Damaging Birds

                                                                    

                                                      Eurasian Sparrows

                                  

                                                   Brown billed Scythebill

     The headline of the Wall Street Journal's column dealing with Catherine's work was inelegant but eye-catching; "New Scarecrows for Vineyards: Car Dealer's Inflatable 'Dancing' Tube Men." * It reported how Dr. Catherine Lindell, an ecologist at Michigan State University was selected as the principal investigator of a US Department of Agriculture multi year Specialty Crop Research Initiative - "Limiting Bird Damage in Fruit Crops." USDA allocated $2 million to academic researchers to discover sustainable strategies to limit and control bird damage in a $15 billion industry - specifically losses to blueberries, cherries, wine grapes and "Honeycrisp" apples in Michigan, New York and the Northwest. The Initiative called for integrating economic, biological and consumer information in order to "provide producers with cost effective, environmentally sustainable bird management strategies." Dr. Lindell's team includes 20 researchers from three regions - the Northeast, Great Lakes and the Pacific Northwest.
     With enormous pride and boring repetition I had informed friends, "My daughter has been awarded a grant from USDA to discover ways to prevent bird damage to fruit crops . . ." All I approached seemed pleased. But the responses I received from three male friends with strong, conservative proclivities surprised me. Each responded invoking a final solution with the same phrase; "Kill them!" Such a stark, yet truly simple idea for dealing with birds eating fruit had not occurred to me.
     I had been trained in "birding" by Dr. Lindell and worked for her many times as a "field assistant" in Costa Rica. (But perhaps you have already seen my name in a footnote or two in an avian scientific journal!) My job involved hauling poles, rebar and mist nets (and sometimes my son-in-law's GPS equipment) in total darkness, sometimes clutching a flashlight with my teeth - "Dad, watch out for snakes near the stream!" - into rainforest or abandoned coffee fields. Nets had to be erected before 5:00 AM. Then we carefully extracted birds that flew into the nets taking them to Dr. Lindell who would treat them to a physical exam, perhaps tagging and quick release. In late morning the nets, rebar and poles were collected and hauled out. Every single bird was important to Catherine - and her crew. In my hands I have held some of the most exquisite life forms on earth. To  simply touch a Brown billed Scythebill, or have fingers chewed by a Buff throated Saltator or pooped on by a Blue-crowned Manakin - these were to me great privileges and high honors. Simply killing birds would not have occurred to me.
     But it has been thought of by others and even tried. Mao Zedong and the Chinese Communists initiated the "Great Leap Forward" circa 1958 - 1962, in order to rapidly expand the industrial and agricultural production of a poverty stricken nation. To this end they implemented the "Great Sparrow Campaign" also known as the "Kill a Sparrow Campaign" and the "Four Pests Campaign." The principal objective of these campaigns was the elimination of the English Tree Sparrow that in China eats prodigious amounts of rice and other grains. Other pests to be exterminated were rats, flies and mosquitoes. Methods included village populations banging noisemakers forcing birds to fly. When exhausted from flight and coming within stick range they were killed. The use of poisons and pesticides was also widespread. The "Kill a Sparrow" program was enormously successful and ". . . resulted in the near extinction of the birds in China." ** But by April 1960, the commissars realized - too late - that sparrows also ate locust and this now flourishing population swarmed across China devouring everything in its path. Rice yields declined. The ecological catastrophe created by the Great Leap Forward was now underway. Too late the word came down from Mao - "Stop killing the birds!" The sparrow was removed from the list of four pests and replaced by the bedbug.
The policies of the GLF included massive deforestation projects, the utterly irresponsible misuse of pesticides, poisons and "backyard steel furnaces" that ultimately produced tons of unusable, worthless metal. But the GLF did create what is now regarded as the greatest famine in the nation's history. The number of Chinese who starved to death as a result of its policies range from 20 to 40 million. ***
     Early morning sun cut through the mist shrouding the coffee trees in Las Alturas, Costa Rica. The nets twelve feet high, stretched in a line between two rows of trees for about two hundred yards. From a net I had just extracted a yellowish flycatcher also known as a Scale crested Pigmy Tyrant - a beautiful little bird with an attitude. Its legs trapped between my index and middle fingers the Tyrant stared up at me - angry. It then began an attack hammering my thumb like a woodpecker. At that moment on my hand precisely behind the Tyrant's head landed a thick, black insect. The flycatcher's head blurred as it swiveled 180 degrees and scoffed up the treat - it's never a bad time to eat. With head feathers now rakishly askew it returned to punishing my thumb. Eventually it stopped and looked up.
"Had enough? Give up?"

