"mountain sounds carry a chill wisdom
an upswelling spring whispers subtle tales"
– Shih Shu, 106












Underneath the thicket of cattails and sedge grass
a small creek gurgles unseen its secrets
an early wind nudges a lone oak leaf
it lands on my shoulder like a soft hand

I could walk miles along a creekside
these new boots dry and warm as down feathers
four geese an arrow across the low fog
bold as music honking to time

Arboretum Diary

"The saw works only across the years, which it must deal with one by one, in sequence. From each year the raker teeth pull little chips of fact, which accumulate in little piles, called sawdust by woodsmen and archives by historians;" Leopold, from "Good Oak"









10/27

A short walk in among the murky paths through Curtis Prairie, now that the leaves have turned and most fallen from the oaks, the remnants reveal some structures of natural contours of time past.  Leopold makes the poetical observation of natural time in A Sand County Almanac by tracking the

decades through an allegorical saw blade, for the great bur oak can live upwards of three hundred years old, and among all things we see in this ancient savannah, it is the oak that would know better than any the history of this place.  A straight line of old and noble burs line, as the signage claims, ramparts of the old farm fence, just one more landmark to a time long gone when farms might try to make claims over landscapes not well suited planting or cattle grazing.  The bur oak, however, knows its place; attracted to the edge of, not in the center of, forested regions, near abundant water and a sun source that allows the limbs maneuver in its own space.  If fire might come by the rare landing of lightening, that is not a problem, for the bur is tolerant and will not break.  If fire is not the enemy one such season, maybe it is draught the next.  The great bur has this covered by assistance of a rare taproot which burrows down as far as it must go to drink.  If squirrels, mice, even grazing cattle might like to slow the prospects of the regenerating oak by dining on the acorns, the bur has found a strategy for this as

well, purposefully increasing its flowering of acorns every three years to such an abundance that the predators cannot keep up with the feast. Some acorns slip through the cracks and find their own nestled portion of the mud for the infancy of a new taproot...as long as it chooses to live a hundred feet from great grandfather, who has come to enjoy his space.  What one set of eyes sees as the decrepit black lines of a falling mammoth, another, if he is patient, sees the history of slow time and can understand the changing of patterns that have carved out of the prairie wetland with only slight nudging, here and there, by man.

What's in Boulder?

Mountain dreams more often than not become reality in this little corner of the front range Rockies.  A sort of beer meets trail ethic has taken shape in Boulder since the very beginning of the microbrew

revolution that is still being carved out of the culture as we speak.  Many stories begin by the chemistry major tinkering with the bold concoction of yeast and hops in a single vat out in the garage; stories now unfold in which the micro connoisseur hand picks local ingredients only for small

batches of Saisons that are distributed small scale, but capture a region.  In Boulder, the vast sky is the limit.  For every hiker who has ever mentioned off-handedly that, as they cross over the summit of a long and arduous alpine trail, that they fantasize that this would be a perfect location for a small brewery – out in the woods itself, the beer drawing on not only the surrounding flavors, but that

utterly chill moment when horizons merge to happy hour, well, Upslope Brewery has done it.  There is such a thing as the backcountry "pop up" tap. That is to say, not a trail mirage, but look, along that trail that you have been hiking up to 8,000 feet to Vance's Cabin, a member rental of the 10th

mountain division, has an Upslope makeshift tap shack offering you one free beer (introducing Fresh Hop IPA), and then offering purchase of only two more cans of any kind (they do want hikers to have

the wherewithal to get back "downslope."  Across the trail, one would hope, someday anyway, that the pop-up gourmet pub food bistro will someday devise a way to lure those beer drinkers over a flatiron rock for an Alpine tapas or two.

On Monona

"I feel the sky, the prairies vast – I feel the mighty northern lakes,
I feel the ocean and the forest – somehow I feel the globe itself swift-swimming in space;" Whitman, from "To the Sun-Set Breeze"









Morning, early, before the great rise of orange
over the bulbous blue chatter of the lake has begun,
the fathers stand at the corner of Rutledge,
hands and elbows folded against the lake wind,
shuffling their children off through the rustle
of golden leaves in between cars and onto the bus.
Behind, through the short back street, a sliver
of the coming cold steel blue of the lake,
one seagull alarmed and padding the sky above by wings;
as we drive by, careful, in and out of the cars,
we know the morning and its own careful hues.
The lights blinking outlining the windows of the bus,
roars off into the long hours of the day,
away, away, school across the street from the Yahara
      they go
the mind of the river with them, blessed.

