On Thursday after work and a brief trip to the dentist, I met JT after work for Wine and Wildflowers at Lincoln Park Zoo, a garden party to benefit Garfield Park Conservatory. While waiting, I amused myself by watching these great black wasps among the flowers.
Gallery
I celebrated the descent into the second half of a century quite appropriately by developing debilitating back spasms last week. Jodi, the health center nurse practitioner, told me that it wouldn’t have taken a great strain to send my back over the edge. Indeed, the spasms began about six hours after I’d vacuumed and replaced a chair mat. And my mother didn’t believe that housework was bad for the health. I know better now.
Since last Wednesday, I’ve woken up, rolled out of bed in the approved way, and felt the spasms kick in immediately. I get it. My back doesn’t tolerate standing. Walking and sitting are all right most of the time, but my back doesn’t take to waiting for buses, stopping to admire museum or other exhibits, or washing dishes (yes, the old-fashioned way). I’m guessing vacuuming is on the same list, although I’m going to to have do a manual override on that preference. Life goes on, just not without pain that remains undaunted by prescription ibuprofen and muscle relaxant.
On this day I met JT at Lincoln Park Zoo, where we were treated to an insider’s view of the Nature Boardwalk, from native flowers and other plants to fish and birds. I would have loved every moment except for the acute, nonstop protest from my lumbar region against the slow pace and the stops to smell the roses (really, to admire the cone flower and other wildflowers). By lunch time, I was ready for a prolonged sit down.
Just before we started the walk, we’d observed a trumpeter swan pursue and peck at a tiny family of tiny ducklings. One even went under to escape the wrath of swan.
If you haven’t seen the boardwalk yet, I encourage you to add it to your walking list. While it’s still scraggly in its youth, it’s quite lovely, and if you’re careful and observant you’ll catch native beauties like the purple cone flower and eerie, otherworldly sounds like the call of what we think is a least bittern hidden under all the foliage. To the impatient jogger who gave us a brusque warning as she flew by — maybe you should worry less about your physique and more about your spiritual well-being and social skills. Are you surprised enough to be annoyed when people are casually strolling the Nature Boardwalk? Did you notice It’s not called the Nature Jogging Path? But shouldn’t complain. I’m glad that I don’t work with you and your Type A self-importance.
After lunch on the Patio at Cafe Brauer, my back finally decided to relax a bit (unlike the jogger), so we visited the gorillas, three of whom had ventured outside on this pleasant, overcast, slightly cool day. After a while, they all headed in. Perhaps they had heard something.
At the Brach Primate House, baby white-cheeked gibbon Sai demonstrated his increasing independence, leaving Burma’s clutch to practice his swinging skills. She’s more willing to let him go now, even ignoring him while she focused on grooming Caruso.
Remember “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”? They also sleep during the day. They are also more advanced in years than I am, so they’re entitled to their cat naps.
The European white stork was huddled in the nest, which it’s close to outgrowing. Human children who are said to “grow up so fast” have nothing on most birds, including storks.
In the McCormick Bird House, the black-winged stilts appear to be nesting. The tawny frogmouths look like they haven’t moved since January. The snowy egret fluffed his handsome plumes as he took care of an itch. In the free-flight area, we saw some newcomers, including a pheasant and a pheasant pigeon. I was reminded of the pygmy goose that is really a duck.
At Regenstein African Journey, Maggie the West African dwarf crocodile was out of the water, although with her back turned to her admirers. A pygmy hippo was soaking in the water, at one point displaying an impressive set of teeth. A visitor thought it was a baby. The pygmy doesn’t get the air time on cable that its larger relative does.
And so to RJ Grunts for the tuna trio and a shake.
Not a bad birthday at all.
When you’re working, holiday weekends seem like a good time to get away. And they are, if you’re headed somewhere that isn’t a major draw, like a family reunion — depending on the size of your family. If there’s a place you want to go because you have a little extra time, everyone else wants to go, too. Count on it.
On Sunday evening, we walked through Aurora, Sac, and possibly Kickapoo Canyons at Starved Rock State Park. I say “possibly” because I didn’t see a sign or a distinctive canyon, nor did I know what I was looking for. This evening wasn’t crowded. In an hour and a half or so, we encountered far more mosquitoes than people.
