Birmingham Botanical Gardens

In July I found myself in Birmingham, Alabama, my first visit to the state. July in Alabama is peak heat and humidity. There were advisories and warnings. So, naturally, I looked for the green spaces on the city map and went outside (with my water, sunscreen, hat, sunglasses, and some sense of self-preservation).

The Birmingham Botanical Gardens—a 67.5-acre botanical refuge in the city with free admission and parking—were a highlight of my first visit to the “Magic City.” The Birmingham Civil Rights National Monument is also an essential stop (I’ll share a few pictures from that separately). I highly recommend both spots—and botanical gardens and National Park Service sites generally when you find yourself in a new location.

Flowers

No surprise, but my husband and I found a wide variety of flowers and plantings at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens: formal rose gardens, lily ponds, fountains, a vegetable garden, wildflowers, a conservatory (where it was even hotter and more humid inside), and more. Here’s a minuscule photographic sample from our introductory visit.

Pollinators

Thanks to all those flowers and plants, there were birds, bees, butterflies and moths all doing their thing in the gardens—pollinating. Plus, numerous dragonflies.

More Critters

We visited in the middle of a hot day, because that’s the time we had free, so the birds were fairly quiet. However, we saw and heard numerous Northern Cardinals, an Eastern Phoebe, Spotted Towhee, American Robin, and Carolina Wren, plus heard a White-eyed Vireo, which would have been a new bird for me, but since I couldn’t spy it way up in the trees, I didn’t add it to my life list.

These critters all looked like they were regulating their temperatures.

Shade

We also needed to regulate our temperatures, so sought out the garden’s shady trees and ferns. Green spaces, like botanical gardens and parks, can help lower the temperature in a city up to 9°F (according to the World Economic Forum), especially important during heatwaves. Let’s just say I was not as drippy with sweat once I moved from the open rose and formal gardens into the woodlands, bog garden, and fern glade. They were quite pleasant.

A Japanese Garden

Finally, we visited the formal Japanese Garden, a beautiful, relaxing spot. Walking through the traditional red torii, or “gateway to heaven” arch, marked our transition from the normal everyday world into a sacred place, and shouldn’t all of nature and green spaces be treated as sacred—granted our respect and devotion?

It would be lovely to visit this garden during spring cherry blossoms or fall maples…or any time of year with the changing colors and seasons. I’ll go back to the Birmingham Botanicals Gardens, though my husband suggests not when the heat index is in the triple digits. Though if I do, it will offer a soothing respite.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay

Click on any photo to see full size

A Day. A Night. A Year.

A Day

Last Tuesday I woke having not seen the northern lights the evening before (too many clouds), nor early that morning (fast asleep). But now, in the light of day, I could see them displayed across social media in all their colorful glory. Missing them was mildly disappointing, but I’ve been lucky enough to see the aurora borealis before, so I moved on with my day.

After some work at home, some laundry, and reading reports of ICE agents arriving in Maine, I went on a short midday walk to see if the Black-capped Chickadees and Red-breasted Nuthatch I’d noticed on a recent run were still in a nearby stand of trees. They were not. It was quiet. But we have Black-capped Chickadees in our yard every day, so I continued on.

On my walk home I stopped by the lake to see if either of the Bald Eagles was in their usual tree above the dam. They were not. Maybe the Common Merganser I’d seen swimming in the open water last week, the one an eagle nearly caught before it dove underwater to safety? Nope. Did it move on, or become lunch?

The day was brutally windy, whipping away any warmth, but I paused along the shore anyway to look at tracks in the snow (mink, perhaps?) and ice formations on the mostly-frozen lake.

As I stood there, one of the eagles soared into view high, high above. I watched it in its broad sweeping path. I wondered if it was watching me, far, far below, standing by its tree. I wondered if it ever looked down on us and wanted to return its title of National Bird. No thanks. I’m good.

Eventually its soaring circles got wider and wider until the eagle disappeared from view. I walked home, uphill, buffeted by the same winds that propelled the graceful bird.

Back home I worked some more, read increasingly distressing news, glanced outside at the birds in our yard—a few of the usuals, including a Black-capped Chickadee—and wondered about the stories behind all the tracks winding through the snow. I reminded myself for the umpteenth time to set up our camera trap (I’ve never gotten it to work consistently, probably operator error), oh, and maybe become an expert tracker while I was at it. Think of all the unseen animals I could see when there were no animals out to see!