Scenes from the Bridge

"Shot gold, maroon and violet, dazzling silver, emerald, fawn,
The earth's whole amplitude and Nature's multiform power consign'd for once to colors..." Whitman, "A Prairie Sunset"












Each man, woman, child, – clothed to autumn, cool wind –
a leaf of color themselves; green turning golden, flash...
look at how they swim across the thinning grass bent
over the handles of rolling bikes that will not give in.
How the concrete is warm-blanketed as they pass over
the bridge then stop to admire the phosphorescence,
the ducks below shaking off droplets from cooling wings.
Lift up the scene to imagination and here seasons flow
upwards, from shaded rooms to the clouds we can't live in.

Sketches from Spain
Pintxos Trail

"When I had done breakfasting the squire gave me a note addressed to John Silver, at the sign of the Spy-glass, and told me I should easily find the place by following the line of the docks and keeping a bright lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for sign." Stevenson, Treasure Island










One only has to walk up from the Bahia de la Concha Bay to the Alamada del Boulevard to get firmly lost in the Pintxos Trail, said to be the densest quarter of such bars and eateries in the world.  The locals here do not waken again until the night time, dining as late as nine or ten at night, families or

friends, and following the clusters of crowds from Basque bar to bar, sampling and seeing friends.  It is said that this habit of the night for the Spanish might come from several things – outwardly friendly, their sociability might come from the many hours spent out under a warm sun where days

are long and that to make that day endurable there must be several times to break and dabble in whatever produce is available, most likely from the farm.  There is also the idea, as Hemingway described in his definitive book on bullfighting in Spain, Death in the Afternoon, that it was the heat that had descended on and stayed inside the cities at night, that made sleep a silly prospect.  The coolness does not come until nearer sunrise, when the locals can than, finally, close their eyes to get some peace.  It is not uncommon to follow the Pintxos Trail, along de Agosto and Narrica, all the

way through the night, purposefully meeting friends for meetings past midnight and finishing at the disco as the sunrise threatens off the horizon, all to the end of planning how this next day of work and sea and heat might play again.  One might stop at La Vina tapas (pintxos) not only for its own array of snacks such as Canutillo de queso y anchoa or the Croqueta de jamon, but most famously the Tarta de Queso, or cheesecake, to finish off the digestion for the night.  There would be at this moment, perhaps two in the morning for the common tourist, where there would be a certain quality of the fantastic as one made the way back to a hotel, standing there lit against the shimmer of the night sea,

that could only be rivaled by the books.  Ancient ramparts, imperfect now in their execution of line, crumbling after hundreds of years of the constant erosion of sunbake and sea moisture, against the bright lights of sets of these tapas bars, all the while a wild vast Atlantic looming off in the background, one of the most common sights of ship fleets, privateers and buccaneers ever known to history.  We could imagine what it might be like to be a midshipman on any such ancient Galleon of old, paddling into this magnificent shore by moonlight, looking up into the candle-lit tavern and know that the treasures you hold inside the foredeck cabin was safe for the night against the approaching marauders from the north or south or both.

Sketches from Spain

"At Valencia too, when it is hottest, you can eat down at the beach for a peseta or two pesetas at one of the eating pavilions where they will serve you beer and shrimps and a paella of rice, tomato, sweet peppers, saffron and good seafood, snails, crawfish, small fish, little eels, all cooked together in a saffron-colored mound. You can get this with a bottle of local wine for two pesetas and the children will go by barelegged on the beach and there is a thatched roof over the pavilion, the sand cool under your feet, the sea with the fishermen sitting in the cool of the evening in the black felucca rigged boats that you can see..." Hemingway, from Death in the Afternoon






There would be the hours in the afternoon off the beaches at San Sebastian that only the simplest little dish would make do against the beating of the Biscay Bay sun.  You might as easily see the farmers at the outskirts of town, where the grand crescent of the Sebastian Bay is barely visible, out at the foothills, waves in the distance crashing 

like tips of long sacks of fine jewels, that the man might bring to a fire a hand full of onions, zucchini, tomatoes and peppers for the Pisto Manchego.  This was a dish that originally came 

from the Castilian heartland of La Mancha, the same famed quarters of Don Quixote.  The farmers here took the cooling of the Manchego quite seriously, had formed clubs that would meet as frequently as each week, and hunker down onto the cobblestones of the main squares with their days retrieval, peel the tomatoes, toss it in a pan with a 

