Thursday, August 11th, 2022
Homer, Alaska
I wake to the sound of a crow cawing from the picnic table of my camp site. I peer out through the open hatch of my car, through sleep-blurred and road-weary eyes, through a heavy misty drizzle. Just a baby, this crow. Only a few months fledged. I reach into the bag of kibbles and peanuts on my nightstand (which is also the cooler) and toss some snacks toward the table. Baby gets nervous. Flies away.
I get up. Put on shoes and raincoat. Do waking-up things under the hood of the coat and the gloom of my mood. I feel her coming, the Maiden of Melancholy. Tracker app says she's due any minute.
Pilot and I gear up and go for a walk. I can tell he's taken on my mood. He's sensitive. Empathetic to his own detriment. And he doesn't like the rain. We trudge together down the shore of the spit like it's a job, not a month long vacation on the road. Life still exists within the realm of travel, though. Challenges will arise no matter how extensive the planning. There is no controlling the rain. There is no controlling my mood. All I can do is accept these things. Move through them. They are not permanent. They will subside.
Try as we might to stay grumpy, the sea and the wind and the sands and the sounds, oh, all the sounds, pull us out of the internal rainstorm and into the crisp beauty of the present. Pebbles grind under my feet. Dainty ribbons of sea foam ripple and hiss along the shoreline. Onto the hood of my coat the rain taps out a beat. Pilot's collar jingles in polyrhythmic syncopation. Music to walk to. If life were a musical this would be the point where we break into song. Lyrics about sodden freedom and water-logged accomplishments. Sun coming out as I throw back my hood and belt out a climactic chorus. Camera panning circles around me and the dog amidst a flurry of fat crows. Mountains and sea all around us. Our own little island of triumph.
But it's not a musical, and the sun doesn't come out. Maybe I sing a little to myself, but nothing triumphant. Nobody hears it but the crows.
I chase Pilot down the beach.
Along the water's edge a juvenile bald eagle fusses with a sinewy strip of dead something. I stop to watch. Young Eagle pulls and pecks at it, more out of curiosity and playfulness than hunger. This attracts the attention of a crow, who tries to steal the carrion toy away. Young Eagle spreads their wings, stomps big orange eagle feet at the crow. It works. More crows appear, but Young Eagle is tough. Won't let anyone steal their toy. Stomping and chasing. Crows laughing. I root for Young Eagle, but my money's on the crows.
It isn't long before someone notices me. Young Eagle gets edgy, perhaps enough so that they may lose the game of keep-away. Reluctantly, I leave the scene. Head back to the car, and to the coffee that awaits its daily ritual.
Living out of the car requires daily reorganization and cleaning. The rain makes this difficult. Slanting rain gets inside, quickly drenching bedding, equipment and supplies. Everything becomes a damp magnet for dirt and hair. I attempt some of the reorganizing from inside with the doors closed, crouched backwards on the driver's seat while I lean into the back over the center console. But, tiny as I am, my big ass finds a way to back into the steering wheel and lay on the horn. Wouldn't be a big deal if there weren't several dozen campers within a hundred-foot radius, some of whom are still sleeping. I give up. Sit in the front seat and journal. Stare out the window at the rain.
There is a pigeon next to my car. Wtf is a pigeon doing in Alaska? I watch him putz around in the puddles, looking for scraps and crumbs and bugs.
A bag of my trash sits outside in the rain. I forget about it, but the local crow family doesn't. They bust into it. I feel ashamed. A rooky mistake, should've known better. I trade the crows a handful of peanuts for my garbage, then scoop the mess up in my arms. Take the holy bag to the dumpster.
I am reluctant to spend more money, as I recently dropped several hundred dollars on rain gear and a portable battery jumper in Valdez. But the rain isn't going to stop. Everywhere on my itinerary predicts rain for the next few weeks. I need more gear.
