I’d have spent more time on this photo if I’d known how it would turn out. I like the vignetted background visible through the tree’s crotch leading to the moss cascade.
Tree with moss cascade and forest vignette
Tag Archives: Forest Preserves of Cook County
Chicago Botanic Garden and fun with Nikon color sketch
Here’s the original photo at the Chicago Botanic Garden from yesterday, April 19:
And here’s the same photo with the Nikon color sketch tool applied to the hilt:
The detail that came out in the color sketch version is amazing (see the wispy dangling tree branches), although I do like the sky in the original.
Butterflies at Chicago Botanic Garden
Chicago Portage National Historic Site and Riverside, Illinois
Saturday J. and I walked the path through the Chicago Portage National Historic Site area. The last time we were there, we volunteered to help the Cook County Forest Preserve District clear out invasive plants, a hot, sweaty, satisfying task.
This time, we took a leisurely stroll and enjoyed beautiful, mosquito-free weather. Afterward, we visited Riverside Public Library, walked along the river, dined at The Chew Chew, and topped off dinner with ice cream at Grumpy’s Café. I did run out of steam thanks to my latest issues, but not before relishing a perfect day. I need more of these.
Work day at Chicago Portage National Historic Site
And now for something completely different . . . a more-or-less quick trip west on the Stevenson to Harlem and 49th, where you’ll find the Chicago Portage National Historic Site, one of only two in Illinois (Lincoln’s home is the other). Here La Salle and Père Marquette walked, they say, as of course did generations of Native Americans before them. Just as Europe had its trade routes, so did native North America. A sign along one of the trails notes that designated burr oaks are believed to be more than 200 years old.
We arrived at around 9:30 a.m., a half hour late, looking for work. One lone walker seemed to be there to admire the scenery, so I made an executive decision and took off down the paved trail, where I hoped that we’d run into the crew of Forest Preserve District of Cook County employees and volunteers there for a work day, during which necessary work is done to maintain the preserves. In many cases, this seems to involve removal of invasive exotics — I pictured pulling garlic mustard, which I’d assumed they’d show me how to recognize.
Just as J wondered if we’d gone the correct way, we came upon the group, a couple of the men armed with chain saws. They weren’t here to pull garlic mustard. No, they were cutting down a stand of buckthorn that ran from the trail to the stream and that was keeping the forest floor in perpetual shade in spring, summer, and fall. Others were lopping off branches or using hand saws to cut the larger limbs down to size. Yet more were dragging off the trunks and leafy limbs to brush piles, where they will be burned in the future.
Buckthorn, introduced from Europe, is an invasive species that offers no benefits to our native wildlife and chokes out the native plants that otherwise would add to the diversity our animals and birds need. It’s too dark under a buckthorn stand for wildflowers to grow or, I suppose, for native seedlings to take root. Buckthorn also hosts the soybean aphid; from its name you can guess how much farmers love this little pest. Its sale/purchase/cultivation has been banned in many areas, including Illinois and Minnesota, but it’s too late. It has a pervasive presence in the forest preserves and some parks and is especially widespread in the northern two-thirds of the state.
We introduced ourselves all around, and an FPDCC employee recognized us from an art fair at Swallow Cliff Woods. J remembered that we’d talked about Volo Bog, so he mentioned our visit there and how far away it is. They asked us if we were passing through; we said, “No, we’ve come to work.” They seemed surprised but pleased, and asked us how we’d found out about the work day. When I said I’d seen it on facebook, they seemed even more surprised and delighted. It sounds as though not everyone thinks the facebook presence is effective. Maybe it’s just me, but we’ve gone to a few events, including this one and the art fair, because I’d seen them on facebook. It’s an easy way for me to get timely, information in one place about my different interests. I don’t have to work as hard or think to look for information.
For the next hour and a half I dragged, lopped, and stacked what seemed like a never-ending supply of buckthorn branches and trunks. A busload of high school students arrived to help for credit; at one point someone told them that if they didn’t behave and get to work, they wouldn’t get any. The arrival of so many hands, including young men who wanted to show off by dragging heavy trunks singlehandedly, seemed to spur the men with chain saws. When I looked toward the stream, I could see the sky, and light was dappling the ground below. We had two large piles, possibly three, and fallen trunks and branches littered the ground. And still the men kept cutting. All this was in one small area. I wondered how much buckthorn was left and where.
We learned quickly that buckthorn has that name for a reason. When we weren’t in danger of hitting ourselves or others with limbs or trunks or being rammed by the enthusiastic high schoolers who, like most kids their age, were oblivious to those around them, we were stabbing ourselves on the thorns that grow along the shrub’s trunk. Gloves would have helped with handling the limbs and the loppers, but weren’t necessary. Unlike us, however, the kids had come prepared.
I’d been in pain most of Friday — the result of standing most of Wednesday at National Senior Health and Fitness Day — and hadn’t slept well Thursday. My lower back hurt more than usual. Before we’d gone to the work day, I’d known my endurance would be limited. The heat and humidity of the day, even among the trees, didn’t help, nor did the horde of mosquitoes that decided to go after, of all places, my hinder. I did as much as I could and left at 11 for the car, while J was determined to soldier on until the noon conclusion.
