Butterflies at Chicago Botanic Garden
Tag Archives: forest preserves
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.
Owl Prowl at Thorn Creek Woods Nature Preserve
Last Friday a Thorn Creek Woods Nature Center volunteer left me a voicemail that that evening’s Owl Prowl was off due to rain, postponed to the 16th. As we talked to our guide and others, we learned it wasn’t the rain so much as the result of it — muddy, slippery trail conditions, especially as part of the trail passes through a floodplain.
The volunteers had quite a spread of materials, from handouts to illustrated bird books open to pages about the species we were to hope to hear and/or see — the eastern screech owl, the barred owl, and the great horned owl.
We waited a while for latecomers and no shows. As we were about to set off, a couple with a teenage daughter said she wasn’t feeling well and they’d have to drop out. From the look of her, either she had cramps (I know the feeling), or she’d watched one too many gory horror movies set in the woods and didn’t think setting out on a hike at twilight with a bunch of strangers was a good idea. With our leader and trailer, there were about 14 of us. Surely only the most observant of owls would notice us!
It was past sunset when we did set out. Our guide tried to teach us to use our peripheral vision to look ahead, yet spot trail obstacles like tree roots, fallen trunks or branches, and steps, as well as to look beyond the most prominent foreground objects in the waning light, to use three-dimensional vision to see in the distance in the growing darkness. That I could do, but I couldn’t keep my head and my eyes directed up. Even with looking down in daylight and seeing everything clearly, I tend to walk trippingly — and I’m still plagued by a fear of falling while walking. I did try, though.
At a second stop, our guide tried to show us how to walk more quietly {“stalk” Native American style) by putting the outside ball of the foot down first rather than the heel and rolling the foot in. I tried this, too, slightly more successfully if not consistently. It’s tiring if you’re not used to it, as she pointed out. I also found it’s hard to coordinate all these different ways of doing things — stalking with head up, using peripheral vision, looking into the distance while being aware of the immediate surroundings and obstacles. I’m afraid I lapsed quickly into my usual head-down shuffle. No matter — neither the owls nor anyone else in the woods was fooled.
At one point, most of us heard a branch snap to the right, which we agreed must have been a deer. J. began whispering that there’d been news about eight escaped convicted killers — as though that would make me nervous.
At one point, J. and I are certain we heard a “hoo hoo” or something similar in the distance, although our leader had not. I looked up and around and took in the tangle of branches, leaves, and mysterious shapes against the sky, which seemed brighter than I would have expected, but didn’t see any owl shapes or movements. When we stopped, our leader would do a fair impression of owl calls, but if any owls were about they weren’t fooled into giving up what they were doing to return the calls. I was reminded of a visit to Starved Rock State Park earlier this year. While I was waiting along the trail for J., out of the near silence a great horned owl (I think) began to call from a spot not far off. After several calls, spaced widely apart, they ended as abruptly as they’d begun. I couldn’t have told you the distance or direction; they seemed to be disembodied in the stillness.
As we walked I noticed my night vision is not as good as I remember — but then my memory could be faulty. At a few points, not always in the thickest or darkest patches of woods, I began to be overcome by a feeling of panic because I couldn’t see anything and of vertigo, that the world was tilting and that I was going to lose my balance. Blind and unbalanced — just what you want to be when walking in the woods and over narrow boardwalks and bridges in the dark.
We had been asked not to bring flashlights, which would disrupt our night vision. Our leader and trailer each carried one for emergency use only. That’s why I was surprised when now and then I seemed to see a bit of light coming from behind me, just a flash, enough to help me get or keep my bearings or to see the person in front of me. At times these flashes or hints of light seemed like the disorienting visual tricks that sometimes accompany a migraine, and they made me feel almost queasy.
We walked back relatively quickly and noisily, with many calls of “step!” and “tree root!” for the benefit of those behind. Despite the difficulty I had seeing at times and the resulting disorientation, I was amazed by how bright the sky remained nearly two hours after sunset but before moonrise, which would have been obscured by the cloud cover anyway.
After coffee and cookies and just as we were about to leave, we learned what had really happened to the preserve’s north bridge, which is out and is being rebuilt. I’d assumed that it had become rickety and precarious with time and weather; even now, the remaining south bridge exhibits unevenness and a disturbing tilt. It came up in conversation that the north bridge had been in better shape than its sibling and was being replaced only because someone using tools had systematically dismantled it. One young woman with blue-streaked hair exclaimed grimly, “They’re lucky I didn’t see them because I’d have killed them.” That seemed to be the universal sentiment. I’m trying to imagine what nasty impulse could have prompted such a destructive outburst of energy, which had to have been carefully planned, coordinated, and executed. The perpetrators haven’t been identified.
