The Heavens Declare... (AZ Trilogy Part Three)

As I wrap up my trip down memory lane, it would be unjust to leave out a number of favorite photos, as well as a number of favorite Psalms of David, all expressing the wonders of God's glorious creations. I hope this trilogy has inspired you to look for God's glory everywhere, even in the driest of deserts. Now, pull up a log around the campfire, and join the "sweet Psalmist of Israel" as he sings of the greatness of God as seen through creation.

The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship.
Day after day they continue to speak; night after night, they make him known.

They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard.
Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world.

The Voice of the Lord twists mighty oaks, and strips the forests bare.
In His temple, everyone shouts "Glory!"

You crown the year with a bountiful harvest; even the hard pathways overflow with abundance.

Those who live at the ends of the earth stand in awe of your wonders;
from where the sun rises to where it sets, you inspire shouts of Joy!

I'm sharing this with Dayle's Simple Pleasures Thursdays.

In the Valley of the Shadow (AZ Trilogy Part Two)

My eyes were quickly developing a personality disorder; they longed with all their might to look up, but knew that looking down was beneficial for the journey ahead of them.

Up, Up, Up...That's where you'll find it; up there.

My target was the Common Black-hawk, a creature that looks as if God took a lump of coal and carved a bird out of it. This black beauty primarily breeds in Central and South America, but inches his range into the U.S. of A with small territories in the Southwestern states. The Black-hawk is one of the prolific number of trans-continental bird species that send new birders into fits of passion when visiting Arizona.

My hiking party and I found ourselves traversing rocky, and wet, terrain in search of this step to birding Mecca. The area we were scouring goes by the name of Aravaipa Canyon, and has been the last trail that many good pairs of sneakers have seen. Between the spiky, rocky terrain, and the river that must be passed through, Aravaipa has been the ruin of walking shoes for many unwary tourists.

Where are all the tourists? Oh, that's right, limited access. I'm okay with that...

I still have trouble deciding which was more appealing: the fact that a rare North American bird called this canyon home, or the fact that the Nature Conservancy has a limit of fifty people per day. In the end, I found the combination of desirable bird and the lack of crowds to be a winning combination...

But if I didn't find this bird, I was going to emerge from this hike a loser. With this in mind, we pressed on, looking for this treasure with feathers.

I had collected all the information I could accumulate before starting the trek. I knew to check along the rivers edge; knew to look for the flashy white bands on the tail, and I especially concentrated my studies on the call. Armed with this knowledge, I went out boldly in the quest for the Common Black-hawk.

But if you knew every detail ever known about the bird, that still wouldn't fish him out of this big canyon.

My inner voice had something going for him; we were small fish in a big pond seeking out a smaller fish. I say "we" knowing that after the first mile and a quarter, most of my party had probably given up on the search and were just watching their steps.

Why don't you give up too? You know what you're looking for, but you don't even have a clue of where to begin your search.

My inner monologue was right again; I had a good deal of knowledge, but with my non-existent familiarity of the territory, it was going to take a good deal of searching before I'd be able to dig out my desired hawk...

All the better I answered back.

In this day of GPS and Smart Phones (they've now combined the two, apparently) the human spirit has been deprived of its sense of discovery. A golden age of exploration has been lost to the current generation; we find our desired destinations and goals with greater ease and efficiency, but the journey has lost its magical appeal. The discovery of what lies between us and our destination has gone the way of the dodo.

To me, discovery has always had an air of the impromptu about it. The less I know about what I'm stumbling onto, the more accomplished I feel. Funny how that works...

Too bad it's not working now... the nagging voice shot forth without a second thought.

After two hours of hiking, my drive to discover had abated; I was dreaming of the air-conditioned car we'd climb into after our adventure, when I heard my uncle interject...

"Is that your bird?" he asked, pointing at the large, rocking form that was gliding by the wall of the canyon.

My mind leaped in ecstasy. Effusive emotions poured out my soul; my object had been found. My mission was accomplished....

"Or is it a Turkey Vulture?" my uncle asked, unwittingly shattering the sense of security I had attained all too briefly.

To an expert birder, the difference may be apparent. To a neophyte birder of the Southwest, the difference is less visible, especially if you can't view the bold, white bands around the tail and espceially if you only get a glimpse of your target.

"Uhhh..." I stalled for time.

"Well, which is it?" My uncle queried with slight tones of impatience. We were all hot and sweaty and grumpy, and having me dither over the identification of this prized possession I'd gone on about probably accentuated the frustration.

"I don't know," I reluctantly admitted.

