Outdoor Calling

Save Our Moose

Millie the Moose (2021-July 2022)

Millie the moose died last month, just two weeks after I shared her picture on Instagram as a Belgrade Lakes celebrity. The first social media reports were that while swimming across Great Pond’s Mill Stream she was hit by a speeding boat and left for dead. People were heartbroken, angry, sad, infuriated. Pitchforks were figuratively sharpened online. As sad as I was about the moose, I increasingly worried someone might come to harm in retribution.

Days later the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife reported that Millie showed no signs of trauma or injuries, so was not killed by a boat strike, though they were investigating the matter. More feelings and strong words followed—at those some thought overreacted or jumped to conclusions, at the game wardens for repeatedly saying the moose was fine all summer, when maybe she really wasn’t, at grief for her loss. Lest you think I’m being dramatic, it made the newspaper (“Death of Millie the moose causes stir in Belgrade”).

Initially I was heartbroken to think someone recklessly hit her and left her floating in the stream. It was a horrific visual. I was somewhat relieved to hear Millie, who was probably a year old, may have died of natural causes, though we still don’t know what those causes were. The first scenario meant someone careless was to blame. The second scenario mean there was no one to blame, well, not one individual.

Maine’s moose are in trouble—but the problem is parasites and climate change, not speeding boats. With warming climates, parasites and diseases expand in range and have greater impacts. Enter the winter tick. Shorter winters mean one moose can be inundated with tens of thousands of winter ticks. All those blood-sucking parasites can cause our largest land mammals to bleed to death, especially calves. Last winter the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife collared 70 moose calves to track in remote parts of the state; 60 of those calves were dead by spring due to winter ticks. That’s a record 86% death rate.

On top of that, moose also face a brain-worm parasite spread by white-tailed deer. The deer aren’t affected, but in moose it leads to neurological problems, abnormal behavior, even death. It’s brutal.

Maine has the densest population of moose in the country. Could we lose our iconic mascot due to something as small as winter ticks? Many of us want “someone” to “do something” to fix it. But what is that something? Who is that someone? More important than blame, how do we keep the moose population healthy?

No one has officially reported what killed Mille. However, observers had worried about her looking starved, stumbling, “not right” and reported their concerns. Regardless of their differing theories, people cared about this individual moose, and that’s a good thing. It’s just a lot easier to point fingers about who’s responsible for one moose than figuring out how to save all the moose.

The Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife does have a plan for the winter tick infestation. It entails increasing hunting in certain areas to kill more moose and reduce their population densities. Sounds counterintuitive, but you can read about it on their website. Will this work? I don’t know. As much as I dislike the idea of killing more moose, I hope so, or that it at least slows the rate of loss until “someone” comes up with something better.

Biologists, conservationists, and nature lovers around the United States and Canada have been considering non-lethal ways to save moose populations—biopesticide fungal spores that kill tick larva, food with tick-killing medication, drones with medicine, paintball guns shooting pesticides, and so on—but no practical treatments have been found yet. You cannot pull tens of thousands of winter ticks off each individual moose.

People cared deeply about Millie, their local moose. I witnessed a woman from New Jersey finally see her first moose after decades coming to Maine. “You don’t know what this means to me,” she said after. I thought she might cry. For all the drama and uncertainty surrounding Millie’s life and death, she brought genuine joy, and that is a rare thing.

Now, if only we can channel that collective joy, grief, and concern into action and find solutions to save our moose. That would be a worthy legacy.

_{(top picture taken with 600mm zoom from a very nice couple’s back deck; bottom picture taken with 600mm zoom from road}₎

Further Reading:

Winter ticks wiped out nearly 90% of the moose calves scientists tracked in part of Maine last year (Maine Public Radio)
Maine Moose and Winter Ticks and Moose Species Info (Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife)
Effects of Winter Ticks and Internal Parasites on Moose Survival in Vermont, USA (The Journal of Wildlife Management)
Naturally Occurring Fungi Could Curb Moose Tick Plague, UVM Entomologists Find (The University of Vermont)
Parasites that thrive in a warming planet are killing Minnesota’s moose (Vox)

Showing Up to Work: Lessons in Composition and Craft

Until recently, the last—and only—photography class I ever took was back in the ’90s in high school. To put that in perspective, I mainly recall learning how to use a darkroom. Working in the dark with chemicals to make pictures magically appear on paper was fun, but in the decades since I’ve had a sneaking suspicion I have a lot left to learn.