A Night

In the evening it looked like the northern lights might make a return appearance. Instead of preparing dinner or doomscrolling, I got my camera ready, occasionally walking out into the cold and taking a test shot with my iPhone. As soon as I started seeing faint color, I put on many layers, grabbed my headlamp and husband, and went back down to that lakeside spot where I’d watched the eagle a few hours earlier.

Green sheets of light in the sky were visible to our naked eyes when we arrived. It was even more brutally cold and windy after dark, and I hurried to set up the tripod and check camera settings, pulling my gloves on and off and on again, all while keeping an eye on the shifting sky.

I fumbled with frozen fingers as the lights undulated on the northern horizon, trying to capture this moment or the next before each disappeared. Would the show last a minute, or an hour? Either way, none of it was permanent. And look, the moon is setting quickly on the western horizon. Take a picture before it’s gone.

The northern lights faded after ten minutes, and we decided to check out a spot a few miles away where we could wait on the frozen lake for a possible encore. Here the ice was thick, the winds less, and a few minutes after we arrived a rainbow of lights returned and gradually intensified above the lake and trees.

I lay on the snow-covered lake, insulated from below, and looked up into the dark at multitudes of stars and a phenomenon of photons many will never see. Occasionally the ice shifted and groaned underneath.

Sometimes when you’re in a moment it’s hard to realize how special it is.

Sometimes you realize how special it is, but it still feels surreal.

A Year

It can feel tone-deaf to talk about birds or pretty lights when this country and this world are so deeply and increasingly broken: innocent citizens murdered on the street by our own government, civil liberties corrupted and abandoned, lies presented as truth, children used as pawns, climate change rushing onward, dangerous hatreds and divides fed and growing.

This particular day and night happened to be exactly one year since the presidential inauguration. And like every day in the year since this corrupt administration came into power, there was yet more alarming news of people being hurt, cruelty invading neighborhoods, rights being trampled.

There are so many critical issues and incidents of injustice calling for our attention and our fight every single fucking day. We need to stand up and show up for our neighbors, for ourselves, for our country and its foundational values. We need to protest, demand more of our elected officials, support nonprofits and organizations in their advocacy, community building, and legal work. It can all feel endless and overwhelming, especially to an individual.

As much as I loved watching and capturing the northern lights, how could I post pictures of them at a time like this?

So, despite my excitement, I didn’t. Instead, I made some donations. Bought more copies of 1984 and the U.S. Constitution for our Little Free Library. Created a sign. Went to a protest. Got angrier. Small acts.

But it also feels wrong to ignore the bird or the pretty lights in the night sky, to dismiss whatever wonders we find or that find us. Even in troubled times we need to look up and outward.

On this singular day I’d watched a Bald Eagle, a bird nearly disappeared by DDT, soar above a lake.

I’d seen the lights of stars reach this fragile planet after traveling for thousands of years.

I’d watched the northern lights dance and paint the sky in a historic geomagnetic storm.

Each of those moments alone is wondrous. All those moments in one day—that’s extraordinary.

At a community rally the other day I was reminded that alongside our action, resistance, and loud voices, there’s also space and a need for quiet reverence, reflection, love. The fight against cruelty and injustice is necessary, but it needn’t steal our joy, our awe, our humanity. That would be yet another wrong.

So, the other day I went outside and paused to watch an eagle soar in the daylight and later a rainbow dance in the dark night. Incredible. But while I watched these wonders, other Mainers sheltered indoors in fear, and some were abducted off the street. Shameful. The fight for good is big and scary, but it’s necessary.

I also remembered something: eagles are symbols of freedom, rainbows are signs of hope and better days ahead, and we need those reminders as we keep up the good fight.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay

Positively Piping Plovers

Nature is a positive in my life with all the good feelings it inspires: comfort, joy, solace, awe. But sometimes I find it hard to feel hopeful about its fate.

So, I was thrilled for this positive—and adorable—environmental news: Piping Plovers, the endangered shorebirds, had a record year nesting on Maine beaches. In 2025, 174 pairs nested in Maine (breaking 2023’s record of 157 pairs) and 251 chicks fledged (just one chick shy of 2022). Compare that to 1981 when Maine had just 10 nesting pairs.

Beyond the numbers, I was delighted to see these Piping Plovers in June—and on my birthday. I was walking on a York County beach with my husband, scanning for shorebirds, when I noticed some movement in the sand that transformed into two adult plovers. Immediately I stopped to look for chicks and eventually realized a little cotton ball moving on the sand was a baby Piping Plover. So cute! So sweet! So…wait where did it go? So tiny!

