After the Rain

Now that the monsoon has arrived (though it's taken the last 2 days off) the desert seems revitalized and if Joe and I are any example, so do the people who live here - well, some of us, at least, those who spend any significant time outdoors. Instead of the usual 30-45 minute stroll around the neighborhood, we've been taking longer morning walks in Greasewood Park, a minimally developed desert park just a quarter-mile away on the other side of Speedway. It's where I nearly stepped on a rattlesnake some years ago (and haven't seen one there since) and where all these pictures were taken two days ago.
     One of the first things we noticed was the number of bright green baby ocotillos - and the bigger ones are also greener than they've been in a while.

 Here's a closeup of the leaves and the formidable spines. When we first moved to Tucson I read an essay by a local writer who was reminiscing about how, in spring, her mother would send her out to scratch the ocotillo with her fingernail to see if it was green below the bark-like skin. I guess that was a sign spring had arrived. We always look for the scarlet flame-like blossoms at the tops of the long stalks.

 What a gorgeous gray sky! It was so cool and the air was so moist, almost like far northern coastal California, where we used to live. Except no redwoods, or blackberries, or ocean - okay, maybe not much like it after all. But it sure felt good. These cactus wrens seemed pretty happy - and amorous.

We call this area the saguaro nursery because of the many young saguaros there; in fact, I've never seen so many youngsters in one place, spread out over a rather large depression below a low ridge.

 Young saguaros are often found in the company of "nurse plants" that protect them from predators and the elements. This one is very well protected by a dense and very spiny cholla (I never argue with a cholla) and a greasewood on the other side.

 And here, in the foreground, is a saguaro at the other end of its life cycle, dead but still standing. You can see the nice straight ribs of the skeleton still holding it up, and a big "boot" at the top, a cavity that in the living plant would have served as shelter and/or a nest site for various creatures. Our neighbors have one in their front yard where woodpeckers raise a brood of babies every year.                            

I have no idea what these tiny seedlings are.

 The rain dug a channel down the middle of this trail,

 where we also spotted these deer tracks. We see quite a lot of wildlife in our neighborhood - coyotes, javelinas, hawks, rabbits, the occasional bobcat - but have yet to see an actual deer on the hoof.

 When Isaiah was about 3, he and I took a walk in Greasewood Park and found a deer's foreleg (that's the most deer I've seen there). He hunkered down and poked it and turned it over with a stick. "Nana, where's the rest of it?" he asked, and we talked about how coyotes had probably eaten the rest of it. He was very serious and scientifically fascinated with his observations, in a way that was just wonderful to share.
     I don't know what these little plants are, either, but I'm fairly sure they're seedlings of some cactus-type plant. And what an interesting color!

There's so much that's so interesting on the trail that it's easy to forget to look up, but this sky, this view was certainly worth it. When we lived in Humboldt County I had a friend who said that, living there, he'd become a conoisseur of gray sunsets. Here we become conoisseurs of skies like this because they are such rare gifts.

One reason I'd brought my camera was to get pictures of millipedes; we'd seen hundreds the day before but I was beginning to think we might be out of luck. And then there they were, along the last ridge on the way home. This is their defensive posture, coiling up to protect their heads, which seems quite sensible though I don't imagine things with such tiny brains do much actual, logical thinking. Most of them are about 5 inches long, and you can see the pairs of delicate legs on each segment. I think they're rather beautiful, and they're harmless, since they can't bite like their centipede cousins. But they do have some rather disgusting - though I'd argue also useful - behaviors.

 Millipedes are detritivores, which means they eat things that are rotting and otherwise unappealing to humans. They're also coprophages, which would be a wonderful insult to use in a bar fight, I think. Instead of telling someone to "eat sh-t and die" you could just call him a coprophage and he might be so confused that it would give you time to get away safely. Anyway, judging from their numbers in the  park, millipedes live quite well on the feces they find along the trail. What we were trying to figure out was how those bits of cloth wound up in coyote scat. There was certainly nothing in the news about anybody going missing who might have wound up as a coyote's lunch - anyway, they really don't eat people.

      Looking up again, here's another long view of the results of the rain. I took this shot while standing on a bank about 12-15 feet above the wash that a few hours earlier would have been running with water. The center is smoother than it's been in months, still unmarked by any tracks and scoured clean, except along the edge, of smaller rocks and debris. I wish I could describe the feeling in the air and the way, on a morning like this, the desert smells like rain.

