Berkeley for my Junior and Senior years, many of my views of the world were developed in my time at Sierra. I’ll use Wednesday’s and Friday’s post to summarize the four most important.
A note on you never know who is going to read your blogs. I got an Email this week from Emily Bell, a producer for the Discovery Channel. The channel is doing a Revolutionary War feature on Brandywine, Fort Mifflin, and the Pennsylvania Navy as part of the Nation’s 250 Anniversary celebration. In doing her research she had read my post on Fort Mifflin and wanted to know if I would be available to participate. Here’s what she had to say:
The story of the Mekemson brothers is truly remarkable. We are focusing on the Battle of Brandywine, the siege of Fort Mifflin, and the heroic, often overlooked role of the Pennsylvania Navy. Because all four brothers fought together at Brandywine before splitting up, with Andrew and James heading to Fort Mifflin while Thomas and William joined the PA Navy, their journey offers a deeply heartfelt thread that ties these massive historical events together.
Unfortunately, I’ll be in Greece when the Discovery Channel is doing its filming at Fort Mifflin. I will be talking with Emily this week with more background information on the family before the war, however.
Lakeview Gardens, the VRBO we stayed at for our first two weeks in Nuevo Arenal, provided this view of Lake Arenal. The photo also provides a look at the jungle-like growth surrounding our villa.
The first place we stayed on our monthlong trip to Costa Rica was in the small town of Nuevo Arenal on the shore of Lake Arenal. It’s called Nuevo (new) because old Arenal, the town of Tronadora, and a huge cattle ranch are now buried deep under water.
In 1979, Costa Rica decided to create a major hydroelectricity project by damming the lake as part of its modernization efforts. Arrangements were made to move the inhabitants of Arenal and Tronadora to new communities. They had new homes, but their farms, ranches, and jobs were left behind. Hacienda la Rosita, the cattle ranch that covered much of the land now occupied by Lake Arenal, was expropriated by the Costa Rican Government, i.e. taken without compensation. I assume that the owner of the property, P. Eckrich & Sons, a subsidiary of the U.S. based Beatrice Foods, at least got a lot of steaks. Or maybe the cattle learned how to swim.
The new dam tripled the size of the lake to 33 square miles (85 square kilometers), making it the largest lake in Costa Rica. Its depth ranges between 98 feet in the dry season to 198 feet in the rainy season (30 and 60 meters). Initially, it was responsible for creating 50%-70% of the country’s electricity. Now it’s closer to 12%-17%, but still significant. 95-98 % of Costa Rica’s electricity comes from renewable sources, making it one of the top countries in the world for clean power. The US is around 24%.
Today, recreational activities ranging from fishing to windsurfing to kayaking and paddle boarding draw tourists from around the world, providing an important source of revenue for the local economy and country. The pages and pages of VRBOs, Air B&Bs, and tour companies listed on Google is an indication of this!
Lake Arenal is known for its windsurfing. A strong wind has this person flying across the lake!
The area is part of the Central America Volcanic Arc created by plate tectonics as portions of the ocean plate dive under Central America. There are several active volcanos in Costa Rica. Mt. Arenal, located a few miles away from the lake, erupted on July 29, 1968 with a major explosion that destroyed the town of Tabacón and killed 87 people. It can seen from Lake Arenal and is still smoking. Hot springs, geothermal power, and a tourist attraction are positive aspects of the volcanic action. Earthquakes and the possibility of Mt. Arenal erupting, again, are on the negative side of the ledger. I wondered how the dam would behave in a major earthquake. The mountain has been quiet since 2010.
A map of active volcanos in Northern Costa Rica from costarica.org. Arenal is the middle volcano. Lake Arenal is just to the north. This is a great example of the lava created when an oceanic plate scrapes off against a continental plate. The result is the volcanoes seen here.A view of Mt. Arenal. It was cloudy the day we drove to the town of Fortuna at its base, so we couldn’t see the smoke coming out of the top.
