In Oregon we got occasional heavy downpours but mostly the summers were bone dry while the winter had frequent drizzly showers that kept everything damp and preposterously green. In Arizona we get some rain in the winter but it’s summer that brings the monsoons. Rain may be rare but when it arrives it often pours down in buckets, perhaps accompanied by high winds and thunder and lightning (I can count on one hand the number of lightning storms I saw in two decades in Oregon). I haven’t seen much rain this year, when it has rained I’ve either been at work or it’s been dark, so I still haven’t seen a wash run. Our neighborhood is on a hill so there are washes running through (one beside our house), some more natural looking than others, so one day it will happen. This chair would have an excellent view of a running wash, sitting in the middle of a desert wash along the Gooseneck Trail, and by the looks of it has probably seen its fair share of summer storms.
This picture resonates strongly with me of my former home in the Pacific Northwest, a paradise dressed in blue and green. A tree swallow pausing from its aerial hunt on a rainy spring morning, tiny drops of rain beading on its tiny wings. The blue of the bird, the greens of the moss and lichen, the blue of Long Lake below, the green of the lush grasses at its marshy border, the meadow beyond. When I first visited Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge years ago the lake was full of snags near the road but one by one they began to fall. This snag was the last one near the road but eventually it too fell.
A common side-blotched lizard basks in the morning sun on a dead tree along the Latigo Trail in July of 2018. One of the notes in my hiking journal says “Such an *amazing* morning!” and indeed it was, mostly I was photographing birds but this little jewel was icing on the cake. Hiding pretty well for being out in the open, I can’t remember now if I spotted him when I stopped for a water break or if I stopped for a water break because I spotted him. I’m always a little disappointed we’ve not met there since, even though I always look when I walk by. Maybe I should leave a note?
The day after Ellie died I thought pruning a dense thicket of bougainvillea would be a welcome respite from endlessly pacing the house, though it was hard looking back at the empty porch. I have no experience with them and was struggling with a section that was growing mostly out of reach on the other side of the fence. I heard a mourning dove making a ruckus and my heart sank when I realized it was nesting in that thicket with a couple of eggs in its nest. I backed away immediately and left off the pruning and thankfully it stayed on the nest.
However the next few times I saw mourning doves on the trails they bolted before I could get pictures and I was afraid word had gotten out about the attempted dove killer. But then this one posed for me on the Latigo Trail in the early morning light, perhaps I had been forgiven.
As the rising sun lights up distant Pinnacle Peak, a white-winged dove perches in the shadows. The light soon reached the tips of the tallest saguaros and was a minute or two from reaching the fruiting saguaro this dove was jealously guarding from other doves when suddenly the lights went out. From my vantage point I couldn’t see the sun and saw naught but blue sky before me, but low-lying clouds in the east must have rolled in. Although I missed the first kiss of the soft red light the sun soon returned and I watched this dove and a variety of other birds from that one spot for quite some time, the only downside being I only hiked for a couple of miles that morning.