Yes, yes, we're surrounded by beautiful singing migratory birds. But where's the love for those that never leave?Read More
Nature is funny.
Which is not to suggest that we have any shortage of very serious, heartrending concerns that we must discuss and confront. That includes nature-related issues like climate change, species extinctions, pollinator declines, and habitat loss, and it most certainly also includes the human-related tragedies that took our breaths away this past week.
Still, nature is funny. And surely those crises only make it more poignant and important for us to revel in the beauty, wonder, and diversity of the natural world. At the very least doing so provides a respite from the world's turmoil; at best, it reminds us of our better angels and the great good that fills this world.
Really, is there any better response to the threats facing the natural world than to laugh and clown around as Katya Spiecker did when a Great Arctic butterfly seemed to mistake her for its host plant?
And how else should we respond when a bear sticks out its tongue at us? Or looks like it might be peeing on its cub?
Should we pretend it's not humorous at all that a squirrel can grab a cone, spread its "wings," and soar through the air like it just don't care?
What about when we look around our towns and trails right now and see the vibrant reds, purples, yellows, and other colors of native wildflowers: Should we not smile at the grand design of this little world of ours? And when one of those flowers looks like a cow’s head, and another like a long stick with elephant heads shooting out in all directions—what then? Aren't we somehow duty-bound to admire and laugh at nature's wondrous oddities?
The fact that there exists a big, slow, tree-climbing rodent with 30,000 quills—is that not funny in and of itself? What about when this so-called poky rabbit appears to flirt with us, yellow teeth be damned?
And when a Red-winged Blackbird's very survival appears to depend on the way the wind blows, surely a little mirth is in order?
Should I go on? Because I could. Along with funny photos (please post your own)—we all have funny nature stories. The mouse that jumped on Mom and made her squeal. The horror and regret on the face of a kid who swallowed a chokecherry. The sight of an eagle swooping down to steal the trout right off the line (heard that one just the other day).
When I’m out hiking, I see people laughing and pointing and having a grand ol’ time. Scientific research shows that being in nature is healthy; it helps us relax; it makes us feel good. Those studies seem to be chipping away at the edge of the real story: that we crave wild nature so profoundly because it is our beginning and our end, the very essence of who and what we are as animals on this earth.
Now, I know, seeing the humor in nature won’t erase climate change or end racism, or save our thousands of endangered species. But it can remind us how much we love the living world—and why it’s worth preserving that world for the young ones of this generation and those to come.
There’s a thin line between an ambitious project and an impossible one, and two years ago when I started writing my nature guide about Central Oregon plants and animals, I was on the wrong side of that line.
The idea seemed simple enough: I wanted to write the nature guide I’d always wanted to read. It would explain, in jargon-free language, how to identify the area’s plants and animals. It’d also tell folks exactly where to find species—not just in “riparian areas,” but at which specific parks and trails. And it’d be a fun read, full of information and stories that would make readers laugh and help them connect with the species they see along the trail.
That was the idea, but carrying it out alone was impossible. I’m a writer, not a professional naturalist. Like every other Oregonian, I know a thing or two about the outdoors and the plants and animals we have here in Central Oregon, but I couldn’t possibly describe hundreds of species, tell you where to find them, and provide local insights. Not in one lifetime.
Oh, and let’s not forget the photos: Nature guides are all about the photos. To identify birds, wildflowers, and other species, you have to see them. And to make the book appealing, the photos need to be in full color and of professional quality. I could write all the fancy prose I wanted; if the photos didn’t exist or weren’t engaging, nobody would pick up the book.
Did I mention I’m not a photographer either?
Clearly, I needed help. Lots and lots of help. So I started making cold-calls and sending out pleading emails. The first photographer I spoke with asked dozens of questions and talked with me for an hour, then said he wouldn’t donate any photos. And the worst part was that his decision was perfectly understandable—he’s a professional, his time and equipment is expensive, and how could he be sure the book would be as high-quality as his photos? It made sense, but it was also a potentially devastating blow. What if everyone saw things the same way? I couldn’t blame anyone for not wanting to be involved, but I also couldn’t create the book without their help.
Thankfully most of the photographers I spoke with saw things through a different lens (so to speak). Soon after that first refusal, I ran into Sunriver photographer John Williams on a Deschutes Land Trust hike, and he didn’t hesitate to offer up hundreds of his gorgeous photos, more than 60 of which eventually ended up in the book.
Then came more photographers. Greg Burke, Bruce Jackson, Mike Putnam—all well-known, professional photographers—each agreed to donate some of their photos. Ditto M.A. Willson, Kevin Smith, Alice Doggett, Susan Berger, Kim Elton, Jon Nelson, Chuck Gates, Tom Lawler, Carolyn Waissman … and more than 30 other photographers, most of them based in Central Oregon.
Yes, some mentioned that having their photos in my book would be good publicity, but my sense is that they also believed in the cause. You don’t get up at four in the morning to set up your camera and capture the light slanting just right across a field of wildflowers if you don’t have a deep and abiding love for the natural environment—one you want to share with others.
As more and more photographers signed on, I still had the problem of creating and editing the content. Over many months, I read dozens of articles and books so I could write with some knowledge about every species. But I still needed the help of local naturalists.
Here, I have to say I did not hear a single no. If anything, I’ve found that if you ask a naturalist—and I’m talking about college professors, Oregon Department of Fish & Wildlife employees, birders, botanists, foresters, and more—about a species they’re interested in, you’re liable to learn far more than would fit in any nature guide. These are experts who have spent decades thinking about, observing, researching, and writing about specific flora and fauna, as well as how it all works together. If anything, they seemed relieved to have a non-expert who was so deeply interested in learning from them.