I sat down in the sand to watch it and its sibling through our binoculars and camera lens. It was a birthday highlight, especially as these were the first Piping Plover chicks I’d ever seen. When I turned around, I found a small group of other beachgoers silently entranced as well. You can see why. The cuteness is captivating.

These little birds face big challenges though.

Plovers are coastal-dependent, nesting and raising their young in the sand, but more than two-thirds of Maine beaches have been lost as nesting habitat to seawalls, jetties, and high density housing and development. Additionally, human disturbance, predation from free-ranging cats and dogs and predators like foxes and gulls, plus rising sea levels and more frequent storm surges threaten their survival.

So how have their numbers gone up in Maine? People and protections.

“Nothing is more priceless and more worthy of preservation than the rich array of animal life with which our country has been blessed,” said President Nixon on signing the 1973 Endangered Species Act (ESA). Since then the federal government has had the responsibility to conserve endangered and threatened species and their habitats. The ESA is one of the most popular and most effective acts, with a 99 percent success rate.

Piping Plovers are divided into three populations. Nationally, the Atlantic Coast and Northern Great Plains populations of Piping Plovers are listed as threatened and the Great Lakes population is listed as endangered. In Maine, (Atlantic Coast) Piping Plovers are listed as endangered under the state’s Endangered Species Act (46 states have their own ESA to address federal gaps and for more specific protections). Further north in Canada, Piping Plovers are also considered endangered.

Suffice to say, these migratory birds are vulnerable everywhere they live—from summering here in Vacationland to wintering in Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean.

But despite all that, this summer, a record number nested on Maine beaches. That’s thanks to decades of conservation work by Maine Audubon, Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife, the Maine Bureau of Parks and Lands, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, local municipalities, landowners, and volunteers from the Coastal Birds Project who patrol beaches all summer long.

All those people and their cumulative efforts led to these plovers and these chicks on this beach. And for that I’m grateful and inspired. Each nesting pair of Piping Plovers is proof that with appropriate protections, funding, education, and commitment we can make positive change together. We can even reverse ecosystem and species losses. Each little chick is a precious, fuzzy sign of hope for nature.

Positive, adorable, hopeful–check, check, check.

Let’s end this post right here with those encouraging words and some cute little birds.

Oh drat. You kept scrolling. And I kept reading the news.

Sorry about this, but if we’re talking about endangered species, unfortunately we also need to talk about how the Trump Administration is working to gut Endangered Species Act protections so animals and their habitats—the places they live and depend on—won’t be protected. Why? To allow for more oil and gas drilling, logging, mining, and development on our public lands and in our oceans.

It’s overwhelming trying to get a handle on all the threats out there, but here are some critical examples happening now:

removing habit protection as a consideration of the Endangered Species Act by rescinding its Definition of “Harm”, even though habitat loss is the biggest cause of species extinction
pausing and planning to rescind the ESA’s 1975 “blanket 4(d) rule” that automatically grants threatened species the same protections as endangered species until a specific recovery plan can be completed
cutting 60 percent of ESA implementation funding from the federal budget and cutting essential staff
“sunsetting” environmental regulations in the ESA, the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, the 1972 Marine Mammal Protection Act, and many other acts through a presidential executive order

Augh! Why can’t we just have nice things for the birds, for nature, for people, for our planet? Especially when they’re proven to work, like the Endangered Species Act has done for more than half a century. It’s exhausting.

But this was supposed to be a positive, hopeful post. And it still can be.

Because Piping Plovers have made huge gains in Maine up until now, thanks to the agencies, organizations, and individuals who do the conservation work, volunteer, obey signs, respect nesting areas, give the birds space, educate, and advocate for them. People, protections, and funding do make a difference, and over time they can add up to big changes: like 251 Piping Plover fledglings scattered across Maine beaches.

I find that encouraging and worth celebrating, one tiny chick at a time.

Plus, how can you look at that little face and not smile?

More Info

Next Steps

Subscribe to Maine Audubon action alerts (pipe up for plovers and other birds!)
Natural Resources Council of Maine action alerts
Contact your Representatives, Senators, and other elected officials and agencies with your concerns and when possible submit public comments to rule changes.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay

Protect Roadless Areas in our National Forests

The U.S. Department of Agriculture is attempting to rescind the 2001 Roadless Rule and open up 45 million acres of roadless areas in our National Forests to road-building, commercial logging, mining, and drilling. I just submitted my public comment below. You can too via the Federal Register now through Friday, September 19, 2025, at 11:59 p.m. Eastern Time.