*     Jon Kamp, Wall Street Journal Nov. 28, 2013 p.1.
**   Frank Dikotter, Mao's Great Famine. 2010. See Wikipedia; The Four Pests Campaign.
*** Summers-Smith, In Search of Sparrows 1992. Also see Dikotter.
Photos - Brown billed Scythebill, Dr. Catherine Lindell. English Sparrows, Wikipedia.

Speculation

                                   

                                                                   Miyajima Deer

     Still wearing youthful camouflage, the deer bounced from the bushes and landed in front of my car - it glanced at me and was then destroyed. My wife immediately began a slightly disjointed explanation of the dangers of crossing a street trying to sooth three young daughters who were not aware anything had happened. "That's it!" I despaired. In two weeks I was scheduled to leave for Japan on an extended tour. In addition to my distress this was clearly a disastrous omen. I expected to pay dearly for a transgression against nature in the land of Shinto and the Buddha.
     The first two weeks on Honshu were a blur - especially of shrines. But at each, hauling guilt I bowed, scrapped and donated. In Hiroshima Prefecture on the Island of Itsukushima I visited the sprawling Shinto shrine with its massive Torii Gate. The Shrine and Gate during tidal flooding appear to be afloat. Here in exchange for my donation I received a "fortune" from a priest - my colleague read it to me - it was he said the best prognostication of an individual future possible. I felt forgiven - exonerated - in life I shall indeed flourish! At the Shrine's gift shop I purchased a small metal bell - it alerts the spirits as to my whereabouts. This bell has hung near the entrance to my principal residence for the past 40+ years.
     Interest in gods and organized religions evaporated for me in 1959-60. For several months I worked in the sub-basement of the law school at New York University among the transcripts of the World War II war crimes trials - the International Military Tribunal Far East and the IMT Nuremberg. My conclusion - our species is profoundly corrupted and self destructive. But for reasons that Darwinian scholars might explain we are probably "hard wired" to believe in something beyond us - anything regardless of how quixotic or idiotic it might be. "Nothingness" beyond our consciousness is too unpleasant and perhaps impossible to accept. So if we must believe in something why not identify a set of ideas that satisfy, comfort and possibly we even enjoy. Over the millenniums millions have done precisely this and so have I.
     To oversimplify - Shinto is a belief in and study of "spirits". Every human, animal, bird, flower, tree and bush has one. Mountains, valleys, lakes and rivers possess a "spirit" as does our home, other special places, our automobile of course and cell phone. Things as common as a book,  coffee cup and rock have a spirit. All these spirits are an integral part of our existence and the best life consists of living in harmony with them and treating everything with respect.
     Looking for a pleasant venue for lunch I turned the car into the entrance of a Provincial Park in Nova Scotia. We poured out and the daughters seized a picnic table close to a stream gurgling through the park. My wife and I strolled around - on a breezy, bright day we had a Canadian park all to ourselves. In the middle of the stream we noted an abandoned tire - half its black mass rising above the turbulent waters. The tire's presence disrupted the harmony of the place. "Jennifer" I yelled at my ten year old. "I have a task for you - go get that tire!" 
     "Me? Whhhy me? Why alllllllways me? Why not Cathy or Liz?" She was an excellent youngster and despite the grousing had already started moving towards the edge of the water. "Because you are the youngest, lack seniority, and the spirits will greatly appreciate your efforts, and you have no socks on." I responded. Without another word Jennifer waded through ankle deep water and rolled the tire back to shore. We left it leaning against a trash can. A transgression against the stream and park had been corrected. Again it was a totally beautiful area.
     One of my finest automobiles was a Mercury Montego. Purchased for a fair price this second hand car flawlessly served and protected my family for three years. During a rainy, windswept night near Roscoe, New York I rammed another deer killing it and totaling my Montego. Before the wreckage was towed away I removed the eight inch "Montego" name plate. It would have been grossly disrespectful not to preserve a relic from that great machine before it reverted back to its elements. I kept that memento for over twenty years before it was lost in a change of lives.
     Shinto believers are troubled by death - it is considered "unclean" and "corruption". The Japanese will treat life's complexities with Shinto but in the presence of death prefer Buddhism. This "corruption" issue troubles me not - a Russian friend once remarked that "death is a natural process - often". I believe at death some spirits will simply dissipate into the ether, but other may congregate. On the southern edge of Kyushu in Kagoshima Prefecture there is a place where spirits are gathered - the Konoya Special Attack Corps War Dead Memorial. In the spring of 1945 the Konoya Air Base was the HGQ for the Special Attack Corps, also known as the kamikaze, the divine wind and suicide bombers. From Kanoya they assaulted the allied forces invading Okinawa. A total of 908 Navy and Army personnel ranging in age from 16 to 35 flew off into this maelstrom and perished. The Memorial consists of a tower on a small hill. At the tower's apex is perched a white dove with wings extended. When I arrived there in 1970 it was a memorial unvisited, uncared for and drenched in gloom. The walkways were littered with detritus while drooping flowers and weeds competed for space around the foundation. The dove's details were vague, an ethereal representation of a symbol of peace or a "holy" spirit. There were seven men in our group - three Japanese and five Americans - all remained absolutely silent. The only sound was strains of music drifting up to us from a nearby motel that rented rooms by the hour. Here were gathered many disconsolate conflicted spirits.