So, I got up my nerve and signed up for a one-week online class through Maine Media Workshops earlier this month. The night before our first workshop found me searching for 10 shots to represent my work and share for discussion, and wondering if out of thousands of pictures I’d taken recently none were good enough.

Of course, this was why I signed up, and in the end, the class was a small, lovely, supportive group who met for a few hours each day. I entered expecting to learn how much I didn’t know about photography technique, but the opposite happened. I realized (well, was told) I already knew how to use my camera to take a picture. Instead, I ended up rethinking what I wanted to compose and craft, spending more time looking for the light (or lack of), pushing myself to try new angles and consider my options, allowing more room for creativity—which all makes sense since the class was “Composition and Craft.”

For homework every day, which I did at home, mostly in my yard, the process generally went like this: set out to take pictures in the evening after class/work/family duties, realize it wasn’t working at all because of fading light or feeling uninspired, start to worry that I had absolutely nothing to share with class tomorrow and they would realize I am a fraud, stop to see what I had, decide to try something else, end up with some unexpected pictures to share.

Sticking with the work, even when I felt like I was failing, having to try something else, led to pictures I wouldn’t have otherwise taken.

This Chuck Close quote sums up the process for me:

“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightning to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself. Things occur to you.”

I had to have something to show each day, so I ended up with something to show each day.

Here are a few pieces that came out of that work. I don’t know if any are “good” or not, but regardless each one made me think differently, more intentionally, deliberately, and creatively about my photography and how I approach the process going forward. There’s still a lot to learn, but I’ll keep showing up for the process to work and for things to occur.

In Gratitude to Muskrat for His Sacrifice (or Happy Earth Day)

It’s Earth Day, but I’m thinking of it as Thank a Muskrat Day.

I recently was introduced to Muskrat, or rather a muskrat, who lives down the road and swims back and forth in the stream between lakes. I was looking for Mink when I first noticed the trail of water that followed a small face and eyes just above the water surface. Once I figured out what, or rather who, he was I saw him more regularly—swimming under docks, diving underwater with his long tail, carrying up plants to eat on a log.

Shortly after, I started reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, which opens with the indigenous origin story of Skywoman Falling and the creation of Turtle Island*. While I was generally aware of this story, I was surprised and delighted to discover in Kimmerer’s telling that little, unassuming Muskrat is its hero (in my opinion).

At the time, the world is covered in water. As Skywoman falls down to it, she is caught by Geese who place her on top of a great Turtle. All the diving and swimming animals—Loon, Beaver, Otter, and more—take turns venturing into the water’s dark depths to try and bring some mud up from the bottom to create (or recreate) the earth for Skywoman. Some never return.

Only Muskrat succeeds at last, mud clenched in his little hand, and loses his life in the process (no!). The mud is placed on Turtle’s back and the world is reborn as Turtle Island, where we in North America live today. (Thank a turtle today too.)

The story is about creation, but also sacrifice, gratitude, reciprocity…and I kept getting stuck on the magnitude of the animals’ sacrifice and a lack of fairness. True, Skywoman brought great abundance to all through the earth, but my cynical side kept considering the status of our earth today, and tallying up its winners and losers. I wanted to cry out to Muskrat and the others “We’re not worthy!”

Gifts require gratitude though, and I realized I had it backwards. Instead of eco-despairing and focusing solely on what animals, nature, and the earth have lost due to us (a lot), I could focus on their sacrifice and gift, and on gratitude and reciprocity.

“What can we who recognize the debt possibly give back?” asks Kimmerer in another essay. It’s not meant to be a rhetorical question, but an active, ongoing questioning of our actions—what we ask for, what we take, what we give. We need to be equal to the gift, and the creation of earth is an immense one.