If only the owls, deer, coyotes, and other animals could talk. I assume they can’t use tools.
After running a quick errand in Park Forest, we settled down to a late dinner at the Chicago Dough Company — not pizza this time, just sandwiches. What a relief. I’m ashamed to say I could not have taken one more step.
Thorn Creek Woods Nature Center and Preserve, Will County, Illinois
Ah, spring. It’s almost in the air. When I noticed trees starting to bud, I checked on my favorite horse chestnut, which last year had turned brown in early August as the result of a fungal infection that plagues its kind. It lives, or at least buds.
On Saturday, the 9th, the weather promised to be spring-like, with a high in the 70s. It didn’t start out very promising, though, being chilly and gray for much of the morning. I decided to trust the forecast.
I took the train, but this time didn’t get off at the Homewood station. I stayed on until the end of the line, University Park. Long ago I somehow associated the “University” part with the University of Chicago — I didn’t get out enough, clearly — but on this day realized that the town and station are named for the nearby Governors State University campus.
After passing through a number of urbanized suburbs (the type that don’t look much different from a city neighborhood), I wasn’t expecting University Park, although I should have. It’s at about this point south where one can still find remnants of farms and swatches of open space. The University Park Metra station is hedged only by its parking lots, roads, and fields.
J. met me at the station, and we did a quick driving tour of Governors State. I wondered if there were any coffee shops on campus because there weren’t any anywhere else nearby. Like most suburban campuses, Governors State was designed for driving, not walking or cycling. On our way in, a giant Paul Bunyan dominated the otherwise empty field to our left. At one juncture, a sprawling metal thing perched atop an elevation, less impressive for its form than for its size and positioning.
Our destination was Thorn Creek Woods Nature Center and Preserve, probably the first Will County forest preserve I’ve been to (J. had walked around it one summer evening some time ago). The center is in a Lutheran church build in 1862. Aside from plain white partitions that form a hallway square around the central area where the congregation would have sat, the missing pews, and a brighter color scheme, it’s supposed to be well preserved. It’s authentic enough to lack indoor plumbing; the chatty volunteer pointed me to the portable toilet in the parking lot that everyone, including staff, uses.
The most striking features are the elevated pulpit in the wall and the rounded ceiling. She explained that the stairs were hidden, which I suspect created the effect of the minister appearing mysteriously from nowhere. Even a 19th-century rural minister can have a touch of the conjurer about him.
We bought T-shirts and walking sticks, and J. entered a raffle for gift baskets in addition to making a donation. The volunteer seemed surprised and pleased by his generosity.
As she told us before and after our walk, it was a perfect day for it. While it was 48º F in Hyde Park, it was 67º F and sunny in Matteson. I’d overdressed.
The terrain here is uneven, with the creek cutting through, and trees grow in odd shapes at odd angles to the ground, or so they appear to when denuded of their foliage. Woodpeckers and other birds flitted about elusively. I can imagine how lovely this place must be in the early summer, when the leaves and the air are still fresh, and the biting insects haven’t quite hit their peak.
Partway along, the trail splits a stand of stately pines, looking like a religious-themed greeting card in the mid- to late afternoon sun. I think I’d read that they had been planted by a farmer.
All around the pine stand and what the volunteer called the salamander pond was the sound of what she’d said are chorus frogs. While prominent, the sound wasn’t deafening or even very loud, making me think of dozens rather than of hundreds or thousands. Often I wonder what these areas were like 500, 400, 300, 200 years ago, before farms and Lutheran churches.
Beyond the pines and pond is a larger body, Owl Lake, which also would be even more beautiful on a summer’s day or early evening.
I’d read in 60 Hikes within 60 Miles of Chicago that Thorn Creek doesn’t get a lot of traffic, which doesn’t surprise me as the population density is low, and the preserve doesn’t offer the the unique features and marvels that make destinations of Starved Rock and Matthiessen State Parks in LaSalle County. We encountered a handful of people on the trail, and a young couple parked and walked in as we were getting ready to leave. They’re regulars; the volunteer, also departing, waved to them and mentioned she knew them.
The best character, however was the man, in his thirties, who was heading out as we were heading in. He was walking quickly and joylessly, ear buds planted in his ears with raucous, percussive noise blasting loud enough for me to hear it from 10 or more feet away. There, I thought, goes a man who knows how to appreciate the peace of Thorn Creek — or a busy construction site.