September 17, 2025

Dear U.S. Department of Agriculture and Secretary Rollins,

I am writing to submit a public comment on the Notice of Intent to rescind the 2001 Roadless Area Conservation Rule (aka Roadless Rule).

As a hiker, outdoor business owner, and American, I care deeply about our nation’s public lands and National Forests. National Forests protect our nation’s vital resources, like clean water and air and fish and wildlife habitat, and they support both climate resilience and the $1.2-trillion outdoor recreation economy.

Here in New England, the Roadless Rule protects 260,000 acres (more than one-fifth) of the White and Green Mountain National Forests, forests that are vital to our region’s environmental and economic future.

Nationally, the Roadless Rule protects 45 million acres of federal forests and grasslands. It is extremely popular with strong bipartisan support from Americans of all backgrounds. During its initial 2000 public comment period, the U.S. Forest Service received 1.6 million comments, the most for any rule in the nation’s history at the time. Of those public comments, more than 95% were in favor of the Rule and its roadless protections.

The Rule retains broad support today from communities, businesses, tribes, sporting groups, individual outdoors people, and millions more. For good reasons.

Roadless areas protect:

water, soil, and air quality,
municipal water supplies for millions of Americans,
the health and resiliency of important ecosystems and biodiversity,
valuable fish and wildlife habitat,
migration corridors and habitat connectivity,
recreational opportunities to hike, bike, hunt, fish, rock climb, and ski,
and the more than $1-trillion outdoor recreation economy, which accounts for 2.3% of America’s GDP, 3.1% of U.S. employees, and 5 million American jobs

Instead of rescinding the landmark Roadless Rule and opening our intact forests to destructive road-building, commercial logging, mining, and drilling, we should strengthen the Rule and extend existing protections to all Inventoried Roadless Areas.

Protecting roadless areas also helps mitigate the devastating effects of climate change. Roadless areas capture more than 15 million tons of carbon per year in the American West, 43.4 million tons in the Interior West, and almost 4 million tons in the East. They also are among the most wildfire-resilient landscapes andamong the best tools for addressing wildfires.

Repealing the Roadless Rule would be shortsighted and cost our nation financially and environmentally now and in the future. If we want to invest in our public lands and National Forests, let’s address the U.S. Forest Service’s $10.8 billion backlog for deferred maintenance on the roads and bridges already in our National Forests.

I urge you to act in the best interest of the American public and our invaluable public lands and retain the Roadless Rule and its protections. I believe revoking this rule is reckless, unnecessary, and deeply harmful to our nation and its natural resources.

If the U.S. Forest Service’s mission truly is “Caring for the Land and Serving People,” you will retain the Roadless Rule and protect and conserve our National Forests and natural resources now and for generations to come.

Sincerely,
Alicia MacLeay
Rome, Maine 04963

*(White Mountain National Forest, New Hampshire)*

Things I See When I Ski

The first picture I ever posted on Instagram was of a sunset I saw while cross-country skiing on the local golf course in 2017. With that middling image #thingsiseewheniski was born. The second picture I posted, a month later, was also a skiing picture, this one on a powdery alpine day at a nearby ski hill. Do two pictures count as a trend?

How It Started

sunset cross-country ski (January 19, 2017)
#thingsiseewheniski

How It’s Going

Despite what that blistering posting pace suggests, I’ve taken a lot of pictures before and since of things I see when I ski, run, or hike. (My Lightroom photo catalogue might say too many pictures.) I’ve even posted a few of them. But, maybe because there are so many, or maybe because of perfectionism issues, I’m generally bad at sharing them.

With the exception of Strava, where I try to include a picture with every activity, I wonder: Should I post another picture of this mountain, view, tree, trail? Which pictures are worthy? Is it all just more of the same? Then I just move on to the next activity, and the photos go live on a hard drive.

But when I happen to see one of those pictures I took—from a ski last winter, a hiking trip years ago, a run I’ve done countless times—it takes me back to that day and that specific ski or hike or run. Whether it was a one-time experience or the same trail, mountain, or view yet again, the snow or the light through the trees or my feelings were distinct in that instant. Looking at the picture a forgotten moment returns, and since we’re talking about skiing, hiking, and running, it was probably a pretty good moment. I feel lucky.