While returning along the trail, I’d noticed that my brother had called and left a voicemail, which he never does. It proved to be four seconds long and soundless. I called him to confirm that was nothing was wrong; when he didn’t answer, I raised an eyebrow. His daughter at home said he was out shopping. I raised the other eyebrow. It turned out to be one of those phantom calls that happen when some part of your anatomy manages to knock against the right button to make a call. While I was talking to him, still on the trail, I exclaimed, “Oh! I have to go!” I’d spotted the iridescent blue black of a bird in one of the bushes off the trail — but I didn’t disconnect quickly enough to switch the iPhone to camera mode and get a photo before it flew off. Not that it would have been a good photo . . .
I was hoping I could claim that I’d seen an indigo bunting.
J’s car, parked in the sun, felt like a damp oven. How anyone can leave a dog in that kind of heat, which builds in only a few moments under the sun, astounds me.
I ran the air conditioner for five or ten minutes, turning it off when he called and told me it would run the battery down. He promised to leave a little earlier, so I tried to find a place nearby where I could use the bathroom and sit comfortably.
Alas, Harlem Avenue is not foot traffic friendly, and I was at the end of my reserves in the heat. I walked only a about a block, to a Shell station, where the attendant said there was no toilet paper. I mentioned facial tissues as a substitute, but she said, a little too quickly and happily, that they don’t sell any. They carry beer for the road, but not a traveling convenience like tissue. Hmmm. I bought each of us flavored water and returned to the car, sitting in the shade of the driver’s side and enjoying the occasional slight breeze that wafted through.
At 12:15 or so, J appeared, saying he’d seen a brilliant blue bird in the treetops after he’d crossed the bridge over the stream — possibly near where I’d seen it. He swears he saw white and is unconvinced of my indigo bunting identification. I’ll never know.
Next, having bought croissants at Bonjour but not eaten them, we headed to Riverside Restaurant for a taste of Bohemia, then to Riverside the town for a walk along Salt Creek, where we encountered mostly robins, butterflies, and a pair of mallards. Outside the forest preserve, Riverside itself seems to be a charming town, with lots of park space and picnic and seating areas near the water.
There are a few more work days scheduled at Chicago Portage this summer. It’s a good way for a soft office slave to break into a healthy sweat, meet people, enjoy the forest, and even see a colorful bird or two. J would like to do it again. Try it. You might like it.
29 May 2010
Springtime at Sagawau Canyon and Chicago Botanic Garden
15 photos
A while ago I noticed how much open space there is in the southwest suburbs near J. and, after a trip to the Hal Tyrell Trailside Museum, realized that much of it runs alongside the Des Plaines River and other waterways and belongs to the Forest Preserve District of Cook County (FPDCC). We’ve visited Hal Tyrell, Chicago Botanic Garden, Sand Ridge Nature Center, Tampier Lake, Swallow Cliff Woods, and Waterfall Glen (Forest Preserve District of DuPage County), but the more we drive around and the more information and maps I pick up, the more I understand the extent and diversity of FPDCC’s natural richness and how important it is to the quality of life in this sprawling mass of urbia-suburbia. If I had a family and could drive, they might hate me because I’d drag them to the FPDCC and its programs spring, summer, fall, and winter. No matter the season, there’s something to see or do (naturally, snow helps in winter).
Being a facebook fan of the FPDCC has paid off before, but last week’s announcement especially interested me — the grand opening of the Camp Sagawau Environmental Learning Center. I’d never heard of Sagawau, and when I looked it up discovered that it’s the only canyon in Cook County. After our visit to Starved Rock’s French Canyon, this seemed like a must-see. Twenty percent of the world’s dolomite prairie is located at Sagawau, too. It sounded truly unique.
A lifelong resident of Cook County, J. had never heard of it. Naturally, he was intrigued.
On Saturday, April 17, after an early start for him and an al fresco breakfast at Bonjour, we headed toward Orland Hills/Orland Park. Along the way I saw two hawks pass overhead. It’s that sort of possibility that makes me appreciate this less developed part of Cook County. He said he’d seen owls perched on the light standards.
He dropped me off at PetSmart (Orland Hills) while he went to his doctor’s (Orland Park). It was a pretty easy hour to fill. After peeking into the pet hotel, the dog camp, and the spa, and locating what I wanted to get, I checked out the cats up for adoption. Ranging from 9 months to 10 years old, most were from high-kill shelters (isn’t that an oxymoron?). One was an owner surrender. The reason? “Time.” I found this suspect, as did another woman who was looking at them. Cats are low-maintenance creatures; “travel” might have made more sense. All of them seemed sweet.
At Sagawau, local police directed us into a nearly full parking lot — popular event! We found a spot only because someone must have just left.