See: Wikipedia; Bill Gordon, Kamikaze Images; Photo by Oliver Bonnet.

Law and Order

               

   
     Homo sapiens are different, "exceptional" if you like. We alone have "consciousness". But as Harvard's Stephen Jay Gould noted, if "consciousness" is such an evolutionary advantage why hasn't any other species developed it? Study of the human species reveals great cleverness but a blood soaked history - a UNESCO study reported that over the past 5,000 years humans have fought 15,000 wars - three per year - killing several billion people. The technology and weapons change and the killing is perpetual. The human species is an aberration -  a self destructive branch on the evolutionary bush that should and will disappear - it was a mistake that nature will not repeat. In the mean while to function at all we require rules, laws and rigorous political authority to enforce them.
     To follow this dismal assessment of the species with a history of my criminal behavior will be to the reader a crashing disappointment. On occasion I have broken the law and freely admit to the following: three speeding tickets and three warnings received; twice suspicious officials of state power have frisked me - once a NYS Trooper and another time two heavily armed German soldiers in Frankfurt am Main International Airport. Navy Shore Patrol once removed my two inebriated friends and me from a street in old San Juan, Puerto Rico. We were driven around in the back of a jeep for a half hour and then released - near the ship. As a callow faced child I ate a Twinkie that my friend "Fred" stole from Kowalski's Grocery Store. A mortal sin - I could hardly wait to get to confession - that cake is still partially stuck in my craw. That is pretty much it - my life has been excruciatingly boring from a brigand's point of view. Clearly I have no potential to be characterized in a Cormac McCarthy or Elmore Leonard novel.
     Acutely aware of its necessity I have admired the glimpses of law enforcement witnessed through the years. Sitting by a window in a Greenwich Village restaurant I was sipping a bowl of Wonton soup. A NYPD patrol car slammed on its brakes in the middle of the street. Two officers jump from the vehicle and rush into a neighborhood bank. Twice I dipped into my soup - the officers reappeared each holding the arm of a young man - I dip again - the police drape the individual over the hood of their car - snap on handcuffs - push him into the back of the patrol car and speed away. NYPD cool - excellent hot soup.
     In the early morning darkness of a Stockholm metro station, a train slowly approaches and jerks to a halt short of the platform. A problem on board - a few people drift toward the train and stop, anticipating further developments. Within minutes a Metropolitan Police Officer jogs past me on the way to the train. She was exceptionally beautiful - curvaceous in her tight, dark uniform, long pony tail waving at me and a 9 millimeter on her hip - everything a man could desire. A tad sexist at the time I feared for her safety. But then limping along her partner arrived. With no disrespect intended he was the ugliest man I have ever seen - and huge - with disheveled hair hanging out from under his hat. The knuckles of his right hand seemed to drag on the cement far beneath his weapon. She was in no danger. My train going in the opposite direction arrived and I departed.