Next… photos of Lake Arenal that Peggy and I took.
It was cloudy on the day we went for a hike along the lake’s shore at a park on the edge of Nuevo Arenal. We thought the clouds added to the beauty of the lake.A peninsula jutted out into the lake.The sun breaking through provided an interesting contrast to the dark skies. The trail led us out onto the peninsula. An inlet leading back toward our VRBO was on the opposite side of the peninsula.Another perspective. The attractive inlet with its calm water had us wishing we had our kayaks along. The white caps and the wind out on the open lake: Not so much.Shooting toward the sun gave trees a shadowy look.Another peninsula and several small islands were visible looking down the lake. Tinajas Restaurant is located just over the hill on the right and provides a great view of the lake.This is the view out from the Tinajas Restaurant. We went there with our next door VRBO neighbors, Paul and Gabe, who were from Canada. Paul had managed a steel mill before his retirement. Gabe still ran an online school teaching Spanish speakers English. They were a delight. See the speck on the upper left. It wasn’t a bird. It was a spider building a web.Paul ordered a hamburger. It was humongous. I wondered if it had been donated by one of the ancestors of the cattle that once roamed through the valley below. Even more, I wondered how Paul could possible get it in his mouth. He demonstrated! And looked quite happy doing so. That’s it for today. Join us on Wednesday as I continue with my blog-a-book tales and…Win a large stuffed dog to impress a date at the California State Fair. By cheating. 😳 (Thanks AI for the photo.)
It’s the look. The odds are high that you recognize it. Parents give it to children, teachers to students, bosses to employees, wives to husbands. Etc. It’s behave or else, with a multitude of possibilities if you don’t. Peggy, as a retired elementary school principal, has a potent one. I don’t get it often, but when I do… The look is particularly imposing on the Montezuma Oropendola (Psarocolius montezuma). The slightly protruding eyes, set off by the white patches and pink wattles, are backed up by an imposing beak. The pink circle at top emphasizes length. The orange tip means business. If one giving you the look is worrisome, think of two. I wouldn’t want to tangle with the feet, either. Courting among the large males (they have twice the mass of the females) is one big brawl. The winner gets the girl, usually several of them!This Montezuma Oropendola was feasting on pineapple found in the bird feeding table that was located in front of our Villa in Nuevo Arenal. I imagine that his namesake, Montezuma, the last of the Aztec rulers, would have been pleased to have this large, distinctive bird given his name. The Oropendola fits as well, given how much gold the Aztecs had gathered and how Cortez lusted after it. Oro means gold in Spanish. Pendola means feather. It refers to the gold tail feathers found on the bird.The Masked Tityra (Tityra semifasciata) also had a unique, but not so threatening look. This bird is easily identified by a pinkish ‘mask’ around its eyes. I found it hanging out on the eaves of our house in Monteverde.The Tityra appeared as interested in me as I was it in. Actually, he was looking for a female that he had been trying to impress. When I spotted him, he was running back and forth on the eave with his wings drooping and sounding like a constipated frog. Apparently it was his mating dance.On the other side of our house in Monteverde, we found this woodpecker carved hole that would make an excellent home for a bird.A Streak-headed Woodcreeper (Lepidocolaptes souleyetii) seemed to agree. Its usual choice for a nest is a hole in a tree pecked out by a woodpecker, or natural. There seemed to be a problem. It would climb up the tree, peak in the hole and immediately fly back down the trunk to repeat the process. It wasn’t creeping; it was scrambling. I watched it check out the hole several times in the same way. I was beginning to wonder if the pecker was present.Suddenly, this little head peeked out to see what was going on.It was a Golden-olive Woodpecker (Colaptes rubiginosus). And yes, it probably had pecked the hole out of the dead tree. The creeper could go find a vacant hole for its home. Next time he/she showed up (male and female Streak-headed Woodcreepers have the same plumage), more than the hole might be pecked.Here’s another creeper, the Red-legged Honeycreeper. It isn’t, however, related to the Streak-headed Woodcreeper