While we waited 20 minutes or so for the canyon tour, J. photographed the farmhouse and a downy woodpecker among the European starlings in the trees. At this point, all we knew about the canyon walk was that our feet would get wet. We had no idea what lay ahead.
In the past two weeks, spring has burst out all over, and nowhere is this more apparent than in the surrounding woods here, where purple-flowered trees shaded blue flowers, and the bird chatter was incessant.
A group gathered around the naturalist, an older woman. A former teacher for 35 years, she is an amazing educator. Before we went into the canyon, she provided us with the human and geological history of the area. The 1800s farmhouse, complete with vintage telephone resistors and recent porch additions, belonged to a man whose successive wives didn’t care for its remoteness from the bright lights of the big city. The boys of the group learned that there were no televisions, radios, Internet, or cell phones. “Computer games?” No computer games. Inconceivable! She did assure one boy, who seemed to be 7 or 8, that he would have been kept busy enough breaking trails through the ice and snow, milking cows, and performing other chores. The horror!
She asked another boy to die, which he did by flopping onto the ground dramatically. When he tried to get up, she told him to stay dead. He represented the organisms that died and whose remains formed the sedimentary rock of the area. A girl was instructed to eat some of his arm as part of the process. Next, two tall, thin, older teenagers, dressed in black and sporting chains and piercings, were told to represent the glaciers and to make bulldozer noises. A couple of other children, joined the first boy as dead coral, and J. and another man added to the force of the glacier bearing down on the rocks before they were told to “melt away.” The teenagers seemed to have great fun watching the kids and then participating. Later I would hear them talk about pulling garlic mustard. Afterward, I learned from their conversation with the naturalist that they volunteer and have a particular interest in eradicating said invasive garlic mustard. As we were leaving, we saw them riding off on their bicycles — metal heads with a love of nature. There went my stereotypes.
To get into the canyon, you walk down steep wooden steps wide enough for just one person — in my case, I wondered if they were wide enough for my one person. (Yes. Barely. Not unlike one of my dream fears.) Our group was large, and we were at the back, so there wasn’t a lot of room left to stand at the bottom. It was here that the naturalist began to hint that this might not be a walk in the park, or even a simple wade through a little water. The rocks, she informed us even as some of us balanced tentatively on them, are slippery, and many are pointy (not flat) or loose (both the pointy and flat ones).
She asked if the shadows in the canyon wall were caves (I missed the answer) and if you had been one of the area’s Indians, would you have hidden in them during a rainstorm? Answer: Only if you wanted to drown in the rising waters, which she said end up in the Gulf of Mexico. She also noted that in spots the opposite walls of the canyon seemed to fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces and mentioned earthquakes.
As she talked, she or someone spotted a hawk overhead; she pointed out that it was circling. “What is it doing?” she asked. I didn’t catch what someone answered (I’m guessing, “Uh, flying?”), but she said, “Riding the thermals.” Meanwhile, the little boy with the couple next to us started to squirm and say, “Can we go?” Too young to appreciate the fabulous experience. I remember and regret those days.
At one point our guide noticed a couple of young women walking above us along the edge. After saluting them, she gently but firmly suggested that they back off because the edge is not very stable. Startled by this revelation, they scuttled off.
It came time to cross the stream, which, from where I stood, seemed easy enough. I was more concerned about the necessity of climbing out of the canyon, as I envisioned scaling the uneven vertical walls. The warning that the rocks are slippery was illustrated when someone said one of the first boys to cross fell on the rock (#9 hardness). For someone like me who is adept at falling, this didn’t bode well. Our guide had told us to stay in single file and to hold hands. “None of us has cooties.” Against my desire to be independent and adventurous, I found myself reaching for J’s arm, often at a moment when he was struggling to find his own footing. I slipped once or twice, but didn’t fall. While balancing on one rock, I’d test the next with my foot. If it moved, I’d rock it to see the extent of its instability. Intuitively, I had found an effective way to reduce the risk of an embarrassing (or worse) mishap. This approach slowed me, but I wasn’t in a hurry, and neither was anyone else.
The day was really perfect for all of this — beautifully sunny with deep blue sky and a temperature in the 50-degree range — not cold, not warm, although both of us worked up a little sweat.
Crossing the stream lower down (higher up?) was more of a challenge, with smaller, pointier, more slippery, and more unstable rocks. By now, too, muscle fatigue was settling in, with all the standing during the talk near the farm house and then in the canyon while balancing on uneven rocks. My footing, never sure, was less so as my muscles weakened and trembled. The woman in front of me, with her husband and little boy (the one who wanted to go) was younger and fit, but she struggled a bit, too. I told her I had figured that if the naturalist, who appeared to be 60 to 65, could handle this, I should be able to as well. She admitted she had thought the same thing. We had this conversation as we were headed toward the way up. This involved going along the canyon wall — not too bad in a few places, but in others there are wide gaps between the rocks in the water (not a problem for those with longer legs like J.); in others there’s little solid ground along the edges, so you cling to the walls outcroppings with your hands and hope that your trembling legs and tentative balance don’t give out. Of course, J. was carrying his camera bag (bulky), and I had my tote bag with binoculars and field guide (heavy), which didn’t help. AS I tell him, serious hikers need to have both hands free (and, of course, I’m not afraid to leverage my butt if need be).