Muskrat, Turtle, Loon, Beaver—I had pictures of most of these creation characters (dare I say heros?). Earth Day seemed like a good day to share and honor them as we consider how to repay our debts.

Geese

These geese flew over me in my backyard.
(Note the terrible Browntail Moth nests atop the trees, just waiting to unleash trouble and misery this spring…)

Turtle

Loon

*Three of eight (!) loons I saw one evening last summer. It was the most loons I’ve ever seen at once.*

Otter

Beaver

*No, that’s not a beaver, but I often saw this juvenile bald eagle hanging out on that beaver lodge.*

Muskrat

*Oh wait, check out those paws, claws, and tail.*

Wait—another muskrat! I saw this muskrat by the river yesterday. It swam right towards me as I was leaving and was the last thing I photographed before writing this. So it gets the last word…or picture.

^{*There are various versions of this indigenous origin story, with the central theme being the creation of the earth, or North America, on the back of a great turtle. Check out Kimmerer’s book for her telling. I found The Canadian Encyclopedia informativ}^{e as well. “}^{Turtle Island” is also the name of the Pulitzer-Prize winning book of poetry by Gary Snyder, whom I was lucky enough to hear do a reading once at my college.}

Seeing Steller’s

Thirty-three hours. Five days. One bird.

That’s how long I spent, over two weeks, trying to see a single bird here in Maine, a Steller’s Sea Eagle—or rather the Steller’s Sea Eagle, the only one of its kind in North America. Each day I missed the eagle, sometimes by minutes, my sunk costs increased, as did my desire to see the bird. At the same time, my low bar for a sighting kept dropping.

I just wanted to see the bird from a distance…please. A brief fly-by would suffice…maybe.

It worked. Or maybe I was just lucky. I saw the eagle twice that day, both times perched more than a half mile away across open water and then flying. I also saw the sun rise from the ocean, a Bald Eagle in falling snow, an adorable Black Guillemot swimming in the bay, and at the end of it all a stunning sunset while sitting alone by the water. It was a good day.

That first moment of finally seeing the Steller’s through my own camera—even on an island a half mile away—was thrillingly better than the previous day’s dusky scope. There it was! Just sitting in a tree. After forty minutes of watching it perched, the bird stretched its wings, took off, and flew down the inlet and past me. This felt well earned.

Context matters. Especially where wild things are concerned.

*Find the STSE above. Bonus birds—Surf Scooters.*

After all, this bird is famous. A LOT of people want to see it, driving and flying to Maine from around the country. While I’m not an obsessive Life List birder (at least I wasn’t), I get that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And now that I’ve seen the rare eagle, I don’t want to be a gatekeeper, distancing others from the outdoors and nature.

So, this is also an opportunity to remind myself of ethical birding and wildlife watching: do not get too close to an animal; don’t influence its behavior; if it notices you, you’re too close; don’t flush it and waste its energy. (Most of my pictures were taken at full 600mm zoom and from a half mile or more away.)

I expect most people to fall into one of two camps, to think:

Who wastes days standing around in the cold just to see a bird? Crazy. or
What a cool and amazing bird to see.

I understand both, so I’ll share some thoughts from my five days of searching, waiting, wondering:

First, the ability to spend five (non-consecutive) days looking for a bird is a fortunate privilege of working for myself. That said, I still had to give up some things, rejigger my schedule, but decided I’d remember these days more—especially if I could find the bird.
As the days passed, I wondered if I was becoming a bit obsessed. Was this healthy? Was the Steller’s becoming my white whale? (That didn’t end well for Ahab.)
With time and frustration, one starts bargaining with the fates; Just let me see it once, please.
Or adopting a Linus-Great Pumpkin mindset; I am the sincerest of the eagle searchers; please rise up and pick my patch of sky, Great Steller’s.
FOMO and social media can make it feel like everyone else has seen the bird and spectacularly up close. Not true. Most people I met had not seen the eagle yet; some were stopping by for a quick look and others had been trying for days. I wished most that kids whose parents brought them would see it, or local folks, like the aquarium scientist, police officer, and boatyard workers I chatted with.
Worried about crowds? Go on the coldest weekdays, especially days when no or few eagle sightings will be reported. Most of my 30-plus hours were spent, coldly, standing or wandering around a few areas without many people close by. My double-layer neckie worked well for warmth and as a mask when others were near.
The people I did interact with were kind, courteous, and helpful.
Over those five days, I got to watch and notice numerous seabirds and Bald Eagles.
It is possible, on the fourth day of looking for a very big bird, to walk alone down a dirt road, pass a tree among trees (twice!) less than 100 feet away, in which the largest eagle in the world is perched, and never see or flush it from the dark branches. After realizing this happened, I simultaneously wanted to cry and felt oddly proud of my ability to practically walk to the eagle, but not disturb it. If the eagle sees me, but I don’t see the eagle, does that count for something? (No.)
That still makes me want to cry a little.
Seriously.

*Finally seeing the STSE, way over on that far shore*

It’s easy to scoff at the idea of people wasting time, money, or resources to look for one bird. I asked myself, what was the point? Could I justify this? But people are interested in and drawn to birds. So, I also asked myself, how do we convert that goodwill to actions that value and protect nature?

Supporting the places that advocate for and provide space and habitat for birds is a good start. I made donations In Honor of the Steller’s Sea Eagle to Maine Audubon (in addition to my annual membership) and Boothbay Region Land Trust afterwards. I also bought my annual Maine State Parks pass. Just imagine if everyone who looked for this bird gave a little something.

Also, this Steller’s Sea Eagle might be the ultimate spark bird, converting untold numbers into avian lovers and advocates.

*Yes, that is a bird in the very top of that far left tree.*

*Getting dive bombed by a crow or raven, and not caring a bit*

I’d consider looking for the Steller’s Sea Eagle again—if it hangs around Maine and the crowds retreat. It was exciting to see such a huge, rare bird. (I was going to call it “impressive,” but I think all birds are impressive.) And those five days and thirty-three hours were undoubtedly good practice in patience and mindfulness.

But I’ve also returned my focus to hyper-local, backyard birding out the kitchen window. I still see you, chickadees and woodpeckers! Plus, the very next day after spotting the eagle, while picking my daughter up at school, I was excited to unexpectedly see a Sharp-shinned Hawk fly into a bush. And then the next day a Bald Eagle flew right over our car…

Some Stellar Non-Stellers

When I venture beyond my backyard, birdwatching often entails seeing something different than what I intended or hoped to see. If I’m paying attention, and get lucky, I sometimes learn or notice something new.

While searching for the famed Steller’s Sea Eagle on the Maine coast this past week, I saw a number of stellar (not Steller) sea birds—birds that survive and thrive through frigid winters in the Atlantic Ocean, birds that can dive hundreds of feet underwater, staying down for long minutes, birds that have their own unique migration journeys.

Here are a few stellar highlights, including some birds that were new to me.

Black Guillemot

I think this bird is the cutest. I saw Black Guillemots for the first time last summer, but wouldn’t have recognized them in their whitish winter plumage till now. Every time I think I’ve learned a new bird, I find out I have not.

Razorbills

Razorbills are adorable and remind me of penguins, if penguins lived in the Northern Hemisphere and I’d ever seen a real penguin in the wild. Razorbills—the penguins of the North Atlantic.

Red-necked Grebe

I’ll be honest; I’d never heard of this bird before. While standing on the rocky coast staring at faraway smudgy trees, a guy who’d driven all the way from Philly to see the Steller’s Sea Eagle told me there were Red-necked Grebes swimming nearby. I thanked him as if I knew what he was talking about. I’d later see this bird at Reid State Park and once home and ID-ing it think, oh that’s a Red-necked Grebe. Pretty.

Common Loons

The Common Loon is a common summer resident on the lakes where I live, but I don’t usually see them in their winter homes on the coast. So this was a treat, like unexpectedly bumping into a friend from home while on vacation. These ones were busy diving for seafood in the harbor.

