The water is almost perfectly smooth, the wind calm.

I am silent, breathing slowly through my nose, which hovers just above the languid surface. My legs and arms are hidden, swirling in smooth circles as they tread the aqueous space below. From this vantage I am a sea turtle lifting my head from the echoing blue to peer momentarily at the world of imposing gravity. I imagine myself all shell and flipper, completely at ease in the ocean realm.

Nearby a tern is fishing, nonplussed by my presence; after all, I am nothing but a brown spot bobbing in the expanse. The bird comes very close. It sways above me—delicate, slim and white with a split tail—searching. Each time it dives and strikes for food its flow is halted, a quick snap against the water.

                                       I love this place.  Here, the Osa Peninsula and Gulfo Dulce wrap together like a vibrant Taiji (yin-yang) symbol of land and water. And I’m thankful to feel the embayment’s sweet coolness against my skin since, even this early in the morning, the January air is hot and sticky.

In 2007 and 2008, I worked as a research assistant for Friends of the Osa (http://www.osaconservation.org/), tagging sea turtles and collecting nesting data on the Pacific side of the Osa Peninsula. Now I’ve returned for a unique pilot study under their auspices.

A projected yellowfin tuna farm at the mouth of Golfo Dulce has sparked an urgent call to action. Since little has been published about the gulf’s ecological vitality, there is an imperative need for more scientific data to bolster conservation initiatives.

So I am here to talk with the people and collect 30 days data from a small boat, documenting marine animals in Golfo Dulce, especially “flagship” conservation species (whales, dolphins, sea turtles, whale sharks and some beautiful yellow xanthic-phase sea snakes). My goal is to garner baseline data about this tropical fiord’s unique biodiversity and build greater awareness concerning the importance of in situ conservation.

A man is suddenly talking on the pier, his voice pours across the bay to where I am swimming. I roll onto my back and sigh contentedly. Floating, ears muffled by water, I fall deaf to his chatter, soaking in my own thoughts.

I ponder the work I’ve been doing this week, interviewing local fishermen. Skin weathered to rich mahogany working the sea aside brothers and friends, these earnest men are skeptical of questioning strangers. Their eyes are often shadows as I approach. Yet I’ve felt the honor of having them warm to me and I’m humbled by their hard-earned knowledge of the gulf and its fauna.

                                                                                     Chilo with his night's catch

                                             They have been generous with information and kind of heart,

                                 and my Spanish improves with every effort to understand their dynamic stories.

Yesterday, two people told me they saw Humpback whales just the day before, four individuals from the northern hemisphere breaching in the gulf. These reports make me itch to get on the water myself and, after a few more interviews, I’ll be ready.

But, like most projects, mine is facing some obstacles—an unexpected and fairly expensive repair is needed on the motor donated for my study.

                     So my boat sits waiting.

                                                                        I wait too while we search for a solution, an easier fix or alternative. 

   Mike, Jorge and Gareth looking for parts in La Palma

A half hour has passed since I paddled out into the water and the sun is throwing light across a spray of clouds that are thin and broken into a pattern of triangles, like white scales on a blue fish. Please, I whisper a tiny prayer skyward, I need a boat with a working motor… and soon.

Twisting upright, I see the white tern is gone. The tide is rising and dark wrinkled water is coming a few hundred yards away. When the tiny ripples reach me along with the breeze that’s pushing them, I close my eyes and sniff the fresh salty air.

Another beautiful morning in Costa Rica. It’s time to start the day. With one more deep breath, I turn toward shore and begin to pull myself, one arm over the other.

Ho! Ho! Ho! I hope everyone is enjoying a fun and festive holiday! This morning Malki helped us celebrate Christmas with her traditional shredding of paper as we opened presents.

And many presents there were,  wonderful items from our closest relations and friends.

But this year our family received a unique and unexpected gift…

                                                                                                 Meet "Holli".

Holli was hit by a car a few days before Christmas after a rainstorm that caused havoc on streets funneling hundreds of shoppers. When my girlfriend Donna and I saw her frantic little body zigzagging through busy traffic several cars ahead, we immediately shot into rescue mode, cutting lanes to follow the animal into a nearby neighborhood.

Lost and frightened, the little brown dog ran almost a mile until she hit a dead end—a fence framed by two block walls. There, she dove into a stand of wet Oleanders and sat trembling in the mud. Her feet were bloodied. Hot breaths of exhaustion puffed to clouds around her face. Wide eyes held unyielding distrust.

I approached slowly, sideways. Diverting my eyes to avoid direct contact, I mumbled words of encouragement until I could loop a leash around her neck. At last, employing a soft blanket and a good dose of patience, I was able to wrap her cold, shaking frame and carry her to my car.

Luckily she was not badly injured, just a few bumps and bruises, broken nails and scraped toe pads. Yet, with no tags or microchip we could not return her to her family. We posted hopeful notices in every appropriate location but nobody has called.

That evening I brought her home, fed her and slept on the laundry room floor holding her in my arms.

Kevin and Malki opened their hearts, too. They have made Holli feel welcome in our home and she is recovering well.

     So for now she is safe and dry and warm, bringing her own mark of sweetness to our home and reminding us of the season’s most important blessings—a soft bed, a full belly and at least one person who holds you dear.

                                                                                                            Here’s wishing you all a very special Holli-day!

P.S. Remember, I will be blogging from Costa Rica in January; please join me for the journey.

Thanksgiving Day

Today I give thanks for the sun’s warming ray,

her goldenrod light turning night into day.

Feeling earth underfoot, whether mountain or plain,

to see sweeping of clouds, smell the sprinkle of rain.

A tree’s gentle breeze giving swell to my lung,

its fingertip nests raising songs yet unsung.

So thankful am I for my heart full of cheer,

friendships and laugh lines carved deeper each year.

With family beside me I sit down to feast,

and think of life’s glory—each snowflake, each beast.

My thanks for gorillas and whales and bees,

the bounty of life filling jungles and seas.

Today I give thanks in the sun’s warming ray,

just for being alive and the gift of this day.

But soon a full moon will hang soft overhead

then thankful I’ll be for my pillow and bed.

-Brooke Bessesen, November 2009

My treasured friend Tony Subia just surprised me with this 3-minute video that he created using elements from my website:

    I first worked with SubiaCreative (www.subiacreative.com) when I was eighteen years old. I soon met Tony and his family—gorgeous wife Ruby, their great kids Patty, Kenny and Tanya (who are close to me in age), and subsequently all the grandchildren who came into the fold one precious birth at a time.

                                      What connects us with certain people for a lifetime? I don’t know.

    But the Subias have been in my heart ever since and I love them like family! Together through the years we have watched children grow (little Brittney is a new Phoenix Suns Dancer http://www.ahwatukee.com/articles/suns-7857-phoenix-team.html) ...jobs change ... skin age. We have shared holidays’ joy and tragedies’ tears. We are forever linked.

Tony and I are especially close. He is a trusted friend and father-figure, who I've always turned to for advice during major life decisions, and his insight and support have undoubtedly shaped me.

Professionally, Tony is a marketing genius. For over thirty years he has been an ally to clients trying to share company messages in an ever-changing American culture. Nowadays he focuses his creative mind and savvy business sense on developing websites about beautiful and interesting destinations; he opens windows to the world. He has taken Internet browsers to Sedona, La Jolla and Orlando...

                                                                                                                                ... and now he’s taken my goofy mug to YouTube!

If your reading this, Tony (and I hope you are), thanks for the super cool video! But most of all, thanks for believing in me.

If you like to travel as I do, here are some of Tony’s top-rated websites:

www.arizona-leisure.com

www.dreamsedona.com

www.dreamlajolla.com

www.orlandomagicalvacation.com

www.dreamflagstaff.com

Kevin and I are always looking for ways to eat more healthfully, so we recently became members in a CSA called Desert Roots Farm (http://www.desertrootsfarm.com). CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture—members own “shares” in seasonal crops and receive produce direct from the farmer.

Now, every Tuesday, we have a giant brown bag of ultra-fresh, organic veggies delivered right to our door. The cost turned out to be less than we’d pay in the grocery store and, since all the food is locally grown and still plump with right-from-the-ground goodness, the flavors are decidedly yummier!

Of course I like the idea of buying from small traditional farmers but it also feels great to be taking another step for conservation. By supporting a farm that employs organic practices, we help keeps tons of pesticides out of ground water. And since that farm is nearby, we help eliminate tons of CO2 that would be piped into the air from trucks transporting food across country.

There are CSA farms in every state. If you want to eat better—live greener—you might consider joining one. We became members online and the process was quick and simple. Here’s a helpful website to learn more about CSAs and find one nearby: http://www.localharvest.org/csa/.

Actually, one of the very best things about a weekly delivery from Desert Roots is… well, it’s the SURPRISE! I never know what my brown bag will hold and we have discovered some delightful new varieties of vegetables. I never know if I will get a butternut squash or a beautiful eggplant, some bok choy or asian cucumbers—but I do know whatever I unpack will be fresh, seasonal, delicious and, best of all, “green”.

                        Happy eating!

         It was heart retching to see a baby so emaciated!

I happened into the garage and, glancing down, discovered a hatchling Western banded gecko (scientifically named Colenyx variegatus) stuck in an empty dog bowl and nearly dead from starvation. 

Like other lizards, a banded gecko absorbs the last of the yolk sac inside its egg just before hatching—a bolster of nutrition to hold it over until its first meal. This little guy was days, maybe only hours old when he somehow slipped into the bowl and found the edges too steep for escape. I do not know how long he suffered without food or water before I finally spotted his miniscule frame and stooped in horror.

