Dog Before Whales

   While touring the old Taos Pueblo on overcast April 3, this year,  I looked toward their sacred Mountain with my camera in one hand and a disc of fried dough in the other.  This fellow calmly joined me to confidently let me know he would definitely like a bite of my lunch.  It felt like we had known each other for years, maybe in another lifetime.  So of course I parsed out the lion's share of bread to him, and he ate it politely, bit by bit.  Then I went on my way across the stream while he turned back to mingle with the pack.

   I love the way that pack of dogs ran free through the narrow alleys and paved roads and ceremonial ground of the community.  They seemed to belong to no one and everyone but mostly to themselves.   I saw no fights, no harm, as they moved through their day, fending for themselves.  Isn't this fellow a right beauty!

Whale Watch

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   On July 30, 2017, 1:30 pm, my three sisters and I rode the Bar Harbor Whale Watch Company's powerful catamaran past the Porcupine Islands into the Gulf Maine, ultimately traveling 50 miles  on calm  Atlantic waters in clear sunshine to Canada's Grand Manan Banks.   Some folks spotted gray and harbor seals. as well as  low-flying puffins on the way out.   Two mola molas (ocean sun fish) lazed close on the right side of our vessel, pursing their funky lips almost into kisses for us.  The first one appeared huge as a whale lolling just a couple of feet below the surface, the second showed up further out,  smaller and standoffish.  A  surprisingly large school, maybe a hundred,  of white striped dolphins skipped around us for miles.   Who knew the  lighter parts of their skin can turn green from the chlorophyll in their diet?  All this information comes from our oceanographer/guide.  She also spotted a Minke whale far out, but many of us on the starboard missed it.  In fact we worried we might miss whales altogether as time to turn and head back to  Frenchman's Bay approached 4:00 pm.   That's when the amazing humpbacks turned up.  Breathy six-foot spouts announced their presence  then gave way to thin black slices  of their backs cutting like knives through the blue ocean, first a lone animal, then a pair, then four, then three pair; our guide and the captain both later said  there may have been eight whales  within the length of a football field from us, and  two pair came as close as  30 feet,  maybe passing under the cat. NOAA restricts how close boats can approach the whales but can't say anything about whales approaching boats.  Lucky us!  We drifted among them, thrilled and delighted  to watch them surface, spout, skim, dive repeatedly around us. We saw the green chlorophyll tint of their bellies, evidence that they were feeding well in these cold northern waters in preparation for a migration south to breed.  We listened to their trills and calls, perhaps wishing we "spoke whalish."  We smelled the halitosis of the copious breath held fifteen minutes or more per dive, and our guide advised us, "Never lick your lips if you get close enough to feel it."  She did once and, much as she loves whales, still regrets that taste.  We watched four flukes lift in line together for a dive so synchronized so parallel, that we might swear it was choreographed. Finally, just about time to leave, we saw one "clown of the sea" lift and wave its hind quarter, splashing and slapping.  I neither exaggerate nor anthropomorphize, and as you sees above, I caught the picture; our guide said it's not an uncommon behavior,  but I'd say it was fluky 😉
   We were back at Bar Harbor by 6:30,  and Captain Larry said it was one of the best whale watching days of this season.  How fortunate we are!  So go if you ever get a chance! Hope you enjoy, too.

Tribal and mythic...

 This dream occurred June 6, 2017, and seems to relate to the picture I posted last time.

      I'm  hiking up a very steep hill, looks and feels like a  40 or 45° angle,  and it is densely shaded by a high canopy jungle.   Workers clear a husk-covered trail with heavy  sweat and machetes.  They bring to mind migrant Mexican farm workers except I realize they are native here, I am not.  They all wear backpacks.  I sense I  should not disturb them, still I take out a camera and snap away, bothered by the electronic clicks that sound noisy, out of place.  Yet I'm eager to capture images, fascinated by the tangled black hair and grim tan faces of these laboring men.  But my shots disappoint with lack of clarity, all off-center, unfocused, blurry.   The men have obviously noticed me and become increasingly agitated though they continue to work.  They frown, murmur, and glance snake-eyed at me. A big, grizzled older man strides quickly downhill to stop me and to calm them.   He's a father figure, an authority both to them and me.  He's one of  "my own kind" long accepted as one of theirs as well.  He  loudly says something calming and profound.   I freeze; the men go back to work, though I sense watchful and lingering resentment from them. The big man turns his attention exclusively to me and speaks quietly though I don't remember his words.  Logically, I tell myself, he urged me to proceed quickly up the trail, off the mountain, out of the jungle.  I hesitate and linger, wondering why he's here, doesn't leave, works with them.  I certainly could not do that, even if I had the inclination. And  I sense my mother's presence though she's not  visible.  She wants to hand me something, a small item from a feminine presence on this high jungle trail.  I have it in my hand:  a paper,  I think, with something written on it that I don't read because my attention is fixed on seeing the men as they evaporate before my eyes.