Like so much else, my fondness for bagels has its roots in my childhood. When I spent weekends with my grandparents, our Sunday morning routine included a stop at the local bakery, and bagels were among the aromatic treats we carried home. It was all I could do not to tear open the white paper bag immediately and start eating then and there. (This never happened, I hasten to add. My grandmother did not approve of eating on the street, and my grandmother was a formidable woman, a model of quiet authority.) But as soon as we were home, I dug in.

Bread is rightly named the “staff of life.” For one thing, it’s loaded with complex carbohydrates. That’s just what you need to keep your engine turning over. But all breads are not created equal. Some are too fragile to pack for hiking, paddling, and cycling. Take croissants, for instance. They’re wonderfully airy and buttery, but they wouldn’t last five minutes in a food pack. Italian loaves and French baguettes are a bit more durable. They can weather short trips in style, but they won’t fare well on longer excursions. The upshot? When planning menus for camping, I look for robust breads that will survive hard knocks. Artisan loaves, ryes, and dark breads like pumpernickel all fit the bill. Irish soda bread is a survivor, too, as are some kinds of Scottish buns. And tortillas will last a long time if care is taken to keep them flat and well-wrapped. But then there are bagels. Versatile, hearty, hardy, and delicious. Read more…

Tags: bagels, bread

 
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry
Th’ affliction nor the fear.
     ~ The Earl of Kent, caught out by a storm in King Lear

 
Early this week a line of powerful thunderstorms ripped through the area. Anyone who has been in a typhoon or hurricane knows the terrible consequences that follow powerful storms, and while this event was much more limited in extent and range, the result is no less awful. I watched as a hedgerow of mature maples, pines, and spruces bent and shook, as torrents of water reduced visibility to a few yards, and as bits of vegetation were ripped apart by the raging wind. The road flowed like a river, and the sound of snapping, crashing trees rang in my ears. For some wildlife, the world came to an end in the space of a few minutes.

This is the time of year wildlife rehabbers call “baby season.” Birds are brooding eggs and raising chicks in nests ingeniously lashed to tree limbs or inside nesting holes, and squirrels are tending to families of young deep inside their own tree holes. So as I watched the canopies of those maples, spruces, and pines flying wildly in the wind, I wondered who was being killed, whose future was being destroyed.

In the storm’s wake, clean-up crews struggled to clear debris and restore power, and homeowners pulled out chainsaws to cut up downed trees as well as standing dead trees, even if those dead trees endangered nothing. More than once I was told by folks that this was a good opportunity to clear the woods of standing and downed dead trees. After all, they said, these trees are DEAD, and they were eyesores.

Eyesores? Not to my eye. Dead? Up to a point. The trees themselves might be dead, but there’s life in them that extends well beyond their own demise.

That’s turning the once-familiar words from the English Book of Common Prayer on their head, I know, but it’s no less true for all that. My photo collection contains hundreds of examples of dying and dead trees that support and nourish new life. And every picture tells a story. Read more…

Tags: trees, windstorm

Cycling is far better than cocooning yourself in a car if what you want is to enjoy the countryside. You see more animals and details of the landscape, hear more birds and other natural songs like the wind in the trees and chortling brooks, and you smell more of the sweet greenery and fragrant flowers. The downside is that you also see more dead animals. Motor vehicles take a terrible toll.

There’s hardly a minute’s passage at bike speed between one dead animal and the next. It seems animals are sometimes killed deliberately, too. What else explains squashed turtles on the very edge of a four-foot wide shoulder? Drunks and distracted drivers drive blind. I see an alarming number of these two species of motorist.

For many drivers, a phone call, the dog, the kids, tuning the stereo, or preening all seem more important than driving. They might as well be sitting in the easy chair at home in front of a video game for all the importance they place on moving their tons of metal at high speeds from one destination to another. There’s another vehicle of destruction on the roads, too — irresponsible young drivers. Far too many of them are let loose on the public thoroughfares to roar at breakneck speed, going nowhere. Where are their parents? Adult or teenager, whatever the excuse, the result or carelessness behind the wheel is a significant death-toll among the innocents who live adjacent to the roads.

As I ride my bike around the local roads, I keep my eyes peeled for living animals who are alongside or on the road, and do what I safely can to escort them to a safe place. It’s always satisfying to give them a new lease on life. Some might wonder why I bother. After all, what difference does it make if this turtle or that garter snake is killed? The answer, for me, is simple: It matters to that animal.

All these pictures of turtles are portraits of those who lived longer because of a safe rescue on northern New York roads. This is only a small selection of individuals, for this has been a life-long devotion to save animals from a terrible and needless death. Sometimes I’ve been alone, sometimes Farwell was with me. And I know there are others who do what they can, too. The snapper to the left below was yesterday’s rescue, but she and the others here represent the rest. And whenever I look at the beautiful eyes and marvel at the design of the turtle body, I feel great.

Today another turtle made it. A female painted turtle tried to cross a busy highway, and drivers were especially frenzied. Maybe the gusty, erratic wind is to blame, or perhaps the hot weather, the first warm stretch of the summer. No matter. The turtle needed to get across the road, from swamp to upland, where she’d lay her eggs. She had little choice in her nesting area, and the road was in the way, a wide gaping canyon of hot asphalt. For a six-inch long turtle, it’s quite a crossing, with sight lines measured in a few feet from only a couple inches off the surface. She was courageous and determined, and she set out when traffic stopped blowing her with its slipstream.

That’s when I came along, on the side of the road where she was heading. I parked my bike off the shoulder and relied on a bright jersey to warn any motorists who appeared that someone was in the road. By now she was well across, and no sooner did she reach the white fog line than she stopped for a rest. Ungood. Traffic was picking up again after the unusual lull. I walked toward her, and that was enough. She scooted toward the hillside grass. I prodded her tail to help motivate her, and she reached safety quickly. I wished her luck and set out myself, glad I went riding on this day, at that particular time. Any day a turtle is saved is a great day.

Tags: cycling, turtles