In all, more than 30 naturalists contributed to the book. Along with providing information, stories, and anecdotes, several reviewed every word that I wrote on specific topics. For instance, Ron Halvorson, who spent over 30 years with the Bureau of Land Management, reviewed more than a hundred pages of copy about trees, shrubs, bunchgrasses, and wildflowers. And he didn’t just go through it once—I lost count, but probably he reviewed every section at least five times. That would explain why I exchanged over 250 emails with him over six months.
Another example: I cold-called Alan St. John, who literally wrote the book on Central Oregon amphibians and reptiles. Within minutes, we were swapping stories about the challenges of writing books—already his humility and generosity were showing through, as he’s a skilled and established writer of local books, and indeed his Oregon’s Dry Side is the best book available about central and eastern Oregon.
Fast-forward a couple months, and Alan had provided all the amphibian and reptile photos I needed for the book, as well as details about where to find each one. And he reviewed and painstakingly corrected every mistake I made. Fast-forward a few more months, and Al and his wife and I were sharing dinner at Spork on Bend’s west side. Such is the beauty of working in what’s still a relatively small community.
When I started The Nature of Bend, I thought of it as my love letter to Central Oregon. Two years later, I am humbled to say “my book” is “our book,” and it’s a love letter to the people as well as the plants and animals of this area. It’s a beautiful guide to the life of this region, created through the combined efforts of dozens of people who have proven that Central Oregon is richer in far more than just its flora and fauna.
The book's not even out (it will be on Wed., June 8!) and already I'm hearing the questions:
- So you're not a wildlife biologist?
- Are you a botanist?
- Wait, so how long have you lived here?
The implication is clear: If you're "just" a writer and have no nature-related degrees or even the credibility of being a lifelong resident, how could you possibly be an expert on Central Oregon's plants and animals?
The simple answer is that I'm not an expert. So when I get those skeptical questions, I have to take a deep breath, raise my chin, and reply with pride: I'm an amateur.
Why do I say that like it's a good thing? Because the word "amateur" means "one who has a taste for something." It's derived from the Latin amatorem ("lover of"). So when I say I'm an amateur naturalist, I'm saying that I'm a lover of nature—and I look forward to remaining exactly that the rest of my life.
As to whether an amateur naturalist can write a nature guide (shouldn't that be left to the experts?), consider that one of the best nature writers in the business is Diane Ackerman, an English professor with four degrees (!) not in biology or enivronmental science but in English and creative writing.
Or think of Mary Roach (author of Stiff and Bonk and others), who writes bestsellers filled with research and scientific studies—and yet has no scientific degree or any particular qualifications beyond being curious and a writer and somebody who lived for a time in a trailer next to Gorilla World at the San Francisco Zoo.
Now, I'm no Diane Ackerman or Mary Roach. And of course there are also scientists like Alan St. John (see note below) who write glorious nature books. But I would argue that the key ingredient isn't "expertise" (in quotes because experts tend to be humble folks who recognize they don't know it all and will forever be learning—that's why they already know so much).
Rather, I believe the key ingredient is love, followed closely by curiosity. Whether you're in love with a person or with the combustion engine, you'll look closely, ask lots and lots of questions, and get to know your subject so well that you may eventually decide to tell the world all about what you've learned so far.
Or at least you might tell your friends, and maybe the four other people who buy your book. Because you're an amateur, and you're in love, and that's enough.
Correction: I assumed incorrectly about Alan St. John. He's such a good naturalist that I assumed he had advanced scientific degrees. As it turns out, he too is a proud amateur.
My dog used to drag me around to different trails all over Central Oregon so she could smell new things while I plodded along on my weekly runs. But my pup passed away last year, so this spring I've been running in one place over and over: Shevlin Park.
I think of Shevlin as Bend's version of Portland's Forest Park. It's nowhere near as large as FP, but for a close-in natural area with lots of trails, gorgeous views, and diverse flora and fauna, it's tough to beat.
On one run early this spring, I heard a branch break up on the eastern ridge and spied a female elk. I held still and she gave me maybe 10 seconds of her time before returning to her climb. What a beauty she was!
In early May I was jogging along thinking of my mom (gone, like my dog) when I stumbled across a couple does. One stotted off, but the other stopped not 20 feet from the trail, looking at me with her mule-like ears raised. When I started walking, assuming she'd do the same in the other direction, she instead held still and swiveled her head to watch me with those big doe eyes. No, I don't think she was my mom reincarnate, but a few tears fell anyway.
On my most recent run at Shevlin, I heard my first Olive-sided Flycatcher of the season ("Quick, three beers!"), which made me laugh as it always does. (And, no, I do not know how a bird forms the "th" sound. It just does.) I also heard the sweet song of a Black-headed Grosbeak right beside the trail and saw a Lewis's Woodpecker, which is sadly in danger of extinction.
If you've read this far, let me tell you one more thing about those experiences at Shevlin. Right after I spied that elk, I saw a runner coming toward me, and I was going to tell her about the beauty right across the creek from us. Only she (the runner, not the elk) had headphones in and didn't even look at me. Same thing happened when I saw those does.
On another run, someone was playing their music out loud (not on headphones), so I couldn't hear nature at all.
I've run with headphones in too, and I've been on my cellphone while hiking many times, so I'm not casting aspersions ... much. What I can tell you is that I do those sorts of things far, far less often now because I know more about the plants and animals around me (I didn't even get to tell you about the sand lilies, penstemons, paintbrush, phacelia, and more I've already seen in bloom this spring).
Believe me, the songs, conversations, and connections you can experience with nature are far more varied and exciting than the ones you're likely to experience on your digital devices. Especially in spring and especially at Shevlin.