With all the spring rains, the waterfalls at Starved Rock are running, but the trails are muddy, messy, and slippery in places. I gave my new hiking shoes a good workout and found they really are waterproof as long as you don’t step in too deeply. Water balls on the surface, just like on a duck’s back. I felt more grip in the tread and more confident, with less fear of slipping or falling. I slid in the mud a few times, but not as often or as badly as with walking shoes. The confidence level helped, as long as it didn’t blossom into overconfidence. I could focus more on the scenery and less on my fear of falling — that is, until we got to the boardwalk.
We recognized the boardwalk from a previous visit and walked toward St. Louis Canyon as far as the orange cliff we’d seen before that bears the wounds of ungraciously carved graffiti. Perhaps these people consider themselves the modern equivalent of cave artists. It was getting dark in the thicker tree stands, so we turned back,
I noticed the boardwalk had felt slick on the way out, but now it seemed doubly so. Maybe I was tired. J. kept telling me to go slowly, which I did — but not slowly enough. One moment I was Homo erectus; the next, I was Homo flatonmyarseus. I fell in the fine tradition of comedic pratfall; my feet shot up as my butt smacked down. It was the classic banana peel. I would pay to see a video. I scooted over to the edge so I could get traction in the dead leaves and stand up, grateful that no one but the great outdoors and its inhabitants had witnessed my fall from grace — my first at Starved Rock. On a boardwalk. Sigh.
For J., Aurora and Sac didn’t hold quite the same interest as some of the other canyons because you’re walking above them, not in them. I don’t know if there’s a bottom trail, but I should look into it. I liked walking on the bridge that spans the waterfall and looking down at it, almost as though I were the source. I love the sound of the small waterfalls in these small canyons. It’s robust enough to be heard before the falls can be seen, but of course isn’t the deafening solid roar of a monster like Niagara Falls.
The sunset on the Illinois River did captivate him, and a pair of bikers listening to music that hasn’t been on the charts in 30 years.
When I compare the photos from Memorial Day weekend to those from Mother’s Day weekend three weeks earlier, I’m struck by how lush the woods had become. I have it in my head that the midwestern world is in full bloom by early May and am always surprised when the world remains sparse and bleak yet a while longer, until two to three weeks into May.
On Memorial Day, cars circled the Matthiessen State Park parking lot like vultures that can’t find a place to land — it was that packed. Over at Starved Rock, where the road below the lodge was flooded, cars lined the upper approach almost out to the highway, and the lots at the Starved Rock trail heads were full. Everyone was out for the holiday.
At last we found a spot in the lot by Illinois Canyon, which is a lovely walk with a stream running parallel to the trail and until it curls around. Most likely we didn’t make it to the canyon, which I’m guessing would require crossing the stream. We weren’t quite dressed for it, and a girl assured me the water was “c-c-cold.” We did come across a trickle of water running down the rock face like a mini-waterfall tinkling into a tiny lake.
A little way past where the stream curved, a toddler crouched by the water while his father stood nearby and watched him entertain himself by throwing stones into it and playing. If that wasn’t a child’s idyll, I can’t think of what would be. And so much more than staring at or even interacting with electronics. Just sunshine, clouds, water, trees, plants, and stones on a perfect spring day. Even the mosquitoes seemed to hold back in the sunshine.
This time, we ate in Utica at Canal Port. We found the main street through town not just dominated by motorcycles, but completely taken over by them. At are our next stop, Foothills Organics, they told us that’s the norm for the warm weather months. The bikers who weren’t downtown, at Mix’s Trading Post, or cruising the twisty ups and downs of Route 71 had congregated at the gas station off the I-80 exit.
Move over, Marlon Brando.
This has to be the foggiest spring I have seen. When I look out the window at work sometimes I see nothing but a white mist. It reminds me of the “Remember Me” episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Trapped in a warp bubble created by her precocious son, Wesley, Dr. Crusher discovers that her universe is shrinking when on the view screen all she can see is an enveloping blue mist. When I look out and see nothing but that white fog, I feel vaguely disturbed, claustrophobic, and trapped, as though that mist defines the confines of my world. I think I understand “thick as pea soup” now. Of course, it’s even worse when I’m on a plane that’s flying through it. Pilots use instruments, but really how can anyone fly a jet without being able to see all around? I couldn’t manage it emotionally.