Long-tailed Ducks

We jokingly call them all ocean ducks at my house, but in fact there are many families and species of sea ducks, most of which are excellent divers and all with different names. I’ve now learned a few more, like these Long-tailed Ducks, which unsurprisingly have long tail feathers.

Common Goldeneyes

It was relaxing watching the Common Goldeneyes rise and fall with the waves, diving together, then wondering where they’d pop up. The very next day I saw more on the Kennebec River near home.

Surf Scoters

I’d never heard of a scoter before—it’s yet another duck—but it beats its nickname of “old skunkhead.”

White-Winged Scoters

Also available in white-winged variety.

American Black Ducks

American Black Ducks are fairly common, but I’d never seen—well, more accurately never noticed—one before. They look a lot like female mallards, who they hang out with. Then I saw a pair swimming in the harbor. Later I saw flocks in a lagoon. They’ll likely be everywhere I look now.

Mallards

The most familiar of ducks, maybe of all birds, let’s not forget the Mallard, or as my teenage son says, a “regular” duck. So common they often don’t get noticed, Mallards are the ancestors of nearly all domestic duck breeds.

Red-breasted Mergansers

Mergansers—still ducks. Red-breasted ones are also called “sawbills” for the tiny serrations on their bills. Since they need to eat 15 to 20 fish every day—which means diving underwater 250 to 300 times—a good grip is important.

Gulls

Suffering from the same overfamiliarity issue as Mallards, gulls often get dismissed as just more seagulls. But like ocean ducks, there are so many varieties and different plumages. I don’t know how people keep them straight. I often end up assuming they’re all Herring Gulls until I learn differently, thanks to Merlin Bird ID.

Bald Eagles

Hey, we’re eagles too! I’m lucky to see Bald Eagles semi-regularly, but it’s still impressive to stand at the edge of the ocean and have one fly by and over your head. They’re big and powerful birds, though the bird word is that there’s an even bigger and more powerful eagle somewhere out there…

All pictures were taken by me, Alicia MacLeay, either January 1 or January 3, 2022, in Georgetown, Maine, from Five Islands Wharf, Ledgemere Nature Preserve, or Reid State Park. Click on an image to see it larger.

Finding Stellar

*Hanging out on the coast on a beautiful Maine day (Ledgemere Nature Preserve, Georgetown)*

“The eagle flew” a lady announced to me through her car window and immediately drove off. Darn it. On New Year’s Day morning I showed up a frustrating 15 minutes after the most famous bird in North America left its latest known viewing spot, on the coast of Maine.

The eagle—a rarest of rarities Steller’s Sea Eagle—hails from Asia but has been traveling solo around North America since 2020, and making headlines wherever it makes an appearance. A week ago it stopped in Vacationland, and I figured if this bird could fly all the way from eastern Russia or Japan, I could make the hour-long drive to see one of the biggest eagles in the world.

Despite the woman’s warning, I opted to wait at the harbor in hopes the eagle would come back that way. (Silver lining: there were now parking spots!) The next three hours consisted of standing in the winter rain, scanning trees and skies, hopping around to stay warm, wishing I had taken the Chex mix out of the car, waiting for updates from the local lobsterman out in his boat, and wondering if the bird would come back if I just went home to my family.

Should I stay or should I go? The eagle was tantalizingly near, on an island directly offshore. Alas, it was on the other side, and I did not have a boat. I eventually called it and headed home.

*While the eagle hung out on this and other foggy islands, the only bird I’d see in that direction was a loon.*

But Steller FOMO was high. I returned two days later, as it was still being seen in the area. With temps in the single digits (but no rain!) I again stood along the harbor shore, this time staring at a possible black blob with white spot in a tree a mile or two down the coast. Scopes, binoculars, and cameras were all aimed its way.

Was it the eagle? Did the white patch of a wing move? How many people can collectively conjure an eagle if they’re desperate enough? Reader, it was not an eagle.