slip of sugar and salt until darkened as they sauteed onions along the side.  Add bell peppers and finally the zucchini, simply stir to coat, adding the special Spanish seasoning of paprika after 20 minutes of simmering.  The others of the group would wait out in the afternoon sun for the familiar smells of the sweetened vegetables to mingle and would know, well before the cook would know the time, when it was ready for serving into simple earthenware bowls.  If it was a special day and the fish was being caught off the quaint waters of the Bay of Biscay, and if the farmers had sewn and harvested recently, there might be a Navarran red to swish around the mouth for the hour or two of the siesta.  After so many rounds of the Manchego, it would be said, at later quiet hours, that the Spanish sunshine tasted something like stew and all were quite certain that their eyes would light up at first taste. 

On the Yahara A-Z

V.

Vegetation up close from the Lake Wingra Boardwalk Extension Project.  Some of the greatest natural gems in and around Madison are right inside the city itself. Access to natural resources had

been a priority of Madisonians since the conception of the Pleasure Drive organization began setting aside green space before that notion had become anything close to fashionable.  Olbrich Gardens formed as a means for sharing a natural habitat with those might not otherwise get out into nature as a result of long work days spent inside.  The Arboretum, once a farm, was not carried forward as a space for more factories, but was set aside as a sight of natural beauty and shared for the purposes of education.  With these city foundations in mind, the traveler never knows where the next investment

in green might come.  Parks line the lakes seemingly every several blocks. Trails and bike paths assert themselves where other cities might add asphalt instead.  So it should come as no real surprise (although it still did) that behind the campus at Edgewood Schools Campus a spectacular little boardwalk trail leads from the front stoop of the Mazzuchelli Biological Station down into the depths of the Wingra Marsh, allowing the thoughtful walker to see no more than inches away the very thickset understory of a living marsh and shoreline habitat.  We found it by accident as asimple walk after school along what is called the natural pleasure drive trail located directly behind the backyards

of Edgewood.  An environmentally sustainable building, the Mazzachulli Center, stands at a shallow ridge overlooking Lake Wingra, and there, out before it, a system of boardwalk trails students use for recreation and classroom driven biological research into the secrets of wetland functioning, including the advance of invasive species and the natural service of marshland filtering.

"–but most of all, or far or near, the wind–through the high tree -tops, or through low bushes, laving one's face and hands so gently, this balmy-bright noon, the coolest for a long time..." – Whitman, from "Distant Sounds"









10/18

Broad stroke of a lake without boats but a watercolor, bubbling, wave upon wave, barely gulping inward toward shore from the low blowing wind, and holds then carries the oranges and yellows from the maples and oaks.  The bridges are sturdy as ever against the change of seasons, old ramparts and leave their own arching shadows over the melting of the autumn colors.  A sky hawk had just circled from the leap off of a great falling oak until he had seen the glimmer of a small fish in the shallows then collapsed its wings and dove down into the water quickly stabbing.  Only the far off clinking of some jackhammer at the capitol competes with this early noon hour quiet.  Foot traffic, jogging and mothers behind strollers, the man in the leaf pile grabbing with gloves, are nothing but slight motion and no sound.  Men and women at the back sides of their lakeside houses reading books from balconies, the pages turning only as loud as the last wave rolling over the quarried stone at the tip of the Yahara.

Arboretum Diary

"The wild things that live on my farm are reluctant to tell me, in so many words, how much of my township is included within their daily or nightly beat.  I am curious about this, for it gives me the ratio between the size of their universe and the size of mine..." Leopold, Sand Co. Almanac









10/13

The first hoary frost puts a crystalline damper over the singing of the sedge meadow and wetland.  Leaves of the red eared grassland that used to perk up to grab the morning dose of sunshine now stand steady, still living at the end of the season, but beginning their new stances as they droop and

ready for the great fall.  Half of Curtis Prairie stands in light; half in shadow; the difference between the two is more than a hand full of degrees temperature.  As you duck back under the looping trails

which lead from the Prairie under the stand of jack and white pines, the dormant pine needles seem to refrigerate these miniature valleys and would certainly persuade the small rodent in one direction as opposed the other.  The bright cool of early autumn is something that every artist within beholds, determines, one or

another -- through photos or words or more hikes with dogs through the woods -- to bottle and preserve as the best of the best like a fine vintage.  Lush foliage, which used to interrupt the sight of the smoldering yellow bulb in the sky are now clear and it is the craggy black spines of the marsh oaks that seem more like swift dashes off the sharp end of a charcoal pencil than limbs.  As the sounds of the nearby highway dim, the visitors rush in for the season, learn again to admire now that the mosquitos have retired, and will gladly tell you of the stories of the favorite paths.

