Belonging. 10 years of rivers!

So here we sit at Green River State Park and I realize the powerful urge I have to hop in the river and float through my favorite canyons. I remember the first time, as Dave and I left this shore, this incredible feeling of leaving everything I had ever known to venture into the canyon I had dreamed of for years. I remember the incredible freedom, and praying that I remembered everything.

Green River State Park launch site, April 2013

The same place in 2004, with Rex who joined us on many canoeing trips until her passing

I remember camping for our first night in the tamarisk, reaching camp just at dusk and setting up camp in the only clear space we could find, ducking and crawling into the thick tamarisk to find this secret opening.

Our first Green River campsite in 2004

I remember the incredible feeling of.... Aliveness. Of fear of the unknown. Of exhilaration. Of HOME. That day in 2004 was the first time I realized how much I BELONG on the river. I BELONG in these canyons. This river is a part of me, and I am a part of it.

I think of all the rivers I've floated since that first trip with Dave. I think of the hurricane we came upon in 2005 on this very river, here in the desert of Utah where the last thing I would ever expect was a hurricane! The headwinds were SO strong that day. We had to fight waves and wind until finally we gave up and camped across the river from Anvil Butte, on a sand bar protected from the wind. The next day as we packed up our gear, we watched a huge dust cloud billow up against the canyon walls upstream of us, headed our way. I looked up and the clouds were swirling around a blue eye right above us. The center of a hurricane! I had laughed at the 3 guys here at the put-in, where I stand right now in 2013, when they said that a hurricane was coming! I was not laughing now. Dave and I sat, huddled under a tarp with Oso and Rex, our canine companions, between us- marveling at the wind whipping around us and the freezing temperature that was 25 degrees warmer 5 minutes before.

Anvil Butte, 2005, the day before the hurricane

Something unexpected always happens on rivers. Always. In the 10 years since I stood here in this spot for the first time, I've experienced crazy wind, terrifying thunderstorms, an insane flash flood, hidden grottos and streams snaking their way through rarely visited side canyons. I've awakened to canyon wrens and ravens singing and frogs croaking all around us, huge clouds of mosquitoes, fish snapping at the debris swirling in eddies, double rainbows (oh my god!) arcing over the river brightening a dark, ominous sky, and countless peaceful silent picnics and naps under cottonwoods, and magic around every corner.

These last 10 years have been the best of my life, and it all started here, on the banks of the Green River, where my life became one with the water that I gaze upon in this moment. The gratitude is overwhelming. The gift the Green River gave me in 2004 is the greatest gift I could ever have: the birthing of a sense of HOME.

Just before sunset on the Green River in 2005

Takahano, Grief, and Camp Fire USA.... and Hope.

Yesterday, I became a member of an alliance dedicated to preserving some incredible land outside of Boulder for future generations... I can take clients, children or adults, up to this incredible 640 acre parcel of land and get to know this place deeply... as deeply as I knew Camp Takahano, the camp I grew up going to.

Inspiration Hill at Takahano, with The Rocks in the background

And, here come the tears. What are these tears about? Camp Takahano was my home away from home. I knew every acre of that 200 acre camp. I knew where the streams led, where the wild mint grew, where the spring was and the monkey bridge that led the way toward the Appalachian trail.

The Monkey Bridge

Takahano was where I felt the most joy of anywhere. Takahano was the home of so many memories, of so many magical places hidden from view.... It was my escape from a difficult school life where I was constantly tormented by bullies. I learned about knots and knives and firebulding, started assisting in those classes by age 10, was teaching them on my own by 13, and was first paid to be the “lead outdoor skills instructor” at a Camp Fire camp at 16.

The Pond behind the Farm House

The tree house

When Takahano went up for sale, I sobbed. I was 18, and wondering how the hell I could afford to purchase that 200 acre piece of land so it could continue to be the source of so much for kids in the Washington, DC area. I was petrified that it would be purchased by a developer and that my 200 acres of heaven would turn into a housing development. This grief of losing Takahano has seated itself deep into my being.

Meals around the fire behind the farm house

Camp Fire's logo from my childhood

Grief is a part of my path. I grieve for the loss of the camp I called my second home. I grieve for the death of Camp Fire's club program. Which, by the way, is doing well now due to the dedication of Rosemary Pezzuto and others who volunteered countless hours and years of their time and passion to revive the Patuxent Area Council of Camp Fire. See http://www.campfireusa-patuxent.org for the exciting news of what Rosemary has created with my childhood organization. Rosemary was one of the Camp Fire club leaders when I was a child. She was the one who stepped up when the council was in danger of shutting down, and held the vision of continuing the hundred years of Camp Fire tradition and memories in the Washington, DC area, even after our camps were sold and our club program dissolved.

