Wrangell: Time to Mow

The vibrancy of the late spring growth erupts from everywhere in this part of the world and any inch of terra firma, including sturdy docks awaiting a make-over, are quickly taken over by the bountiful wild greenery.

The wet earthy aroma infuses with the salt air during sun breaks for a deliciously primordial olfactory stew. The long days running up to the summer solstice also appear to be fueling the untamed growth (Feed me, Seymour!) More on the light and the solstice to follow in a later post.

For now, I am circling back to the business of birds, and ravens in particular. Their presence is dominant here along the water. Not in overwhelming numbers like a persistently raucous murder of crows, but more like sentient passers-by, making gravelly remarks in a language you can’t quite understand (but you get the gist.)

As you can see by the photo left, we spent a bit of time fishing today – primarily to give our daughter the thrill of learning to fish with her new little pink pole – but also to entertain ourselves. Nothing was caught, but the audience pressure was intense and not from our fellow human beings. Individual ravens would come within “speaking” distance to offer their casual opinions on our technique (or so it seemed to me.)

It’s no wonder the Raven plays heavily into legend among the indigenous cultures of the PNW. If only I could adequately understand the verbal cues our Raven visitors were offering, I may have actually hooked a fish.