That said, May 8 has to have been the most perfect day to date this spring — partly sunny, warmer, not windy — the picture-perfect spring day that, at least in Chicago, rarely happens. A great day for a hike at Starved Rock State Park.
Saturday had not been promising. It was damp, drizzly, and dreary. We’d arrived late in the afternoon and, after a few false stops while driving around, had taken the steps down to the river trail where there’s an old bench overlooking the water and a derelict boat upside down against the shore. The sun made a weak appearance shortly before sunset, but it wasn’t enough to lighten the setting or the mood. We walked until we’d worked out which way we should go to reach Tonti Canyon. It was beyond reach this late in the day, but at least now we were sure to find it. After all this time, I’ve finally (I think) figured out where everything is and how to reach it.
In the parking lot, J. spotted two masked rascals raiding a trash bin in the dusk. As we passed them, they looked at us dolefully, then casually ambled off in different directions. It’s rare that I see a raccoon that isn’t doubling as a roadside pancake.
The next morning looked better, with sunnier skies and more comfortable temperatures. As the morning wore on, puffy clouds broke up the bright blue skies. That’s what spring should be. Chicago just doesn’t have enough days like that.
To get to Tonti Canyon, we followed the same river trail as we did last July 4th on the way to Ottawa and Kaskaskia canyons, this time from a different parking lot, and missing amorous snakes along the way. This is as easy as a path can be except for the tiny but solid stumps sticking straight up that trip up even the wary, like us.
At the point the trail turns inward away from shore, we heard an indescribable noise that sounded like the hum of a mother ship idling. As we crossed a bridge, I realized it was coming from the frog mating frenzy below. Dozens of frogs seemed to be seeking opportunities, although most didn’t appear to be successful with their choices. I wondered about gender disparity. A good-sized dead fish floated along the surface, looking like a sizable snack for any scavengers lucky enough to snare it, for example, a pair of trash-raiding raccoons.
We came to a spot that seemed like a canyon, but with no waterfall. I was so tired that I was ready to quit, but after sitting on a log for a while to recharge I realized that a couple who had passed us with a dog had not returned, making me think (not entirely logically) that they had gone to and hung around the canyon. Then someone coming from that direction told us we needed to go just a little further. I hauled myself up, and we found it one quarter to one third of a mile from the the curve we’d stopped at; the running water we soon heard was a clue.
By this time, it was midday or past — not the best time to photograph water against a bright sky. Tonti sported two waterfalls, facing each other but somewhat offset. The prettier one to the right was on the sunny side, while the other was shadowed. We spent at least 45 to 60 minutes admiring them and taking photographs.
While we were snapping away, two couples appeared who wanted their photos taken. They were from the Netherlands, in Chicago for a medical conference. They’d heard about Starved Rock State Park on the Internet and had decided to spend their free time before the conference there. We saw them on the way back near the bridge, and in the water along the trail some turtles trying to sunbathe.
Along the river J. saw a “big earthworm” that he said was worth walking back a bit to take a peek at. I did, and he was half right — it was worth a look, even if it wasn’t an earthworm. Instead, it was a millipede, the first one I’ve seen in nature, looking a little worse for the wear. It wasn’t dead, as I thought; when I touched it with a twig, it reflexively curled around it. J. tried to take a photo, but it was too squirmy suspended in air, and I didn’t want it to plummet to the ground. I deposited it in a shaded, damp-looking area covered with leaf litter next to the path, away from the warm sun and any tramping feet — ideal habitat for a millipede.
We stopped at Mix’s Trading Post, which had become a hub of activity. I’d never seen so many motorcycles parked there before or so many people inside. I wanted to get a pair of moccasins. I soon found that my feet are too wide for any of the women’s styles, so sat on a chair in the aisle and experimented with the men’s varieties. I settled on the driving moccasins — also comfortable for walking, the blurb noted. J. pointed out the guard cat on a nearby seat, which the proprietor said is meant for the customers to use when trying on shoes. Catrina doesn’t care. She didn’t let being petted disturb her nap much, either. I’m skeptical about her efficacy as a guard animal.
We would have stopped briefly at Foothills Organics, but they appeared to be closed, perhaps for Mother’s Day.
And so, after a dinner stop at R Place in Morris, we came back to a world in which there are no waterfalls, only photographs and memories.
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!
Composition, details, colors, etc. — all amazing.