"Why not?" The sharp reply.

"Because I've never seen one." The defeated response.

That was it. After a mile and a quarter hike through treacherous terrain, my beautiful, well defined Black-hawk had become just another shadow floating high on the canyon walls. It would have been an easier walk back if we had seen nothing at all.

We observed a number of different birds on the journey back, but I wanted that Black-hawk. Each call of the Canyon Wren slapped my ears in defeated desperation; every shadow of the Yellow-breasted Chat would wrench my eyes from off of my feet in hopeful expectation...but my border bird never materialized. The Common Black-hawk would forever be a shadow, floating by my record book.

Upon reaching the steep incline to the parking area, I received a new burst of energy into my deflated self, and charged up toward the vehicle of my shame. I knew the ribbing that would come:

Maybe they got strict on immigration.

Perhaps his passport expired.

Maybe we were in the wrong canyon.

And all of my predicted slams came true, as one by one, my exhausted hiking companions gave me a good ribbing.

Looking out the window, my longing for that bird only grew stronger. I wanted that silhouette of a bird we saw at the terminus of our expedition to turn into a Black-hawk in the worst way. But putting a check next to the Black-hawk's name on my life list would be a violation of ethics. As my friend told me when I began my birding career: "Birders are disgustingly honest." I was just disgusted.

"Stop," I said. "Is that a Raven?"

My pity party was interrupted by a dark speck perched fifty feet above us. The dark form stood out starkly against the sandy white cliffs. Reaching for my binoculars, I briefly got on the bird before shouting:

"BLACK HAWK, BLACK HAWK."

We had just hiked nearly two miles to see a bird that we would find as we were leaving the canyon. I was really in for the ribbing now, but I didn't care.

The bird took off as soon as the others had their optics trained on it, giving it's fierce, piercing call. His broad, white tail bands shone with an unknown luster. He soared right over our car...

And into the horizon of discovery.

Bloodshed at the Bloodbought Corral (AZ Trilogy Part One)

As you start to push some keys in the memory bank of my mind, you may just feel the hot, dry desert winds start to blow. You may hear the low murmurs of free range cattle; if you're lucky, you may even glimpse a road-runner speeding by.

All of these sensations emanate from a wonderful birding excursion I took to Arizona back in the May of 2009. Arizona is a natural wonderland, and is a highly favored spot among birders, due it's predilection to attract Mexican species of birds across the border (Birder's Without Borders).

In honor of that wonderful entry in my data bank, I want to pen a trilogy of reflections, all inspired by the Grand Canyon state itself. Here's a fine bit of fiction on the deadliest enemy known to man, in one of the deadliest towns in the old west: Tombstone, Arizona.

Though the music was blasting from the Birdcage Saloon, Christian would not be distracted from his purpose. He had come out to the Bloodbought Corral to fight his enemy: sin.

"You know what to expect," he said, addressing himself while rubbing his ill-shaven face. "Big, bold, and deadly," he surmised, based on his previous encounters with those transgressions that so easily tripped him up before.

"Yep, lust, murder, stealin', things that are too big to slip under my watchful eye." With each mental reference to his previous mistakes, he winced. He was here to make sure those mistakes were at an end.

Psst... came a low hiss from behind a few barrels.

Christian stood firmly at attention; could this finally be his foe?

Psst... came the same invitation, this time from another part of the corral.

His mind began to race; his heart began to palpitate.

Suddenly the air was filled with pssts, polluting the airwaves to such a degree that even the bawdy tune from the Birdcage was overtaken.

By now, Christian's heart was full of fear; his eyes were filled with a fiery anger.

"Christian," came a voice he didn't recognize.

"I'm here," he replied, with all the defiance he could muster.

"Here to play, are you?" the voice taunted, with all the malice in the world.

"I'm here to win a battle," he said, finding courage from the deepest parts of his being.

"Hmmm," the voice intoned. As doubt was expressed as to the victor, the voice found form. From behind the barrels emerged a well- dressed, well-groomed, respectable looking man. His sharp-shooter apparel shimmered in the noon-day sun, and when he opened his mouth, his brilliant teeth brought the world down in admiration.

"Victory, eh?" The man calmly inspected his slim, keenly polished gun, keeping Christian in his eye at the same time.

"The victory is in hand," announced Christian, slowly regaining his composure. "I'm already a victor through..."

"Through whom?" The sharp-shooter cut in. "Who wins your victories?

"Christ..." He began, but was abruptly cut off once again.

"-ian?" The well-groomed one smirked.

"What do you mean?" Christian growled, commandingly.