With hand holding from the boy’s father and J., I made it to the exit, which proved to be the easiest part of the walk. It was angled with unevenly spaced ledges serving as steps, which my trembling legs could handle. At the top, I used my butt as my third hand and instantly felt relieved and triumphant that I hadn’t humiliated myself. Really, I don’t think it’s everyone who’s my age and weight who would undertake even such a modest challenge.
We took a quick look around the new environmental learning center, which seems to be well designed from environmental, aesthetic, and practical perspectives. The enormous fireplace is a lovely touch, as is the wall of quotations on a curved wood wall embracing the television screen, where a film about butterflies was showing. I especially liked this one:
For if one link in nature’s chain might be lost, another and another might be lost, till this whole system of things should vanish by piece-meal. (Thomas Jefferson, 10 March 1797. Transactions of the American Philosophical Society.)
After a brief detour to Walgreens, we set out for the antique and garden fair at the Chicago Botanic Garden and arrived within 40 minutes, leaving enough time to walk through some exhibits and for J. to buy vintage strawberry baskets as well as roam the gift shop. I, on the other hand, made it only through the first tent before finding a place to sit — I’d done enough standing by the farm house and in the canyon to ache all over. But it was the good, honest ache of needed exertion.
After the gift shop closed, we walked around the English walled garden, then past the waterfall to the Japanese islands. Walking I could handle. On the way back I spotted a sign telling us to look up about 20 feet to see a “witch’s broom” in one of the conifers, a mass of growth that looks like a squirrel’s nest and that can be used to start a new tree. I love the name — trees are, after all, magical.
Neither of us had eaten since breakfast. Breakfast? We went to Walker Bros. (The Original Pancake House) in downtown Highland Park — garden vegetables pancake for him, Mediterranean omelet and a half order of chocolate chippers (for later) for me. Mmmm. The moon was just a silver sliver in the night sky when we left.
At the Flamingo, I had to use the cart to haul all the loot from PetSmart to the elevator and my apartment. Poor, deprived Hodge.
Picnic at Tampier Lake
13 photos
Ever since we drove across it last summer on the way to White Fence Farm, I’ve wanted to return to Tampier Lake. 131st Street runs on a bank that divides the lake, which gave me the feeling of floating across the water’s sparkling surface. It was a gorgeous day, and it looked like the perfect place for a picnic. Finally, on Saturday, we found time to return. I brought the blankets, candle, and utensils, we picked up mostly vegan food at Heritage Health Foods, and away we went.
J. thought I would like Wolf Road, and he was right. While there were signs of development — old farmhouses and tiny fields planted with crops hanging in next to newly built condos, for example, on the road we took over to Wolf — it looked more like rural Pennsylvania than anything I have seen here. We even passed a farm stand (no time to stop, alas), horse crossing signs, old barns, fields, trees, and even a ranch (it was hard to tell whether it was open or closed). I would love to take a more leisurely trip down it and to stop at that stand — the first I’ve seen here.
I had dreamed of an idyllic summer day — sunny, light breeze, a few clouds, warm enough but not hot. This was it. The weather could not have been better, and the only drawback was that, with sunset at around 6:50 p.m., we had less than two hours to eat, relax, and take a walk. More time would have been wonderful, but as I should know by now things usually work out.
J. wanted to watch the boats (rowboats) to the northwest, while I preferred the weeping willows and glimpses of water to the southeast, so we compromised. I picked a spot, not close to the water’s edge where the grass was longer, so he could face one section and the street and I could face the other.
I love dining alfresco, on a blanket in the grass, sandwiched between green below and blue above. If I could, I would eat every meal outside, where the ambiance is more tranquil and conducive to good digestion than crisp linens, clanking glassware, clattering silverware, clamoring voices, and jarring music played too loudly. Simple food, natural setting, the only music the twittering of small birds and the occasional honking of passing geese — that’s all I need. And it’s affordable.
We weren’t the only ones taking advantage of summer’s last hurrah; there were several groups picnicking and many people fishing. One young man must have mistaken my citronella candle for a cooking flame; he called out to ask if we were eating our catch fresh.
I loved it all. I think J. missed the more crowded and less bucolic picnic area at 63d Street. Not me.
Afterward we cleaned up and walked around. The large white birds I had seen earlier were gone, and most of the boats had come in for the night. A movement in the grass caught my eye; it proved to be a grasshopper willing to pose for J.
We started in the southeast, heading northwest. Already the sun was close to the tree line (visually), and we were a little surprised by how rapidly it disappeared, signaling the end of my perfect picnic. Later, we discovered an ant in J.’s shopping bag — it wouldn’t have been a picnic without one. Poor thing, torn from its home.