that makes its living off of crawling up trunks and eating insects. It’s related to tanagers instead. The Honeycreeper gets the honey part of his name because its passion is for sipping nectar out of flowers. Creeper comes from creeping through treetops and vines foraging for the flowers. This is a female. The male is an electric light and dark blue.Here’s another bird known for its love of nectar, a hummingbird. In this case a Green-crowned Brilliant (Heliodoxa jacula). We took its photo at a hummingbird feeding station in Monteverde with several feeders. Hummers were buzzing everywhere. The only thing more numerous than the birds were the people oohing and aahing over them. It was hard for Peggy and me to capture photos of hummers without tourists (Turista numeroso) in them. I’m not sure what the photo-bombing bug was.A fun shot of the Green-crowned Brilliant looking up. Note the yellow at the tip of its beak. That’s its tongue sticking out, a rather specialized appendage that can extend up to twice the length of its beak for obtaining nectar. It doesn’t sip the nectar like we would with a straw, however. It’s more like capturing the nectar. Researchers at the University of Connecticut have discovered that the tongue is a “dynamic, shape-shifting, and active pump. As it shoots out, the tongue reaches nectar and splits at the tip. The two grooves/tips open, and tiny, hair-like structures (lamellae) unfurl, trapping the nectar. Upon returning to the mouth, the flaps close, sealing in the liquid.” It can repeat this process up to 20 times a second, thousands of times a day, whether it is getting its nectar from a flower, or your hummingbird feeder. It’s also used for drinking water. I’ll conclude today with a handsome Great Kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus), a member of the tyrant flycatcher family.Peggy swore it was posing for her. We had a lamp post in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal that it liked to hang out on. It would fly off its perch, return, and assume a different pose! It was zipping out to catch flying insects out of the air, an important part of its diet. The Great Kiskadee is omnivorous, however. It won’t pass up small snakes, frogs, lizards, or chicks and has even been known to fish for tadpoles. On bird feeders it’s been seen eating bread, peanut butter, bananas, and dog food. Woof! It’s known for being monogamous, hanging out with the same partner year around. I was beginning to think that it had a thing for Peggy. UT-OH! And that brings me to my next chapter in the book I am blogging.Founded during the Gold Rush, Placerville was once known as Hangtown for its harsh treatment of outlaws. On the day I was supposed to graduate from high school, I made the innocent* mistake of cussing out the city’s chief of police. He couldn’t hang me, fortunately, but he did give me a choice: I could spend my evening in jail cell or graduate. The former was an UT-OH! of gigantic proportions. *I didn’t recognize him.
UT-OH! Thanks AI. Unfortunately, mammoths disappeared before I could photograph them.
I’ve never required much help in eliminating options from my life. Chemistry was like that. Lab work and I don’t get along as a general rule. I quickly learned in high school that I am not particularly fond of cutting up long dead frogs pickled in formaldehyde or mixing chemicals that smell worse than an old dog’s fart. But there is more to it than that: I am convinced that good lab technicians enjoy putting things together, taking them apart, tinkering, and fixing things. As a general rule, I don’t.
For example, I knew kids in high school who loved working on automobiles. Ask them anything about carburetors, water pumps, generators, horsepower or timing and they had a ready answer. They couldn’t wait to get their hands covered in grease. I admired them for it, but my interest in carburetors was zilch. My primary interest in automobiles was that they get me from point A to point B without breaking down. Still is
My hobbies as a kid reflected this. Building model ships, airplanes, cars, trains, etc. had no interest for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the results, some were mind-blowing in their detail and realistic look, but my concept of a great hobby was rock collecting. I would pick up interesting rocks on my excursions into the surrounding country until all four pockets were bulging and my pants about to fall off. I would then go home and smash them apart with a hammer to figure out what I had found. Geology became a life-long interest.
