not so old ways

I've been reading The Old Ways, by Robert Macfarlane, at the recommendation of a friend.  It's a collection of rambling adventures the author has taken across the old trails, roads, and waterways of Britain.  Braided into the description of whatever track he happens to be taking is a lot of literary commentary, a little geology and natural history, and some keen human observation.  It's quite good, really.  The problem is that he, the author, has introduced me to some places I hadn't yet considered visiting, but now find that I must go!  I mean, up until about a week ago I was in total ignorance of The Hebrides, but now that I've looked at them a bit I find I've got to know more!  I've got to see them for myself!  I even went so far as to bring others in on the scheme.  I told Emma all about the white-tailed eagles that drop into the ocean for fish, the seals that calve on the craggy rocks, the islands with no trees, and those with great oak forests, and the Minch that runs gray between them all.  We've decided that we'll have get a boat, and move from one island to the next, like the early explorers of the Galapagos, collecting our own experiential holotypes.

I biked out to the bay this morning.  Last week's rain had formed pools and puddles in the marsh, inviting little pockets of killdeer to flicker like two-toned glitter along the muddy edges, a single great blue heron stood with slumped shoulders and fluffed feathers, one eye squinting into the sun.  A group of Chinese bird watchers stood on the trail, binoculars fixed on a hovering white-tailed kite.  From a distance their animated conversation sounded a lot like so many ducks in a pond and warblers in a bush.  The kite dropped like a rock from the sky, missed its meal, and shot back into the air to hover again.  The bird watchers issued a collective exclamation of surprise and joy.  As if it was the coolest thing they'd seen all day.

I went to Muir Woods a week or so ago.  There were lots of tourists from all over the world.  My friend and I played a game I call, Guess Where He's From.  The game is pretty straight forward:  guess where people are from based on their dress, posture, people they're with, or language they speak.  It's a great game to play while waiting in line, eating lunch, or riding on a bus, especially in National Parks or in notable tourist locations.  We played it at Muir Woods while eating our lunch outside the little cafe gift shop.  There was a couple, both very tall, blonde, wearing expensive hiking gear.  He carried a camera, she carried lunch.  Simultaneously my friend and I looked at each other and mouthed, "Germany!" to each other.  They sat down and started to talk, in German.  A little chipmunk came to the edge of the bench, scouting for food.  The woman burst into amatory exclamations of delight at the darling little creature-- she was beyond thrilled.  He grabbed his camera and shot no less than fifty pictures of the little guy.  As if it was the coolest thing they'd seen all day.

So then there's this:  "It is a piece of weakness and folly merely to value things because of their distance from the place where we are born, thus men have traveled far enough in the search of foreign plants and animals, and yet continue strangers to those produced in their own natural climate."  A dead Scotsman, Martin Martin (don't you wish that was your name?) said that.  In like 1697, or something.  And it's true.

People come from all over the world to see where I live.  (Well, not really me, mind you.  I mean, they don't give rats about my house and yard, but this amazing land... well now.  That's the draw, isn't it.)  And I live here!  Emma and I aren't going to sail The Minch any time soon.  We won't be going to see the white-tailed eagles drop into the sea to pull up fish, or Atlantic harbor seals sunning on rocks, but we will see osprey and kites drop into the marsh and grasslands, and Pacific harbor seals slipping through the surf.  And I suppose instead of walking the Icknield Way we can pacify ourselves with a bike tour along CA-1.  It's not an Old Way, but it is lovely.