*Squint as much as you like, but there’s no eagle out there. Nice spot for a house though.*

I’d gone into the day reminding myself not to get Steller tunnel vision though. To notice what was there with intent. As much as I wanted to see this darn bird—it’s huge in size and reputation—the new fellow was not the only bird around. Plus, the Maine coast is beautiful in winter.

Knowing I risked missing the eagle yet again by moving on, I decided to take a walk and explore a nearby nature preserve—a lovely quiet spot above the waves—and later the local state park’s beach and lagoon. Maybe I’d see something new, maybe not, but at least I’d change my viewpoint. It beat staring at the same spot endlessly.

As it turned out, no one would see the eagle that day, and its whereabouts have been largely unknown since. It was admittedly disappointing to miss seeing the bird—so close!—but I can’t complain about time spent looking out on an ocean from cliffs, walking along a winter beach, noticing birds on land, sea, and sky. They showed up, so I did too.

A few thoughts:

While I set out to see one specific bird, by expanding my scope I ended up seeing eight new-to-me birds species.
Birders are generally friendly folks, and if you’re carrying a camera will stop and talk.
That black and white blob in a tree could have been a Steller Rorschach test; the further people drove to see the bird, the more likely they were to believe it was the eagle.
While standing around with Steller’s Sea Eagles on the brain, I wondered who was this Steller who had numerous animals named for him. Turns out Georg Wilhelm Steller was an 18th-century German naturalist who worked in Russia. His Wikipedia entry makes me think he’s prime material for a thrilling historical narrative book.
It’s encouraging to know so many people care about birds.
However, we’ve lost billions of birds in a lifetime—a quarter of all birdlife since 1970. So if you’re willing to spend hours to try and see one bird, consider supporting organizations that work to protect all birds and their habitats every day. And keep your cats inside.

I’ll keep checking for Steller updates, but I’ll also keep reminding myself to find what’s stellar wherever I am. And if I never see the eagle, I hope it’s finding its way home. Imagine the stories it will have to tell.

Disappointed there are no pictures of the Steller’s Sea Eagle in this post? Me too. It flew, as birds do. You can check out Some Stellar Non-Steller Birds I did see though.

All pictures were taken by me, Alicia MacLeay, January 1 or January 3, 2022, in Georgetown, Maine, from Five Islands Wharf, Ledgemere Nature Preserve, or Reid State Park. Click on an image to see it larger.

Beat the Blerch: A Virtual Race Report

This past week a T-shirt made me run a marathon.

In July I signed up for the Beat the Blerch virtual race as soon as it was announced, despite not running more than 10 miles at once all year.

After all:

I love The Oatmeal by Matthew Inman, and The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances is one of my favorite comics/books about running, maybe about life.
The event’s slogan is “run for cake.”
I’ve wanted to run a Beat the Blerch race since they started—they feature cake, Nutella, couches, blerches (Inman’s rotund, lazy, gluttonous cherubic creations)—but it’s on the other side of the country.
The money would go to charity. (OK, let’s be honest, while charities are good, altruistic reasons to run races, this was never about the money going to charity.)

Beat the Blerch has 5K, 10K, half, and full marathon distances, but you can run whatever you want. It makes no difference to anyone else—just like any other run or race. I figured I could cover at least “any distance” over the race’s five-day window.

Except, when my Beat the Blerch T-shirt arrived a few weeks before the September race dates it said “virtual marathon” on it.

That’s it. That’s the entire reason I ran a marathon distance this week, despite being woefully undertrained. A T-shirt said so. Oh, and a Beat the Blerch box of race goodies would come sometime during race week, and it would include a medal, and medals are for marathons.

I’ve run marathons and ultra marathons before, but I also have spent several months on the couch this past winter sick and at times too fatigued to go up stairs. (People want to hear about other people’s illnesses even less than they want to hear about their marathons; so we’ll just say it ends with “we don’t know why you’re sick, but it’s probably a virus.”)

I’ve worked on gaining back fitness since, and while I’m significantly better, I have not run much more than 10 miles at a time all year; my high was one terrible 12-miler sometime this summer. It was also a low. When I returned my 16-year-old had to come outside and give me Gatorade while I lay on the grass… His only comment, “good run?”