Roots and Wings

While we're "waiting for the miracle" of rain, the additional plants we've put in the back yard, plus the "use what you've got" birdbaths and the hummingbird feeders, mean that for entertainment, often all we need to do for entertainment is stand at the kitchen window! I haven't been able to get a good picture of the hummingbirds that visit the feeders, but other birds like it as well, it seems.

 This female oriole's mate has visited as well, but I wasn't fast enough to get his picture. I'll keep trying. Now I keep the camera on the counter by the window!

A couple of these tiny finches - young goldfinches, maybe? - like to hang out there, and although hummingbirds will chase other hummers away, they'll feed right alongside these little guys.

 This large glazed plant saucer on a currently unused plant stand makes a fine birdbath. The lesser goldfinches (I wonder if that name hurts their feelings?) like it very much, as do all the other birds that hang out in our yard. In this heat it's good to provide water for the wildlife, so we have a few of these around the yard.

Lots of lizards this year, like this one perched on the rocks of one of the wonderful terraces Joe built on our hillside. The rocks of the terraces give them places to hide and the plants, like these new salvia Greggii, provide cooling shade.

Quite a lot of lizard love going on lately too. These two chase each other up and down this mesquite tree and crawl all over each other - I feel like such a voyeur watching them, but it's so much fun. That tree is a bit of a miracle itself: ten or eleven years ago, when it was much smaller, a windstorm pulled it up by the roots. We dug out the hole some more, put it back in place with a pole to prop it up and rocks around the base to hold it down, and it's been just fine (and is much bigger now). The same thing happened in a neighbor's front yard but they didn't try to save their tree - they just left it there and a few months later cut it up for firewood. Probably they didn't realize how simple it would have been. I read, probably 15 years or so ago, that every mature tree adds, on average, $10,000 to the value of a property, and even without that incentive, in the desert we need all the trees, all the shade we can get.
     So, having moved from birds to lizards to the roots of trees, we'll move to the roots I had in mind when I chose this title, parsnips.

Parsnips are among the less commonly grown and eaten vegetables in the U.S., at least it seems so to me. I only remember having them a couple of times growing up, and I liked them very much. They look like white carrots, and are indeed such close relatives that in Roman times they were called by the same name, pastinaca. Interestingly, in those days carrots were white and/or purple, not the orange we know. Today parsnips are much more expensive at the market than carrots, which may be one reason they don't get used much. They're also much sweeter than carrots, with a taste that's been described as rather like honey, butterscotch, or cardamom (I think nutmeg might belong in that list) - some folks might not like that in a vegetable, but we love them. In addition, they're rather slow growers and require good, fairly loose, deep soil. I've read of people growing them in long concrete drain pipes filled with potting soil to provide the depth they need. I didn't do that, but I did plant them in a half wine barrel, where they did well, though they never got as big as the ones in the market - or else I wasn't patient enough to wait that long. We didn't have a huge crop, just enough for three or four meals, the last of which was this soup, which began looking like this in the pot:

 and looked like this for lunch half an hour or so later (mostly unattended, very easy, very tasty).

Here's the recipe, from Recipes from the Night Kitchen by Sally Nirenberg, a wonderful cookbook of just soups (with a few chili and stew recipes). Don't be put off if the ingredients in the title sound strange - it's absolutely delicious.

PARSNIP SOUP WITH SOUR CREAM AND MUSTARD
1 T. butter
1 Spanish (brown) onion, coarsely chopped
1 pound parsnips, peeled and sliced (I didn't peel, just scrubbed well with the vegetable brush)
5 cups chicken stock
1/2 - 3/4 tsp. Dijon mustard (be bold, use the 3/4)
1/2 cup sour cream (I used nonfat and it was just fine)
Sour cream or plain yogurt for garnish (optional)

Melt butter over medium heat in a heavy bottomed soup pot or large saucepan. Add onion and cook, covered, until golden, about 10 minutes (turn heat down if it seems to be browning too quickly).
    Add parsnips, chicken stock, and mustard and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cook until parsnips are very soft, about 20-25 minutes.
    Remove solids with a slotted spoon and place in a food processor or blender (add some liquid if using a blender, and be sure to take out the clear center thing from the lid and hold a folded towel over it, to avoid explosions). Process until very smooth, gradually adding the sour cream and more broth. Pour it all back into the pan to stir in whatever broth remains there.
    Garnish each serving with a dollop of sour cream or yogurt, if you like. As you can see, I forgot that part and didn't miss it at all.
Yield: 7 cups

Now how easy is that? I may not grow parsnips again, but I will definitely buy them, and I definitely will make this soup again!