I’m grateful I get to go outside, explore, and see so many things. I think that’s why I take all those pictures, even if I don’t post most of them. In the right light with the right viewpoint, patterns in the snow, a mountain vista, or a lone cattail can feel like a gift I have to stop and acknowledge. It’s a privilege—though it shouldn’t be—and I want to hold onto all those singular moments. I also worry that we’re losing opportunities to have such moments outside in nature. Maybe I’m stockpiling them while I can.

For me, many of those outdoor moments happen while skiing, and 2024-25 was an exceptionally memorable ski season for me. It started a year ago in the Andes, continued through winter here in Maine, and ended this spring in Colorado. I was extra lucky, and I didn’t want to forget that. So now, with summer tapering, the air cooling, and leaves on the ground hinting at fall, I’ve been looking back and rediscovering last season’s stash of skiing highlights.

August 2024

We started our ski season early last August when our family took a trip to Chile, where our son would be spending a semester abroad. We drove up the curviest road in the Andes to El Colorado ski resort, our son competed in two IFSA Freeride competitions, and we met the greatest skier of all time. The conditions, the views, and trip were epic.

*Andes mountains from El Colorado ski resort, Chile (August 25, 2024) #thingsiseewheniski*

December 2024

Epic, once-in-a-lifetime trips aside, most of my ski days are at our home mountain, Saddleback in Rangeley, Maine. I haven’t missed an opening day since the mountain reopened five years ago, and this year Saddleback opened on December 6. The season had an auspiciously snowy start.

*mountain views from Saddleback Mountain, Maine (December 15, 2024) #thingsiseewheniski*

January 2025

New year, more skiing, same but different views. I have taken countless versions of these pictures over the years, and I’ll still stop and take yet another.

*Green Weaver Trail, Saddleback Mountain, Maine (January 6, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

February 2025

The shortest month had the most skiing and therefore the most skiing pictures. There was enough snow in February that I ventured into the glades repeatedly. Also, if my husband ever replaces his ski jacket, it needs to be red to keep that pop of color. February also reminded me that I like wandering around in the woods and on frozen bogs and ponds in winter. I should cross-country ski more.

Alpine

*Dark Wizard Glade, Saddleback, Maine (February 9, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

Cross-Country

*McIntire Pond, Kennebec Highlands, Maine (February 8, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

March 2025

A little cross-country, a little downhill, a little uphill—March had a little of it all.

*Belgrade Lakes, Maine (March 2, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

April 2025

Conditions were thinner and spotty by April, but we kept on skiing until Saddleback ended its season on April 20—Easter, or rather, Skeaster. It was too early—ski seasons have shortened by about two weeks in my lifetime—but we take what we can get.

*Closing day at Saddleback, Maine (April 20, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

May 2025

The season wasn’t quite over though; while in Colorado in May we added a day at Loveland. This means we started the 2024-25 ski season at El Colorado in South America and ended the season in Colorado in North America. I do love an unplanned bookend.

*Loveland Ski Area, Dillon, Colorado (May 4, 2025) #thingsiseewheniski*

After pulling these pictures together I ended up back at my usual spot wondering should I even post this? Sure, there’s a lot of outdoor beauty and fun above—mountain vistas, snow, trees! But skiing also reeks of privilege, and what about climate change? While all my ski days in New England were accessed in an electric vehicle, I realize those flights to Chile and Colorado make me a hypocrite. Flying somewhere to ski while we lose winter sounds irrational.

New places can be stellar to see, but most of these moments happened in my own state, in places I’ve visited many times. Several outings cost nothing beyond my 20-year-old cross-country skis, and for others I used my Saddleback season pass and Indy Pass. All this rumination to wonder: Is my climate math mathing? It feels complicated.

This is how I get hung up and twisted into knots about posting a simple picture…

But when I look back, I remember the joy of skiing uphill with a friend, making snowy tracks on local trails, the way the mountains lit up at sunset, and crossing frozen ponds to wander conservation land. I don’t want such moments to only be seen and preserved in pictures on a hard drive. I want them to be waiting for anyone who heads outside, looks around, and feels lucky.

If you want more things I see outside, occasionally, follow me on Instagram.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay

Angry Birder

This innocent, awkwardly cute, baby bird made me angry this week.

For several days it cried loudly and incessantly from the dogwood tree outside our screen door. The cries temporarily stopped each time its parent brought back a caterpillar or other insect to satisfy its voracious hunger. And then it resumed, over and over. That’s not what made me mad though.