I do understand the arguments for being able to fix things: saving money, being self-sufficient, and obtaining satisfaction from a job well done, not to mention being manly. These same arguments, however, apply to going out in the pasture, shooting Elsie the Cow, skinning and gutting her, bringing home the meat, grinding it up, and throwing it on the grill. Just think of the satisfaction involved and dollars saved! Or you can go to the local fast-food joint and help employ a kid who might otherwise turn to a life of crime.
Now, back to chemistry and lab work. One day we had to shove little glass tubes through rubber stoppers. Apparently, this is an important skill for budding chemists. It’s not a difficult task if you ignore the fact that the holes in the stoppers are significantly smaller than the diameter of the glass tubes and, more importantly, have a gallon of Vaseline. I was half way through my first masterpiece when the damn tube broke and ended up jabbed into my hand. Bleeding like a speared mammoth, I was carted off to the emergency room of the local hospital and sewn up.
My attitude toward chemistry was already iffy. With the accident, it dropped faster than it took me to hit the ground in my fall from the pear tree. Higher math created another challenge.
There’s an old adage that we are supposed to work hard at those things we find difficult, that it gives us character. My belief is that I already have plenty of character. If I had any more, little men in white coats would be chasing me with nets. I prefer to spend my energy on things I enjoy, like reading a good book or hiking in the wilderness. Or writing. I have little tolerance for doing things that I don’t do well or fail to interest me. In other words, the Protestant Ethic and I have serious compatibility problems.
But I can be stubborn. Math is a good example. In the fourth grade I discovered that long division was nasty. I got beyond that, but word problems gave me a complex. Two trains are hurtling at each other on the same track with Train A going 90 miles per hour and Train B going 70. They are 252.5296 miles apart. How long will it be before the Train A engineer says, “Ooooh shit!”
“At the same time as the Train B engineer does,” was my answer.
But not nearly as soon as I did. My own expletive arrived on my lips .0000001 seconds after seeing the problem on the blackboard. I concentrated on sending the teacher vibes. “Curt is not here today. You do not see Curt. You will not call on Curt.” But I continued plugging away at math and did fine in grade school. I even managed to ace Algebra I and Geometry. Algebra II was different. That’s when I ran head on into Miss Kaste. It was not a pleasant experience.
Miss Kaste, according to those who were seriously into math, was very good at what she did. Students leaving her class were reputed to have a solid foundation in the basics and be well prepared to move on to the ethereal worlds of calculus and trigonometry.
Basics, I quickly learned, meant that there was one way of coming up with answers and that way was chiseled in stone. One did not diverge from accepted formulas or leave out steps. Right answers obtained the wrong way were wrong answers. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
This created a problem. I had a true talent for coming up with right answers in my own way and this brought me unwanted attention. I could have lived with that except for another problem, Miss Kaste’s teaching technique. She oozed sarcasm. She made people cry. My response was to freeze up or act like a clown. I couldn’t tolerate it— or her. Math was eliminated from my future.
Once again, it speaks to the power of teachers to turn students on, or off, to various subjects. I wasn’t a total dunce at math. Ironically, I scored in the 95th percentile on the Iowa Test in math the same year. Theoretically, that placed me in the top five percent of math students. I wasn’t a genius, but I could have/should have done better.
There was plenty of time while sitting in ER bleeding to contemplate my future as a scientist. My conclusion: there wasn’t one. Even though I enjoyed botany and geology, I decided that the best way to avoid long-dead animals, smelly chemicals, labs and math would be to choose a career that depended on subjects I enjoyed, and made use of my verbal ability and organizational skills.
Looking back, (hindsight, mind you), I am not too surprised about the paths I chose to follow in my life. They were right for me. No regrets. But given I’ve always found science enjoyable from a lay perspective as an adult, I sometimes regret I didn’t obtain a better background in high school and college. My bad.
Next Post: Join us on Monday as we return to visiting with the Montezuma Oropendola and other birds of Costa Rica.
