Field Notes

Historically, Trumpeter Swans covered much of North America, but by 1932, a National Park Service survey found only 69 trumpeters in the entire contiguous United States. This spurred a conservation effort that included a feeding program in the Red Rocks National Wildlife Refuge near Dillon, Montana.

An angry phoenix, the new bird appeared stretching its wings, repeatedly slapping the surface as it kept launching its body upright, almost leaping out of the water. All the while, it called out, the trembling sound of a woodwind instrument bouncing off the dense bowl of that valley.

Where initially the herd was scattered throughout the sage along the forest edge, they had now moved toward the road and were gathered together in a tight cluster. They were nervous, gazing toward the trees, ears cocked forward. They paced anxiously, some spinning in circles. I could hear a lot of mewing and a few barked alarms. These are clear signs a predator was near, probably the grizzly bear and cubs I had spotted in the area the day before.

In murder mysteries, the protagonist is often surprised to find a crime. A national park was the last place we expected one.

The canopy opens where a shallow stream crosses the path, revealing two small, silvery blue butterflies flitting about in slow and bouncy patterns. As I find my footing rock-by-rock across the stream, I recall an unusual aspect of the life cycle of these butterflies.

On a warm June day, at our farm in the Mission Valley, I was watching my husband and son play in the yard, honeybees from our two colonies buzzing nearby. Suddenly, my attention was captured by a steady increase in the number of bees on the air, catching and refracting sunlight with their golden bodies.

Sage is suddenly everywhere—everywhere, that is, where it’s not too parched even for this hardiest of dryland flora. Low, vertical cliffs of tan sandstone have replaced the steep, evergreen-covered mountains as the dominant landform. We have just entered another world: the Bighorn Basin.

While we łoqʷm t sox̣ʷép (cleaned the roots), I listened to them reminisce on old stories, told with our Indian humor. The day was full of laughter and joy and connecting to our culture.

There’s not much that brings me more pure joy in springtime than a hillside full of yellow bouquets of arrowleaf balsamroot (Balsamorhiza sagittata).

For two weekends in May, I visited a pale yellow goldenrod crab spider living on a bright gold heart-leaved arnica flower outside my family’s cabin on Flathead Lake.