"You were going to attribute your victories to Christ," the slim man began, but at the mention of Christ, his expression dropped, and a fierce look of anger crossed his face.

"You...You..." he stuttered, saving face "You were going to let all the glory go there" he said, pointing up, "when, we all know, the glory should go...there," he finished, pointing at Christian.

"No," Christian objected.

"Yes," the man rebutted. "Fair is fair. You know, you're the talk of the town."

"Why?"

"The way you handle that gun, is simply...amazing," The stranger said, after a short pause, as if he were searching for an appropriate adjective.

"Really? I'm famous?" Christian asked, with slight tones of hesitation in his voice.

"Oh yes, my friend," the stranger said, circling Christian like a vulture eyeing his next meal. "The way you slaughtered Lust was simply superb."

"Really?" Christian enjoined.

"More than superb: fantastic!" The man grinned like a Cheshire cat, his face growing larger with each note of praise. "And no one has ever seen Lying go down so fast."

"Really," Christian said. There were no tones of questioning in his voice this time.

"Yes, you...are...the...victor." The man grinned wider and wider until his eyes felt cramped.

"Yes, my name isn't recognized enough. I've got a whole new outlook because of you Mr...." Christian stared the strange man down. "What's your name?"

"Pride."

Christian froze. He had heard of Pride, and was aware of his expertise at winning gunfights.

Tiny beads of sweat started to form on Christian’s brow; his nerves began their fight or flight deliberations.

"Oh, don’t worry about me.” Pride responded to his adversary’s reaction. “I'm not a giant sin, like Lust, or Drunkenness,” and he slowly turned his back, facing away from the angry Christian.

Pride set his teeth on edge; Christian had drawn a gun on him while he had his back turned.

"No, in fact, most people don't even know I'm there." Pride grimaced as he felt the gun sink a little further into his back.

Christian was not going to come this far to lose the battle.

"You're done, Pride!" he screamed, loud enough to stop the music at the Birdcage; loud enough to draw all the townsfolk into the street, to see what was happening.

"Oh come on," Pride coolly pleaded. "Who gets hurt by pride? Pride's not such a big deal..."

Those last words struck Christian hard.

He looked to himself.

He looked to the crowd.

But he didn't look up.

"Pride's not...such a big deal," Christian muttered, almost mechanically. And with that, he dropped the gun.

Bang

Before anyone could even blink, Pride had shot Christian.

"No I'm not so big," Pride sneered, firing another shot into the downed Christian. "I’m only the reason there's a hell."

Christian gasped as Pride gave him a swift kick to the stomach.

"I only caused God's greatest treasure, humanity, thousands of years of turmoil and suffering and mayhem."

Another kick.

"But no, I'm no big deal."

And with one final kick to the stomach, Pride grinned his sleaziest grin,
bowed to the onlookers, and disappeared…

Leaving only a bruised Christian in the corral, with a new-found reason to look up when Pride comes to town.

I'm sharing this with Brag on God Fridays, and Spiritual Sundays.

On the Fourth of July

Deadly. That's the word to describe him. Deadly.

He treads the water, searching for unsuspecting fish to dine on. His eyes search the marshes and bays, hoping for the right meal at the right time. Once his eyes have locked onto his potential food-stuff, he stares. With all the patience in the world, he stares his prey down, as still as the marsh grass background he hunts against.

Then, when it seems an eternity has passed, he senses the moment: that ripe period of time when he can strike. Raising his dagger-thin bill, he then rapidly plunges his head into the water, generally emerging triumphant in his hunt for his next meal.

This dramatic little monologue is a good description of my friend, the Tri-colored Heron. This multi-colored marsh beauty is a stunning example of the variety of life the bird world presents us; his long, thin neck and bill truly set him apart in the realm of heronry. (I just made that word up.)

Not only is he distinctive, he's also germane for the fast approaching 4th of July holiday. Why? Because he's red, white and blue.

That's right, with a reddish cast to the neck (especially as a juvenile), a stark white belly, and greenish-blue back, the Tri-colored Heron is a truly patriotic bird.

America was once the Tri-colored Heron, at least that's what they tell me. Just as that feathered fisherman is the thinnest of the Heron family, so our great country was lean, trim and fit. We once had the power to free ourselves, the urge to free others, and the discipline to maintain freedom.

We were also noteworthy, just like the Tri-colored. Big, bold, flashy, we were the ones that other nations looked to for inspiration. Like ancient Rome, we sent our influences far and wide through the different lands we conquered. We were ubiqoutious; we were abundant.