On the way back, we both spotted a restaurant that looked like it was growing out of the forest — Devono’s Ristorante — noted for a possible visit.
Sunday I got up early and picked up goodies at Bonjour. The occasion was “brunch for the ladies” at a co-worker’s house in Riverwoods. Another co-worker picked me up at the train station and exclaimed as we passed a house, “Oh, my — it’s real!” Stupidly, I looked back for the architectural or landscaping feature that had provoked this, and she added, “It’s a deer.” I caught a glimpse of one in the middle of a front lawn. It did resemble a lawn ornament as it stood with head up, perfectly still.
Another lovely day, perhaps a bit warmer — the last day of summer. We sat on the deck until called to partake, talking about grown children, weddings, and embarrassingly comprehensive Star Wars memorabilia collections. The hostess’s little white dog, Gizmo, was so happy that he frolicked off into the distance of the next yard and had to be called back. Inside, I ate with one hand and scratched his ears with the other, hoping the sanitation police (three nurses) wouldn’t notice.
Most of us without previous obligations went for a walk in the Chicago Botanic Garden, which was more crowded than I had ever seen before. There were the usual weddings and a party or two, but mostly the hordes were there to pay tribute to an exceptionally fine last day of summer. The gardens were spectacular, on the cusp between the seasons.
Through prior arrangement, at 3 p.m. I parted ways with the ladies and returned to the bridge by the visitors center. A pair of snow-white trumpeter swans drifted in, periodically looking up curiously at the people on the bridge and obligingly posing for photos. It’s fascinating how their dark eye is camouflaged by a dark band that breaks up that flawless soft white.
After we picked up my friend’s husband, we ended up in the Buehler Enabling Garden, built with raised beds and other features designed for volunteers with disabilities. I don’t think I’d been in it before, but it’s a jewel, alive with plants and animals. We were greeted by a big grasshopper, which my friend carried over to a bench with us, and every now and then we would see movement and chipmunk tails disappearing under the foliage. The bird feeders were dominated by goldfinches, mostly female. One goldfinch couple staged a showdown around the cylindrical feeder, finally coming beak to beak with no clear winner.
I thought the hummingbirds had departed around Labor Day, but two female rubythroats came along to feed from some of the flowers undoubtedly planted for that very purpose. Seldom do I get to see these little jewels, so it was a pleasure to watch them buzzing about only a few feet away.
J. had made the mistake of offering me a ride home due to the inconvenience of the train schedule, but I couldn’t see him traveling more than 100 miles round trip just for that. Instead, I bribed him with the offer of dinner at La Casa de Isaac, a Mexican restaurant owned by Mexican Orthodox Jews.
After much calling back and forth, we met him at Village Square and headed to the restaurant. Although they didn’t have the King David’s quesadillas (lox, cream cheese, onions) advertised on the Web site as a new special, he did enjoy something fishy, while I opted for something cheesy. I’ll take his word that the fishy something was good, as I can’t eat seafood.
After parting with my friends, it took only about an hour to get to Hyde Park, where we aided our digestion with cranberry-blood orange tea.
I spent a lot of time on trains, and J. did a lot of driving, but the destinations were worth it. If you can’t escape Chicago, you may as well find something to like about the area — Ravinia, the Forest Preserve District of Cook County, the Chicago Botanic Garden, and, of course, food.
Sand Ridge Nature Center
Saturday J. and I headed to the Sand Ridge Nature Center, another part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District. This one is close to the train station in Homewood, which is why I suggested it. Of course, we took several detours and didn’t go there directly, making the convenience moot. My mood improved when I saw a bumper sticker in the parking lot that still makes me giggle: A cartoon pig says indignantly, “No, I don’t have any spare ribs.”
First, we walked through the building, which has a number of educational exhibits and herpetologic and fish inhabitants. The educational information was punctuated by “Fun Facts,” for example, the saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat” refers to catfish. I had never heard of one of the species on display, a musk turtle or “stinkpot.” Nearby in the same aquarium, a painted turtle sprawled catlike on partially submerged rocks. It had extended its front legs straight out, as relaxed cats do, and pulled its head into its shell so that it looked like a comfortable headless turtle.
A woman who had been cleaning offered to help us. She gave us a map of the trails and samples of insect repellent to get us through our walk.
Cook County government has a poor reputation, and I developed a poor opinion of government employees based on an experience years ago at the State of Illinois Secretary of State’s Office downtown. I went with a friend who needed something and who was the only person there on business. A woman came to the window and told us to form a single-file line. I said, “Oh, I’m not in line; I’m with her,” to which the woman replied, more firmly, “Form a single-file line.” It soon became apparent that she would not assist my friend until I was standing precisely behind her in line. Her behavior and attitude clearly didn’t make her happy. I could picture her at home, telling her family about the difficult person who made her day hellish by not cooperating instantly and forming a single-file line of two, and her family commiserating with her about the horrors of coping with John and Jane Public every day. Today, she would be a natural for the TSA.