In downtown Homer I go to the hardware store. I'm looking for an awning that can be installed on my car's luggage rack. They don't have one. Nobody in this small town does. I buy a tarp and some bungee cords. I go the the auto parts store. Grab a pack of microfiber towels for drying the dog. Go to the Safeway. There I buy butter, blackberries, and a tiny bottle of Bulleit to take the edge off the endless rain and the roaring PMS.
Back at camp I rig up an ugly side-awning with my hardware store purchases. A neighboring camper comes out of his motorhome to see if I need help. I'm not really sure what I'm doing, but the task takes me out of my head. I decline the offer, but he sticks around to chat while I fuss about in the rain. I tell him about my journey. He tells me about his. His name is Gary. He's from Michigan. On this trip with some close friends. He'd never been to Alaska before this. Wasn't sure if he was going to make this journey. But here he is now, in this beautiful country, celebrating the remission of his stage 4 throat cancer.
Since my arrival yesterday, there's been a ceaseless cacophony coming from the east side of the spit, like a thousand teenage gulls at an Elvis concert. I'm eager to see what it is. I assemble my camera with its long lens, and Pilot and I head back out into the rain.
I take my time on the trek toward the noise. Take pictures of my new friends, contemplate life. As we round the southernmost point of the spit I come across a Black-legged Kittiwake fledgling. They totter in the surf. Is this baby sick? Hurt? Or just learning to swim? I approach slowly. A test to see if there are parents nearby. Nobody swoops or scolds me. I move closer still, to see if the youngster will attempt to fly away. Eyes wide and full of fear, they stumble further into the waves. I back off.
Moments like these are challenging. As an avid nature observer, I've had more than a few. I don't know if this youngster is ill or injured, or if this is a typical fledgling gull encounter. My strongest conviction toward nature is to let it run its course, but as part of the human collective that has interfered with nearly every aspect of nature, I also feel a sense of responsibility. If the bird is ill or injured, was it a result of human influence? Is this species endangered? Do I capture the bird and take them to a wildlife rescue? If I do, will my good intentions cause more harm than good? I think of the thousands of perfectly healthy fledgling crows reported "rescued" each year because of well-meaning but ignorant humans believing the youngsters "couldn't fly" or were "abandoned by their parents." I don't know if this gull is dying. I don't know if this gull is healthy. I simply don't have enough information to make an informed decision.
I call to Pilot. He gallops over. I pick him up. Hold him close and murmur to him how much I love him. How grateful I am to have him in my life. We leave the baby behind in the surf.
I find the party a few hundred yards away. Hundreds, maybe thousands of gulls. I know very little about seabirds, but I think they are all Black-legged Kittiwakes. A colony. I've never witnessed anything quite like this. It's loud. Awesome. Pungent.
The rain lightens up. Pilot and I wander far along the spit. Explore a slippery estuary that is also a graveyard for old engines. I think maybe I'll go for a run down the spit later, but by the time we get back to camp I'm exhausted, and we're both ready for dinner.
Gary comes over while I cook. Asks if I want to take a walk. Offers me a beer. The overtones of his inquiries are both parts interested and paternal. I decline graciously. He's pretty sloshed. Doesn't seem disappointed. He tells me their trip is almost over and they have tons of stuff they bought that they can't take home with them. He ambles back and forth between his motorhome and my campsite making deliveries. He brings me a tarp. A hatchet. Some large tent stakes. His friend comes over to chat. Gives me two bottles of wine. Asks if I want any camp chairs. I don't have the room in my car, I tell him, but I'm grateful for the offer. I don't have room for the wine, either, but I take it anyway. Set it next to the car. Maybe it can ride on the bed tomorrow on the drive to my friend's house in Anchorage.
Gary's friend says they'll have a campfire later. I'm welcome to join them. It sounds nice, I tell him. I'll come by after dinner.
After dinner the rains come back.
Hard.
Nobody makes any fires.
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Watch Crow Cams of the Homer Spit Campground Crows here and here.