The parent dutifully hunting down and delivering all those insects was a Red-eyed Vireo. The fledgling eating all those insects however was not. It was a Brown-headed Cowbird, a brood parasite (biology’s term, not mine). The Red-eyed Vireo had been tricked into raising this interloper, at the expense of its own young.

Cornell Lab’s All About Birds objectively calls the Brown-headed Cowbird’s parasitism “a fascinating approach to raising its young.” I’d call it unfair, but we’re talking about birds, so that would be unfair. As All About Birds explains: “Females forgo building nests and instead put all their energy into producing eggs, sometimes more than three dozen a summer. These they lay in the nests of other birds, abandoning their young to foster parents, usually at the expense of at least some of the host’s own chicks.”

Brown-headed Cowbirds are native to the United States, so they’re protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, one of the oldest environmental protection laws on the books. The MBTA protects native birds from people, so you can’t hunt, capture, kill, or otherwise hurt cowbirds or their eggs, even if you think they’re a nuisance. (The exceptions are non-native House Sparrows and European Starlings.) It’s an important law that’s estimated to have saved millions of birds, though the current administration is moving to weaken its protections.

Years ago, when I learned about Brown-headed Cowbirds and then saw some in our yard I judgmentally said, “I hate cowbirds.” My youngest immediately said, “you can’t hate a bird for being itself!” She was right. A cowbird is just being a cowbird, like all the other cowbirds before it.

After all, I also like raptors and hawks and corvids, and they can be brutal. I’ve watched a hawk hunt in our yard, gulls fight over a dead bird on a beach, and I know the crows and ravens are likely eating eggs and baby birds right out of their nests. Nature doesn’t need nor care about our judgement, though it could use our attention and protection.

Thankfully, I don’t often see Brown-headed Cowbirds in our yard and there are ways to discourage them. However, last month by chance I saw a female cowbird fly from the previously mentioned dogwood tree carrying an egg it had removed from someone’s nest. It then dropped it on the ground a few times for good measure. That a cowbird fledgling appeared a few weeks later was not a big surprise.

It’s unreasonable to judge a bird or any animal based on a human sense of fairness. Still, when I realized that this crying fledgling was a cowbird, not a vireo, it transformed in my mind from adorable to menacing. The Red-eyed Vireo parent and the young Brown-headed Cowbird didn’t know the difference though. They were operating on instinct. I was the one hung up on baby vireos who never got a chance, let alone a caterpillar, and that wasted egg on the ground.

So, does one cowbird replacing one vireo clutch matter? It is part of nature after all.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter if bird populations weren’t declining so rapidly: Eastern forest birds have declined 27 percent in the past 50 years. Thankfully in this case, the Red-eyed Vireo is one of the most common breeding songbirds and a species of “Least Concern” for conservation. Though it’s not the only species Brown-headed Cowbirds select as a host; more than 140 bird species have raised cowbird young. Cowbirds have also been implicated in the decline of several endangered ones, including the Kirtland’s Warbler and Black-capped Vireo. And as species decline, it starts to feel like every bird matters.

And maybe one cowbird wouldn’t matter if 2.5 million acres of grasslands weren’t being lost or degraded annually: Brown-headed Cowbirds were once confined to open grasslands, following herds of North American Bison around to eat the insects they stirred up. As people spread out, settled, built towns, and cleared woods the cowbirds dispersed as well. Now they cover far more territory across the continent and utilize more host species who never dealt with their parasitism before.

And maybe one cowbird wouldn’t matter if insects weren’t dying off at alarming rates due to pesticides, habitat destruction, climate change, pollution, and invasive species. It’s estimated 40 percent of insect species are declining; a third are endangered and facing extinction in the coming decades; and insects are disappearing eight times faster than mammals, birds, and reptiles. All those caterpillars are essential to baby birds—who each need to eat thousands to survive—and to the insect populations that pollinate, maintain soil structure, and support food chains and ecosystems.

But all these things are happening, right now.

So, I’m not angry at that hungry little cowbird who just wants to survive; I’m angry that we’re losing millions of birds and insects, essential habitats and ecosystems, and biodiversity; at climate change; at a federal government ripping away environmental protections while actively causing harm to our land, water, and air. Amid all these environmental threats, the survival of a baby bird, a species, an ecosystem can feel tenuous. Like it can all come down to one last caterpillar.

We can’t judge the character of birds. One bird isn’t innocent and the other guilty. That doesn’t mean we leave nature alone to fend for itself though. Because we’ve never left nature alone. We constantly tip the scales against it; we should also put a hand on the scales and help tip them back.