Clearly this marathon was going to be a PW (personal worst), but hey, that would also make it on trend for 2020. So, I decided to try and make it an adventure run, an experience, or something that made sense or at least pretended to make sense in a year that makes no sense.

I would circumnavigate the lake by my house. After all, it was pretty close to 26 miles from door to door, with 2,500 feet of climbing. I’d start at my Little Free Library (#24255), visit the two Little Free Libraries along this rural route, leaving children’s books and U.S. Constitutions with “Vote” postcards inside—like a civic-minded, running literacy fairy!—and end up back at my LFL. Eventually. Somehow.

I could stop and take pictures (#thingsiseewhenirun), spend the day outside. Both the route and my mindset would provide many reasons (i.e. excuses) for my slow time. Plus, I’d run this route before, knew the roads, and the logistics consisted of leaving my house, running in a giant circle, and ending up back at my house. Simple.

I called it the Beat the Blerch/Long Pond Circumnavigation/LFL/Virtual Marathon.

It would have running, books, and cake (eventually)!

Here’s a slideshow glimpse of how it went. It’s a lot faster than the actual run.

My Little Free Library (#24255) was the start/finish line.
A blue arrow by my start helpfully pointed me in the right direction. Actually it was for a water line. (mile 0.0)
Truck (mile 5)
Art (mile 7)
Cemetery (mile 7)
I made one detour to the lake’s scenic overlook because I wanted to make sure I hit at least 26.2, plus I was spending my day running around said lake.
High point of the day at Blueberry Hill overlook. The closest lake is the northern basin of Long Pond. (mile 7.5)
First Little Free Library stop! I carried a kids book and a U.S. Constitution with a “Vote” postcard inside to drop off in each LFL. (mile 9)
No, it’s not an aid station. It’s a Little Free Pantry. I did not take any food.
My first Little Free Library donations
Marsh (mile 12)
Standing out from the crowd, or just a lonely tree? (mile 12)
More fall colors (mile 12)
The sign says “Geezer.” I thought it was funny and stepped closer to take a picture. Then I noticed the rampant poison ivy near my feet. (mile 13)
(mile 13)
I considered taking a rose and coming back with a donation, but didn’t think thorns and my hydration vest made a good combo. (mile 14)
Very poor attempt to take a selfie while I slogged up a long hill. (mile 16)
But there were these festive balloons near the top!
Wait, there’s another Little Free Library?! And it’s a bookshop?! (mile 18)
I had to split up my second donation due to this bonus LFL. So I left the U.S. Constitution with a “Vote” postcard here.
Stream that’s the southern outlet of this very long pond. (mile 18)
The third and last Little Free Library, with 4 miles to go. (mile 22)
I had one book left…and only later realized how apropos it was for a hilly run where gravity can be your friend or enemy.
Another glimpse of Long Pond from the top of another long hill, but it’s (mostly) downhill from here.
Done (mile 26.26)
My Beat the Blerch box arrived on my back step during my final few miles. Excellent timing—of the goodies, not my run!
I was pretty excited for my medal (the arms move!) and race swag.
I even got a headband, which I love, and Blerch squishy.

So, I did return to my house, eventually. A few notes:

I changed into my running club t-shirt just before starting; it was on top of a pile of clean shirts. In retrospect, it made this whole thing look slightly more official and “race-like.”
I saw many political signs, banners, and flags. Before I started I thought about keeping a tally, my own running poll, but then remembered that my math skills become nonexistent after a few miles. There was no way I was going to track campaign signs in a virtual spreadsheet in my head.
The foliage in the middle miles turned this into a genuine Leaf Peeper Fall Classic.
We need rain. It is very dry outside. Stream beds were empty or very low.
I saw a dead fox, the scattered remains of a dead turkey, a crushed snake, and numerous dead rodents…in case you’re wondering.
My husband visited me twice. He gave me pretzels and extra Gatorade and water (thanks!). Otherwise, I carried everything, and ended up not eating or drinking a bunch of it, especially in the last 10 miles.
I rationalized in advance that walking the big uphills would save my untrained legs. This was mostly an excuse because I didn’t think I could run them anyway. Turns out, I was right on both counts, and my legs felt better than after other marathons/ultras. I could even go up and down stairs the next morning. Weird.
I ran by one haunted house complete with creepy sounds, hanging ghosts, zombies, and music. I wanted to take a picture, but then a small, silent child appeared alone in the background and that seemed like a bad idea.
Geography lesson: Despite being called a “pond,” our Long Pond is fairly big. It’s more than 7 miles long (but it took me more than 26 miles to get around it), has a surface area of 2,557 acres, has an average depth of 35 feet, is more than 100 feet deep at its deepest, and has a water volume of 90,248,000 cubic meters.
I didn’t see any other runners, walkers, or cyclists, except in the village during my last quarter mile. I actually had to stop, wait, and cross the street to avoid them.
I took more than 53,000 steps.
My Garmin reports I went 26.26 miles, but I accidentally turned it off briefly around mile 18 (arghhhhh!) and may have lost some distance. Strava thinks I went 27+ miles, but I like the symmetry of saying I went 26.26 from LFL to LFL.
I guesstimated it would take me 6 or 7 hours (who knows?). I returned home 5:57:54 after I left, a PW by nearly two hours! My actual moving time was 5:25:53, but I think the Little Free Library stops and pictures were worth it.

I made this Blerch cake the next day. So I guess in the end I also ran for cake.

I beat the Blerch. Then I ate the Blerch.

On Lupines

“You must do something to make the world more beautiful.”
― Miss Rumphius

Whenever I see lupines in bloom I hear that quote from Miss Rumphius, one of my favorite children’s books, written by Maine author Barbara Cooney. It’s a simple, direct reminder of our personal responsibilities to this world and to everyone we share it with. And as Miss Rumphius shows readers of any age, it’s an example of how the small actions we sow around us can make the world more beautiful for everyone.

Seeing lupines I often end up asking myself what I’ve done lately to make this magnificent, complicated world a little more beautiful…more just and equitable, more peaceful, healthier, kinder. Sometimes the answer is more difficult to find than I care to admit. It’s easy to become overwhelmed and think, but there’s too much to do! To become stuck in indecision by so many needs. To feel small.

That little bumblebee photobombing my pictures keeps doing his part though. Lupine by lupine. Field by field.

So I can keep working on my part, to keep asking myself what I’ve done lately to make the world more beautiful, to look for answers that spread kindness and joy, justice and peace to everyone.

Bees: Nature’s Essential Workers

We often overlook the individuals we take for granted but depend on daily to keep us fed, safe, and healthy. The list of essential workers is long, and today I’m adding one more name—pollinators. We’ve all got to eat, and one-third of the food we consume requires pollination.

According to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, 75 percent of crops around the world depend, at least in part, on pollinators such as bees, birds, and bats. Pollination affects crop yields, food quality and taste, biodiversity, and the economy, particularly for small scale farmers.

Lose bees—as we’re already doing at species extinction rates 100 to 1,000 times higher than normal—and we risk losing foods like strawberries, blueberries, almonds, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocados, honey, coffee, chocolate, and much more. We may joke that coffee or chocolate is essential to life, but bees truly are.

I don’t want to live in a world without bees or chocolate. So, I was thrilled to hear the ceaseless buzzing emanating from our rhododendrons over the weekend. I had felt satisfactorily productive from my own yardwork and chores, but the work of the bumblebees went on without pause—a continuous dance from flower to flower gathering nectar and pollen along the way. It was impressive and captivating.

Pollinators are in serious trouble from loss of habitat, pesticides, climate change, and colony collapse disorder. But we can help the bees that sustain us by growing a variety of native plants, avoiding pesticides, and supporting local beekeepers and sustainable agriculture. After all, every day pollinators help feed billions of us around the world, for free. And I’d really miss them and chocolate.

Today is World Bee Day. Here’s a photo homage to these essential workers who keep us fed.