#acornfeathernoshfieldnotes

Field Notes: Oaks Bottom. August 2, 2017. 

A spotted towhee is underbrush absolutely yelling. Is he yelling at me? I’m down under towering cottonwoods at the edge of the pond at Oaks Bottom. Easy there, little fella… i just want to jot down a few notes, I’ll be out of your hair presently. 

The south meadow today has a very high wow quotient. Sure, the dried grass is brown and flat, but the chicory and the sweet pea and the Queen Anne’s lace are having nothing less than a hot-dang hoedown, clearly the life of this party. Do I hear music wafting my way from within the swaying weeds? That’s taking metaphor into the realm of metaphysical. Twenty steps further along I see a path beaten down in the grass and a bicycle tipped over on its side. Then, under a small tree, some dude with his shirt off and a transistor radio on, soaking up the morning sun. 

A dragonfly stumbles by. It's one of those unfamiliar ones I’ve noticed this summer, so different than the normal big bomber blue-eyed darner I’m more familiar with, more delicate. And weird. Glassine wings I can see right through and a thick, rusty-brown stripe running horizontally across the width of the wings. (A later perusal of Insects of the Pacific Northwest is inconclusive.) 

Meanwhile, a second towhee shows up, echoing what sure seems to be displeasure at my presence, even making a strange rising shweep sound heretofore unheard in my wanderings. I’d better scoot on—I don’t want to cause any ruckus. Besides, the ringing bell of the tourist train across the tracks at Oaks Park fun center now draws my attention. A steady ding, ding, ding, ding… 

Then, crunch, crunch, crinkle… the first crunch of leaf underfoot of the year; more the result of trees stressed out from the heat dropping their leaves than any portent of autumn, still months away. The forecast calls for temperatures upwards of 106 degrees today. Ouch. The purple loosestrife [a non-native invasive marsh grass I have a decidedly love/hate relationship with] is quickly losing any ground it had made during an otherwise temperate spring and early summer. 

A mob of unruly crows are presiding at the dumpsters at the midway between Oaks Park roller rink and the woods, picking fights with one another, stabbing at plastic bags of garbage. On the Springwater bike path now, I stop and watch a great blue heron, several young mallard ducklings and their mom, and a single crow enthusiastically munching on whatever it is that spills out from the pond’s drain pipe into the Willamette River. Algae, small aquatic plants, fish fry? Whatever the particulars, it’s a veritable banquet at this confluence. They squabble a little over who gets the best spot at the table, but in the end the heron clearly rules this feast. 

The riparian zone here is lush and thick, unbroken only by the occasional foot path or game trail; and the sounds of machinery, traffic, civilization. One of Portland’s more heavily trafficked roads sits just 100 feet up on the west slope, taking me out of my nature reverie. What I see next, though, helps me slip right back into my fugue. Just off of the bike path, I come up on a blacktail fawn, slowly walking parallel to me. I’m mesmerized by her gentle movement, grace, and stunning beauty. Her spots are fading and she’s no longer a wee little baby, but I don’t recall having ever seen a fawn up close and personal before. I’m in awe. Startled by a cyclist, she bounds gracefully behind a huge bank of thistle, their fuzzy seed-heads exploding like cotton ball fireworks across the hill.