Camp Fire's logo today

Rosemary has hundreds of kids attending summer camp as I write this. She has created a resource for thousands of kids and their families, as I sit here across the country and grieve about what was lost. As I look at Camp Fire's website, and Rosemary's Facebook page, my tears become tears of joy... and of hope... What do I know about what has happened with Camp Fire in the 16 years since I graduated from high school and left home? Very little, honestly. In the 16 years since I moved away, Camp Fire's Patuxent Area Council has revived and grown, and is thriving in a way that fills me with immense gratitude for Rosemary's dedication to the kids of Maryland and Washington DC.

What can I learn from that dedication? What can I learn? I realize, now, as I sit here writing this, that I share the dedication that Rosemary has. I have also dedicated my life to creating the same kind of deep connection to place that we all had with Takahano. I went to school for Animal Behavior and Environmental Studies, and got a master's degree in Environmental Leadership. I've been an outdoor educator for how many years? 18? 21? 24 years? Where do I begin? I've been a naturalist for close to 30 years... Why not start that count with my obsession with identifying every salamander and snake and tadpole at Takahano?

I have the opportunity, now, to create the same kind of memories here in Colorado. I've already done a lot, exploring the open space and national forests outside of Boulder, teaching about the plants and animals that live there with my meetup group, Boulder Naturalist Outings. (http://www.meetup.com/Boulder-Naturalist-Outings/). I've explored many miles of rivers that stretch out onto the plains, and made friends with owls and eagles and coyotes along the way.

Lefthand Alliance

But now, by joining the Lefthand Alliance (http://www.lefthandalliance.net/), I see so many possibilities of deepening my work by getting to know the Alliance's land deeply. I applaud the work of the founders. This area is so rich with wildlife and magical places. I barely know any of it, honestly. But, I share the vision of my new friend Ira, who is dedicating his life to this place. He says on the Alliance's website:“The Alliance offers an invitation to directly connect with the Father Sky and Mother Earth. It offers a sanctuary to enjoy a 'Rocky Mountain High'. She offers abundance in the earth, the forest, the wild- life, the water that continually flows as the Lifeblood of the Father Sky and Mother Earth dancing with love. This is my version of heaven, and I love sharing it with each of you.”

This very well may become my version of heaven, too, as Takahano was when I was a child.

Special thanks to my mom, Marg Bond, for leading my Camp Fire group, being the director of Camp Takahano for so long, and, you know, for everything!

Mom and I on my wedding day!

Dementia and the present moment.

When I'm not canoeing or leading hikes, I spend a lot of time with elders, helping them bathe and keeping them company. Caregiving came to me in synchronicity and has become a major part of my working hours. I enjoy it, because I enjoy hanging out with people who have much more history than I have. I love hearing their stories, learning what they care about and being able to help them have the quality of life they desire as they edge toward a century of living.

Tonight, something has changed in my appreciation for this "job", this way that I'm spending my time.

It hit me today, as I walked around the block gathering flowers with my senior friend, holding her hand and trying to keep ahold of the growing collection of blooms in the other hand... I realized that my friend's experience of the world is completely different than mine.

For her, the only time that exists is right now. She has absolutely no short term memory left. I believe that she recognizes me and she always smiles when she sees me, but she will never remember my name. She does not remember anything that happened ten minutes ago, and can't recall the heading of a newspaper article when she's a paragraph into the story. Five minutes later she will read the article again as if it was the first time. Once, she even laughed at herself and told me how absurd it was to try to make sense of what she was reading when she has no short term memory left! She said this not with the grief that I imagined I might feel if I lost my memory. She said this in laughter, and it made me smile.

It's easy to feel pity for her... To imagine what it must be like to not remember what happened yesterday or even remember she has a caregiver sleeping in the other room when she doesn't see me in the moment.

But, something changed in my perception of my friend tonight. What happens when there is no memory of the past and no thought of the future? She has no memory of the flowers we gathered an hour ago. But, each time she reached down to pick another one, her face lit up and she just glowed in the beauty of what she had found. When we sat on her porch watching the sunset, every time she looked at the clouds, she smiled hugely as she exclaimed "the clouds sure are pretty aren't they?"

What is left when memory is gone? Only the present moment. What must it be like to live in that perception? I only saw one sunset tonight. She saw hundreds, a different snapshot in every second... Each moment held more beauty than the last!

I wonder what gift there is in that way of being. Maybe dementia isn't something to grieve for. In the loss of remembering what happened yesterday, my friend is sitting in the present moment in a way that I will never know, even with years and years of meditation and mindfulness practices, years of sitting with the birds and feeling the water glide by under my canoe.