I hadn’t eaten much, so pizza at Chicago Dough Company sounded especially good, as did the pizza-dough appetizers and the pizza-dough cinnamon stick desserts. Who knew that pizza dough could be so versatile!
Thorn Creek Nature Preserve
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.
Settlers Day and Thanksgiving week (plus) in review
In his travels, J. had spotted a sign for Settlers Day at Sand Ridge Nature Center in South Holland, so off we went last Sunday, the 22nd. Traditionally, this event is held the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
Settlers Day is a little hard to describe. We missed most of the planned activities, which I’d guess were geared toward families. When we arrived, we checked out a wall of photos from the event 35 years ago, featuring Girl Scouts and the dual names of the now-married women. The photos looked familiar — the glasses, the hair, the way the color had faded — and I told J. that those girls are now about our age, give or take a year or two. It struck me again how like a lifetime ago that period seems to me, yet sometimes how like the most vital part of my life.
Much of the visitor center’s back room was devoted to vendors, including wildlife photographer Joe Nowak. I bought an amazing pencil holder from his neighbor while a horde of little beasts delved into crafts at a long series of tables across the way.
Outdoors several tents and stands had been set up. At one, people dressed in what seemed to be an odd mix of Revolutionary War-era garb were roasting long spits speared through numerous birds over a pit, while pots in another pit simmered with what one man, obviously not the cook, thought were succotash and other vegetables.
For some reason, nothing else grabbed me until I arrived at the Civil War, a small display of replica guns (with one original, a carbine), shells, balls, swords, Bowie knives, and paraphernalia such as binoculars. And, of course, hard tack. One of the men was talking to a boy about balls, cannons, canisters, and the like, so I suggested he describe the virtues of hard tack. When he mentioned weevils floating to the top of the coffee in which the hard tack had been dipped, the boy scrunched his face and turned away. A few harmless insects were more horrifying than all those mangled and severed limbs and decapitated heads.
I found that these guys described the horrors of war with great relish, gloating over the technological advancements that made it possible to maim and kill more and more men in more and more terribly efficient ways. He described the effects of canisters with tremendous enthusiasm, as well as the effects of soft lead bullets on bone; instead of breaking cleanly, which could be set, the bone shattered or split along its length — hence, as he pointed out, the necessity to resort to amputation.
While I was there, I checked out three rehabilitated red-tailed hawks in a nearby cage and heard the story of how a female with a damaged wing escaped, crawling along the ground until a staff person nabbed her with a sweatshirt. I know why the caged bird doesn’t fly.
As the program was being shut down, we went for a very brief walk and discovered tombstones along the trail — part of the day’s “wagon train hikes.”
And so, after some fruitless driving around and discussion, we backtracked and ate at Outback.
For Thanksgiving I roasted a 2.75-pound turkey breast and steamed/heated a few basics, while J. caught up on sleep during Some Like It Hot. I am pleased to report that, to date, no one has fallen ill, not even Hodge, who knocked over the trash so he could lick the turkey breast package.
Saturday the 28th dawned in the 30s, but heated up into the unseasonably warm 50s. At last we made it to Lincoln Marsh in Wheaton. The people who live nearby are fortunate to have this perfect spot for walking, with a bike path at hand. Within moments of heading down the trail, I regretted not bringing binoculars as I watched birds flit in the trees and bushes ahead.
Lincoln Marsh is not big, which I think made it feel manageable to J. He was fascinated b y the rustling of the grasses in the wind and other small sounds that are now out of the range of my damaged hearing, so I left him behind to enjoy them. Except for the occasional passing train or jet overhead, the area is surprisingly quiet, with very little ambient traffic noise — quite the idyllic spot, lovely even in the starkness of late fall.
I came to a place at the water’s edge across from which a pair of mallards was floating. The moment I sat, the pair changed course and set sail straight for me. My guess is that some visitors ignore the “do not feed the wildlife” rules. I’m not one of them, so my disappointed ducks had to resort to dabbling in the water.