     I could hardly believe he was still alive.  Under two inches long, his body was mostly bone, his tail thin as a thread. And the skin along his sides had folded into long yellow stripes from dehydration.

Urgently, I carried the bowl into the kitchen and transported a single drop of life-giving water from my fingertip to a spot just in front of his face.

      He immediately smelled the moisture and began lapping up the liquid, eyelids closed in weakness and gratitude. 

                        I covered the bowl to let him recover his senses...

     ...and within twenty minutes the skin on his thorax had filled out. 

     My recuperating patient was then set up in a small terrarium with some native plant clippings and a hide box made from butter packaging. Kevin was sweet enough to stop at the pet store to buy pinhead crickets, two of which the gecko gobbled in an instant.  

I do not like to keep animals—wild creatures should be allowed to remain wild. Normally I'd just relocate a misplaced critter to a suitable outdoor spot around the house. But this gecko would never survive in such poor condition. A dazed lizard is quick food for wandering predators. Plus he needs energy to chase and catch prey, and a bit of tail fat to sustain him into the chill of winter.

        So he stayed with us for a few days. He rested. And ate.

            And a week later he appeared in much better shape. 

I knew I could not wait any longer to let him go. In fact, with October pulling down on the thermometer, I worried it might already be too late. I wanted to be sure his release offered enough time to stabilize in the environment before his first hibernation.

I contacted a friend (and reptile expert) at the zoo for advice and, looking at my photos, she agreed he showed significant improvement. She encouraged me to send him out as soon as possible, before the Fall temperatures could drop any lower.

          So, yesterday I picked a nice area with protective rocks and ground cover in the wash behind our house.

                                                             And... 

            I let the gecko go!

He was set free with a full belly and, I hope, the necessary resources to grow into adulthood. Like all releases, it was bitter-sweet for me, simultaneously thrilling and worrisome.

However, I did manage to click one final photo before that banded baby slinked under a rock and disappeared from sight.

                           And when I compare this picture to the first one, the one of him in the dog bowl—when I see his resilience, his fortitude—I am filled with confidence that he will, indeed, survive.

                         Farewell my small friend.

                                                                    God speed.

   Dad and Marie-Laure have lived on an epic arch of California hillside for coming on thirty years. Their charming little ranch house is filled with wonderful food, books and artwork. The sitting area is held between a baby grand piano and a hospitable hearth—both are perfect for warming chilled bones.

                                          Yes, inside it’s always cozy and comfortable.

   Yet perhaps the most alluring aspect of this homestead is the surrounding landscape. Dad and Marie-Laure live in a wildlife wonderland. Their private acreage is bordered by miles of undeveloped parcels. Long grasses trip across rugged canyons, which twist like crumpled paper until they kiss the toes of Mount San Gorgonio, the highest peak in Southern California. Throughout the years, many wild animals have been seen and photographed on the property; Dad and Marie-Laure keep their cameras at the ready. This week they have been kind enough to share some of their favorite images/series. I hope you enjoy...

          a bobcat in the wildflowers - only ears at first sight

                                                         backlit raven collecting nest material

           a young bear next to the house     another adult treed by dogs

                           two fiesty ravens mob a red-tailed hawk                    

                                                          a marsh hawk's "skirt" blows

                                                                                 a male harrier (marsh) hawk in flight

one curious coyote     

                  a sweet little brown towhee, one of the many songbirds that brighten the air

         a great-horned owl   

                                     a mule deer leaping off into the distance

Wonderful sights, don't you agree? A giant thanks to my dad for collecting and sizing all the pictures for this special photo blog from the ranch. Gosh, looking at all these awesome animals, I just can't wait to go back over for another visit!

 “C’mon!” I call from up by the chicken coop, “Time for ‘the family parade!’”

Ninety pounds of smiling dog muscle trots in my direction. Sweet gentle Meggie. With cheeks curled up at the corners and thick tail beating the air, she is ready to go. Moxie, her antithesis, two bold pounds of spotted Chihuahua, already wiggles at my feet.

“The family parade” is what I call our morning and evening walks around the property, a chance to stretch our legs and remember our good fortune for having such bountiful views in every direction.

                                                        As we stroll,  our steps kick up dirt on the tractor road that cuts out to the canyon and wraps neatly back around to the house. I have just let the fowl out for a day of pecking and in the peachy glow rising off the horizon we can hear the young roosters hollering their cock-a-doodle-good-mornings to anyone who will listen.

This place, my father’s 16-acre ranch in the dry scrub-covered hills of Southern California just west of Palm Springs is, for me, a place of great peace.

       Of collecting my thoughts.  Of escaping the day-to-day bustle of the city.

I am watching the property while Dad and Marie-Laure do some escaping of their own—a wedding anniversary trip to visit friends in the Pacific Northwest. So for now it is me,

                                                                                                   Moxie,

              Meggie,

                                                                                    Minou the cat,

       four French sheep,

                                                                                            several chickens and turkeys,  

          and a whole lot of fresh air.

Walking with the dogs settles my mind and binds me back to the earth, to the here-and-now. I relish their companionship. Indeed, they are essential to this heavenly sliver of life on the Banning Bench. But there is wildness here that simultaneously captures my heart. My eyes naturally scan for wildlife on the ranch, a shy coyote skimming a knoll or a hawk flushing prey from a stand of green bushes.

   As we reach the edge of the canyon   and pause to watch the valley below fill with golden light, I promise myself I will show you some of the ranch’s wildlife—the bears and bobcats and birds—I will show them to you in my next blog. Yes, a short photo essay from Dad and Marie-Laure’s extensive collection of images; that will be wonderful! They are great photographers and I know you'll be pleased.

“Let’s go, guys,” I rally the dogs, who have wandered off into the grasses, bored with my reverence for the sunrise. They come quickly and we turn toward home.

                                                                                                There are sheep to feed.

                                                      my head in bat guano... hey, gotta get the shot

You know me—I love bats! (You my recall my blog post on 2-6-09, “Going Batty in the Rainforest”.) And loving bats as I do, I have always wanted to make a trip to Tucson to see the large colonies of migratory Mexican Free tail bats (scientifically Tadarida brasiliensis) that flutter north into Arizona’s summer swelter. Thousands of them roost under Tucson’s expansion bridges between the months of May and October and their nightly emergence is a wildlife must-see!

So my husband, Kevin, and I hopped in the car and headed south. We carved the winding back roads from Scottsdale, a more scenic route that slips between thick creosote and towering saguaro, two hours of glorious, mostly unbroken desert. Arriving in Tucson, we parked near the crossroads of Campbell & River. The bridge spanning the Rillito River has one of the highest bat occupancies in the area and—bulging, all cameras and eagerness—we dashed down into the wash to survey the underside of the viaduct.

Although the tiny Chiropteras (the order means “hand-wing”) hide too deep in the expansion grooves to visualize during daylight hours, the ground beneath gives away their warm sleeping bodies; in the river bed, the sand is striped with thick brown, pebbly-looking bat guano (code for “poo”).

At this point it was still only 6pm and yellow beams still poked at overhead clouds, too high on the horizon. So we waited. We ate. We watched. And watched some more.

Then, about 7:15pm, just as the sun began her curtsies on a stage of purple mountains, we started to see little bat faces peeking out from the blackness. What a delight! Thousands of wrinkled noses and pink tongues edged into the dusky air, anxious to twist and swirl into the cobalt world.

Soon bat chitter rang between concrete and stony earth, a rumpus of squeaks and screeches and clicks, a ruckus, a rally—precursor to one of nature’s greatest performances!

7:35. Let the show begin! Clouds of tumbling brown fell, swooped and rolled away to the west, hungry bat bellies seeking the night’s feast.

Let’s join forces and clean up aquatic habitats! Ocean Conservancy will hold their 24th annual Coastal Clean Up on September 19th, 2009. That’s a Saturday. And there are scheduled sites around the globe, including inland lakes and rivers, so even if you don’t live near the ocean, you can still do your part. The event is only a month away, so sign up with your family and friends at: http://www.signuptocleanup.org.

Last year 400,000 participants coordinated efforts in 100 countries to remove nearly 7 million pounds of trash—yes, 7 MILLION POUNDS of TRASH!

                     Mottled domes of shell wing slow and steady as time across vibrant reefs of coral.

                                Sea turtles of sweet mystery.

                     Wiggly bodies, all eye and color in soft pallets and neon flare nibble tender feathers of algae.

                                               Fish of our lifeblood.

                     Blue behemoths, a hundred feet of glorious blubber, heart and baleen gape krill in the crystalline space.

                                     Whales of living legend.

                     Divers, black neoprene and plexiglass, capture whisps of plastic, slick as jellies, and take them away.

                                                         Hero of all.

Kevin and I are planning to work at Lake Pleasant in Phoenix, Arizona to support the underwater cleanup there (see, there are even clean-up sites in the desert). We hope there will be lots of people diving with us and tidying the shore. Wherever you live, whatever river, lake or ocean you love best, whichever aquatic animals speak to your heart, please join this important effort.

       Alone, we can make a difference.  Together we can save the sea.

p4xhykgd2s

  Several years ago I had the honor of signing at a renowned bookstore in Denver, Colorado cleverly named Tattered Cover Book Store. I bought a t-shirt that day to commemorate the special event and, woven of soft blue cotton, it quickly became one of my favorites. Through the years I wore that shirt as I wore the covers of my treasured books, reading late into the night. Now the t-shirt itself is a “tattered cover”.