We heard its screech before we saw it. “Jay,” I announced to Peggy. Its call is unmistakeable unless it is modified because of its situation. Or mood. At our property in Oregon, I even heard them make the sound of a hawk— to amuse themselves, I’m sure. It scares the heck out of other birds and small mammals. Their personality, intelligence, and possible warped sense of humor, makes them one of my all time favorite birds. These handsome birds with their Groucho Marx eyebrows are known as a Brown Jays (Psilorhinus morio). Their range reaches from the Rio Grande Valley in southern Texas to northwestern Panama. The white under-belly on this one marks it is a member of the southern subspecies. As for their diet, they are omnivorous: Insects, lizards, fruit: It’s all good. They were regular visitors to the bird feeding table in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal and happily downed the fruit of the day, whatever it was. But do they eat chicken? We had to travel to Monteverde, Costa Rica to answer this question.We were in Monteverde when I spotted a Brown Jay carrying nest building materials. I grabbed my camera and went hunting. This one was actually wearing an identification band. The birds work together to build a nest. The female then sits on the eggs until they are ready to hatch. The male feeds her during the process. Offspring from a previous season will sometimes help in the feeding of the chicks, but they transfer the food to mom and dad for the actual process. I couldn’t find the nest, but I noted something else about this Jay beyond its band.It had found the bone of a discarded chicken leg and was pecking the marrow out of it. As I noted, they’re omnivorous. The one-eyed look was fun.A Clay-Colored Thrush, (Turdus grayi) or Yigüirro, as they are known in Costa Rica, is the national bird of the country. The bird originally gained its popularity in the country’s folklore by singing a beautiful song just before the beginning of rainy season. The natives thought that the yigüirro brought the welcome and necessary rain. Actually, the male who sang the song, wasn’t trying to bring the rainy season. He was busily courting a female before the rainy season started. It’s when they mate, build nests and raise families. But it makes a great story and the male still has a beautiful song.
It appears that this Thrush has caught a worm that wasn’t interested in being swallowed. As we watched it hop around on the lawn searching for such delicacies, we were reminded of its cousin, the Robin. Thrushes share a lot in common. I doubt you would find a Robin following a foraging mass of army ants to feast on the insects that are fleeing to escape, however, which is what the Clay-Colored Thrushes do. I immediately thought of the army ants that invaded my house when I was living in West Africa. We discovered their attack when numerous small bugs came hopping, running, and crawling under our screen door in an effort to escape. The Thrush would have been quite happy to scarf them up. I’m sure the Robin would have as well. But it might not have had the Thrush’s sense to fly off before the ants arrive. We saw a mouse make that mistake. It was his last. Not wanting to end up like the mouse, we went to war. I’ll tell the story in UT-OH!.Here a Clay Colored Thrush and a Palm Tanager check each other out. It’s likely that they are having a discussion over who gets the fruit. Alternatively, I like to think that the thrush is saying, “Wow! You are really beautiful.”“Can I offer you a piece of Pineapple?”A fluffed up view of the palm tanager. They often nest and hang out in palm trees, which is how they get their names.Another dining table discussion? Here, a Buff-Throated Saltator is checking out an appropriately named Scarlet-Rumped Tanager. These, along with several other of the smaller birds I am featuring here, often flock together for feeding purposes. (Safety in numbers?) The Tanager is chowing down on a bite of pineapple. It’s hard to find a more easily identified bird than this Scarlet-Rumped Tanager (Ramphocelus passerinii), unless you are looking for the female of the species.I was surprised when my bird ID app, Merlin, told me that these were Scarlet Rumped Tanagers. I double and then triple checked it! The name for when the male and female birds of the same species look so dramatically different, btw, is sexual dimorphism.I like this head-on photo of the female Scarlet Rumped Tanager. Landing gears down!A Buff-throated Saltator (Saltator maximus) gives me the look. Originally classified with cardinals and grosbeaks (given its beak), recent DNA research has shown that they are instead related to Tanagers. I like the soft look of the feathers.This frontal view gives the reason for the Buff-throated