But blink, and suddenly a change has occurred. Suddenly the lean, fit empire has become soft and flabby. In a short manner, our orderly, regulated world has erupted in a chaotic fashion. In an instant, we find ourselves on the attack from within and without. That proud, global bulldog has awoken to find his house on fire, and his yard flooded.

Who could possibly have the answer to these exingencies? What solution could possibly turn an up-side down world right-side up?

I think my friend with the deadly aim and the coat of many colors may have an answer. Oh, he may not be the answer, but with his needle-like bill, he is pointing straight at the answer.

"They know the truth about God because he has made it obvious to them. For ever since the world was created, people have seen the earth and sky. Through everything God made, they can clearly see his invisible qualities-his eternal power and divine nature. So they have no excuse for not knowing God."

A world searching for answers with unprecedented fervor. A race of people in frantic straits, seeking solutions that just won't materialize. A planet full of people that refuse to turn.

And a creation that is forever pointing up, in hopes that one day humanity will come to it's senses, and turn to it's Creator.

That is, perhaps, the greatest secret my friend the Tri-colored Heron knows...

But he's only a sign-post on the journey home.

I am sharing this on Spiritual Sundays. and Bragging on God Fridays.

Simple

"“I hope you've found something special that's worth sitting on the ground for." The voice broke my concentration, and my perfectly aligned camera lens shifted a fraction of an inch.

The inquiry was perfectly natural. There I was in the middle of a State Park, flat on my belly, with my camera pointed at a few dead leaves.

"Oh, I've found something worth crawling on my belly for," I responded, half focused on the conversation, half focused on the object of my attention.

"What's that?" the curious woman asked, straining to catch a glimpse of the thing that totally engulfed my vision.

Highly experienced in the fine art of pointing out small insects, I slowly stood, and then positioned the shadow of my finger so that it pointed directly at the desired object.

There on the soft Cape May sand was an American Copper; an insect so magnificent it has earned a place in my heart as my favorite butterfly. But what it possesses in charm it lacks in size, being about the same size as my thumbnail.

The intruder into my serene moment look bewildered, noticeably giving off the impression that she didn't see the attraction.

"Here, take a look-see on my camera," I said, displaying the picture I had taken before she had come along.

"Wow," she blurted, spurred on by the simple elegance of this small creature.

Why do I hold the American Copper in such high regard? A fair question: do I admire it because of its vibrant colors? Probably not, as a Copper among a group of sub-tropical butterflies would surely fade into the background.

Do I appreciate this critter due to its hardiness? For the most part, a butterfly's life is as transient as a summer cloud.

Its predatory skills? No.

Its ability to fly long distances? Maybe.

Its adroitness at balancing budgets? He could be worse...

But as I ruminate upon the Copper's existence, I begin to feel a certain respect for its simplicity. Humanity today has little room for the simple. The woman at the park was an exception to the majority who would much rather walk by the extravagantly simplistic things of life. The less of the elemental the world has to deal with, the better.

But as for me, the simple pleasures hold charms that keep calling me back. A bike ride through a small town; watching a mama bird feed her young; listening to the sound of people laughing, these are the moments that continually grasp for my attention.

I often wonder how many small blessings I pass by as I look ahead for those loud, large gifts I expect on the horizon any day. It's alarming to contemplate the sweet memories that I have run by on the road to the bigger, brighter things that I feel God owes me. How often have I missed gifts at my feet when my eyes are fixed straight ahead, wondering what's next?

My impromptu companion and I stood silent, each finding something different in this marvelous creature to revere.

"Good thing you were here, or I'd have missed it," the Copper's fresh admirer admitted.

"Simple, isn't it?” I smiled, and then got back on the ground to admire the beauty of the basic once again.

I am sharing on Simple Pleasures Thursdays.

Saints and Salt Marsh

In all my years as a tour guide, I have never failed to see a look of wonder cross the faces of my patrons as they gaze upon the beauty of the Atlantic Coastal Salt Marsh.

The salt marsh eco-system is a vitally important piece of our natural landscape. If you live in New Jersey and have ever driven down the Garden State Parkway, those wide open plains that resemble prairie lands, those are salt marshes.

The salt marsh performs a number of crucial services for the well-being of wildlife and humans alike. These waving acres of grass are the "nurseries" for most of the major fish species that we find on our dinner tables. That striped bass you enjoyed for dinner last night most likely entered the universe via one of our local salt marshes.