I have oft remarked of this coincidence—the shirt existing exactly as its logo implies...

                                                     My Tattered Cover

                                                         My tattered cover wraps silken pages

                                                         Weathered by memories of fingertip nights

                                                         And legs curled in sun drenched chairs

                                                         Words playing leap frog in affable rows

                                                         Folding—origami of time and tale

                                                         Bound and binding

                                                              Cadence remembered like a song

                                                         My tattered cover drapes tender heart

                                                         In yesterday’s fabric still loved

                                                         Soft as puffs of dandelion poised

                                                         Found dancing against familiar curve

                                                         Folding—communion of cloth and body

                                                         Worn and wearing

                                                               Each warmed by the other

                                                         Landmark where the two assemble

                                                         Silken pages and tender heart

                                                         Ample shelves surrender dreams unending

                                                         And far-flung journeys real or imagined

                                                         Holding—bounty of magic and paper

                                                         My Tattered Cover

                                                               Rugged brick shouldering the wind

                                                                  – Brooke Bessesen, July 2009

Ask anyone to name the five animals classified as amphibians and you are sure to be told:  FROGS, followed by… TOADS! Or vice versa.

Another moment of thought will probably deliver… SALAMANDERS (but of course—who doesn’t love a slime-covered sallie???)

Push even further and maybe, just maybe, your subject will offer up a questionable… NEWTS? Yes. Very good! But there’s one more.

At this point you are likely to get a blank stare. Hmmmm... what IS the fifth amphibian?

The answer: CAECILIANS.

                                (Category:Caeciliidae Photographer: User:Dawson The head end is in the water. From english Wikipedia.)

I learned about caecilians some years back, but only recently got a real glimpse at them. The zoo acquired two aquatic caecilians a few weeks ago, and I had the good fortune of working as a keeper for a couple days while they were in quarantine. I have to admit, they were pretty cool in person!

These unique animals appear to be a cross between earthworms and snakes, but are directly related to neither. Instead they are their own special brand of amphibian living in tropical regions of Central and S. America, Africa and South-East Asia.

Like all “phibs”, caecilians metamorphosize from gilled to air-breathing forms, they have smooth skin that secretes toxins to deter predators, and most move comfortably between land and water.

But caecilians differ from frogs, toads, salamanders and newts in one very obvious way…

They are limbless.

Other amphibians sport four legs for walking on land. Not caecilians. They spend most of their time underground, residing in a network of tunnels where legs are not a helpful adaptation. For movement the caecilian’s body is ringed with skin folds called annuli, perfect for squirming through soft earth.

With their burrowing lifestyle, caecilians don’t need to see or hear well. Therefore, they lack ear holes entirely—which would get full of dirt anyway—and have only tiny eyes for detecting light and dark.

Their skulls are thick and pointy. They have fleshy tentacles between the nostrils and eyes to help them sense prey (Cool Fact Alert… no other amphibian has tentacles). And inside their mouth they have dozens of sharp teeth to catch and gobble dinner… things like worms, snakes, insects, pupae, and even other caecilians!

There are 124 known species, which range in length between 3.5 inches and… get this…  5 feet! In zoos they have lived up to 13 years. And in some species, the babies eat their mother’s skin for nourishment—that’s definitely weird!

Still, we know very little about caecilians. Let’s face it, most people have never seen one. Heck, a good portion of humanity doesn’t even know they exist!

Isn’t that true about so many of Earth’s creatures? We still have so much to discover!

Well, at least I can finally check the box for seeing a caecilian; although it was in the zoo…

                                                       two aquatic caecilians at feeding time 

Maybe someday, with luck, I will see one of these interesting animals in the wild.

The covered cage-style trap remained perfectly still, even as I lifted a pink terry edge and peered inside.

Soft black marbles glimmered in the revealing light. Eyes. The shiny globes were open and anxious, wrapped in a cliché black mask, punctuated by a sharp pointy nose—the intense stare of a cornered raccoon.

                                    The youngster appeared in good health.

This nocturnal omnivore had been captured overnight trying to freeload a can of cat chow. He was not injured, just locked in.

A live trap had been baited in an area where wild emigrants—feral cats, a rare raccoon—have been causing problems for the residents. The cat-food bandit simply needed to be relocated to a more appropriate riparian (river) habitat. I was charged with the transfer.

The animal shifted stiff and tense into the back corner of the small wired space and my heart lurched for the fear of confinement it must feel. I eased the cover back over its hiding spot and promised to do my job with as little stress as possible.

Raccoons are fairly adaptable and the new location was sure to offer all the amenities—year-round water flow, thick flora and a comfortable elevation. Yes, I was pretty sure this little fellow would like its new digs.

In the car, my guest sat securely in the back seat. The cage remained covered to provide the comfort of darkness. My radio was set to the OFF position, as it always is when I have a “wild” rider. Aware of noise and temperature, I conscientiously adjust both to their needs.

We drove together in silence until the road transgressed to dirt and eventually ended on a sandy bank. There, I settled my engine and efficiently moved the towel-draped cage to a dense stand of trees and greenery a few paces from the river’s edge.

Slipping the pink cloth off one end, I quietly worked the trap hinges to open the door. When freedom was presented, the grey raccoon burst without hesitation into the understory.

It stopped and looked back—released animals so often do—eyeing me from the shadows; however, I was too slow to grab my camera and missed the photo op.  

Instead I clicked this blurry image of a furry behinny dashing into the wilderness…

                                                                                 As it should be, I thought with a smile. As it should be.

To read another raccoon story visit: I http://www.arizona-leisure.com/the-desert-wild-snoodleberries.html (Brooke's gets mushy with her vocabulary when she bottle feeds three wriggling baby raccoons who need to gain strength before they can rejoin their mother.)

You may have wondered if while tromping around this gorgeous globe, I made some foolish misstep and plumb FELL OFF! No. I’m here—alive and well—it was just such a tremendously busy springtime! If you’ve taken a peek at my calendar lately you know I’m not exaggerating.

I’ve been traveling a lot. And meeting gobs of interesting people at talks, signings and school visits. What an exciting time!

                                                  book signing at Gridley's

My newest children’s book, Look Who Lives in the Ocean! is finding its way into bookstores and aquariums in more and more cities and is, much to my delight, being well-received. There is no sweeter reward for author-illustrators than to have people enjoy and appreciate our words and pictures.

However, truth be told, my brain got a little muddled from all the to and fro. And although I fell into bed happily exhausted every night, I ultimately had to give a few things up until my schedule slowed down.

I decided better my blog than my mind.

But now as I slip into the mellow yellow of summer, I've employed time and memory to add several back-posts for your reading pleasure. Many are blogs I started and finally found time to finish and post. They share highlights of the last months—including some exciting news about Earth Day (posted April 24th) and details of a spectacular whale watching trip out of Santa Barbara. They should fill in gaps and catch you up nicely. Scroll down the page to read the new entries. And thanks for not giving up on me.

BTW… Monday, June 8th has been officially declared WORLD OCEANS DAY by the United Nations. Start your celebration by learning more at: http://www.theoceanproject.org/wod/.  

Sometimes when we think of “wildlife” we think of animals from other places—exotic species we have seen in books or spotted when traveling to distant locales.

But it’s vital to acknowledge that wildlife exists around us wherever we are. We don’t have to leave town to see it!

I was reminded of this in a recent blog by friend and director of Liberty Wildlife Rehabilitation Foundation www.libertywildlife.org, Megan Mosby, who pointed out, “Many children… can tell you more about the tropical rainforests (as seen on TV) than about the wildlife in their own backyards.”

That’s sad.

Not because rainforest denizens are not worthy of our knowledge and protection—indeed, they are!—but because when we focus solely on far-away habitats, we miss out on the beauty that nature affords us every day.

Watching a hummingbird bird build a nest… or a lizard hunt for bugs. Taking time to observe the delicate footwork of a bumblebee tiptoeing inside a fresh spring flower. Such sweet moments can raise our spirits and make us feel more connected to the world around us. And recognizing the importance of nature in our daily lives is most likely to inspire us to be good stewards.

This week I’m up in Colorado, visiting my family.  One treasured part of staying in the house I grew up in is seeing the wildlife of my childhood. Miss Robin Red-Breast hopping over wooly grass in search of pudgy brown worms. Chittering squirrels dashing across power lines like over zealous tight-rope performers. And—one of my favorite little creatures—the gentle roly-poly (I suspect this beneficial garden woodlouse has charmed children for eons curling magically into a miniscule grey ball).

Last night, windows open to the breeze, we even heard a fox barking. I looked out into the inky darkness but couldn’t resolve any animal from the bushes. Still, just knowing the red ruffed canid was there, one of nature’s graveyarders, gave me a quick simple pleasure.

If you keep your eyes and ears open, you are sure to have lots of small but precious animal experiences in your very own neighborhood. And learning a thing or two about your homeland species makes them even more fascinating!

I reside in Arizona where we are privy to the lives of cactus wrens (the Arizona State bird builds “dummy” nests to fool predators)... 

 ...rattlesnakes (eggs hatch inside the female for a live birth)...

                               ...cottontail rabbits (camouflage is their best defense)...

...turkey vultures (with those giant nostrils they can smell carrion up to 50 miles away)...

 ...and desert tortoises (the top shell is called the carapace).

Occasionally, bigger mammals  like javelina  walk right down my street (they stink because of a hefty scent gland on top of their rump).