     The mere presence of police can of course have a potent stabilizing effect. Stepping down a staircase connecting the door of a Tupolov 134 to the runway in Volgograd I finally stood in snow. To my right in a swirling white cloud a KGB Security Officer in black fur hat, great gray coat and black boots. He was back lit by flood lights. About ten meters behind him another dark silhouette - a noncom in gray, black and a Sam Browne belt. Neither showed a weapon. But their demeanor led one to conclude that nothing untoward could possibly happen here - a silent, peaceful night.
     Costa Rica has not had an army since 1949 and the end of it's 44 day civil war. December 1st is celebrated as Military Abolition Day. The nation of 4.3 million takes pride in being one of the few nations on earth without a standing army. But Ticos are not perfect. Costa Rica has a national police, the Fuerza Publica - the Public Force - that deals with general law enforcement and counter-narcotics. It has SWAT units. Since the border clashes with Nicaragua in 2010, Fuerza Publica has reestablished a Border Police. Under the Ministry of the President, Costa Rica also has an Intelligence and Security Directorate that contains Unidad Especial de Intervencion - the Special Operations Unit. UEI trains with the special ops forces of Israel, the US and others. A guesstimate of the total employed in the nation's police function is 14,000. *
     On February 12, 2000, the US Senate voted on whether to convict or acquit President Bill Clinton of two articles of impeachment. For reasons that remain unclear, Costa Rica went to a high state of defensive readiness. I stepped out of San Jose's Grand View Hotel onto sunny Segunda Avenue around 10:00 AM. Pedestrians crowded the street, shops were busy. The Park near the Theatro National was filled with visitors, dogs and hawkers. Fuerza Publica was everywhere - perhaps every 100 yards up and down the boulevard policemen dressed for war - body armor, assault rifles, sometimes helmets, sometimes motorcycles. There were different uniforms, shoulder patches, equipment suggesting that the Agency had simply issued an "all hands on deck". President Clinton was not impeached and Costa Rica experienced no challenge to national security. But the display of teeth by FP was visually impressive - for a country with no army.
     *World Military and Police Forces; Costa Rica, May 2013. Wikipedia. Costa Rica Star, July 2nd, 2012. Special Operations.com.

                                                           

Defining "Humane"

    "Why is a noble hound over yonder on a manure heap . . .?
     "If he were what he was when Odysseus left for Troy he would soon show you what he could do. There was not a wild beast in the forest that could get away from him . . . But he has fallen on evil times . . . for his master is gone."   Homer, The Odyssey.