Though these areas can appear calm at times, a violent circle of life is revolving just below the surface. To begin with, the grasses of the salt marsh are very important for certain types of fish. Every time a tide recedes, it brings with it nutrients collected from the grasses. These microscopic meals are then gobbled up by the numerous varieties of filter feeding fish that call the salt marsh home. As soon as those on the bottom of the food chain are satisfied, the bigger fish then feast on them, only to find themselves eaten by those hungry birds that hunt the salt marsh. The circle of life is red in tooth and claw.

But perhaps the most intriguing aspect of these unique areas is the way they expand. These salt marshes are dominated by the annual grass Spartina Alternaflora; a plant that dies back each winter, and then decomposes. As the roots start their slow recycling process, gradually a new layer of sediment will be formed. And this is no muddy, silty foundation; this is firm, solid ground that you could drive a car over. And trust me, I've had my car in it, and it's heavy duty stuff. (Though I'm not paying for your tow truck if you try it with a MAC truck.)

Death making all things solid...

When I think on the composition of this favorite habitat of mine, my mind wanders to the Martyrs of the Christian faith. What courage it must take to face the final enemy in the name of your ultimate friend. What heights of faith, what depths of love must be required to die for what you believe.

I think of Stephen, the faithful one who set the precedent for the acceptance of martyrdom. I think of Peter, hanging upside down, of John being boiled in oil.

Fast forwarding through time, I think of the great European theologians who chose to die to themselves, so that we might have a true understanding of what God's Word says. Wycliffe, Luther, Zwingli, great men all who suffered persecution, who died to themselves, just so I could have the firm foundation of the Word of God to stand on.

The story of the true Church has not been a peaceful one; it is a saga drenched in the blood of those who chose to emulate their Master.

When I look at a salt marsh now, a parallel portion of my brain kicks into gear, ruminating on the Christian life. I see life everywhere; activity is the common denominator, a constant undercurrent, whether in a marsh or a body of believers.

But I also look on in a somber reverence, fully aware that we are called to leave a solid foundation for the feet of future believers to stand firmly on.

Fully aware that it may take dying to keep the legacy alive.

I am sharing this on Spiritual Sundays.

Cape May Point State Park

John Denver once said he loved to "share the joy that he found in living." I suppose if that's the only thing the preacher can say about me at my funeral, it will be sufficient. And so, let me introduce you to a wonderful area known as Cape May Point State Park; an awe-inspiring marshland abutting the Atlantic Ocean, an area rife with joy. This past Tuesday (Summer Solstice) I found myself wandering through the marshes and dunes of this diverse habitat, simply observing. Simply shrinking away from the madding crowd and getting close to the dust from which I was made.

What did I see? I'll let that speak for itself...

This Great Egret was hunting Bunker Pond with all diligence. Great Egrets tend to be quite languid in their pursuit of fish and frogs and such. But when they strike, those sharp bills can do some damage.

Here's the Great Egret's "little cousin": the Snowy Egret. He's much more frantic when foraging than his relative, and is a lot of fun to watch as a result. He has bright yellow feet, which he often uses to imitate worms, luring unsuspecting prey to the surface.

A side view of a snag (dead tree) occupied by young Barn Swallows. These guys were anxiously expecting Mama to come with a fresh bug, alerting me to her presence with much excited chatter.

And a frontal view of the same birds.

This little beauty is my all time favorite butterfly: the American Copper. The coppers like to lay their eggs in certain types of grasses, and can be found in abundance in localized areas. I had a friend count over 200 individuals in one field! The more the merrier I say.

Here's the same bug with his underside showing. I made sure he was fined for indecent exposure.

This is a Little Wood-Satyr butterfly. His cryptic colors come in very handy against the hungry avian occupants of the park.

Here's one of the Bluette Damselflies. Damselflies are similar to Dragonflies, but are generally much smaller, with their wings closed behind their backs. This little fellow was only slightly thicker than a pin.

But for all the beauty in the world, there must be bullies. Here are two Fish Crows, which are a nuisance because they've developed an appetite for the endangered Piping Plover that nest on the beach at the park. They should really stick to Cicadas.

The most elegant, but also the most problematic, bird I saw this Tuesday, would have to be the Mute Swan. Mute Swans are non-natives, having been introduced for aesthetic purposes about 200 years ago. They are aggressive, often killing the other inhabitants of the ponds they frequent. They are destructive, pulling up the vegetation by the roots, instead of clipping it, a feeding style that will eventually sterilize an area. And perhaps most importantly, they're dangerous, having been known to break the legs of unwary passer-by's.

Lastly, here's my friend the Red-winged Blackbird inviting you back.