If you love wildlife, take a trip out into your yard, go to the park, perhaps hike in a nature preserve just beyond the city. I think you might be surprised how many animals you see. And, let’s face it, sun on the back and the wind in the face is just plain refreshing.

I love sharing stories and photos from biomes far and wide—including the rainforest—but the BEST habitat in the world is the one I’m standing in, where the animals are real and right now. Today that's the beautiful Rocky Mountain State of Colorado, ripe with raccoons and prairie dogs.

Hey, a hawk just flew past my mom's window. Gotta go see what species it is…

                                                                                                                   What's flying past your window???

                                                  I hope you celebrated Earth Day on Wednesday, April 22nd.

I did! I enjoyed a special author school visit at Kyrene de los Cerritos in Phoenix, Arizona. All of us—students, teachers and I, too—were dressed in green and blue. Signs decorated the library and we all had a wonderful time talking about books, wildlife and the importance of caring for this beautiful planet. Thanks, Cerritos, for a truly fantastic day!

signing a check to Ocean Conservancy 

                                                                        the stellar library team at Cerritos       

And another super exciting event occurred this week, which will take these Earth Day Author Visits to a whole new level. I have been working all year with friend and award-winning author Jennifer Ward to prepare and launch a new website called Authors for Earth Day. It’s designed to support a coalition of children’s authors and illustrators who will make April 22, 2010 a day to remember in classrooms across the country. Check it out: www.authorsforearthday.org.

If you are looking for new ways to take a stand against climate change, here’s a fun food facts sheet about eating “green”: http://www.nrdc.org/globalWarming/files/EatGreenFS_0509.pdf.  

It’s a perfect morning in Santa Barbara, cool and fogless. Salty smooth water laps the harbor wood just below my feet.     

                             Already my eye is drawn to the sea lions bobbing on buoys just beyond the pier, their dark wet pelts warming in the sun’s early light.

Dave sees me coming and smiles from the wheel house. I wave, hand high overhead, as I skip down the dock ramp,

and then up three swift steps to board the Condor Express.

Known for both speed and comfort, this boat is considered by many naturalists to be the best whale-watching vessel on the entire Pacific coast. It runs out of the Santa Barbara marina, bearing tourists and locals to explore the region’s famous Channel Islands as well as an abundance of off-shore wildlife.

Dave Beezer, friend and today’s captain, has generously invited me along for the morning excursion. It’s been a while since my last visit and I’m excited to catch up with him.

I adore all the people on the Condor Express—Captain Mat Curto (who, sadly, isn’t around today), owner Fred Benko and the many naturalists who educate passengers have proven good friends and excellent purveyors of seafaring adventure. Fred and Dave also work with Channel Islands Marine and Wildlife Institute (http://www.cimwi.org), a marine wildlife rescue organization with medical facilities nearby.

With all ticketed passengers aboard, Dave slowly maneuvers our craft out of the harbor and I find myself looking back on Santa Barbara, tiers of red-roofed mission-style houses held in a frame of voluptuous mountains. I am always taken by the way the city’s charm spills down from the green hills to the wide sandy beach that spreads like a carpet before its crystalline cove. The cove we are now departing for deeper broth.

  It’s not long before we are surrounded by our first curious and playful pod of Delphinis: common dolphins. They arc over and over, folding the water like silver ribbons. Their dance leads us to a feeding site. Pelicans and gulls lift from the frenzy as we arrive.

Everyone loves marine mammals, but sea birds are equally divine!

The first time I met Captain Mat and the crew was in 2006—that was the year I worked with California condors down in Baja, Mexico, so naturally I inquired about the boat’s moniker. As the story goes, many moons ago, Fred was considering names for his first boat. He was relaxing with his then young son and they were staring into a crisp indigo sky when an enormous black bird inked out the sun overhead. It was a California condor! This was before the recovery effort came into play, when a few wild condors were still flying along mountainous coastal regions of Central California. (Thanks to biologists, condors have been returned to this range.)

That first boat, The Condor, later gave way to this larger, faster vessel, which Fred christened Condor Express. It's a good name.

 Dave motors the vessel west looking for Grey whales migrating from Baja to Alaska. Many have been seen in the previous days and we are hopeful. But, alas, no Greys today. Such is the predictable unpredictability of nature.

However, we do spot a sea otter.    His small brown body bobs in our wake as we turn about for a closer look. In typical otter fashion, he floats on his back, webbed hands resting across his chest like a man preparing for a nap.

Occasionally he tumbles and rolls before popping back into his prone position—otters do not have a layer of blubber to keep them warm; rather they have ~200 thousand strands of hair per centimeter and rely on an insulating layer of air trapped in their fur—the rolling is done to fluff up and blow air between hairs for thermal protection.

We are lucky—this handsome fellow is tolerant and allows us plenty of observation time before disappearing in search of peace and abalone.

We continue our search for whales. Humpbacks maybe? They’ve been around reliably this week, too. We search and search… but no joy. 

Then suddenly a large figure surfaces ahead on the port side—definitely a whale! Gasps and giggles bring us to our feet as a ragged thrill runs through the passengers. The whale, unbothered by our presence, casually dives.

Dave courses to the left and slows to idle when we arrive at the “footprint” (a slick patch of water made by a whale’s tail when diving). Our boat totters like a happy drunk, swaying over the gentle waves. Everyone is pinned against the railing in anticipation of the next inhalation.

The down time is counted. One minute. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. We wait.

At last a towering blow lifts to the sky just abeam the boat! Twin blow holes suck in an immense amount of air, followed into the sunlight by a long stretch of blackish skin, then a small sharp dorsal fin. It’s a Fin whale! What a treat! This is the second largest living species on the whole planet; only the Blue whale is bigger.

And this beautiful behemoth is in no rush. It takes several easy breaths at the surface, offering a wonderful close up view, before diving again. We remain patient and each breathing cycle delivers more opportunities to oogle the awesome size and splendor of this finback whale!

Time stretches and too soon we must go; Dave points the Condor Express toward the harbor. My heart is still a-pitter-patter from all that we have seen and a persistence smile pins my cheeks to my earlobes. Sea lions, dolphins, pelicans, otters and whales... all in just a few short hours. I am giddy. Caught in a natural high (quite literally).

I am ever thankful to be able go out with friends and see such spectacular wildlife sightings. And all I can think on the way back to shore is:

                                                  What extraordinary magic exists in this world!

Well, those spectacular Monarch butterflies are in motion again, heading north on their spring migration from Mexico.

                                       Today I was lucky to observe several orange clouds

                  bobbing over the vast dry desert between Arizona and California, fluttering wings filling crisp blue sky.

This mass migration of the Monarch butterfly is a true wonder of nature—a sight that captures the eye and boggles the mind! But the journey began many months and miles ago in North America and Canada.

In late spring/early summer, Monarch eggs are laid on one type of plant called a milkweed. After they hatch out, tiny yellow, black and white striped Monarch larvae (better known as caterpillars) spend their earliest days eating and growing. Then each animal forms a chrysalis (also called a cocoon). Emerging ~14 days later as butterflies, they take to the breeze...

                                                               on outstretched wings thin as tissue and  

                                                               painted in a dazzling orange and black pattern.  

Once adults, most Monarchs are spurred by a deep instinct to find a very specialized habitat of fir forest that only exists on twelve mountaintops in central Mexico. So hoards of butterflies travel ancient pathways on a southbound migration, seeking a warmer clime to winter over—and mate.

When the rising temperatures of March send the Monarchs flooding north again, they find themselves in a race against time. Those butterflies only have short time to live, to travel toward their homelands and lay eggs of their own.

When the new eggs hatch, the cycle begins anew.

I hope you will watch for Monarch butterflies passing through your back yard. Maybe you’ll even plant a milkweed or two!

If you would like to learn more, there are several good websites about Monarchs but this one maps the annual migration: http://www.learner.org/jnorth/monarch/.

 It was an honor to see Macho B in the flesh. To touch his warm amber fur, trace fingertips across black markings I’d seen only in photographs. To feel him breathing—chest lifting gently beneath my hand—and hear his steady heartbeat through the length of my stethoscope.

What an unlikely surprise, a rare gift, to be working at the zoo the day Macho B arrived, a jaguar known across oceans and held nearly sacred among conservationists in the American Southwest. A jaguar whose story I had followed for over a decade.

But our time was short. His aged kidneys were failing.

For our veterinary team, the streaming minutes were spent in motion. The doctors did an extensive physical examination. We set monitors, added fluids, drew blood, took radiographs. And vitals—always the vitals—I constantly rechecked them in succession. Heart rate. Respiration. Pulse Ox. Temperature. EKG. Our well-trained movements juxtaposed Macho B’s stillness.

He knew nothing of us and our human compassion. Through it all he remained sedated, his eyes lost in the unconscious gaze of sleepers.

It was a heartrending moment when the truth became clear: despite our urgent care and silent hope, there was no way to heal his ailments—no way to reverse the clock. He was estimated to be sixteen years old, and beyond the diagnosed renal failure he had other issues, too. Time steals health from us all.

Freedom from pain and stress was the most humane offering. I looked around the room; faces were drawn with sadness, eyes tipping with tears. My own heart, too, heaved with sorrow as I felt that beloved feline slip from this world.

In the forest, the death of a wild jaguar would be news to none but vultures and insects. Macho B was a wild jaguar. Yet his death reached round the globe like wildfire sparking across AP, phone lines and emails. He garnered international coverage.

Why, you may ask?  It’s an interesting chronicle to be sure...