Another duck had hit the water further out with a splash, then had started to quack harshly, sounding very like Burgess Meredith as the Penguin in the old Batman TV series. The original pair seemed startled by her abrupt arrival. By the time J. caught up with me, they had disappeared into the offshore grasses. I was whispering this to him and wondering what had become of the third duck when a mighty row of splashing and quacking broke out from the direction of the offshore grasses. It sounded like quite an altercation, and I half-expected a duck corpse or two to float out belly up at any moment. Gradually, all three reappeared, alive and well, the pair still inseparable and the third putting distance between herself and them. I couldn’t help anthropomorphizing based on what I’d observed — the second female was obviously a spurned mistress, desperately making one last attempt to break up her lover’s union. But the first female was standing (swimming) by her man, who was undoubtedly horrified that he’d ever let that harridan into their lives. Their discomfort at her arrival was palpable, and the tussle in the grasses sounded fierce. It was not an amicable split.
And you thought all ducks have to worry about are a few predators and guys with guns.
I spotted a woodpecker in the trees, but while I was trying futilely to take a photo, both J. and I heard an insistent tapping above us. Overhead, a second woodpecker intently pecked at some small upper branches. Walkers who came along paused as J. took photos, but even when they moved on apologetically, the bird remained unfazed and unmoved, ignoring all of us. When I moved around to the other side, I felt dead wood detritus raining on my head and face. At last the woodpecker flew off, but not because it had deigned to notice us.
Time was running out, so we walked to a nearby overlook with a little dock below — as it turned out, the perfect place from which to take photos of the sunset over the water. Two jet streams were being etched in the deepening blue of the sky overhead, while long, wispy pink clouds were reflected nearly perfectly in the marsh’s still waters. How could anything like holiday shopping and bustle compare to this moment at this place, where one could almost imagine the world when it was younger and less spoiled?
After a detour (closed roads having become a suburban feature here), we went to downtown Wheaton, making stops at It’s Our Earth, Graham’s Chocolates, and La Spiaza. This last is a Spanish café where the menu is written on the cabinets in chalk, and a bumper sticker says, “Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” The cream and other necessities are arrayed on a vintage stovetop, artwork hangs on the walls, and coffee quotations adorn the privy. The young woman at the counter was friendly, helpful, and quirky, there’s live music on weekends, and the lighting bright enough to offset the early dark of November. I liked it.
At some point, I had observed that Geneva is 11 miles west of Wheaton. Little did I know that J., prompted by a co-worker, had developed a burning desire to visit Geneva. After a detour for photos of the old Wheaton courthouse (now Courthouse Square townhouses and condos) and a little back-and-forth (“Are you sure?”), we were on the way to Geneva, which, from the east, is at the bottom of what is called a hill in Illinois. Geneva looks like the quintessential Christmastown, USA, with frame house-like shops on streets decorated for the holidays. Outside one was an old, heavy-framed bicycle like the one my dad rescued from a junkyard when I was four or five years old, covered with large, softly muted vintage or vintage-style lights. For the nostalgic who remember Christmas less for shopping and more for the festive atmosphere, places like Wheaton and Geneva seem to be havens of respite.
Our first stop here was at the Graham’s café, which offered an opportunity to get another cup of pumpkin ice cream. When J. observed my choice, he bought me a pint for later. Mmm.
A man came in with two boys, who started to run up the stairs to the second floor with their goodies. Dad, who must have had a back or leg injury, told them to come back. “I don’t think I can make it up there,” he said. The second boy paused in his upward flight to say, “That’s okay; you can stay down here.” I did not catch Dad’s response, probably because he didn’t seem to have one. While he contemplated the independence of his young sons, we ate our ice cream by the unlit fireplace and admired the little touches that made the room interesting, like the tile patterns painted in the corners. I wonder if those two boys, and the other children and teenagers, will recall Graham’s fondly when they children of their own, and whether such places — combination contemporary café with WiFi/ice cream and sweet shop — will be around in 20 years. I wonder this because I’m guessing that so little of anything I remember remains, whether chain or family-owned shop.
We found Graham’s Chocolates a few houses down. I didn’t opt for a third pumpkin ice cream, but I did pick up a few more peanut butter cups. J. did, too, because later he told me how good they are. I could not agree more! I sense that there will be a second trip to Geneva in the future.
I hinted that a third visit to Bavarian Lodge would work for me. I think it’s the beer varieties that keep drawing me back. Our server from two weeks ago, he of the slyly left dessert menu, recognized us. He pointed out the irony of a German menu whose only soups were devoid of meat; he always has a comment. This time, he couldn’t talk us into dessert, even to go, although J. relented and asked for the menu, then didn’t order anything. Each of us is getting better about this. It’s unfortunate that our waistlines and scales aren’t rewarding our restraint (or attempts at it).
And so home, and home.
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.