All of this is to highlight that the Cook County Forest Preserve District employees we’ve met have been eager to provide a good visitor experience. They have seemed to like, even to love, their jobs, with no inclination toward mindless bureaucracy. I noticed, too, that the District promotes a new Chicago Wilderness program of which I heartily approve: “Leave No Child Inside,” which tries to get children away from their electronics into the great outdoors. (My proposal: A similar program for adults.)
The sky was overcast, so the butterfly garden wasn’t buzzing with activity. J. did try to get photos or video of a red damselfly that posed for him for several minutes.
We didn’t have much time and my natural bent is toward water, so we took the Redwing Trail that skirts a man-made pond. Around this pond were large, showy orange and pink flowers of a variety we had never seen before. We also spotted tiny powder blue flowers whose little protruding centers fascinated me.
From the direction of the pond I heard a bird calling and saw a flash of gray and white. Although I couldn’t recall the sound, I remembered that belted kingfishers call in flight and was pretty sure that that is what I’d seen. J. also got a quick look at it on the return trip. As always, I wished I had brought binoculars.
As it was a cloudy, humid, relatively still day, the mosquitoes were out in force in the woods. J. offered me insect repellent, which would have helped with my arms and legs, but a large proportion of the bloodsuckers chose to bite my posterior. Next time I’ll know to spray my pants ahead of time.
Apparently, the forest proper, or portions of it, is fenced, so when we went through the gate beyond the pond, I had to pay attention to the amount of time it would take to return before it would be locked at 4:30 p.m. The fence may be intended to keep humans out when the preserve is closed, but it serves another purpose — a sign asks you to close the gate behind you to prevent white-tailed deer from destroying the gardens.
The forest preserves may be overrun by deer, but the only wildlife we saw was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the trail. More skittish than its Flamingo relatives, it dove into the cover when it realized we’d spied it. I saw a few birds, but not many — generally, most birds prefer areas that are more open.
The sun made an appearance just as we came to an open space next to the trail, and J. took a photo at my request. On the return trip, I explained that one fantasy of mine is to live in a clearing in the deep woods, not unlike Hansel and Gretel’s witch. Slapping himself, J. commented, “If you could keep the mosquitoes under control . . .”
Despite his discomfort, when we came to the Lost Beach Trail J. wanted to continue. I demurred because it was close to the time I’d decided we needed to turn around and backtrack to avoid being locked in with the unseen and unheard but voracious deer. This proved to be a good call, because when we were about halfway past the pond it began to drizzle. Shortly after we returned to the building, the skies poured in earnest. I wondered if the cheerful woman we had met as she headed out had been caught in it and if she were still happy.
We looked at the animal posters on the wall by the offices. In one, a green heron was doing what green herons do so well — taking a frog for dinner. “Poor frog!” J. exclaimed. Indeed. In this particular photo, the frog, its midsection trapped between the heron’s upper and lower mandibles, faces the camera and sports a facial expression eerily like that of Kermit the Frog.
Outside again we watched a couple of male goldfinches in the prairie garden area. One alighted on a tall plant that slowly dipped under its weight while J. again tried to capture the Kodak (Nikon) moment.
In the parking lot, impressive amounts of steam wafted up from the pavement, drawn toward the sun that had reappeared after the hard rain. After a brief detour to Hammond, Indiana, as far in ambiance from Sand Ridge as it is possible to conceive, we ended up at a Fuddruckers for a meal that probably negated any good we had done ourselves by walking. J., along with some seven-year-old boys, had his fill (or at least of taste) of video games, then we returned to The Flamingo. I admit I teased Hodge with the salmon that J. had picked up on the way at Treasure Island.
The poor, tortured cat.
At the Harold ”Hal” Tyrell Trailside Museum
Last Sunday J. spotted a goldfinch that appeared to be in distress. I looked up animal rehabbers in Cook County and discovered the Hal Tyrell Trailside Museum in Oak Park. Part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District, the museum is no longer in the animal rehab business, but the woman he spoke to told him the goldfinch most likely was a fledgling learning to fly and that he should leave it be.
Located in a house built in 1874, the museum intrigued me, so on Saturday we went to it. It’s a straight shot down Harlem, but it took us more than an hour. Usually, I hate to have so little time to spend at a place (about an hour), but I suspected correctly that the museum is small enough to see in the time we had.
J. parked on a side street nearby, then we checked out the outdoor cages. The museum is home to a number of animals that can’t be released, including a turkey vulture (damaged wing), a red-tailed hawk, an American kestrel, a great horned owl (cataract in one eye), a coyote, and a red fox (imprinted). I could hear the fox before we got to her; she was running in and out of a crate, madly spinning and chasing her tail. When we went inside, I told the people in the office by the door, and a woman came out to look.
She told us about some of the animals and that the fox had been the only surviving kit from a mangy litter. As she approached the cage, the fox rolled over onto her back and cried and whined like a dog or perhaps any canid when a dominant member of the family arrives. At first she seemed okay, but she began to spin again. The woman had told us that yellow jackets sometimes bother her, but when she saw the behavior she seemed concerned and said they would keep an eye on her.