What's in Boulder?

Bru Handcrafted Ales and Mt. Sanitas are only the tips of the Flatirons.  Considered the number one outdoors city in America, in Boulder there are enough hiking and biking locations in and around the city that it is said that lifelong locals frequently find themselves in new and yet unseen surroundings.  From the Hyatt at Pearl Street downtown Boulder, a three mile bike ride along the pride of the city, the Boulder Creek

Path, leads to the Chautauqua Park, which serves as a sort of city gathering point of close trails
stemming up into the Flagstaff trail system in one direction and the Flatiron numbered system in the other.  Royal Arch is considered a nifty geologic feature, a narrow, fractured Flatiron whose middle

has fallen away and that still miraculously holds steady despite a crack clean through.  In peak summer, the trail pulls the hiker through a little bit of everything -- a kind of Rocky Mountain sampler -- forests, meadows, a talus field, a stream crossing and a little spring.  No more than a

couple of miles from the hotel, two hours later, smack in the middle of a raw mountain world.  Up along the other side of valley, still connected to the Chautauqua trailhead system, is the Flagstaff summit.  Not only does the nature center serve as a great destination point for visitors, but renown Flagstaff House Restaurant, itself built into the side of a mountain, stands as an overlook to the city,

and considered one of the top romantic restaurant destinations in the country.  Flagstaff House has been continuously owned and run as an elegant vista restaurant since 1971.  The current executive chef began here as a busboy when he was 14, then went on to chef training around the country and

most famously under Thomas Keller, the modern American / French cuisine master from French Laundry in the Napa Valley.  A nice place to sit and overlook the day's climb.

What's in Boulder?

Mount Sanitas and Bru Beer would be enough to make the 16 hour drive. Mount Sanitas, considered a very popular yet rigorous trail route locally, is a great way to acclimatize to the starting elevation 5,000.  The trailhead here is so close to town that from the Hyatt Place Pearl Street, it is easy enough to bike to, then off and up the Sanitas Valley nearly 2,000 feet to the eventual top where a near handful of Boulder sights lay looming like mountain wonderland, as the Indian Peaks Wilderness and Continental Divide stand out to the right, behind and the south is the top of the first Flatiron Mountain rising above the

Chautauqua Park only a few miles away. Flatirons are the defining landmark of Boulder, a series of mammoth jagged mammoth peaks pushed up out of the earth some 40 million years ago and named after the shape of the old clothes ironing tool, and visible from virtually every angle and every nearby hike.  Below the peaks, nestled in near the famed Pearl Street Main Parkway is Bru Handbuilt Ales

and Eats, of a variety of dozens of brewpubs that dot the city limits.  Owner Ian Clark's approach to this brewpub is the reverse of most others like it – he didn't start with the backyard garage one barrel system and turn it into a restaurant, but instead he began as a fully trained chef who then decided he

wanted to brew craft beer to go along with his cooking creations.  The result are great pairings like the Kolsch with the famous banh mi sandwich or the Amarillo IPA with the chile rubbed hanger steak.

"Poking up from the ground barely above my knees,
already there's holiness in their coiled roots....

A thousand years from now who will stroll
   among these trees,
fashioning poems on their ancient dragon shapes?"
    – "Little Pines" by Chi'i-Chi






A thousand year mystery unfolds as moss along
the tendens of the leaning creekside willows.
The boarded footpath leads this way and that
modeled from the caravans of old deer paths.
We look up and see one half of yin and yang,
the sky unknowable, horizons of blue ending at nothing.
Below, the substance of what is known holds
every foot step up, miracles, unmovable.

On the Yahara A-Z

U.

Uncut pie, Pizza Brutta.  Wood-fired Neapolitan pizza, for those obsessed, is a traditional art form.  To the degree that at this quaint little Monroe Street Jewel (nearly within eyeshot, thankfully, of Edgewood school), the owner has installed strict rules as to how the art form is created by the

'pizzaiolo,' or certified Verace Pizza maker.  Some of the stuff they're keeping track of? First, let's make sure we're staying within the confines of the centuries-old art form: a dough that is made only by flour, water, sea salt, yeast and tomatoes grown on the volcanic soils of Mt. Visuvio, extra virgin

olive oil, and fresh mozzarella.  Brutta ensures these strict guidelines by using a fresh Wisconsin mozzarella substitute for what is known as "fior di latte" or "the flower of milk." The tomato sauce, like the original, comes only from the volcanic soils, believe it or not, of Mt. Visuvio just outside Naples in Italy's Campania region. The crust, sometimes the most important for many pizza eaters, is made simply with organic flour, yeast, water and salt and is "opened and stretched entirely by hand.