Planting native trees and plants to support birds and insects, preventing bird-window collisions, leaving the leaves on the ground, avoiding pesticides, signing up for action alerts, supporting cleaner energy, asking elected officials to defend and fully support the Migratory Bird Treaty Act and Endangered Species Act, fighting rescission of the 2001 Roadless Rule which will allow clear cutting of our National Forests, protecting our National Monuments from oil drilling and other harm.

If you love birds—and I do love birds, even that “fascinating” cowbird—there are many ways to fight for them, and the habitats, plants, and insects they rely on.

Turns out my anger was never about those birds in the dogwood tree, but all the environmental injustices that they, and we, face.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay and taken in Kennebec County, Maine, 2025

Why Public Lands Matter to Me and Our Country

Who me?!

Last week I got an invitation from the Natural Resources Council of Maine with the opportunity to be one of ten people to meet with staff members from Maine Senators Susan Collins’ and Angus King’s offices and share my thoughts on funding for national parks and public lands. I care deeply about public lands and environmental protections. I regularly write my legislators and submit public comments. In fact, I got this invite because I’d recently written to Senator Collins, Chair of the Senate Appropriations Committee, on these issues. And with the impending mega bill before Congress this is a critical moment to speak up.

And despite all that, one of my first thoughts was, “Me? They probably have other people more experienced to do this.” Someone else would go and do this better, right? I’m more of an introvert, behind-the-scenes, letter-writer type.

Then I chastised myself, thought of Smokey Bear calling me out with his pointy finger and “Only You” slogan, and said “yes, me.”

This was an opportunity, and if I cared as much about protecting, conserving, and funding public lands as I think I do, I’d show up. After all, only I could share my unique experiences and thoughts. Others would share their own. And together we’d create a deeper, more meaningful picture. So, I prepared my thoughts, kept updated on bill revisions, went to today’s meeting, listened, shared. I brought copies of the photo below with handwritten notes on the back to leave for the Senators, a last-minute idea. After meeting, I sent the thank-you email below to the Senators’ staff members.

Public lands, health care, clean energy—whatever the issue, we all know our own stories and concerns around them better than anyone else. So, advocating in person was easier than this introvert expected. I don’t know if my individual actions will make a difference in this humongous bill, but I hope they’re part of a lot of people making a difference for public lands and conservation. Plus, it feels better to speak up, even if you fail, than stay silent.

So, to anyone else ever wondering, “who me?!,” think of Smokey and say, “yes me! And yes, you and you. And yes us.” Together.

Dear Mr. Mahaleris and Mr. Tucker,

Thank you both for meeting with me and other constituents today with the Natural Resources Council of Maine. As mentioned, I care about public lands personally and professionally. I am the owner of a Maine-based outdoor business, Trailspace.com, a hiker, skier, birder, trail runner, and a volunteer for our local land trust, 7 Lakes Alliance. I appreciated the opportunity to talk about why conserving, protecting, and fully funding public lands—in Maine and across the country—matters to me and our country’s legacy.

As an active professional of the outdoor industry for more than two decades, I know that federal public lands—from national parks to forests to Bureau of Land Management/BLM lands—directly support local jobs and communities while providing affordable outdoor access for all. That access allows more folks of all ages and backgrounds to connect with the outdoors and nature, while benefiting their own physical and mental health and protecting the health of our natural resources.

Public lands provide clean air and drinking water, critical wildlife habitat, and help reduce climate change impacts. Plus, investing in public land funding and conservation provides significant economic returns. It’s win-win.

The trade group Maine Outdoor Brands, of which Trailspace is a founding member, values outdoor recreation’s economic impact on our state at $5 billion. Nationally, the outdoor industry I’m part of contributes 2.3 percent ($639.5 billion) to our country’s GDP. These show how much Americans value access to our lands and waters.

Last month while visiting several public lands in Colorado—a national park, two wildlife refuges, and BLM lands—I paused to read the BLM sign on the attached picture. It proclaims these are “Your Public Lands”. I believe it comes down to that. Public lands have been set aside for the American people and are held in trust to be protected and managed for present and future generations. This is our legacy. We should not give it away or sell it off for a one-time cash grab.

I’m asking Senator Collins and Senator King to oppose any sell-off of U.S. public lands in the domestic policy bill and to continue that legacy of protection.

I’m also asking them to support fully funding our public lands and their programs, services, and scientific research, and protecting their natural resources.

