My arrival at Yaquina Outstanding Natural Area was not planned. It was a last minute acceptance as a seasonal Interpretive Park Ranger, following an interview that confirmed I could go up and down 114-lighthouse spiral steps several times a day and walk on seaweed-slick tide pool rocks. Yes, I assured the interviewers, I could explain Yaquina (ya-quin-uh) to the public -- I'd written about the wild and told her stories for years. Silly me: I wasn't aware that the field of interpretation had a body of literature and a national certification. My first two weeks in June were comprised of classes to acquire that certification and glean the natural history of Oregon's rocky shores. It was a straight-up learning curve. Of all my staff and college intern cohorts, I was the one without a degree that related to biology or oceanography. My inner-mountain west naturalist years had met their limits.There wasn't much rabbitbrush on the beach.
Teak, Hobo and I made Yaquina bay our home. Six miles south of the headland, it was a serene balance to the raucous energy of the open sea. I walked Teak every morning along the bay. She chased balls as I completed my stretch routine, readying body and spirit for the day's work ahead. Some days I stared at mud flats, other days the high tide swelled up to the steep banks. No matter the tide, however, I was in company with a Great Blue Heron who, well, took me under her wing.
It was as if she sensed I needed her. My job demanded every ounce of physical and creative energy I could garner as work on my book came to a halt. I hadn't talked so much in years; it was like an all-day book event over and over. I'd long considered the Great Blue the symbol of patience and perseverance as I watched them stand determined and still as death staring at the water, waiting for a fish to dart within reach. I greeted Heron every morning. I didn't think a whole lot about it until the morning she appeared in front of me, through the mist, on the trail. In all of my observant years, I'd not seen a heron do this.
Not too long after she perched on a dilapidated fishing dock. My stretches finished, I walked to
within ten feet of her and said good morning. She looked at me and proceeded to stretch her three-foot wing straight out, followed by her long spindly leg. Then she did it again. She had observed me stretching for weeks and now she mimicked me. Her communication brought me to tears: patience and perseverance would see me through. I took heart.
Autumn equinox looms. The murres have migrated to the ocean, their giant rocks eerily empty and quiet. The swirling, diving whales will soon migrate south, as will I. Hitch itch has set in. It's time to unfurl the road map of initiations, a karmic tangle of purpose and desire. This place of changing tides has had her way with me. It will be awhile before I can set the rhythm to words. I will give muse all the patience and perseverance she needs, with a wink to my long-legged friend.
|Nursing Harbor Seal|
|Gray Whale and Cormorants|
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