The result is a crust that is thin on the inside and thick and airy on the ends creating what the Neapolitans call the "cornicone....Neapolitan pizza is best eaten uncut and with a fork and a serrated knife." Within 10 minutes of the front counter order, the famous Brutta pizza is steaming at your table side and needless to say the simplest elegance possible to the point where, if you closed your eyes and continued to bite the perfectly thin and sweet pizza you might think you were eating dessert not the main mid afternoon meal.

Sketches from Spain
Empanada

"Simply put, Barcelona is unique, with a language, history, and culture separate from the rest of Spain and found nowhere else. If you're in the mood to surrender to a city's charms, let it be Barcelona."  Rick Steves, Barcelona













It is time to take a short tapas stop at the Cafe Granja Viader in Barcelona at Xucla 4.  Here is where the empanadas are made to pure perfection; they have been creating these savory pies for as many years as there has been a small kitchen placed in the back.  There are many things that the famous

pies might include. Anything from bacalao con pasas (salt cod with raisins), to vieras (scallops) or fresh herberechos (cockles).  You can smell the reach of each of these as they mingle out into the seamusk that surrounds the city like the steam of one very large restaurant.  The Empanada do Lomo is that with pork and red peppers.  How simple, how wise the combination.  As the dough is formed it

is time to sauté onions, then the bell pepper until tender and sweet; brown the pork in its pre-made marinade and place the concoction into the divided dough, placing one half over the top and crimping the edges.  Feel free to use the excess dough for decoration, maybe the shell of a marlin fish?  Paint the top of the dough with egg and let it bake 20 to 25 minutes.  Once out, let it cool enough to firm, then cut in such a way that you can add a slice over the lid of the wine glass.  They will come back.

Arboretum Diary

"Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood." – Emerson, from Nature











10/5

Emerson was the great pioneer of all modern nature writing; it was only after him, and from his influence that Thoreau and Whitman found the courage to set down on paper what they had no doubt already considered themselves, but didn't have the philosophical permission, as set out by Emerson.  Emerson, fortunately, was right in his most elemental assumptions, that man, nature, and spirit are a connection; that, when the man becomes, as he called it, the "transparent eyeball," then it was at that

moment where not merely the intellect could comprehend that connection, but it could be felt.  Thoreau certainly went out to prove that an elongated engagement with nature (approx. 3 years) was a worthwhile project and that here we might find man in accordance to his own divine wisdom, as projected by both spirit and nature, and found his place in things.  It was also always the contrast to these things that Emerson and Thoreau (not so much Whitman, who also found his scenes in the city),  found in the more mechanical pursuits associated with 'town' that did not allow for the same type of

true insight.  At this moment, it is Thoreau that seems to be finding the most applicable credit of the big three American nature writers, as we see very real examples of young folks going off grid, or owning small farms for the sake of the process and real nourishment or to seek some form of spiritual insight by living small.  Emerson's more romantic tendencies does not strike as many converts in a time in culture when data and identity form culture itself and the small farmer is but a practical run away.  To wax poetic over the view above at the Wingra Creek freshwater spring leaking from the main Arboretum grounds into the marshes at Lake Wingra, is subject to too much analysis and data, information and signage, to be captivating in a religious sense; and yet what a classroom it is.  To set out tree stumps as desks, to rid the wall clocks and exchange those for the distractions of the looming

owl in the branch above the inlet or the autumn duck quack for the headphones would be enough to replace empty distractions with wisdom of observation.  The mere notion of such a classroom, however, will be unheard of until Emerson again finds some more popular sway with readers.  To regain wisdom and insight in the face of information can only be cultivated by sheer time spent walking... the Wingra or Galistel Woods. The curiosity to link the species tag of a particular tree at Longenecker Woods to the 'feel' of the forest, its benefits, and final transferal to others is the good work of only a small contingent of people.  As the green of the woods is shown to the child it carries over in the mind of the adult.  The child who sees only pixels will see and seek out only pixels.