A glowing full moon peaks through the clouds. The temperature plummets. I rummage through the coat closet in search of mittens, hats, and winter jackets. I pile my family into the car for the hour drive to Westcave Discovery Center near Austin.

I have been looking forward to the December Full Moon Hike for months. I am writing about listening and seeing, about silence and darkness in karst, and I am curious about nocturnal sounds.

I hope we are able to descend the steep and winding trail that leads to the canyon and the grotto and the cave, but I think the afternoon rain will make the stone steps too slippery.

If you've ever visited Spring Lake, you probably explored aboard a glass- bottom boat. Since 1945, the boat ride has been a quintessential San Marcos activity. This fall The Meadows Center for Water and the Environment is also offering kayak trips. I jump at the chance, making a reservation months in advance.

On a beautiful fall morning, near the headwaters of the San Marcos River, over 200 springs gurgle on the bottom of the lake. They look like sandy craters. Because the lake is spring fed, the water is crystal clear. I glide over the surface. I can see all the way to the bottom as I peer over the edge of the kayak. It is mesmerizing.

At one of the larger springs, called Cream of Wheat, white sand appears to bubble up from the depths. Under pressure, the water is expelled from the Edwards Aquifer, the rocky subterranean place where water is stored. Springs are common in this part of Texas and along with limestone caves, disappearing rivers, and sinkholes, they make up an ecosystem known as karst.

Early morning storm clouds descend on San Marcos, Texas. The wind begins blowing, rattling maps and poster board-sized photographs that are being loaded into the van. A handful of geologists, biologists, and cavers huddle nearby, running to their cars now and then to gather additional layers as the temperature drops into the low fifties.

It is field trip day, part of the 2021 National Cave & Karst Management Symposium. This is the day I have been dreaming about for months. . . really. The trip is being led by Dr. Nico Hauwert and is titled "Finding Caves in North Hays County: Recognition of Caves in an Environment Of Widespread Filling."

I watch as caving equipment is placed in the van. Helmets. Rope. Okay, I have been obsessed with subterranean ecology for three-and-a-half years. I have visited many caves, show caves with lit pathways and staircases. I have been searching for caves on my own property. But I am terrified of entering a wild cave. I think I am claustrophobic. I have a fear of heights. I am nearly fifty years old and not in the best shape of my life. Despite my racing heart, I secretly hope this group of fearless explorers will finally get me into a wild cave.

In a cave, human senses are altered. Sight is no longer as important. Sound, smell, touch rise to the surface, relaying information to the body and mind. My experiences in caves have changed me in many ways over the past three years. I have learned from deep silence.

Over the weekend, I attended my first concert in a cave. Joseph Kuipers and the Texas Cellos performed in the Throne Room deep within the Cave Without a Name in Boerne, Texas. The sound of twelve cellos, a cello choir, echoed and reverberated throughout the rock walls. Stunning.

Millions of Mexican free-tailed bats swirl in an ever-rising vortex before me. Their wing-beats sound less like flapping and more like the steady thrum of rain on rooftops. Beyond spectacular, the moment feels celebratory. I sit in awe. The emergence, from the mouth of a cave deep within a sinkhole, will take more than three hours.

This is the largest bat colony in the world. The two-chambered cave sits within a preserve on the northeastern edge of San Antonio, less than thirty minutes from my house. Bat mothers migrate from Mexico every March to have their babies here, one pup per female, and they stay until October. Bracken is a maternal colony. The males form bachelor colonies, like the one at Devil's Sinkhole in Rocksprings, Texas.

Soon whispers of an approaching thunderhead float across the small gathering. There is an energy in the air tonight that holds me in the moment, dreamlike. By the time I leave, flashes of lightening illuminate the purple-black sky. I roll down the window to hear the rumble of thunder. Everything is unusually still or maybe I sense the absence of fluttering bat wings, something I never knew before.

It was a summer of amazing places and beautiful sights, close to home and far away. In Texas, my yard, mini-river, and pollinator garden were filled with life: mating monarchs and Gulf fritillaries, a diversity of caterpillars, a fawn, frog eggs, several nests, and damselfly and dragonfly eggs.

In Maine, I joined the Landscape of Change project as a citizen scientist. Several organizations are working with the community to compare changes in plant and animal populations over time on Mount Desert Island. For comparison, they are using old field logs kept by the the Champlain Society, a group of young men and women who spent their summers on MDI. I have noticed a change in the intertidal zone at our family cabin, and so I am curious to examine the results of this project, as well.

The fungi, lichen, and mosses captured my heart this year. It had been a wet spring and the woods seemed to be filled with these organisms at every turn. Using iNaturalist, I was able to learn about many new species.

July  23, 2021
Field Notes

I am finally back on the coast of Maine driving the route along Mount Desert Island (MDI) back to our family cabin. A never ending to-do list scrolls through my mind, but the warming rocky ledges of Hull's Cove persuade me to change course. I pull over, grab a pen and journal, and follow a short path to the ocean.

It is one of those mornings where everything seems to move at a slower pace. Even the seagulls and cormorants bob on wave tops, as if there is nothing more pressing in the world.

After filling several blank pages, I change course again, and spend the day following the things I love: pine forests, lichen, mushrooms, seaweed, and undiscovered trails.

Have you ever arrived in a new place to discover it feels as if you've been there before?

Recently I visited Enchanted Rock State Natural Area in Fredericksburg, Texas. Local lore abounds and many of the stories involve wandering spirits. The constant heating and cooling of the rock produces mysterious creaks and groans. While hiking, I focused on my footsteps, listening for those haunting sounds. Soon my feet fell into a familiar rhythm, and I began to wonder why this place felt so familiar?

This summer we won’t be able to make our usual trip to the Maine Coast due to the pandemic. In my forty-seven years, I have only missed one other summer there. ( I was pregnant with our second son.) I wrote about the Maine Coast in a recent essay:

Although I live far away now, this is home. This is where I come from. When I need to remember who I am, this is where I return. This is the place where all of my stories begin.
Instead, I think this will be a good time to gather those stories — to remember those special places when I can’t physically be there, hiking along the forest trails and beaches.

Beneath my home in Texas, a subterranean world exists, one that was carved from limestone over millions of years. It is filled with rivers, spectacular geological features, salamanders, spiders, and fish. This past year I have been drawn to that mysterious world. I have spent time learning about geology and subterranean ecology and exploring local caves. In fact, much of my writing has been inspired by these underground places.

Over spring break, just before the quarantine, my family and I returned to another special place—the southern shore of Kauai. We wanted to spend a day sea kayaking and, while I scrolled through the possibilities on my phone, I stumbled across something that made me stop and stare at the screen: “Visit Makauwahi cave the largest limestone cave in Hawaii.” What was a limestone cave doing on an island made of lava rock? The descriptions that followed were equally intriguing: “ancient archeological site”, “archeological gem”, “extinct species”. I had to go and see it for myself; there was no question.