Inside, we found a fish tank on the first floor with carp, bass, walleye, and other Illinois species. In a turtle tank, eyes and a snout were the only parts above the water line. Throughout the museum, posters and exhibit show the visitor how to identify the more common butterflies, some of the vanishing species of wildflowers, and common bird nests. A cross section of a tree trunk and graphics cover local and building history.
On the second floor, cages house a Cuban tree frog (invasive species), a box turtle, an American robin missing part of a wing, and a 20-year-old crow who greeted us with, “Bon soir!” (which I took for “What’s wrong?” — well, that shows my mind’s tendency).
After a while, a visitor came in who attracted the crow’s attention. The visitor talked to her, and the crow crouched and stuck her bill through the cage for petting (which made me wonder how the crow experiences that sensation). When she could reach them, the woman also stroked the feathers around her nares. She told us that she is a frequent visitor and loves the crow, although the bird wasn’t nearly as keen on the little child with her. She also pointed out a cage with a sign, “Black rat snake coming soon” and told us that, a few months ago, someone had broken into the museum when it was closed and stolen the herps, including snakes and frogs.
A second woman from the museum told us the crow’s age and that she had always been in a too-small cage, but that she’s resisted attempts to move her to larger accommodations. She has bumblefoot and arthritis. I’m not sure about her entire vocal repertoire, but it includes “Hello!” in addition to “Bon soir!” Corvids are highly intelligent, and, deprived of the company of her peers, this one probably appreciates familiar humans. The robin, on the other hand, was agitated at first but settled down at last and even began pecking rather peevishly (or nervously) at what was left of its food.
Enchanted by the talking crow, J. decided to try to get video of her speaking. She had burst out several times while we watched her, but the moment he pulled out his camera and set it to video, she clammed up — just like a child. Part of her stubborn silence may have been because the crow whisperer had left.
After noting that the third floor is closed off and mysteriously labeled a “private residence” (I imagined ghosts), I left J. with his new friend so I could use the ladies’ room. Next to the stairs are photos and explanations about baby and juvenile animals, which suggest that they be left alone. Pinkie squirrels can be returned to the base of the nearest tree, where the mother can retrieve them, and helpless robins returned to the nest if possible. Otherwise, what appear to be baby animals should be left untouched; they have not been abandoned and may even be in the transition phase from parental care to independence. I had asked the first woman if they’d gotten out of animal rehab for space reason or for philosophical ones. She said it was mostly the latter; people would bring in young animals of common species that should have been left alone (like the goldfinch fledgling). The second woman told us that 80 percent or more of animals brought to such places had been ripped from their homes by well-meaning, concerned people who didn’t know that they weren’t orphans.
I asked about places to walk, so she gave me a Cook County Forest Preserve District map and sketched roughly where the trails are, describing where they lead.
I waited outside for J. and checked out the wildflower and butterfly garden. Two tiger swallowtails were engaged in an epic battle or courtship — it’s hard to tell in animals or people — while a brilliant male goldfinch flitted among the lower branches of the trees.
We followed the left-hand path and walked through the woods along the Des Plaines River for perhaps three quarters of a mile, then came out and walked back along the street. J. is not used to the woods, and the mosquitoes bothered his inner city slicker. I was bitten several times on the legs, arms, and face, but I was more bothered by sudden bursts of sunlight in my eyes (we were westbound three hours before sundown) and by the little insects that managed to fly up my nose.
I’m not native to Chicago and don’t drive, so the map revealed to me that the forest preserves follow the Des Plaines River and Salt Creek. This explains what I had observed — a number of parks along Harlem Avenue and the lack of cross streets. Now I have seen the Des Plaines River, which is believed to be the travel route of the coyotes that find themselves in places like a Chicago Quiznos. The Des Plaines River connects with the Illinois River, which flows into the Mississippi River, so it is part of an extensive pre-Columbian trade route. In nearly 30 years (gulp!), I’ve found it difficult to warm up to either Chicago or Illinois, but this waterway’s history sounds worth exploration.
After more conversation than I care to go into, we found ourselves at Los Cazadores in Oak Park. I know we’ve been there before because I recognized the colorful paintings of Indian warriors with what appear to be dead, yet nipply maidens. I bet there’s a wonderful story behind them.
On the way to the Flamingo, we stopped at Treasure Island so I could pick up cat litter. First, however, I took J. through the produce section so I could find a cantaloupe that would prove to me that Ignatius (official dimensions: 11.7 cm by 16.2 cm by 13.9 cm) is more substantial than I realize and therefore must be dealt with. I needed the 3D visual, which impressed me and J. August 18: Farewell to Ignatius.
Swallow Cliff Woods and Lake Katherine
J. called me unexpectedly Saturday with an idea. Last year we’d talked about being more active on our outings, and he’d found something outdoors that interested him — he’d seen an announcement that the toboggan run at Swallow Cliff Woods is to be torn down. Although he never used it, he remembers the run from his childhood and wanted to see it again.