     Tonka and several other dogs were accepted by the Humane Society of Sarasota County in July 2012, transferred from Sarasota County Animal Services whose kennels were at that moment full. She had been picked up as a stray and was perhaps 14 months old. Today Tonka is 2 and a half years and has been in the shelter for over a year. There has been a concerted effort by HSSC staff and volunteers to make her a "good citizen" and have her adopted by a "qualified" person. She needs special handling at all times. Tonka's bred is matter of debate. She is almost 50 pounds, short haired, beige with a white stomach and a dab on each paw. Her eyes are yellow and nose skin is pinkish. Tonka is listed as a Pit Bull Terrier mix. If you Google search "Pit Bull Terrier" the pictures that appear are distant relatives of Tonka. Now Google search "Thai Ridgeback" - what appear are her close cousins. She has the ears and body structure but is missing the hairy ridge down her spine that also distinguishes TRs. In its place is a 2 inch scar and a line of seven white spots. (Tonka does have distinctive ridges running down the back of her hind legs.) If Tonka is a TR mix she is something special - there are only a couple of hundred TRs in the United States. It is also a source of Tonka's problems. TRs are not fully domesticated - perhaps 80% of the way. At HSSC there are two outstanding animal behaviorists - one believes Tonka is a Thai Ridgeback mix and one does not.
     As Tonka's stay at the shelter continued I became more involved with her. The past several months I have worked with her 3 or 4 times a week. We have become close friends. On Wednesdays and Fridays Tonka would jump into the back of my car, put her front paws on the console between the front seats and slather my face. As the car began to move she would get down and lay on the floor in the back. We would ride to Sarasota's Bay Front Park and walk. Our other destination was often the path around Dead Man's Lake in the Meadows. We also patrolled the HSSC neighborhood between 12th and 17th Streets. The objective of our outings was to get Tonka to relax and control herself when surrounded by distractions. She needed exposure to people, traffic and noise. She behaved best walking 17th and 12th streets - much traffic - she would walk by my leg, ears and tail down and the leash loose. On the path in the Meadows she was OK requiring snacks when sighting other walkers. For strange dogs she would bark and rear up ready to engage - I would reverse course.
The Bay Front had the most distractions, people, children, fountains, dogs, boats and Tonka wished to investigate everything. I could keep her under control and concentrating on me with snacks - sometimes - but frequently my only recourse was outright retreat. Eventually we walked along the Bay only where there were no people. It also occurred to me when Tonka was raging and I was working to reestablish control - what would happen if at that instant I was struck by a meteor or had a stroke - who would get hurt? At the end of each walk I would find a bench with a panoramic view - sail boats, sun and sea. Tonka would jump up next to me, sit and shoulder to shoulder we would share snacks and a bottle of water. Tonka is a wonderful, affectionate and gentle dog.
     Tonka bit the Vet Technician. She did not draw blood. But when combined with her aggressive behavior she was deemed too dangerous to be adopted out by HSSC. Furthermore staff is not expected to accept dog bites as a condition of employment. So Tonka has fallen on evil times. She has not found a master. Adoption by me is not an option because of condo regulations and other reasons. So Tonka must be either euthanized or moved from the HSSC "shelter" to a "refuge" where no animal is terminated - assuming one can be found with a vacant cage. Animals can be adopted from a refuge under strict conditions. But most dogs are warehoused for the duration of their lives.
     Thoroughly depressed I went to HSSC to learn of Tonka's fate. In her old cage was a new dog. Waiting for a meeting I took Walker, a happy, young hound out to get some exercise. In the yard I exchanged greetings with another coach. The sound of my voice was met with a loud eruption of mournful cries from the back of the building. Tonka was still on campus in an isolation cage in Pod 3.
She had heard me and the wailing continued until I secured permission and took her out of the cage. Then we hugged.
     So distinguished reader - you decide what should happen to Tonka - which would be more "humane"? Should Tonka be "put down" or should she be "caged" for life? What you decide is the way this piece ends.

    

Ancient Incidents - Hartwick College in the USSR

 

     We walked past the headquarters of Gosplan, the Soviet State Planning Agency, on the way to the auditorium in downtown Moscow. (1980s) My college group consisted of about 25 individuals. Already seated were another 50-60 students and faculty from Penn State. We were there to have a frank and friendly exchange of views with Soviet officials from an unnamed agency. Three men were seated on the stage ready to receive questions. The first came from Penn State students. "How many people did Stalin murder?" No response from the stage. "Will the Soviet Union ever have free elections?" The panelists neither responded or even moved. With the third question "How many people are in the slave labor camps?" I concluded that this session would be a tedious waste of time. The next question came from a Hartwick student. To reconstruct from a flagging memory, Wayne, a first year student asked; "Considering the incredible number of things a highly developed nation produces, is it realistic to have a state agency (i.e. Gosplan) trying to determine quantities to be produced and how much goods will cost? Isn't a market economy absolutely necessary?" The Soviet officials smiled and became animated - each wanted to respond. Perhaps I am overstating but my heart leap with joy. A provocative and intelligent question - those that wished to learn via a dialogue with the Soviets were now engaged. The questions that followed were all designed to challenge, elicit information and demonstrate a knowledge of the USSR - equal to Wayne's.