I looked at her with new eyes tonight, and I realized that this moment, right now, is part of my path.

This moment, as I sit quietly, pondering memory and presence while my friend sips her nutrition shake and nibbles on her dinner, and nods off as the last light from the sun silhouettes the mountains outside her window. This is the only moment that there is. There is no future, and no past... There is only right now. Isn't that what she is experiencing? What would it be like for me to experience this moment in the same way?

This I ponder, and I appreciate the chance to spend this evening with her, and not planning for tomorrow's events or thinking of the incredible events of the last few months. I look at my friend's world in wonder, and in gratitude for having the chance to experience her world with her.

I have much to learn.

The River's Path

Bald Eagle by Lauren Bond Kovsky

There's a whole world that we have NO idea about. This world is home to eagles and herons and mink that even I, as a lifelong naturalist and nature girl, have never had any idea about. When I started exploring the rivers east of town, I discovered a magical, wondrous place that is literally teeming with wildlife... it's surrounded by development, oil wells, cars, and cows. Does anyone know about this place? Does anyone know where the river goes when it leaves town? Does anyone know how much water is withdrawn from the river for irrigation? How would the river flow without barker and gross reservoirs? How would the river flow if we didn't use more water than we need? If we KNEW this place?? How could our life change if we knew this place?

Pelicans by Bob Braudes

Watersheds. The natural delineation of the country. We all live downstream....What lives downstream? Eagles, owls, muskrats, mink. Who gets killed due to the abundant litter gathered in piles in the eddies and against the bridges buttresses? The pelicans. How would we know? Only if we know this river. Only if we know that pelican would we know that it had broken its wing trying to escape from a flotilla of debris.... And that it no longer soars in the skies above the St. Vrain river.

Where did that trash come from? What's the water quality here? What does fracking on the shores of the river do to the water quality? How much oil and sewage and god knows what comes through the drains and the sewage treatment plant's outlet?

Great Blue Heron by Paul K

There are so many questions I have about this place and our effect on it. So many. What I do know, though, is that the lower st vrain river is a magical place. There's a family of bald eagles that are thriving. There's an absolutely huge rookery of herons. There's at least 2 families of owls on the shore, and many many red tailed hawks. There's deer and mink and raccoons and fish and snapping turtles and a coyote and more.... What I see here is hope. What I see here is hope. What I see here is a relationship waiting to happen. What I see here is a way to heal our relationship to the natural world. What I see here is..... something no one knows about. And they need to know. Everyone needs to know.

St. Vrain riffles by Wendy Gronbeck

This is part of why it's essential that my work begins at home, not at a retreat center upstream. The retreat needs to be downstream... That water connects us to home. It connects us to the rainwater from our roofs, it connects us to the snow covered peaks that we ski on and see every day. It connects us to Nebraska and Missouri and Iowa and Kansas and Illinois and Arkansas and Tennessee and Mississippi and Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic and... beyond. To the rest of the world. To every other culture and to the rain and to the trees and the Amazon and to EVERYTHING.

Lauren on the river by Lawrence Braun

Water connects us to everything. This is why I am attracted to rivers. This is why the river's path connects us to everything.

It blows my mind that these rivers connect us to everything. Really.... to EVERYTHING. The molecules of water that I am floating on are the same molecules that my mother drinks in her glass in Maryland and that fall over my waterfall in Pennsylvania and waters the cedars on the Olympic Peninsula and fills the Pantanal in Brazil during the wet season and was the very same molecule that my ancestors drank, and that sustained the dinosaurs. It blows my mind!!!!!

Killdeer by Wendy Gronbeck

The river's path connects us to history and to the future. It connects us to the eagles and the dinosaurs and our ancestors and to future generations. I feel this as I float down the St. Vrain river, and it blows my mind.

This is what being on the river means to me.

Platte River watershed display at the Lake McConaughy Visitor's Center.  Photo by Lauren Bond Kovsky

(Thanks to all of my Boulder Naturalist Outings members for the incredible photos and the joy of sharing these magical places with you!!!)

Raging Thunderstorm on the Colorado River

Staccato. At the start. A low rumble, a suggestion. We pay attention. We set up a shelter and start a camp fire. The rumble gets closer. Louder. We pay attention.

The fire is raging, and the corn is ready to roast. A crack rings out with a flash of light- the thunder is no longer distant. The rain comes in torrents. Wind is howling, whipping through camp... Whipping our shelter like an old, frayed flag that has become ragged from years of flying high. The wind came out of nowhere!