A Handsome Visitor

Our neighbor snapped this picture of one of the more elegant inhabitants of our neighborhood stopping in our front yard this morning.  This may be the same coyote Joe and I saw a few days ago standing by the street sign at our corner.  Where I grew up in Idaho the more vocal ranchers weren't fond of coyotes and many shot and trapped them, which always made me sad. I tend to agree with Ed Abbey, who said in Desert Solitaire that he worried about the coyotes too - he worried if they were getting enough to eat. They are so beautiful, but sometimes they get pretty thin and scruffy-looking.  Right now, for instance, we're not seeing many rabbits around, which means slim pickings for this fellow.
     Other people get upset because the coyotes will take cats or small dogs. I'll never forget driving home one night and seeing a coyote saunter across the road in front of me with a kitten hanging from its jaws. That upset me, of course. I have three cats and love them all dearly.  That's why they are indoor cats. I think I posted some time ago about seeing a bobcat carrying a big black house cat into the brush, though that cat got away, and I was happy to see it, but I don't begrudge the coyote or the bobcat their meals. They have to eat and they are doing what nature has programmed them to do.  We have moved into their habitat, and if we value our pets, we'll protect them by keeping them indoors or letting them out only under supervision. It's that simple. Wild animals are not evil, they're just hungry. And I have tremendous admiration for animals like the coyote and bobcat who manage to adapt, survive, and sometimes even thrive in spite of what we have done to their world. They show more intelligence than some people.
      A woman wrote to our local newspaper several years ago, deeply irate because she had just seen a coyote vanish over her fence with her toy poodle.  She seemed to think someone should do something about it, though I'm not sure who or what that would be.  Another woman tried to sue a local golf resort because she had been frightened by a rattlesnake on the course; that case was thrown out, in a triumph of common sense, but what kind of attorney would even take her on as a client?  More media attention was given to the case of a young woman bringing suit because she'd been attacked by a bear up on Mt. Lemmon while camping; that case was also ultimately thrown out. It's very sad that she was injured, and yes, she was an unfortunate victim, but what do these people expect? Do they think all wild animals should be in zoos, or somehow trained not to do things that upset humans? Are we really so important that the rest of the world needs to be managed solely for our comfort? I'm afraid some people would say "yes" without batting an eye.
      Our son brought his two children for a visit between Christmas and New Year's and one afternoon he and I took Dante, who's five, for a walk along the trails at nearby Feliz Paseos, a lovely and fairly new park off Camino de Oeste just north of Speedway, for those of you in Tucson.  We often hear coyotes singing at night, but that afternoon there was a group performing nearby with great enthusiasm. Dante's big brown eyes got even bigger than usual; it was a treat for all of us.  As we drove out of the park a big coyote, very much like the one in the above picture, preceded us through the gate and then turned to look back at us before we turned one way and he went the other.  It was, as such moments always are, a little bit of magic.

Wildlife Encounters

The weather's back down in the 80s, closer to where it belongs (though still unseasonably warm), and it's a gorgeous day - bright blue sky and a few wispy clouds just for textural interest.  On our walk Sunday morning Joe and I saw something unusual, at least in our limited experience.  At first I thought it was a smaller bird chasing a hawk away from its nest or young, something we've often seen.  But on a closer look, it wasn't that at all, but rather a red-tailed hawk and a significantly smaller Cooper's hawk, apparently just hanging out together, riding the air currents in that glorious sky.  We stopped and watched for about 5 minutes, until they drifted up and westward out of sight.

A few days earlier, in that magical lavender pre-dawn light that lasts only a short time each morning, we came upon a bobcat watching a rabbit that had just crossed the road (why does a rabbit cross the road? I have no idea).  Again, we paused to see what would happen.  The bobcat was utterly still yet we could sense its focused attention on the rabbit, its muscles like tightly coiled springs, and then it leapt, almost crossing the road in one bound and flushing the rabbit from a thick clump of red-blossoming oleander.  The bobcat was right behind it, less than a foot away, when the rabbit wheeled into a tight right turn and was off down the road (the rabbit stopped half a block or so away and looked back before ducking into the brush).  Apparently bobcats, perhaps because they're bigger, can't turn as tightly as rabbits.  In any event, this one knew when it had lost its prey - predators, after all, miss more often than they hit.  I didn't necessarily want to see a bloody spectacle enacted just 20 feet in front of me, but I do hope the bobcat eventually found some breakfast.