     Volgograd had a reputation in the 1980s as home to a "conservative" KGB establishment. So I was surprised when my Hartwick group was invited by a local university literary group to meet one evening at the local Palace of Culture. (Once in Tbilisi, Georgia my group was invited to a similar gathering one morning and dis invited that same afternoon.) The meeting was pleasant - I wandered around watching young men and women mixing. The Russians all spoke some English and could practice it and also learn American. In one brief discussion with three Russian young women I responded to a question by precisely quoting Lenin. One responded with "Mein Gott !" which I believe is German. It was also a conversation stopper that I regretted.

     The following day I was again surprised to be informed by Jennifer (not my daughter) and two other students that they had invited the Russian students to our Hotel for a return party the following evening. I knew Jennifer was intelligent and now added "organizer" to her characteristics. We were housed in the old Hotel Intourist. (It was just around the corner from the department store that was the Stalingrad HGQ for the doomed German 6th Army.) On the fifth floor of the Hotel was a buffet with a short steam line, a few tables and when serving, staffed by three older women. The party at the buffet went off as scheduled without incident or interference - my impression was that the authorities had cut my group and their young people some slack. At 10:00 PM the buffet area was also a mess - snack wrappers, mineral water and vodka bottles, cigarette butts overwhelming ashtrays. I thought of the servers arriving to see this chaos and felt sorry for them. I also anticipated catching some hell from the Hotel administration. Then Jennifer reappeared. "Professor - I know what you are thinking - we'll take care of it." She smiled and left. So I added "clairvoyant" and "takes charge" to her personal characteristics. Happily I returned to my room. At about 7:30 AM I visited the buffet - the servers were fulfilling their duties - one guest was having tea - and the area was immaculately clean.

    Czechoslovakian Soviet Socialist Republic (1977). Customs Control had finished inspecting our train and we were now rolling through morning darkness in Austria. I lay on a lower "couchette" - in the couchette above was an alpha student with a tremendous sense of humor - Michael. My first experience taking a group of college students to the USSR was over and I was near giddy with relief. Yes, there had been problems and stress. Three days ago as our train departed Leningrad, Michael casually put his passport down in another cabin and it disappeared. We reported the theft, he was questioned, searched and of course had to surrender various parts of Soviet military uniforms he had illegally secured on the black market. No passport, no souvenirs and now the prospect of an enforced stay at the Czech border awaiting a new passport. His mood was a mix of high anxiety and profound loss. Today at the border security personnel in jumpsuits holding screwdrivers had literally disassembled the cabin where his document vanished. They found the passport stuffed up behind a petition and held two passengers for questioning. But that was then - now we were out from behind the Iron Curtain and moving rapidly towards Vienna.

     The train began to slow and then lurched to a hard stop. I heard running through the carriage aisle. The cabin door flew open and the light snapped on. Close to my nose the barrel of an assault rifle held by a soldier topped with a scarlet beret. Aroused irritable from what must have been refreshing sleep, Michael yelled "Turn off that light !" I responded "Mike shut up!"

Michael then noted the presence of the armed intruder. "Ohhh. OK!" The light went out and door closed. But no sleep for me - time instead to watch a dawn brighten and illuminate the Austrian countryside.

                                                      

 

Captain "This is my ball. I don't trust you. But if you have some chew toys perhaps we can play!"

   

 

Winter (Russia) - Summer (Venezuela)