Public lands are a non-partisan issue. Americans of all parties, ages, and demographics love our public lands. They are an investment for our country now and in the future. Let’s ensure that investment keeps its value by holding onto those lands, fully funding them, and supporting environmental protections on behalf of the American people now and in future generations.

As that BLM sign states, America’s public lands are yours, mine, ours.

Thanks to you both and to Senator Collins and Senator King for taking the time to listen today.

Sincerely,

Alicia MacLeay
Rome, Maine

California Scenes

My family recently went to Los Angeles for a few days, and although I took some pictures in between a full slate of college tours, I wasn’t going to post them. After all, it was LA, a sprawling urban area, and I like outdoorsy pictures. Also, I’d only brought a camera with one small lens. I generally prefer taking photos in places other people aren’t. I’m not a travel photographer. Blah blah blah…

But aren’t we all travelers in life? Plus, I ended up with a surprising number of “outdoorsy” pictures from visiting the country’s second largest metro area. It was a good reminder of the importance of urban green and blue spaces, the different ways being outdoors can look, and to notice what’s actually around me—the surf on the sand, a rose blossom at sunset—not just what I expect to see. And there were birds.

Los Angeles

Venice Beach

Thanks to time zones, we left Boston at 7 a.m. and were standing on the sand by the Pacific Ocean before noon. Arriving at Venice Beach at midday on Memorial Day sounds like a bad idea, but it was great. We parked easily, had a relaxing walk along the pier, beach, and boardwalk, and watched a pair of Snowy Egrets finding lunch.

Exposition Park

I ended one LA day with a sunset run by the beautiful Exposition Park Rose Garden—so many blooms in so many colors!—and the LA Memorial Coliseum, where fellow Mainer Joan Benoit Samuelson won the first ever women’s Olympic marathon in 1984. I ran much slower than her sub-2:25 pace. I also saw a Red-tailed Hawk who had built a nest on the coliseum.

Griffith Park and Observatory

I feel like I’m supposed to make a La La Land reference for Griffith Observatory, but it doesn’t need it. The observatory is located on Mount Hollywood in Griffith Park, which the city calls the “largest urban-wilderness municipal park in the United States.” How large is it? The park is 4,210 acres with 51 miles of trails and gets 10 millions visitors a year. The walk up to the observatory offers sweeping views of the city, hills, and Hollywood sign, and admission is free. I heard numerous birds: avian and helicopter.

Orange County

Newport Beach

Down in Orange County, Newport Beach’s Balboa Peninsula was beautiful, and the colors of its surf and sand were popping. Plus, we watched some serious drama play out between several gulls fighting over another dead bird. It was riveting. #realgullsoforangecounty

Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve

Right along the side of busy Pacific Coast Highway/Route 1 in Huntington Beach is Bolsa Chica Ecological Reserve. Turns out the 1,300-acre wetland is the largest saltwater marsh along California’s coast. We only had time for a short walk, but saw terns, grebes, pelicans, osprey, and shorebirds. I did wish for a longer lens or binoculars here.

Los Angeles

Ken Malloy Harbor Regional Park

On the way to the airport our last day, we saw this Los Angeles municipal park and made it our final stop. The park was popular with families picnicking, kids playing, and folks fishing. We, however, spent our short visit cleaning out the rental car, repacking bags, eating leftovers, and watching Great-tailed Grackles (a new-ish bird to me) before our flight home.

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay and taken May 2025 in Los Angeles and Orange Counties, California

Splashes of Spring Color

Scarlet, Ruby, Indigo, Rose—the birds visiting our yard this past month have brought splashes of color—and song—to spring.

With migration underway, I look out the window a moment longer for any surprises at the backyard feeders. The Indigo Bunting who showed up on Mother’s Day, ate his fill of suet, and departed. The Rose-breasted Grosbeaks who for three straight days now have been filling up on safflower.

Noteworthy birds for me, but I’m only skimming the surface until I step outside, listen, and look. Once I’m out there, I hear warblers and vireos call from treetops and see them dart from leafy branch to leafy branch. Hummingbirds territorially buzz by. A hawk silently cruises overhead.

If I’m patient, and lucky, I might hear ten kinds of warblers this spring. Despite hours of neck and camera craned high, I might end up with pictures of two. (The Yellow-rumped Warblers were obliging this year by bringing friends and hanging out on our suet feeder.)

A picture might be worth a thousand words. And yet, these ones tell a fraction of the story.

Still, they’re a colorful start.