Jaguars once inhabited the southwestern United States as far north as the Grand Canyon. By the 1950s only a few remained. The last female jaguar was shot and killed in Arizona in 1963. Although listed as an Endangered Species in 1972, jaguars were believed to be extirpated in our country.

That is, until 1996.

Six months apart, two separate hunters treed and photographed adult male jaguars in southeast Arizona and Panthera onca was resurrected as a United States species.

In the following years, protections were put in place, habitats held open and camera traps set to research the large cats’ territories. As more motion-triggered cameras were added, more images were captured. And the most commonly seen jaguar was Macho B, readily identified by a mark on his left flank that looked rather like…

                                                                      ...well, like Betty Boop.

Here’s a 2007 Smithsonian article about Macho B, the conservation program and the history of jaguars in the United States: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/prowl-200711.html.

Then a few weeks ago Macho B was accidently caught in a trap and biologists took the opportunity to fit him with a GPS collar before releasing him. That collar later showed him to be moving poorly, so he was recaptured and helicoptered up to the Phoenix Zoo for care.

An article in National Geographic describes the circumstances surrounding his death: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/03/090303-jaguar-update.html.

Macho B was an icon, respected and adored. On a personal level, I will always cherish the miracle of our acquaintance. But his legacy was more than the connection we made with him as an individual. He reclaimed a piece of American soil—a powerful reminder that jaguars belong to this land. He rallied us to preserve vital natural space between Mexico and the U.S.—that he survived sixteen years in the wild shows land conservation efforts work.

Fate may have placed me at the zoo that day, but I don’t want to be one of the last Americans to see a native jaguar. We must continue to protect the habitat in hopes another young male overtakes the territory, perhaps expands or adds a family. Just imagine tiny jaguar cubs romping along paths that Macho B once roamed.

That is the way of things. Generations pass on, inviting new life.

Staking his birthright as a historical predator—observed without contact—Macho B was a special link to the natural world. He lived with dignity and died a legend. Yes, that magnificent bespeckled feline certainly left his mark.

                                     May man honor his life and God rest his soul.

I wrote like crazy while I was living at the OBC in Costa Rica! I couldn't help myself; I was so dang inspired! Below are two unrelated literary chunks—ramblings, really—that made it from brain to paper during my time there. 

                                            a page in my yellow notebook

I share them because they offer insight into my thoughts and surroundings of the time. But they also exemplify the kind of free-flow writing that allows ideas to rush onto a page unhindered by serious worry for grammar, punctuation or paragraphing (which can always be fixed later).

#1:

I cannot stop writing, words gush from me like flash floods, forcing me to dash for paper and pen and hold to them as life rafts until the urgent waves of inspiration have passed. Last night, I woke abruptly at 1:00am, writhing with ideas, only to find my pen conspiratorially out of ink. Unable to sleep without exorcising the words from my head, I had to crawl from the nighttime safety of my mosquito net, quickly apply a layer of bug protection and scurry the full length of the compound to the kitchen for a writing utensil. There, I nudged around in the dark like a large nocturnal rodent, tiptoed like a cartoon burglar looking for diamonds. Minutes later, pencil secured in fist, I hot-footed back to bed and scribbled by headlamp for almost an hour, pages of my small yellow notebook turning black with lead—a frenzy that left me exhausted. Utterly drained, I then slept without moving until a crest of morning sunlight came to jiggle my shoulder.

#2:

The power and force of the sea is supreme. Even from here, with a great wall of trees between, the ocean can be heard. The swish and roll, followed by a deep rumble: water tripping on sand and crashing head over heels onto the shore. The sound repeats… the push… the roar and tumble… the pulling back to regroup before trying again. I imagine the vast ocean found guilty of some unforgivable disturbance of prehistory—at which point the ancient tides were cast from the land. Now, in repentance, they endlessly beg, clawing their way back ashore. The bass tone of the water is distance and embedded in the more prominent notes of the night—insects and frogs playing treble in this nocturnal music—but when you focus your attention on the waves, listen with head and with heart, the other noises drop away in insignificance. Soon, the deep call of ocean is the only sound you can hear, as if all other tones have been sucked into an auditory black hole. It bellows low and deep, the echo of all life past, present and future… calling us home.

NOTE: Beginning in March, I will be blogging every 2nd & 4th Friday of the month... see you March 13th!

This video clip shows tiny Olive Ridley sea turtle hatchings emerging from their sandy nest. It was shot by Costa Rican biologist, Adriana Gonzales—thanks Adriana for sharing!

Notice the metal screen (a square of chain link fencing) covering the nest… it protected the eggs from digging predators during the ~45 days of development. To learn more about how these conservation efforts support sea turtles on the Osa Peninsula, read two earlier blogs… “Morning Patrol: Checking on Nests & Sea Turtle Hatchlings” (January 23, 2009) and “Night Patrol: Measuring & Tagging Sea Turtles” (January 16, 2009).

 When wanderlust takes my hand and we skip off together to find some precious slice of wilderness with incredibly interesting animals, I think many people imagine me slipping through an inconspicuous hole in the universe, taking secret passageway to a secret hideout. And on some psychological level I probably do. However, the places I go are real. You can go there, too!

                                                                         Four Howler monkeys

It's easy to get ensnared in the minutia of life and forget the world beyond our daily borders—a world that is at once enormous and very, very small. So today I am taking you to see some of the animals of Costa Rica. To remind you what's out there. (Please note: my best photos can be viewed at http://www.brookebessesen.com/costa_rica.html.)

But for this to be a stimulating mental journey and not simply a pictorial exhibit, I ask that you look past the photos as flat representations of life in the rainforest. I implore you to take time with each image and visualize the animals as they really are: alive, thinking, moving, free to go when and where they please...

                                                                                                                                                   Greater egret

                White-nosed coati 

In the jungle, such beautiful beings often appear suddenly and, fumbling to grab my camera, I attempt to capture a sliver of time, a face, an expression, a peek into their minds before the they disappear back into the hinterland...

                                                                                                                Emerald toucanet

          Three-toed sloth

It's important that you imagine the moments before each photograph was taken. And consider the moments after. Then, string those moments together, like film in a projector, and see the creatures come to life…

                        Baird’s tapir

                                                                                                                      Mole cricket

Animals are not mere ideas, television characters or illustrations in a book. From the tiniest insect to the most spectacular of species—panda bears, elephants, wolves, kangaroos and dolphins—they are out in the world living rich interesting lives, just as we are...

                                                                          White-faced capuchin monkey

                 caterpillar

                                                                                                                             Brown pelicans

                                        Olive ridley turtling

They are eating and learning, working and problem solving. They are aging—young to old. They have personalities. Indeed, many are involved in intimate, binding relationships, challenged to find their place in a complicated social structure...

                                                                                        two capuchins

The faces of wildlife connect us to a greater existence...

              tree frog

                                                                                                          Blue and gold macaw

Secret passageway? Secret hideout? No. The natural world is waiting for all who seek, and these marvels of biology, these wondrous gifts of creation, can be witnessed by any open and willing eyes...

                                                                                                               Peacock banded butterfly

      Chestnut-mandibled toucan

Yes, animals are true compatriots on this spinning blue marble called Earth. May your heart soar in the knowledge that we are not alone.

                                                                 Squirrel monkey

We startled each other as I opened the bedroom door, flustered wings and quickened heart. It was after midnight and I was returning from sea turtle night patrol at the beach. I arrived home unfocused, lulled to a daze by miles of sand and damp leaf litter passing underfoot. The rapid unfurling of a relatively large grey bat in the dim of my headlamp stopped me mid-stride, door handle in hand.

           I only saw a flash and couldn't identify the species; maybe a Greater White-lined Bat?

         For reference, here's a pic I took of two White-lined bats in a city office building.

He had probably been in my quarters for hours—not waiting for me, but doing what any normal bat does in a quiet moon-filled room on a buggy Costa Rican night—eating insects. Neither of us expected the other and we nearly bumped heads. It was his savvy sonar that rescued us both from minor concussions as he tarped open and cut left, sending a nervous rush of air across my eyelashes.  

I was not frightened. I like bats. Besides his presence wasn't entirely surprising. This was surely the same member of chiroptera (the scientific order for bats) that had come into my room the night before.

He'd flown in just after I'd gotten into bed. I was delighted to hear him hunting around my bunk; the naturalist in me had listened with intense interest, trying to make sense of his movements in the black space. But I admit, awhile later, as my attention gave way to sleepiness, his nocturnal antics became a bit disruptive. Then downright annoying. In fact, the flap-flap-whack-flutter of his chaotic darting had kept me awake much of the night. By 4am, his whirling racket had me rolling over and over, puffing the pillow and grunting my discontent.

Bats do not make good roommates.

Now he was in my room again and I worried about enduring another sleepless night. As I stood there, the bat swooped passed me and out the door in a huff—like he was trying to make a point. It was a silly move, because everything was open to the outdoors. Wood beams, a few short walls and a tin roof defined it a "room", but there weren't any panes in the windows; the bat could come and go any time, no door necessary.

         daytime photos of my open-air room... see, no windows. 

As he disappeared into the night, I felt a shred of guilt for freaking him out. Well, that’s it, I thought, I've scared him away for good. I climbed inside my mosquito net and snuggled comfortably under my sheets. Darkness. Peace. I was going to sleep like a baby.

Flap-flap-flap-flap….

Flap-flap-flap-flap…  

He began with several reconnaissance flights back and forth across the room—probably to be sure I, the erratic human, was not going to cause further upset. I should have known he wouldn't be that easy to dissuade.