The tearing down of many old buildings in his area upsets J. I understand why, although I point out to him that people are free to do what they like with their property, and nostalgic is not equivalent to historic. Unless a Civil War sniper used the run’s tower as a base to influence a battle outcome, or Abraham Lincoln slept there, it’s just a toboggan run. Even the town in which Swallow Cliff Woods is located can’t save it. I’m sure much of what I loved best about Western New York of the 1960s is gone. I take some comfort in knowing that nothing but time, age, or disease can rob me of my memories.
During the drive, I was reminded of why the south suburbs have grown on me — they are not yet overdeveloped. That this will happen is inevitable, and the signs are there, like a bulldozed field and a developer’s sign across the road from a farmhouse and barn. On the other hand, the Forest Preserve District of Cook County Web site claims that it owns 67,800 acres, or 11 percent of the land in Cook County. Much of that space, like Swallow Cliff Woods, are in the south and southwest suburbs.
It had rained earlier, the sky was overcast, and there was very little spring green in evidence, but for me it’s lovely to be in the woods at any season.
Of course, to get to the woods you must climb the stairs up the hill to the top of the toboggan run. My left knee hated it, my lower back agreed with my knee, and my cardiovascular system let me know that it hadn’t been prepared properly. I took several breathers even as older people passed me. J. beat me to the top and documented my labors in photographs. He wondered about the haul down later; I told him that the descent would be easy.
At the top we spoke to a couple who are about our age. The man recalled using the run as a child in the 1960s, and the quickness and terror of the initial drop. Still panting, I thought about how thousands of children must have climbed the steps effortlessly, over and over.
The man said the reason given for the destruction is cost, although he seemed skeptical. His wife, more practical, pointed out that the Forest Preserve District probably pays expensive insurance premiums. This observation didn’t mollify the men, but they didn’t dispute it. We also discussed the unpredictability of employment, as snow is very irregular in this area.
As we talked, a number of people walked up the steps; a few made repeat trips. We had noticed piles of pebbles and rocks on the stone ledges; the man explained that regulars use the stairs for exercise and track the cumulative number of trips with these rocks. He said that he and his wife are among these regulars, sometimes making five round trips, sometimes three. Often they bring their dog, who is “more interested in the woods than in the stairs. Can’t imagine why.” Later, as we were descending, we observed a determined man with nearly white hair make two round trips without showing any signs of tiring or quitting.
We had some time before sunset, so we walked one-quarter to one-half mile down a wide trail in the woods — wide enough for the horses whose droppings we stepped around. At one point, I heard a dense chorus of chirps that didn’t sound quite like birds or insects; it may have come from frogs, although I don’t know. Alas, I’ve never had much opportunity to develop my woodcraft skills.
During the return, the woods seemed quieter except for the regular roar of jets on their final descent into Midway Airport. In the relative silence, we heard the very loud drilling of a somewhat distant woodpecker. It’s a sound that never fails to thrill me.
J. spotted a tree next to the trail that had two thin trunks of a different bark growing around it. These trunks, which seemed to have clumps of “hair,” looked parasitic to my uneducated eye. I had a strangely emotional reaction to them, a primitive one of horror, as though I were seeing more than a woody plant (or parasite) embracing (or strangling) a tree. I shuddered inwardly while J. took photos for reference in case I wanted to figure out what it is.
In the car while we were debating where to eat, I spotted a sign about a “Lake Katherine Nature Center and Botanic Gardens.” J. backtracked a bit. We walked around this area in the dusk light, observing mallards and a lone swan, probably a trumpeter.
From the neatness of its shores, I judged Lake Katherine to be manmade. The lake, fed by miniature waterfalls, and the surrounding nature preserve consists of 125 acres that began with open space reclaimed by Palos Heights in 1985.
Near the waterfalls, J. noted a sign warning against going onto the little island midstream, which is inhabited by northern watersnakes. While these snakes are not venomous, according to the sign their bite can cause significant bleeding. As if that were not enough to deter the more macho and determined adventurers, the sign writer added that disturbed watersnakes will poop and vomit. J. knew that the triple threat of blood loss and snake poop and vomit was not enough to stop me, but the growing darkness and the unsure footing on small, slippery rocks in the water were. I leaned forward for a while and peered into the misty dimness, willing northern watersnakes to appear. They didn’t.
A peaceful place, Lake Katherine and its grounds are marred only by the electric towers that loom against the southern sky. In the fading light, with mist rising thickly from the water’s surface, I could try to imagine the towers and all that they represent away.
We undid any benefits conferred by the exercise by eating at an Italian family restaurant, beginning with onion rings (my strange craving) and a combination plate of mushrooms and mozzarella and zucchini sticks, a Blue Moon Belgian White and fetuccine alfredo for me, and a soft drink and tortellini for J.
Stuffed (and carrying lots of leftovers), we came here, drank coffee infused with blueberries, and pretended not to ache.