Saltator’s name.The long view! The head of the Saltator looked metallic in this photo.It was nest building time for the Blue and White Swallow (Pygochelidon cyanoleuca) of Monteverde. I’d watched this one pick up and reject several small straws until it arrived at this large piece that it flew away with. I’m always impressed with their streamlined look. It serves them well when they are practicing their insect-catching aerobatics in the air. Peggy and I enjoyed watching them whiz about from our porch in the evening. They would often land, and possibly had a nest on the roof beam above the porch. The bright evening sky gave their blue a black look. We weren’t sure whether it was chirping at us or its fellow flyers.I’ll conclude my collection today with the Muscuvy duck (Cairina moschata) that has both feral and domesticated versions. The duck was first domesticated in the tropical Americas during preColumbian times. You’ve may have seen the domesticated version, like this one, swimming around in park ponds. If so, you probably haven’t forgotten it.It has a very unique look!Head shot! That’s it for today. On Wednesday I’ll be featuring Earth Day. It’s worth saving. Our survival— as well as that of numerous other plants and animals— depends up on it.One would think that the Giant Saguaro cacti of the Sonoran Desert would welcome Global Warming with open arms, but the truth is, it is one of numerous species that are threatened today. The increased drought and extreme heat of global warming prevent seedling survival, cause structural collapse of adult plants, and encourage wildfires capable of wiping out wide swaths of these majestic plants. Another species threatened by Global Warming is the Eastern Box Turtle. The increasing heat disrupts their reproductive cycles and sex ratios. Once found often, they are now rarely seen. Peggy found this one crawling down our driveway yesterday, heading toward the traffic clogged highway that runs in front of our apartment. She saved it, at least temporarily, by taking it down to the creek that flows through the property and turning it loose, far from the road. She set it down and away it zoomed (with zoom defined in turtle speed).
At this point, just beyond the speed limit sign, I ran over a skunk in the summer of 1958, undoubtably impressing the young woman I was on a date with.
As I suggested in Chapter 14, my freshman year of high school was something of a disaster. My social life tanked, dance class sucked, my political aspirations were reduced to running a friend’s campaign for class president, and my success in sports was mediocre, at best. My short legs and I suffered through a season of cross country running where I was lucky to finish in the middle of the pack.
Things had to improve.
Do you remember your first date in highschool? Was it a roaring success, so-so, or an unmitigated disaster? How about off-the-scale weird? That describes mine. I had a double date with Paula, Mom and Boyfriend. And I ran over a skunk. It happened during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year.
It started with Paula calling me. There was no way I would have called her. Girls still left me quaking in my tennis shoes. ‘Curt, would you like to go to dinner with me in Sutter Creek?’ Sutter creek was a town in Amador County, about 20 miles away from Diamond Springs over curvy Highway 49. It would be a double date with her mother and her boyfriend. That seemed strange, but somebody had to drive. How could I say no…
I remember very little about the drive or dinner— other than it was at an Italian restaurant. After we had our fill of spaghetti and conversation, we returned to the car. I had visions of sitting in the back and snuggling up with Paula on the way back to Diamond.
Mom and Boyfriend had another idea. They hopped into the back seat and promptly told me, “You can drive home, Curt!” Like they were offering me the opportunity of a life time. It did away with my bold plans. But there was more…
“Um,” I noted nervously, “I only have a learner’s permit.”
“That’s okay, it will be good practice,” Mom jumped in before I could add that I had only obtained it four days before.
Paula, meanwhile, was waiting for me to open the door for her on the passenger side of the car. It was a plot. She gave me a dazzling smile— and my options dropped to zero. Any further hesitation would be ‘unmanly.’ After doing the gentlemanly thing for Paula, I dutifully climbed into the driver’s seat and miraculously found the keyhole and lights. Gear grinding got us out of town and onto the open road. I breathed an audible sigh of relief. It was short lived. We had just made it past the small town of Plymouth and were on our way down to the Consumnes River when I ran over the skunk.