Wing beats drew zigzags in the silence. With new curiosity I focused on his flight pattern: the rhythm was consistent, soothing even. But then the sound changed, became more complicated.  

Two bats??? Wow... that's cool!!!

They squeaked and tussled from corner to corner—even took to crashing about under my bed, bumping the bottom of my thin mattress. They were noisy to be sure! But fascination held me. My ears were pricked to every flutter. My mind envisioned every action. I listened as you might to a long bedtime story and... eventually I drifted into dreamland.

When I woke, my room was empty except for a shaft of peach sunlight. The bats were gone. For the next few nights I waited after dark for their arrival, hoping they would come again. But they never did. I am left with only these memories (and two small punctures on my neck... JUST KIDDING!).

I am often asked what inspires me to write. If you have read the last two week’s blog entries you surely have a ripening notion. 

 But why write children's books? 

Well, I am not the only person who is fascinated with wildlife or yearns to explore the natural world—I am not alone holding sea turtles and other amazing oceanic nomads near to the heart! Kids love animals! But, hey, so do a lot of grown-ups. And since people of ALL ages enjoy the fun and fancy of picture books, they are a universal medium for me to share my love of animals and adventure with other animal and adventure lovers.

It sounds like a one-way transfer of words—writer to reader—but it's not. It's a more symbiotic relationship; we must support one another to thrive. I write books for you and, if inspired, you tell people the books are appealing and worth reading. This, in turn, allows me to write more books.

So it is with tremendous thanks to all the readers, teachers and librarians who enjoyed and recommended my first book

      Look Who Lives in the Desert!    and who encouraged me to write more about wildlife in distinctive habitats, that I offer this sneak peek at the sea turtle spread from the soon-to-be-released sequel

                                         Look Who Lives in the Ocean! 

Like the desert book, it has 21 animals and presents each one using four elements: 1. rhyming prose (humorous but still non-fiction), 2. a silly illustration (with wacky tidbits for readers to find), 3. a facts bar (to stretch the brain), and 4. a photograph (so you can see the real animal).

Young children (1-6) are drawn in by the vibrant colors and lilt of the rhyme. Older kids (7-13) really get into the scientific facts and the clever twists of humor in both prose and art. Even adults learn and laugh!

If you are curious, the illustrations start as pencil drawings and are colored with fabrics. Notice the textures and patterns? By presenting the facts in such a whimsical package, readers may have an easier time relating to the animals and remembering what they've learned.

I hope you find Look Who Lives in the Ocean! a fresh catch. And—if you do—please take a moment to tell me (and a friend). After all, inspired as I may be by journeys into the wild, I can only write books with your support.

Dive in! And happy reading!

(The book will be in bookstores by March 1st. You can pre-order it through Amazon.com or your local bookshop. ISBN 978-1-932082-82-1)

    Morning breaks, an explosion of pastel paints splashing up from the dark horizon. Within minutes low-slung clouds are trimmed in gold leaf and violet water licks the beach. Manuel and I have just arrived at the shore, emerged from the dense green understory in perfect time to catch this glorious sunrise.

Twenty-five minutes of rainforest prevails between our camp and the coast. We navigate a familiar trail every night.   

                                                      And every morning.  Winding between trees, ducking under vines, shuffling down muddy slopes and across shallow rivers, we move in a tunnel of leaves and shadows until, at last, we are coughed out onto the beach...

                                 ...facing 10,000 miles of water.

As the sun arcs up and pelicans pass overhead, we begin walking. Our A.M. job is to check all the marked nests along this 5 kilometer section of coastline.

            We chatter in Spanish as we amble from one yellow tag to the next.

   Generally speaking, Manuel and I are looking for three things:

NEW NESTS: Nests that were dug in the wee hours after Night Patrol while we were asleep in our bunks. Upon finding fresh tracks, we follow them to the nest for measurements and evaluation.

DEPREDATED NESTS: Depredated means the nests have had some of their eggs eaten. These are often “unmarked” nests. Remember, marked nests are covered with squares of metal fencing to discourage digging predators like coatis and raccoons—

           —the protection is not perfect but it works quite well.

At depredated nests, we clean up any exposed eggshells,

         counting them and logging the loss in our field notebook.    

We also dig down into the nest to ensure there are no broken or half-eaten eggs, which could foster an infestation of maggots or lure crabs with their rotting smell. When the nest is properly tidied and sand has been carefully repacked over the remaining eggs, we move on.

HATCHED-OUT NESTS: Nests that have hatched-out are easily identified by dozens of tiny turtlling tracks squiggling toward the frothy tide. Held in the quiet safety of their sandy maternity ward, baby sea turtles may hatch out at different times over a period of 1-4 days, but they wait to surface together

                       so they can shuttle into the ocean as a group.

Old nests must be cleaned out to collect as much data as possible. Once the screen is rolled back, the hole is thoroughly excavated.

Today we discover a freshly hatched-out nest. I am disappointed… we missed the dashing slew of green bodies. But we open the nest and I begin hauling up curls of white leathery shell while Manuel pencils the findings.

                        We count all the empty eggshells to see how many turtlings hatched and left the nest. We also examine any un-hatched eggs, tearing them open to determine at what stage life failed. Was the egg fertile? If yes, when did development stop? These details are scratched onto spiral-bound paper for future analysis.

I dig slowly, methodically…

I find one intact egg, round and pristine. Inside, it still holds a yellow yolk but no sign of life.

                                                                                                                A dud.   

            Another egg is ripped and reveals a near-term turtle that died in the shell.

In the next scoop I feel a few ounces of supple flesh. It placidly stirs in my hand. A straggler, an infant still buried in the chamber. He is alive but extremely weak and looks misshapen. I dust off his crumpled body and set him on the sand to see what he does.

                Nothing. Still. Utterly motionless. Perhaps he just died.

I sigh and turn away from the sad sight to continue my task of shoveling, counting. But several minutes later, Manuel points out that the baby is moving, wiggling its little flippers and head. We stop our efforts to watch his, feeling a surge of foolish hope.

Minutes tick by. He’s in no rush but he does seem to be building energy, a tiny balloon inflating with life. When he begins his natural march to the sea, he moves only millimeters at first, but finds speed and enthusiasm as he paddles.

                              Our hope gains confidence.     

It’s a long distance to the water’s edge. We would do him no service to make the journey shorter—he needs this time to rev his engines, gather his wits—so we simply stand there, watching, guarding against birds with a taste for turtle.

His commitment grows. Half way down the beach he is springing forward with vitality,

                  as brave and powerful as any hatchling I’ve seen before him.

          He nears the lacy foam with zeal and we cheer silently,

        thrilled by his intense commitment to do what baby sea turtles do.   

As the next surge sweeps up and touches him, he instinctively paddles harder and faster to catch its lift.

The surf wraps around his minuscule frame and gathers him up in a powerful embrace, like a loving grandfather who has been waiting a lifetime to see him. The turtling dives for a minute—we, too, hold our breath.

But then we see him working his way past the breakers. We point and laugh with the giddiness of children as we spot his bitsy head bobbing above the cerulean waves. He has made it to sea! If only he can string such moments of survival into an 80-year lifespan. This, we know, is the last we will see of him and I whisper my farewell as he disappears into the pelagic swirl.  

It is a blessing and an honor to walk this beach twice every day.   To observe nature’s complexities, stand witness to its magnificence and, most profoundly, find my own place in its workings.

Night Patrol is all reverence and mystery; we are strangers tiptoeing in the darkness. But Morning Patrol is about seeing the world in detail, a time when life's magic is exposed in the glorious light of the rising sun.

   It’s the middle of the night and we walk in silence. Headlamps are off. Our eyes have adjusted to the darkness. To the left, the rainforest silhouette rises to meet a star-studded horizon. On the right, the Pacific Ocean stretches like a rough floor waxed with moonshine.

I am mesmerized by the wet sand beneath my feet, which sparkles like fairy dust. Every step incites a cluster of microscopic organisms that were stranded when the tide dropped, rousing them to flash their blue-white light called bioluminescence. The glittering effect is nothing short of magic.

I am with Manuel, a 21-year-old Tico who has been working with Friends of the Osa since he was a boy. We talk and laugh readily in the airiness of day, but during our nightly outings we speak rarely and softly, murmuring in Spanish only when necessary.

We are looking for sea turtles—specifically, females who have come ashore to lay eggs. Sometimes we see them emerging from the rolling tide or find them lumbering up the beach. But more often we discover their tracks, dark streaks carved into flat sand like monster truck treads that lead to the nest site.

Two lines of tracks means the turtle has already come... and gone. But a single line equals a sea turtle on the beach. Our job is to collect data about the turtle and the nest. And to mark both so we can follow their progress and a hopefully aid their success.

If there is a turtle, we are careful not to trouble her before she has committed to nesting. A giant shelled mother disturbed by light or commotion before she drops eggs will likely abandon her endeavor and shuffle back to the safety of the sea. If she is still climbing or digging, we wait out of sight. But once the turtle has finished excavating and started depositing leathery eggs into a deep hole, we snap on our red headlamps, quietly approach and begin our tasks.

          close up you can see an egg falling from her ovipositor

We measure the width and length of her carapace (top shell) as well as the width of her tracks. And if she doesn’t have them, we attach numbered metal tags to her front flippers as gently as possible. They pierce the thin skin between digits and affix like earrings. The tag numbers are put in a data base so scientists can identify the animal in the future. Of course if we find a turtle who already has tags, we log that into our field notebooks, too.