     It has been my belief that travelers should see Russia as the armies of Sweden's Gustavus Adolphus, the Emperor Napoleon and Hitler saw it - in the winter. Snow stretches to the horizon. Overhead the skies are gray and flurries are frequent. When the sky is blue the temperature drops. On occasion Celsius and Fahrenheit meet at 40 degrees below and Moscow becomes quiet. During the day people are few, traffic is light. It is still possible to buy ice cream on a stick but one must gnaw at it. At night near silence and empty streets - only the suppressed murmur of lorry engines left running. Street lights glow yellow in the cold and vapor rises from mysterious locations. If snowing more beauty - the Kremlin and Spasskaya Tower at night, bathed in flood lights and falling snow are visual spectacles. On route from Sheremetyevo International to Moscow there is a memorial marking the closest advance of the Wehrmacht to Moscow. It consists of three tank traps - roughly 30 feet high illuminated by flood lights. Driving by at night in a wild snow storm leaves an indelible image - Russia is a tough place to send an army.
     So when my daughter Cathy, an ornithologist called one day and said "Dad, would you like to visit my research project in Venezuela?" my first thought was "They have no winter - what's to see?"
     Caracas is a bright, warm and densely populated city - the metro area has 3.4 million people. The impoverished neighborhoods climb up and over the surrounding hills. The police enter these areas only in force. Caracas has music everywhere. Walk along to the samba beat emanating from a marketplace - turn the corner and it is replaced by different pounding music - that is  in turn drowned out by other driving rhythms. We were joined by two of Cathy's friends from the USA and went to dinner walking a few blocks to a restaurant. I was happy with my "peasant's platter" rice, beans, vegetable and fried eggs - and enjoying the music. Then instantly total darkness - the restaurant and neighborhood experienced a power failure. In the time it took me to remove the fork from my mouth and find my plate the waiters were circulating with lit candles for each table. Dinner barely interrupted and now  even more pleasant by candle light.
     Our bus stopped in the middle of nothing. It was a vast, flat, hot area in the Los Llanos - and the location of the  massive ranch of Tomas Blohm . Across the two lane highway a dirt road began and after a short wait the four of us climbed into the back of a 3/4 ton pickup. The driver and his amigo had been fishing. On the truck's bed a wire loop held the catch - ten reddish, toothy, ugly piranhas - great eating we were told. At the ranch Cathy's room in a bunkhouse was beyond simple - concrete floor, green cinder block walls, steel roof, one hanging light bulb, a hammock strung up (with mosquito netting) and one window. The window had curtains and each was clutched by a sleeping bat. But biologists are a sturdy race and remarkably social. Cathy gave a dinner party one evening that she prepared, cooked, served buffet style, all the while doing instantaneous translation for her Venezuelan and American guests. All greatly enjoyed dinner - taking extreme care to keep our food covered  at all times - thus preventing disease bearing bugs from falling in from the thatched roof above. Tomas Blohm joined us for desert. (He is now deceased - dying years later.) Cathy's research on a small bird with prodigious engineering instincts - the Thornbird; Phacellodomus rufifrons - led to her receiving a Ph.D from Harvard.
     A few days later after travel by pickup truck and bus we were now in a twin engine, five seater aircraft. The plane is flying directly toward Angel Falls. Sitting next to the pilot I am looking first up at the water's source tumbling off the "tepuie" (aka mesa) and then down - but unable to see the water finish the stupendous fall. The pilot was clearly enthused - "Magnifico ! We go around again !" Then in his best imitation of a Super Marine Spitfire the small plane banked up and right circling and then charged back toward the Falls. I heard someone behind me gag.
     We touched down on a dirt strip in Canaima National Park and collected our packs. There are now six of us - we have been joined by a young couple from Spain. Our national guide is casual - shorts, open shirt, long, black hair - all Indian and proud. He leads us for a half mile down a path under a rainforest canopy and ending at a dark pond with an elderly canoe on the bank. "Now we swim" he announces. The young Spanish woman cannot swim - he helps her into the canoe. We push our packs into black garbage bags and place them in front and back of her. I eased into the warm water - it had a delicious taste - and began the 40 yard crossing. I looked back and saw our guide swimming toward me pulling the canoe by a short line. The passenger is stiff and clutching the gunnels. At a forest clearing we looked at another pond that appeared to end 30 yards away at a black wall. As instructed I swam across and grabbed a floating line. Then I pulled myself forward against a frothy rush of current and into the darkness. Quickly the water force subsides, light returns. I am standing in an exuberant, lush jungle garden with a waterfall and pond. It is surrounded by moss and leaf covered walls of the tepuie. The walls soar up as in a cathedral and open upon billowing clouds and an azure sky. This grotto - a miniature Garden of Eden - remains the most beautiful place I have been on earth.
     For decades I enjoyed winter - I skied (badly) and jogged (slowly). For years November was my favorite month - and of course delighted in the changing seasons. But travel in Venezuela began the process of converting me to an enthusiast of living in endless summer.