If you drive a lot on country roads in skunk country, you’ve probably noticed that dead skunks are a significant part of road kill. It goes beyond the fact that they are easily recognized by their smell. There really are lots of them. The primary reason for this is that they believe they are omnipotent. Who in his right mind will hassle a skunk? It’s like petting a porcupine or teasing a rhino.
Unfortunately, skunks fail to recognize the damage a 3000-pound vehicle can do, and how difficult it is to stop, or even swerve when traveling 60 miles per hour or more. Last, but far from least, they don’t realize how easily drivers become distracted. A teenage boy just learning how to drive with an attractive girl sitting next to him is an excellent example.
While my encounter with the skunk was in the summer, the most likely time to find them crossing the road is in late winter or early spring. This is when the males come out of hibernation and go in search of true love, or, at least, sex. The Loony Tunes cartoon character of yore, Pepé Le Pew comes to mind. Skunks are willing to travel 4-6 miles to find a hot date. This often means crossing a road with a focus that has nothing to do with fast moving vehicles. Not being able to see clearly beyond 10 feet doesn’t help either. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. And it may all be for naught. Females often reject would-be suitors as poor material for contributing sperm for future generations, or for some other skunk-ish reason. The rejection is brutal. They have a particularly potent form of spray they reserve for the purpose. “Try to climb on me. Ha. Take that you skunk!”
The skunk I ran over had a similar reaction. He reeked revenge in his final seconds by becoming a virtuoso of glandular activity.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Boyfriend said as the first powerful whiffs of eau de skunk came blasting through the air vents. “It happens all of the time.”
“Yeah, sure,” I mumbled to myself through tongue-biting teeth, “young men always run down skunks on first dates, especially first dates with Mom and Boyfriend along.”
Fortunately, I made it home without further incident.
One might assume that running over the skunk would have ended my relationship with Paula. But there was one more date. It was a testimony to how much Paula’s mother was committed to the relationship that she loaned us her car. I drove it illegally on my learner’s permit. Paula and I went on an old-fashioned picnic to Buck’s Bar, a 49er-mining site on the Consumnes River. I actually had a young woman, out in the woods, alone. Talk about fantasy. As far as I can recall though, and I would recall otherwise, I behaved myself disgustingly well. So did Paula.
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!
This donkey was hardly dangerous. I was offering it a carrot. The stacks of lumber in the background, at Caldor Lumber Company’s drying yard, had potential, however. One of our sports was climbing to the top of the stacks and leaping between them.
That we survived childhood wasn’t necessarily a given. Racing up and down a 75-foot-tall tree, leaping between 20 foot high lumber stacks, joyriding on railroad push carts, avoiding being shot, playing on a 50 foot high trestle and other similar activities aren’t particularly conducive to a healthy childhood. On a scale of 1-10, I would have placed Marshall’s chances of harm at 9.9 while mine were more like 4.4. I took my share of risks, but rarely without considering consequences. Marshall rarely did. Pop provided some perspective years later.
“If Marshall screamed, I ran. When you screamed, I walked.”
Except for the dog bite and stepping on a rusty nail once, my serious injuries were more in the nature of stubbed toes. Not that I am minimizing the pain of a stubbed toe, mind you. They hurt like hell. There is a reason why flaying skin was a form of torture in ancient times. I’d have certainly been willing to confess things I had done, and lots of things I hadn’t.
I did have a baseball bat used on me once, however. My parents were semi-serious Republicans, semi in the sense that they didn’t devote their lives to the cause but they did vote the party line. The family tradition went back to Abe Lincoln and the founding of the Party. A quote in a book written by my Great Grandfather stated, “We have always been Republicans, and we always will be.”
My indoctrination started young with the 1952 campaign of Dwight Eisenhower against Adlai Stevenson. According to Mother, Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman were responsible for most of the bad things that existed in the Country, and Ike was going to right the wrongs of the previous two decades. I, of course, accepted this view whole-heartedly, and had all the makings of a fine Young Republican. Naturally I was eager to share my correct or ‘right’ perspective with fellow students and proudly wore an I Like Ike button to school.
