I feel you, kid. I really do. The Mom of No likes the heat- most of the time. In mid-summer, I can walk down the trails and see dragonflies everywhere, which makes being drenched in sweat worthwhile. But in late September, it seems like the heat should go, already. Rain has been scarce and everything is dry and brown, and the dragonflies have left (mostly), except for a few elderly scarred stragglers and a bunch of common green darners. As I walk down the trail, grasshoppers fly everywhere, announcing my arrival to anything that happens to be lurking around. A stealthy approach is just not possible. Thanks for nothing, grasshoppers.
I'm in a prolonged late summer slump, brought on only partially by the paucity of observations on my favorite trail; it seems like this year there is less to see, although that could be because I've forgotten that it is like this every year, or that this year it's particularly parched, or that I've been reading about the decline of birds and insects and seeing only grasshoppers instead of common buckeyes and Gulf fritillaries and Queen butterflies is reinforcing what I've read. I am fascinated with the intricate beauty of butterflies and dragonflies; a future world in which small children will never see a dragonfly and then think of winged fairies is not something I really want to consider.
Soon enough, the Mom of No will celebrate that half-century milestone birthday, and the feeling is strong that if I want to do something, now is probably a good time to do it. However, the practical side of me then asserts itself to state that most of what I really want to do involves a lot of time or a lot of money (or both), so there's the realization that maybe I should pare down the list just a bit. One of my dream bucket list items is get the Observation of the Day on iNaturalist; that could be within the realm of possibility. I'll just have to keep on hiking- a task I am willing to continue.
It's sad to see the trash people leave on the trail- either purposefully, like a plastic soft drink bottle sticking up from the mud in a marshy area, or unwittingly, like a balloon that has probably floated in from some celebration elsewhere and now lays forgotten by the original celebrants a few feet off of the trail. The balloon's bright colors contrast with the brown and faded green and dull yellows of the grass and leaves, marking it as painfully out of place. I leave the trail and walk the few feet needed to retrieve the balloon, fold it up, and stick it in my field bag for dumpster disposal later. As I walk back to the trail, the grasshoppers leap before me. I have no way to reach the plastic soft drink bottle, so it must stay for the time being.
I've been advised that shortly I am to temporarily lose access to my favorite trail due to some infrastructure work; the area will be closed off to the public for safety reasons. I try to view this as an opportunity- I am fortunate to live in an area with other trails, so there is some exploring to be done. However, I have bonded with this trail; I've seen it lush with wildflowers and butterflies and gem-like variegated meadowhawks in spring and fall; I've seen it newly emerged from flooding; I've seen great blue herons walking on the iced-over marsh during a deep winter freeze. I stood alone on that day, hearing only my breathing, watching the herons walk confidently on the thin ice, knowing that I was watching something beautiful. I've seen my offspring stare, gape-mouthed, at egrets and herons and once, the possibility of a beaver swimming across the marsh. I know I'll be back, but it will not be easy to wait.
Enough of this funk, I tell myself. The winter birds are on their way, as is (hopefully) some cooler weather. I sit at a table at one of the wildlife blinds, drinking some water (hydration is important) and wiping off sweat from my forehead with a bandanna (always carry a bandanna in your field bag). I look over at the green reeds- almost the only thing bright green in this dry landscape- and when my eyes adjust I see a small green tree frog, curled up on a green reed, almost perfectly blending in. Then I see another, and another, and soon I realize that the reeds are full of green tree frogs. It is just what I needed; my slump is not cured, but for a moment it is forgotten.
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