                    

Thornbirds

Writers

      Anton Chekhov told this story. "You know I recently visited Tolstoy in Gaspra. He was bed ridden due to illness . . . When I was about to say goodbye he took my hand and said 'Kiss me goodbye'. While I bent over him and he was kissing me, he whispered in my ear in a still energetic old man's voice 'You know I hate your plays. Shakespeare was a bad writer and I consider your plays even worse than his.' " *
     I imagined becoming a great writer from fourth grade on - remnants of the desire remain locked in a closet of my mind. At a recent social gathering I chatted over punch and carrots with a woman who had studied years ago at Middlebury College. She mentioned the Bread Loaf Writers Conference and there was a banging on that closet door. Since 1926, BLWC has been a ten day gathering of aspiring writers, led by a few prominent authors and sponsored by Middlebury College. In seminars the aspiring have the opportunity to read a piece of their work and receive comments from the successful. The New Yorker forever blessed the BLWC as "the oldest and most prestigious writer's conference in the country." **  In 1979 I was working on a manuscript - historical fiction set in the Racquette Lake region of the Adirondack Mountains. I applied for admission to the Conference and was accepted. Pleasant and vivid memories of those ten days remain.
     I must note here that BLWC is a very structured affair. Everyone at the Conference had published something but there were distinct classes.  The lowest class, the "contributors" have paid full assessment and may get a chance to read something they have produced. They are analogous to the "struggling masses". The second class consists of the faculty, fellows and "waiterships" - those who critique the work of others, read their own and waited tables - hard scrambling "apparatchiks". Finally there were the "authors" - at this Conference decades ago the stars were John Irving, John Gardner, Tim O'Brien and others. These were the "party elite". I was among the masses and the class distinctions were rigorous and enforced. (There was the occasional lapse - one star accessed the wrong bedroom one night. The woman occupant kindly explained to him his mistake. The star immediately apologized - thought for minute and then added - "Well as long as I am here perhaps ..."
She declined.
     My roommate Patrick, was an attorney from Chicago with a withering sense of humor and a protective nature. He had also published a book. After attending one of the first morning seminars Patrick and I left together. Without saying a word we went to the lunch buffet and filled trays. We proceeded to look for a place to sit. Without communication we went over and sat down across from a young woman sitting alone - "Sara". A few minutes earlier she had read a sample of her writing and the ensuing comments had ranged from simply negative to mean spirited and outright ridicule. We felt like we had witnessed a junior high school pile on. For the next hour and a half Patrick and I engaged in damaged ego relief and refurbishment. The first few minutes were awkward - we knew her not at all. But then I remember laughing - and Sara smiling, the best we could get from her - as Patrick explained the feeding habits of semi literate intellectuals and arrogant, pretentious writers.
     But there were many engaging people to meet - some seemed to be seeking "characters" to utilize in their work. Janice was already a published author of a children's book - creative, intelligent and extremely funny - she would write 20 more. "Jess and the Stinky Cowboys" is her most recent. Bernard was an Olympic class wrestler with a physique that stressed his clothing in every direction. He was a poet with a gentle, lyrical voice. We were sprawled - the five of us - on the grass under a massive oak while he read from his work. Poetry is an area in which I am beyond ignorant. But I was enjoying this reading. Bernard was deeply involved - I remember saying "great!" several times. On occasion we applauded. Even if you didn't understand all his work you had to like Bernard. Certainly the contrast between this powerful man and the intense presentation of his work was one reason. But I was also at ease with people whose primary interest was in the beauty and elegant expression of language. Finally - it was a warm and sunny afternoon in the mountains of Vermont.
     In August 2008, my grandson Tony and I drove up into the Adirondacks and put up a tent at Lake Durant State Park. The following day I went to the Adirondack Museum to do some research. The manuscript in my mental closet was again demanding some attention. I spent the afternoon examining documents and the final guest registers of the Prospect House. Located on Blue Mountain Lake in the 1890s, the Prospect House was a multistory, grand resort hotel - today not a board remains. I took the notes acquired and added them to the research folder. My manuscript is entitled Blue Mountain and it has six rejections - as of this date.

*I have lost the source of this story. ** See BLWC in Wikipedia.

                                                        

 

Jack - Timid, little, junk yard dog. "I'll bite you - yes I will - really! really! - honest!"

Adopted