Pandemic pilgrimages
We got a late-winter snow here in West Dundee in March 2020, not long after I had started working remotely and Illinois went into pandemic lockdown. This was the view that morning from my home office, a small room at the front of the house.
Late March around here is usually when we experience winter’s last gasp. While this late-season snowfall seemed to befit the coldness of our pandemic-induced isolation, I also saw something else in the view—a call to pause and appreciate winter’s loveliness.
Two weeks into our shelter-in-place order, it was starting to sink in: freeing up the 90 minutes I spent commuting each weekday, as well as the cancellation of concerts, family visits, social events and all the other activities that comprised much of the busyness of our lives, meant I had a lot more time to spend outside in nature. As writer Kathryn Jones put it in a Covid-focused issue of the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas (vol. 17), “Sheltering in place means I may not be able to wander in the world right now, but I can find wonder in my world.” Thus the regular pilgrimages Steve and I made to the creek crossing began.
Less than 10 minutes’ drive from our house, the crossing over Jelkes Creek near a spacious suburban subdivision would seem an unlikely place to savor the natural world. It’s a modest-sized creek, too large to jump across but not by much. Looking east from the crossing (the downstream view) above the creek’s steep south bank is a typical painstakingly manicured suburban lawn. On the other side is the opposite—a tangled, unruly mass of scrub trees, bushes, remains of fallen trees and, mostly, tall grasses. But if you look further downstream, you see a willow tree with angled branches overhanging the creek, the sky reflected in the water and the gentle sloping line of a distant ridge marking where, less than 1.5 miles away, the creek reaches its final destination and joins the Fox River. Here’s the view from a sunny winter’s day this January.
It’s an unassuming vista to be sure, but, as any nature observer knows, even modest bodies of water can yield visual delights and wildlife sightings.
Our practice was to park on the crossing and stay in the car with windows open or closed, depending on the weather. The car windshield and windows acted as visual shields, making it less likely the wildlife would see us. Equipped with the essentials—binoculars and patience—Steve and I parked there at least once or twice a week to gaze at the scene for 30 minutes or more, hoping some creatures would reveal themselves.
Over the months that we regularly visited the crossing last year, our sightings were many and some were quite exciting. They included a kingfisher diving into the creek head first to catch a fish, a beaver swimming under the crossing and continuing downstream, a mink scampering across the road in front of us, numerous songbirds flitting around or singing nearby, migrating sandhill cranes flying high overhead and what we think was a river otter swimming swiftly from one side of the creek to the other. Our most frequent sightings were of muskrats, which clearly had a den along the south bank. It was a rare day that we didn’t see one in the water, cruising along at a constant speed with its ratlike tail undulating back and forth like a snake. We saw them so often we named one of them Monty, at the suggestion of my friend Cristin’s older son, Connor.
On those days when Monty and the other critters didn’t appear, we found solace simply experiencing the scene. Observing the colors of vegetation gradually shift as the seasons moved from spring to summer to fall, listening to the water’s gentle, gurgling lullaby and watching objects transformed by the ever-changing light were more than enough. We were grateful to have the time to sit still and watch nature and life continue on and just be.
Pilgrimages are journeys to a sacred place. In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty of the pandemic and political upheaval, it felt healing to visit this same spot as often as we could. In the 2017 film Lady Bird, a wise educator told the main character that she must love her hometown of Sacramento because in describing it she paid attention to where she grew up. As Sister Sarah Joan asked Lady Bird, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing—love and attention?” We loved the creek crossing in all of its unassuming grandeur, and we were compelled to express our thanks by paying attention.
“Church Services Cancelled” by Chris Ellery
(Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, vol. 17)
You have time to walk now
along the river
with a congregation of geese
unperturbed
by the drizzle and fog.
The eagles have landed
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature – the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”
― Rachel Carson, Silent Spring
“Jean! I saw 30 eagles yesterday near the creek opening!” Our neighbor Rob’s exclamation to me in December, while I was waiting in a long pre-holiday line at the post office, instantly transformed my mood from bored impatience to excited anticipation.
When I got home, I immediately announced to my startled husband, Steve, “We’ve got to take the canoe out on the river! Rob saw 30 eagles yesterday!” Unfortunately, when we checked the forest preserve boat launch where we put our canoe in the water we found a gate blocking the road bearing a small sign that read, “Closed for the season” – not unreasonable, considering there was at least ten feet of ice hugging the shore. Despite this setback, we walked through a bone-chilling breeze across the nearby bike-trail bridge to see if we could spy any eagles upstream from there. No luck. While we missed seeing the large group of bald eagles, the same day we did see two adult eagles roosting along the river, as well as an immature one soaring above. The excursion confirmed: the wintering bald eagles are here!
Seeing bald eagles in the area has been one of the great joys for me and Steve since we moved to West Dundee, Illinois, nine years ago. A small town along the Fox River, West Dundee is a 30-minute drive from O’Hare airport and 40 miles from Chicago. To see these magnificent birds on the fringes of a huge metropolitan area is a special treat we did not expect when we came here. It turns out, Illinois boasts more resident bald eagles in the winter months than any other state in the lower 48. Some breeding pairs nest in Illinois, but they are here in much larger numbers when it turns cold. The vast majority are along the shores of the Mississippi River, but some hang around smaller rivers, including the Fox. The birds that nest farther north head south to find open water to catch fish, their main source of sustenance.
I felt a special urgency to see the congregating eagles that day. My love of the natural world – and birds in particular – is a lifelong passion, born in me as a child who spent countless hours exploring the large wooded area at the end of our dead-end street in Connecticut. But in recent months, as the global pandemic has raged on and on, that love has felt more like a critical need. I am not alone. Aside from my own observation of larger-than-usual numbers of cars parked at local forest preserves, a recently published study by researchers at the University of Vermont found most regular park users were increasing their visits and better than 25 percent of visitors were using local parks for the first time.
At the opening of this post, I quote Rachel Carson from her groundbreaking book, Silent Spring. Nature gives us a precious sense of continuity. When I see the wintering eagle visitors return to the Fox in December, I feel that all hope is not lost for our world.
In this blog, I will share some of my experiences in nature, mostly from my own yard, neighborhood and local parks and preserves; the inspired words of poets and some of our best nonfiction nature writers, past and present; as well as photos showing my own views and others’ perspectives. My wish is to inspire others to get outside and experience the beauty of the earth. It’s there, if you but take the time to look, smell and listen. Not long ago my dear Aunt Betty, who lives in Manhattan, had a front-row seat observing a red-tailed hawk devour its prey in Central Park and, on another day, saw a spectacular sunset from a park bench.
For more inspiration, here’s a poem by Wendell Berry, “The Peace of Wild Things,” and a photo I recently took at our favorite local park by the river, just a few blocks from our house.
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