 There is a river through our shelter. The fire is out, and mud has covered everything, including the corn we were just about to roast. We hold the shelter down- we are human stakes. Lightning blinds us and the crackle and roar of thunder hits at the same moment. I scream. Then I laugh.

Something unexpected always happens on river trips. Always. I've been around storms. I've canoed through crazy wind. But this storm, swirling all around is and soaking us even through a tarp and our rain coats, is more intense than any I've experienced in my life. Another crack, and again I'm blinded at the same moment of the roar of thunder.

We've found another tarp and I stand with my back to the storm, tarp stuck to my back from the howling wind... This is the only way to keep the driving rain from soaking us.

I laugh. The absurdity of watching all 4 of us stand as human stakes, the only thing that has ensured that our shelter doesn't fly away.

More than 2 inches of rain have fallen in 45 minutes. It seems like longer. Finally, we have a moment between the flash of lightning and the still deafening roar of thunder. Only a moment. And then the rumble moves on into the distance. I no longer feel the tingle of electricity in the air. Finally, my heart stops pounding and I can breathe again. The sky still spits out sprinkles and the distant thunder breaks the silence, but it has passed, and we are safe.

The Call of the Wild by Robert Service

I memorized this poem in 2004 while guiding in Alaska.... Every time I wander in the wilderness, whether it's the sagebrush desolation of Colorado or the black and red canyons of Utah or the naked grandeur of Alaska, this poem runs through my head, a silent refrain that responds as I listen to the wild... It's calling me. And I must go. :)

The Call of the Wild
by Robert Service

Have you gazed on naked grandeur
where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley
with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence?
Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills,
have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa?
Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence,
not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is,
can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed,
groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors,
heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew).
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom,
they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.

Our local baby great horned owls!

I have had the joy of watching some beautiful baby Great Horned owls growing up in my neighborhood! I've led 3 meetups so far to bring people to see the owls, and my members have gotten some incredible photos!!! The parent owls have lived in my neighborhood for 4 years, and have used this nest for 2 seasons so far. It has to be the best nesting site I've ever seen!! The owls are completely sheltered from any weather, and they have a great view of all of the people passing by on the trail! They seem to enjoy the attention- at least, that's what I think!!



This photo, taken by Sue of my meetup group, is of the babies at 3 weeks old. When I saw them a week before they were tiny little white fluffballs. In only a week, their down has turned gray!



In only a week, the babies have grown substantially! It was a cloudy, rainy day so only 2 people came this time. The babies are very well sheltered, so they didn't care! Luckily, my friend Paul came with his fantastic photography skills and was happy to share his photos with me! Unless otherwise stated, most of the photos on this blog are his photos.



I don't have a fancy camera so I tried to take a photo through my binoculars. It came out pretty darn well!!!



Here's my best photo through the binoculars.



Edited and photoshopped- who needs a fancy camera anyway???



Dad is a bit smaller than the mama owl and he usually sleeps a bit further away from the nest. Great horned owls mate for life and will choose a territory where they live for their entire lives!



Mama has just awakened in this photo- she's getting ready to fly for the evening!



The babies are now 5 weeks old. They are spreading their wings and no longer falling all over each other! Notice the legs hanging out of the nest- apparently the babies had a meal of red tailed hawk! That's what some of the local birders think, at least.



This time, mama decided to go a bit smaller and caught a vole to feed her babies with.



She is giving the vole to the babies here.



She also caught them a rabbit!



These babies are quite well fed, don't you think? Great horned owls will eat a wide variety of prey: rabbits, birds, fish, raccoons, and even, apparently, red tailed hawks! Their talons are extremely powerful- with them, owls can exert pressure that is 300 pounds per square inch!

If anyone would like to come see the owls, join my meetup, Boulder Naturalist Outings, and sign up! I'll have outings to see them throughout the summer. They will fledge in late May but they'll stick around until at least October.

What a magical experience to see these owls so close to home. It's amazing. What I really love is that the whole neighborhood CARES about these owls. The male disappeared for a couple of weeks and when he came back, people spoke of him like they would an old friend.

"I was worried about him! I'm SO happy that he's back!!!!"

This is the first time in my life that I've witnessed an entire community of hundreds of people CARING so deeply about our local wildlife! This is the type of connection I dream about facilitating to my meetup members and to society at large. Imagine what would happen if everyone was so aware of their local landscape and wildlife?

The world would be a different place. When we care deeply about the Earth, we take care of it! When we care so deeply, duality disappears and we become, as they say, "one with the universe"... When we know a place as deeply as we know ourselves and our families, our community expands to include the more-than-human world, and we gain wisdom about our place in the world that informs WHERE WE WANT TO BE and how we can have an impact.

These owls have changed our community for the better, and I love them for it.