The Low Down

Fall has become a bit of a low season for me. In many ways it is a relief from the chaos and extremes of summer, but it is hard to say goodbye to the fellow residents of summer as they move elsewhere for half the year. Realizing you haven't heard the cry of a grey hawk for weeks, no more lizards scampering under your feet on your walks, all the snakes tucked away somewhere... It is hard to remember that winter always brings something new.

This fall seemed even tougher coming off of a summer with little to no monsoon. The heat lasted into November and the continued dryness provided little to eat in the river for wildlife. Walking the too quiet dry riverbed, pondering the upcoming march of monuments to an artificial modernity in the form of massive power lines that will desecrate this valley over the next decades, can really weigh on your soul.



The bright spot this fall was that everything came together to create a temporary reservoir in the river on our Bosque property during the one monsoon storm that caused the river to run. Being the only natural source of water for ten miles along the river valley, it became a beautiful rest stop for waterfowl and a few waders. Ducks that I rarely get to see, without traveling an hour or two, regularly utilized the relatively large body of water that has stayed through the season. The occasional great blue heron or great egret would check it out, but eventually leave disappointed due to the lack of aquatic feasting available. I even saw a kingfisher once.



Fall color doesn't arrive until December in this valley. Some years it is very brief, the cottonwoods turning from green to yellow to brown within days. This year it has been a beautiful, slow transition into a golden ribbon snaking through the valley along the river bed, with a few arms that are the rivers tributaries (description inspired by friend Ralph Waldt).

Sitting in all the quiet, it helps to remember past winters where something exceptional seemed to always happen. The influx of robins, bluebirds, and even Swainson's solitaires into the river bottom last winter was such a treat. Prior to that we had an irruption of white-crowned sparrows. And there was my first ferruginous hawk and crested caracara.

For now, the energetic calls of the rock and cactus wrens, and the midday rounds of the local roadrunner, with its goofy antics, cheer me up. But so far, there have been no hints of anything extraordinary besides what the reservoir might bring. I could really use something to distract from the destruction that "we the people" have sanctioned for this valley.