We also write down the date, the time, the tide level. And details about where the nest is, like which sector of the beach it’s in, how close to the waterline, how close to the tree line. And gobs of other informational bites about the scenerio.

               I am measuring this sea turtle's shell size (red lights do not distress them as much).

All of this is handled calmly and efficiently to limit stress to the sea turtle, and we are done in a few minutes. And after the female has given her gift to the land, we watch her shadow return to the soothing lap and pull of the waves.

Earlier in the season, Manuel was securing nests with protective metal screens held into the sand with tire-iron spikes. We still check those nests every day. But since the project goes on hiatus in the dry season from January to May, no new nests are being covered.

If we have missed a turtle, we can still measure the tracks and mark the nest. The most common species for this area are Greens and Olive Ridleys. Which can be confirmed by tracks alone. Outside of the fact that Greens are generally much larger, they also move differently. While Olive Ridleys crawl one front flipper over the other, leaving an asymmetrical track, Green Turtles pull the sand with both flippers—like dual canoe oars—creating a balanced print.

                                                                                 the symetrical track of a Green sea turtle

Some nights we see several turtles. Some nights we see none. Mostly we walk. Absorbing the peaceful beauty of this nocturnal wonderland. Listening to the surf curl into itself, the steady rhythm of ocean music. Searching a trillion stars for a familiar constellation.

But within 3-4 hours, the tide inches up the beach to wipe away our steps and we say farewell to the sea breeze before slipping into the sultry rainforest the way we came. Back at the OBC our bunks await us, ready to carry us from waking dreams of motherly sea turtles and fairy dust sand… to deep... sweet... sleep.

Let's return to the rainforest, shall we?

One of the most interesting things about Costa Rica is its blend of wildlife. Think of Central America. Now visualize that narrow strip of land as a natural passageway where species from both northern AND southern regions can mix together. Costa Rica is, of course, home to the typical rainforest creatures—boa constrictors, monkeys, parrots, sloths and kinkajous. But there are also some animals familiar to North Americans including White-tailed deer, coyotes, coatis (also called coatimundis or, in Spanish: pisotes), Ringtailed cats, Great Blue herons and mountain lions (also called cougars or pumas).

On an afternoon walk by myself, stepping softly through the quiet rainforest, I startled a herd of collared peccaries (the same species we call javelina in the desert). The mass of stocky brown bodies crashed through the understory in an uproar, bursting into sight and arching away. They tore deep tracks in the muddy trail before vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

         a picture of collared peccaries called "javelinas" in Arizona 

This was not the first time peccaries had darted across my path. They have a good sense of smell but poor vision. With no breeze to push my scent ahead of me and thick greenery to block their already challenged eyesight, it was easy to come upon them without notice. 

            This is kind of what the path looked like... tough to see into the understory

I was not fearful so after the stunning moment passed, I ventured forward to resumed my journey. Grunt, grunt, came the voice of a single peccary ahead and to my right. Two o’clock. It was unsettlingly close, a few paces away in the foliage—perhaps an young male unhappily separated from its herd or, more dangerous, a mother separated from her red (the nickname given to baby javelinas). 

Having a fair amount of experience with peccaries in Arizona, I stood still to give the animal time to think and room to pass. Yet my presense was still disturbing. Clack-clack-clack!  Clack-clack-clack!  The distinct warning call of a peccary came sharp with intent! 

I couldn't see exactly how close we were, so I took a careful step backward to allow a wider birth, but this minor infraction of movement incited a false charge from the overly anxious animal! Clack-clack-clack! it repeated, rushing forward, cracking leaves and vines underfoot!

Yikes! Considering my options, I stepped up into the low fork of the tree next to me—an action that felt equal parts silly and prudent.

I waited. The animal grunted and snuffled in the undergrowth. I stared hard into the thick flora trying to resolve a peccary in the green and brown patchwork, but the threat remained a phantom.

I waited longer and was taken off by daydreams stirred by this unexpected view. Looking around with four feet of altitude I was a giant, a dinosaur, a tree sapling rising among brothers. I gazed beyond the trunks that marked an endless vertical grid and imagined myself poised in this tree to gather some vague scrap of information to guide me... an explorer, an woodsman, a lost soul.

At last I heard the peccary turn and trot away in the direction of its family and felt relief to no longer be a source of stress for the poor beast. When I was alone... just a regular human standing in a tree... I giggled. Then I took one last of peek from my vantage and shimmied back to the ground. Another story for the books... or, er, the blog.

I'm home from Costa Rica. But don't worry... there will be many more installments of rainforest adventure to come, including details of my sea turtle work and my watery trek into Corcovado National Park. So stay tuned for this month's upcoming blogs.

But today, here in Arizona, I enjoyed another kind of adventure... a library adventure. Ha! You laugh. But the library is a virtual landscape of adventure—shelves towering with heart-thumping mysteries, comedies, thrillers and tales from every corner of the world. If you can’t swing on vines through a real jungle or careen across the thundering path of elephants on the actual African savannah, the next best thing is certain to be found at the library.

But today wasn’t about reading a book, it was about explaining one:

                                                                                                                          Illustrator Jenny Campbell and I have been working on a new exhibit for the Burton Barr Library's Center for Children's Literature. It's about our recent title Zachary Z. Packrat and His Amazing Collections. After weeks of planning, building, sorting and organizing, I finally installed the 21-foot exhibit, which will remain up until end of March, 2009. It includes early sketches and several original paintings, two standing cases (one with items from an actual packrat midden and another showing Jenny's artistic process), plus a podium with a couple books for readers to browse. It's very visual!

       the full wall        cover & books below 

   items from a midden    jenny's art process

The glass-encased wall explains how Zachary Z. Packrat and His Amazing Collections is “based on a true story” because it’s about packrat kids, sisters, brothers, uncles, grandmas and best friends—beloved human packrats who love to collect things! It shows that my mom is a packrat (she has gobs of collections). And so is my dad (he never throws anything away). They have taught me to cherish special treasures.

Some human packrats even protect things from the past that we all can learn from… just try to imagine a world without libraries or museums.

But the book—and, so, the exhibit—are also about the namesake animals who gather gobs of stuff for their nest piles, called “middens”. Turns out, these wide-eyed rodents also protect things from the past. By collecting items from nature and sheltering them, furry little packrats help scientists study ancient landscapes. Some enormous packrat middens even date back over 40,000 years!

So, when I say Zachary is a real packrat, do I mean a human packrat or an animal packrat? The answer is: BOTH!

The exhibit details how Jenny and I wove their characteristics together in the story, which is part of the book’s fun! 

We hope library-goers will enjoy the display. If you happen to be in downtown Phoenix over the next several months, you can stop in at the Burton Barr Public Library (Central Ave, just north of Roosevelt) to see all the treasures and tidbits Jenny and I have put into our collection about the making of Zachary Z. Packrat and His Amazing Collections.

I am out for a nice afternoon hike in the dense forest surrounding the OBC. My plan is to take Trail #9 to #CO, jaunt right, make the hairpin turn onto #8, and then catch the easy left at #7 and be back at camp within and hour or two.

                                          my map

Wildlife is so abundant here it is, in fact, hard to avoid. I have to choose my footing carefully not to step on anyone. Leaf-cutter ants tiptoe next to me, racing along like a superhighway of miniature semis swerving back and forth across the trail. A plump mono colorado (spider monkey) ventures toward me in the canopy overhead, shaking loose leaves that sprinkle down on my shoulders. And spider webs strung taut between boughs keep snapping across my face and tangling in my eyelashes.

A good distance up Trail #9, I discover an enormous trunk lying horizontal—a naturallly fallen tree. Colorful lichens and fungi decorate the crumbling bark. It offers me a decent seat, so I stop for a moment to jot a few words in my little yellow notebook.

Writing comes easy this day. The peaceful atmosphere and vivid scenery sends my pencil dashing across pages until, nearly an hour later, the last word of my outpouring falls neatly on the paper. I lift my head and begrudge the nagging tweak in my spine from sitting so long. I stand, stretch. And, after taking a quick photo of myself sitting on the log to commemorate the completion of a new first draft manuscript, I go off in search of Trail #CO.

                  Yay! I have finished a new story called Arbol de Vida

After many paces, I come to the next obvious junction and check the markers. But strangely the path I'm on is now labelled #CO and the crossroad is #16—hmmmmm—no such transection exists on my map. I am stumped.

I shuffle around rereading the slender orange tags that dangle from eyelevel branches. Obviously I've gotten onto #CO, but where is Trail #8????

Since I can't bear the idea of just going back, I opt to forge forward and see what I find. Not far up the path most of the dirt is washed away, carved to broad deep crevasses and, as I edge my way along the narrow rim of mud, I make a mental note not to pass this way again.

The trail moves upward in a slow wide arc to the left, due north. I walk for quite awhile without seeing any trail markings—assurance that I have diverted from my planned route—but I suspect this path will eventually turn west and cut back down to meet the main road. Soon I am gaining significant elevation, moist tall trees giving way to a low rough landscape. I hike a steep, dry, untrodden strip of dirt, which narrows until only the echo of a trail guides me through heavy brush.

                                        very different habitat than the lush rainforest below 

I am sweating profusely. I am starting to feel overheated, dehydrated, and I'm cursing myself for failing to bring water. Despite the oppressive heat, I button up my long sleeve shirt to conserve body water and resist the mild urge to pee. Higher, higher I climb. I will only go another ten minutes, I promise myself again and again, anticipating a left turn at any time. But every bend brings only more brush, higher altitude.