They weren’t particularly interested.
After all, what do nine year olds know or care about politics? One student, whose parents were avid Democrats, was ready to take me on, however. He wore a button that declared Adlai was Our Next President. Our debate started in the boys’ bathroom when we were lined up at the urinals, and continued on to the playground. Things began well. Even then I was a high verbal, and the points I didn’t win on logic, I was taking with volume. But the situation deteriorated rapidly. My fellow debater did what most politicians do when they appear to be losing ground— he started slinging mud.
“Eisenhower is a blankety, blank,” he declared with a smirk to underline his cleverness. It was his mistake; now we were talking my language.
“In that case,” I argued with glee, “Stevenson is a blankety-blank, blank, blank.” I had more blanks. Marshall, and Allen had taught me every swear word in the English language and a few in Spanish. I could go on for minutes without repeating myself. In fact Allen and I had challenged each other to a contest once to see who could swear the longest and the loudest.
There was a vacant lot filled with tall grass down on the corner where Missouri Flat Road ran into Highway 49. We got down on our hands and knees and chased each other through the grass while shouting obscenities at the top of our lungs. We were so engrossed in our efforts that we didn’t note that Marsh had time to run the block home and retrieve Pop to listen in on the exchange. He was not impressed with our command of the language or our volume. My thought about Marshall for telling was that he was a blankety-blank, blank, blank, blank, blank. A real asshole.
Anyway, I was not to be outdone in the mudslinging department; I had a bright future as a campaign manager. I demolished my opponent. Regrettably, I was about to learn an important Hobbesian lesson in power politics: Never start political arguments with a person carrying a baseball bat, which he was. When I continued to hassle him out on the playground, he wound up and swung the bat like he was going for a home run, whacking me across my right leg. Down I went onto the playground and off I went to the hospital as my leg muscle knotted up to the size of a softball. Fortunately, he didn’t break a bone— and my man Ike won the election.
Marshall’s scariest accident happened at Caldor’s logging camp. One summer, Pop arranged for the family to use a house at the camp for a week’s vacation. It was a great opportunity. We were surrounded by El Dorado National Forest, and we could wander to our heart’s content.
The first day out, we discovered an old miner’s shack that had long since given up any pretense of being useful. It was leaning precariously. Naturally, we had to explore it. There might be a treasure. Dark and musty comes to mind as my first impression. Floors creaked in objection on our entrance. A pack rat had set up home in one corner. A treasure for Tickle the dog, perhaps, but not for us.
A table in the opposite corner held more promise. We found an old Phillies Cigar box on top, which was a treasure in itself. Inside there was more: Dynamite caps! Think Big Bang. Caps contain a small amount of an explosive material that when lit by a connected electric current, cause a blast that sets off the dynamite. BOOM. My immediate reaction was to get out of the shack. Marshall’s was to take the box with us. I assumed he was going to give it to Pop so he could dispose of the caps. It was never wise to make assumptions about what my brother might do.
Mother was putting dinner on the table and Marshall was still outside when we heard a loud bang followed by a louder scream. Pop ran. Marshall had held a match down to the dynamite cap to see what would happen. He found out. The whole front of his body from his groin to his head was covered in blood. The only thing that saved his eye sight was that he was wearing shatter-proof glasses. A neighbor, who had come out at the sound of the blast and scream, immediately volunteered to take Nancy and me for the night. My parents jumped in our car and rushed off to the hospital in Placerville, 20 miles away.
Marshall spent a couple of days in the hospital as the doctor removed brass splinters from his body. We returned home. So much for our idyllic vacation. The important thing was that Marshall survived the experience— possibly a bit wiser. Occasional splinters of brass were still making their way out of his skin when he was in his 20s.
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
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.
Wandering through Time and Place 