After finding a dragonfly laying eggs in our mini-river a few weeks ago, I set out to see if the nymphs had hatched. I was greeted by the plunking sound of Rio Grande Leopard Frogs leaping off the rocks and into the water. And then, floating in the deepest pool, I discovered a mass of frog eggs. Nearby, delicate damselflies, called Kiowa dancers, landed on warm, exposed rocks and snails scraped layers of algae from submerged rocks. It was a busy morning, and I felt elated that our newest habitat was teeming with life.

I once read that movement is the way to know if your yard has become a thriving habitat for critters, large and small. If you stop to observe, our yard looks like an airport during the holidays. Darting, diving, flying, hopping, and scurrying take place throughout the day and into the night. For some, this would be less than ideal, but for me, a wildlife gardener, this is what it's all about!

A few weeks ago, a parade of tiny leopard frogs hopped from the side yard toward our new water feature, a pondless waterfall that mimics the local rivers here. At the same time, I noticed a dragonfly flicking water at the vegetation with the end of her abdomen. It turns out that with every flick, she was depositing an egg and hurling it at the leaves of a plant nestled in the water.

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?

Today my oldest son will graduate from high school, if the weather cooperates. Dark clouds block the sun and drift past my window. For the last few weeks, I have been living in one of those movie collages: memories, photos, and a list of songs play in a continuous loop in my mind.

I often joke that I should write a book about the naturalist who raised three boys, each with their own aversion to the natural world - one would have a meltdown if his hands were dirty, the other couldn't bear the heat, and the third was terrified of sneak attacks from venomous creatures, especially black widows. I wonder what Richard Louv would think.

Water. Groundwater. Surface water. Freshwater. Saltwater. Where does our drinking water come from? How do we protect it from pollution? How do we ensure there will be enough water in the future? How do we make sure that all living things have access to the water that is necessary for survival?

In the Hill Country, water is a complex topic. At times, we suffer from extended droughts, and at other times we experience flooding. Water is stored belowground in vast limestone aquifers. We have springs, man-made lakes, creeks, and rivers, some that travel below the surface through caves. In the dark, wet cracks and crevices of the subterranean unique creatures thrive - salamanders, fish, snails, and harvestmen -  creatures that cannot be found anywhere else. And we have swimming holes with rich histories, both cultural and ecological, and a community and economy that rely on tubing, boating, and fishing.

Water is life.

On Sunday, I stepped outside to discover a joyous curiousity : inchworms hanging from silken threads . . . EVERYWHERE. It was impossible to walk without entangling myself in the web-like strands. Miniature hitchhikers stuck to my fleece jacket at every turn. With the help of a lively breeze, the twig-like caterpillars swung this way and that, like upside down kites. What were these insects up to?

Of course, I wanted to identify the insect ninjas that were zip-lining down from the oak trees. With iphone in hand and my iNaturalist app at the ready, I attempted to get a picture. My first efforts resulted in fuzzy brown dots, blurred by the unrelenting wind. Then I carefully placed the critters on different colored backgrounds - a leaf or the driveway. Sometimes referred to as loopers, their unique method of locomotion - pulling the center of their body upward and then extending their bodies out straight - is remarkably efficient. At times, I ran to my husband yelling, "Quick! Quick! Get a picture of the inchworm on my arm!" (He is used to this kind of strange behavior, thank goodness.) Finally, on day two, a photo opportunity arose when I spotted an inchworm on the inner rim of my red coffee mug, left behind in the garden. Perfect, or so I thought. No luck. I did send off an image to iNaturalist for identification.

At the last second, I veer off the road, lured by the fog hovering over Blanco River. I take off on foot, totally unprepared with my flimsy sandals and bare toes. (These fleeting moments are almost always worth the effort.) I am convinced that stories lurk in the fog, and like many nature writers before me have experienced, wandering often leads to discovery.

Textures and shapes stand out against the muted background of a March morning. I think of Winter Storm Uri, an event that shocked us all last month with ice, snow, and freezing temperatures that lasted for many days. Since then, I have been holding my breath, waiting for the bluebonnets to emerge, watching the ruby-throated hummingbirds and enormous bumblebees search for nectar.