The further I travel, the more reluctant I am to turn back. My leg muscles burn with lactic acid. At one ponit I hear the happy rush of water to my right. Although it's nearly a straight drop off through a haze of foliage, I know there's a river below, fresh and cool, and despite its distance I am comforted. I can clambor and tumble down if necessary—if thirst overtakes me. I am suddenly lost in daydreams about launching an Indian Jones-style slide down this wicked slope. I keep walking. 

A fly finds me huffing along and torments me for almost a mile. It never lands yet, taunting me with the tickle of his wings, he buzzes non-stop around my ears. No doubt he is drawn to the perspiration trickling from my temples, tempting him with the promise of salt. I try to ignore his whizzing but irritation swells in my head. At last I rip off my hat and flap it wildly like a mad woman. The fly is undettered but I am better for the release of frustration.

At last the path widens, a hopeful sign. And it makes a sharp left. Even better.

I cut around the corner and discover what appears to be a grand passage: the trail slips beneath an arch of green branches that reminds me of soldiers holding criss-crossed swords. I step elegantly under the boughs as though entering a ballroom.

Standing dumbfounded, my immediate disappointment gives way to awe. I am in small open clearing where the path abruptly ends into a cluster of impassable growth. But... I am overlooking the world! Mountains, treetops, sky and shore spread before me like a living map.

The ocean sparkles with moist allure at the tip of my outstretched fingers. Physically parched yet visually refreshed, I take photos and revel in the majesty of my high throne. I take some time to rest. Then, turning around, I carefully make my way back the road I came.

I am unsure whether I will easily find the correct transects home. And the challenges of going up are multiplied going down. Deep rain-carved trenches and slick mossy slopes threaten every step. Bramble grabs at my feet, clamping my ankles like makeshift hobbles. I fall, once—hard. Sliding into a fallen cross branch, I earn sure bruises to my shins.

Nevertheless, I feel quite satisfied that today’s journey has been worthwhile. Levity lightens my footfalls. And sooner than expected, I find arrive back at the log where I had been writing. 

I am about to pass the sleeping giant when I notice several long orange tags I hadn’t seen the first time I stopped. On inspection, they mark the head of Trail #8. Ha! I chuckle under my labored breath. All that time I was sitting right here at the junction. (Turns out, I had accidentally taken Trail #17 to its end point.)

                           okay, look again...  

Still laughing, I launch down Trail #8 and twenty-five minutes later I am back in my room guzzling water like a camel and thinking about my day. Funny how the best adventures come when you are willing to try a new trail, suffer a little discomfort and embrace the ups and downs of the experience. As for this hike, a surprise bird's eye view of the world was a true nature-lover's reward.

To help you better envision my surroundings and the adventures to come, let me provide a more precise understanding of my current geographical location…

If you look at Central America on a World Atlas, you will find the nation of Costa Rica sitting atop Panama with Nicaragua riding her shoulders. On the west side of the country, jutting out and down into the cold open waters of the Pacific Ocean are two peninsulas—the large Nicoya Peninsula to the north (a popular vacation spot) and the seemingly runted Osa Peninsula in the south.

           I am on the Osa.

This small green arm of land hugs a vital body of water against the mainland, an aquatic treasure aptly named Gulfo Dulce (sweet gulf), in which a lucky observer might spy huge pods of dolphins or even large migrating pelagic species like humpbacks and whale sharks. No doubt a marine biologist’s wonderland.

But the peninsula itself is perhaps the most spectacular place in this truly spectacular country. Described by National Geographic as one of the most “biologically intense” places on earth, the Osa holds tight to substantial areas of primary and secondary rainforest.

Everywhere you look on the Osa, you see green. Green is the theme. Impossibly tall trees, eager twisting vines, cascading leaves of every shape and size. Green atop green. The color pulls you like a magnet into its soothing embrace; it draws you in and fills your senses. It settles your mind, one deep breath after another until, calm and focused, you join its limbic rhythm.

It’s not necessary to see animals to know they are here. You can feel them.  And this green jungle, pulsing with energy is well protected by the local people. A model of good stewardship and a testament to environmental solidarity we all could learn from.

             looking up through the trees

At the tip of the Osa, facing the gulf is the thriving little Tico community, Puerto Jimenez. This is the main hub of human activity on the peninsula. It is not a fancy commercial destination—it’s real Costa Rica. Local people living local lives. Pura Vida. The foreigners here assimilate into the culture, or leave.        

From PJ, one rugged dirt road forges south, and wraps around the peninsula. The road was cut by man but shaped by rain; it is hilly and pockmarked with deep threatening craters and thick mud. And it bisects several rivers that, like sly watery trolls, steal whole cars when silly tourists insist on crossing after extended rains.

                          driving across one of many rivers

Should a courageous driver choose to twist and climb and bump along 42 kilometers for nearly 2.5 hours (that’s in the dry season), he may arrive at Carate, which is not much more than a short landing strip and a small bar/cafe on the mid-western shore. Carate is well-known because it’s a few kilometers hike from the entrance to the glorious Corcovado National Park, which I will take you to visit in a future blog.

But let’s back up a little…

About 2/3 of the way from Puerto Jimenez to Carate, an unassuming turn-off by the one-room escuela (school) leads to a lovely complex of rudimentary housing tucked back in the rainforest. This is the OBC—Osa Biodiversity Center, owned and run by Friends of the Osa—and it's the place I am living during my stay.

   If this minute you sauntered across the trimmed pasture of moist grass surrounding the campus and stepped up under the pointed tin roof of the kitchen, you would find me sitting at one of the fold-out dinner tables, typing away on the OBC’s laptop. Electricity and Internet access are advantages that few houses in rural Osa enjoy. When I was doing sea turtle work here last year we lived in a tiny palapa on the beach and did not have such conveniences. Their addition to daily life make me feel deliciously spoiled.

So now you have me pinpointed on the map. Let it give you comfort that I have not disappeared; I’m just a few thin lines of latitude and longitude away. And I will write more soon about the turtles… and the other animals, people and places that lured me back to the Osa.

But, alas, I didn’t come to Costa Rica to spend too much of my day at the computer, so I leave now for the forest where I will walk, look, listen—fingers to the pulse of life. The green is calling. I must go.

Luego (later)!

Hola, mis amigos (Hi, my friends)! I am writing this blog, my first ever, from a tropical rainforest.

Here, it is never silent; every minute is a concert of sounds. Birds, insects and/or frogs are constantly chittering. And morning brings scarlet macaws, who fill the pale blue sky like slender red crosses, squawking enthusiastically on their short migration to a strand of beachfront almond trees. 

      this is one of the few locations where wild scarlet macaws still fly free

Troops of Howler monkeys have been bellowing to one another, barking in the distance for several hours—a ruptuous cacophany that is strangely offset by the sweet whisperings of a morning breeze, cool and fresh, dancing through the forest and gently rippling the mosquito net encapsulating my bed.

Right now outside my open-air cabina I can see several spider monkeys, rust-colored and gangly-limbed, bending the highest branches of the canopy and spilling leaves as they clamber across the treetops in search of fruits and nuts. A thrill to my eyes, such is daily life in the rainforest.

           a spider monkey considers me from on high 

I am here for a few weeks working as a research assistant for Friends of the Osa, a conservation science organization. We are studying the nesting patterns of sea turtles. Two species, Olive ridleys and Green sea turtles are most common in this area. Females, heavy with eggs, frequently haul themselves up onto a remote beach near our camp from June to December. We patrol that beach at night to collect data about the arriving mothers and their nests.  We also help protect the turtle hatchlings that emerge from the nests, so they may safely make their way to the rushing currents of the Pacific Ocean. It is a small but important conservation effort.

Just a few hours ago, in the moonless darkness that linked sunset to dawn, I knelt on the beach and cupped three tiny turtlings in my hands, positioning them toward the soft foamy waves. They were the final babies to emerge from a now-empty nest, weaker than the rest who had all gone into tide hours before.

              a little turtling heads to sea and rolls in the oncoming waves...      

Within minutes of taking their first breath of open air, nature thrusts newly hatched sea turtles headlong into a dangerous under-water world with nothing but strength and intuition to carry them. I worried for those last stragglers as they tottered forward unsure and tumbled into the sea.

I hope time and luck will bless them... that their shells will slowly stretch... that they will avoid predators, fishing nets and pollution and grow large into adulthood. And I hope someday, many years from now the females return to this beach to lay eggs of their own. Each generation is a new beginning AND the continuation of a magical process that has sent sea turtles oaring across ocean waters for millenia.

On the weary walk back to camp, we spotted a collared anteater also called tamandua, a charming animal with a smaller body and shorter snout than its Giant anteater cousin. He was busy, going about his nocturnal life; he waddled past and quickly climbed up a tall narrow tree, disappearing into the stars overhead.

              Here's a pic I took in 2007 of a tamandua... cute, huh?   

When at last I crawled beneath my mosquito net and pressed my head to my pillow, I dreamed of him... and of turtles.

There is much to tell of my time here in this special place--this land where ancient rainforest meets ancient sea—too much for one day. But I will come to reveal my adventures, story by story, photo by photo, here in this blog.

And when you know all the details of this journey, I shall take you on another. In this way we will travel together. Sometimes I will pack you along to destinations far from home—trips, present or past. Other times I will share animal adventures from my own neck of the woods, er, desert—doing wildlife rescue or zoo work. But always we will explore the magnificent lives of animals and ponder the greatness of the world around us.

Until next time... Salud.