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Updated 11:31pm - Mar 18, 2010
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Opinion Columns Gopher Gulch: The fun of doing nothing
Gopher Gulch: The fun of doing nothing
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I understand why the guys at GH Outreach think I’ve lost whatever mind I had. I’ve certainly given them reason. My place gets mowed toward the end of June and not again until early October.
Two months after the last mowing, the first dandelions are going to seed, the daisies, both the tall ones and the ground cover, are at their peak, and the patches of self heal are a brilliant green carpet decorated with purple blossoms and bumble bees. The color scheme is glorious and the whole place is stunningly productive. The milkweed plants and prickly lettuce have gone to seed and toppled. They look horrid to everyone but the finches, who find them utterly delectable. In the middle of the front yard, volunteer corn is starting to stretch out of itself like an old-fashioned telescope. The whole place hums, buzzes and rustles. There are bumble bees, honey bees and several varieties of wasp and little moths. Sometimes the air is full of dragonflies slurping up “no-see-’ems” and other small items on the menu, while swallows try to catch the dragonflies and the red-shouldered hawk on her favorite perch eyes the swallows with a hungry eye. They give a whole new meaning to the term “fast food.”
In the meantime, newts, lizards, frogs and snakes are feasting on
grasshoppers and each other. There are butterflies and the first
caterpillars. It’s about time for the sphinx moths to observe their
annual rites of fertility. They dance noisily all one moonlit night,
and in the morning they lay eggs on the evening primroses and go off to
die. Not a bad way to go. Those eggs become the biggest, prettiest
caterpillars of all, and apparently all they eat are evening primroses,
since I’ve never seen them on anything else.
The bald hornets have returned to raise another brood at their ranch in a sprawling willow tree. They’re working a large herd of aphids, milking them, breeding them and eating them. It’s very like a human cattle ranch, and like most serious ranches, it’s well protected. Bald hornets are said to hit so hard they can knock down an adult. I don’t know; they’ve always been patient with my presence, even when I mixed and poured concrete near them. Himalayan berry briars are making their annual attempt to take over the place. I fight back with big, two-hand pruners, lopping off everything green that sticks out of the brush pile. It’s the only job that actually gets done. The cottonwood, too, is a busy place. The nuthatches spiral down the trunk, eating little bugs and eggs, while the brown creepers spiral up, choosing tender morsels from the wealth of goodies. In the evening the feather folk go to bed and the bats take over the night shift, their clicks filling the air with high-pitched sonar pings. It’s all such fun to watch that I frankly don’t care if anything gets done. |
