4.1 miles minnehaha falls and back 51 degrees / light rain
Ran to the falls. Everything yellow, red, orange. Wow! Encountered some walkers as I got closer to the falls, one or two runners. Chanted triple berries — strawberry/ raspberry/ blueberry. Also recited Mary Oliver’s “Can You Imagine.” I remember starting it, but I don’t think I finished it, and I can’t remember where I stopped. The Minneapolis park workers were out again, patching up cracks in the asphalt with stinky, steaming tar. The falls were gushing. As I ran by them, 3 teenage boys sprinted past me, on their way to the steps. The mother in me hoped they didn’t fall down the slippery stairs. I stopped at my favorite spot on the other side of the park, near where Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha” is etched into the limestone wall, to admire the falls. Today, before starting to run again, I decided to take some video of my view:
The view from my favorite spot of Minnehaha Falls
notes about what I saw: As I was taking this video I saw a flash of movement below: it was one of the teenage boys running over the bridge that crosses the creek after it’s fallen. I tried to pan down to capture him on video, but I can’t see him. Can you? Also, to the left of this frame, there was a person with an easel set up, painting this view from a different angle. When I had approached the spot, I knew there was something/someone else there but I couldn’t tell what/who it was and I didn’t want to stare. It was only after I started walking away and saw the person through my peripheral vision that I figured out what was there.
The rain came in the last mile of my run, right after I finished filming myself running up the edge of the world. (Oops. I screwed up the camera by not starting it when I thought I did. I’ll have to try filming this view some other day). Good timing! I didn’t mind getting wet — I already was, from sweat.
I listened to water dripping, kids yelling from across the road, a dog yipping, the falls rushing, leaves squeaking on the way to the falls. I put in Beyoncé’s “Renaissance” on the way back, but took it out and listened to more water and wheels and my own breathing while running on the Winchell Trail.
We’re getting closer to the end of October and the cold is coming. Looking back through old entries, it had already snowed by this day in past years. Here’s a poem I found in the New Yorker that gets me in the mood for that cold — and it features the color blue!
I miss the cold, but not the cold breaking, not the small limbs sheared, nor the icepick cold white wind working its whole way through you no matter your coat and gloves, and no matter the blue scarf someone tied and tucked tight.
The same cold blue all day in the sky. Frozen blue through limbs of the two standing elms. Brilliant each blue. Blue the color of new snow like wafers on the fields. Come in cold then, and the dark comes with you, kick off your boots
and someone is rubbing your feet so they sting, then stop stinging. Now the bruised-apple- red bottle at the foot of your bed, steaming, and come morning woodsmoke in the kitchen. I miss the cold then, so cold there is singing.
Ah, this fall weather! What a morning to be outside by the gorge. A little windier than I’d like, but wonderful. My legs felt a little stiff and sore, but I kept going and they got better. In the third mile, I started chanting triple berries. Just the same three again and again: strawberry blueberry raspberry strawberry blueberry raspberry. They helped me stay in a good rhythm.
10 Things
rowers on the river! 6 or 8 in one shell
the river was blue heading east, brown on the return trip west
either wind or water through the trees, making a shimmering sound
still so much green everywhere
2 different bikes blasting music that I couldn’t quite identify
click clack click clack — a roller skier passing me as we neared the lake street bridge
a minute later, a rollerblader approaching from the north, heading south
flowers in the pipe sticking out of the trestle railing that’s been turned into a vase — a memorial for someone
a man using a DIY walker/runner — bike wheels, yellow frame (I think I’m remembering that right?)
the glitter effect: wind + sun + water = wow
My view facing south on the Lake Street bridge
No geese or fat tires or Daddy Long Legs. Also, no headphones. Listened to the wind, radios, conversations, my feet thudding on the ground.
I stopped at my favorite part of the tunnel of trees. Walking up the small hill, I noticed leaves gently falling from the trees, birds chirping, the light coming through the canopy. I decided to stop and take a short video:
at the end of my run, above the floodplain forest
Here’s how I see/hear this video: The view of a canopy of trees. Occasionally, a leaf stirs in the wind. All around this view, leaves were drifting down one at a time. If I put my face right up to the screen — nose touching — I can see that these trees are GREEN!, but with my face a foot away, the scene looks grayish brownish, with only the whisper of green. When recording this video, I mostly heard the birds and not the cars above me on the road. But watching the video I hear mostly the loud rushing of cars and some wind. The birds are very quiet.
The birds, both remembered from when I stood at the spot recording this video and heard in this clip, made me think of a wonderful bird poem I discovered yesterday:
Sudden dash of light in the corner of my eye, a soundless flash in hazy swathe of trees leaps stealthily from the small maple to the crabapple that has taken this year’s drought hard. My eyes bore into foliage. Is it a mynah? Dad, you taught me well how to look and listen. This is Michigan, and it’s probably a grackle, but I think of the crow pheasant (the coucal) I often watched in India, a wily master of camouflage. I remember the first
time I ever saw one close up. I was seven or maybe eight, sickly and bookish. While sitting in the shade of a sprawling gulmohar that dropped scarlet whorls of flowers on me, it darted from under the hibiscus. So graceful its arched tail, so fiery its beady eyes. I was reading some Enid Blyton novel about young girls in a boarding school in rainy England who ate scones and crumpets, and had
fabulous adventures. It was a hot afternoon as this avian beauty that normally threaded light woodland and field slipped into my grandaunt Lily’s garden. She was a famous doctor at Tata Hospital when few women stayed single and had careers. She drove a grey Standard Herald, and her frantic beeping of the horn sent her gardener’s sons rushing to throw open the low iron gates when she came home. Once, she gave me a nest a weaver bird had abandoned. It adorned my bedroom for years. She would tell me
about the trips she had taken when she was young. All over Europe, and yes, to the Isle of Capri—her favorite. All eyes, I would listen. Then she would sing “‘Twas on the Isle of Capri …” or play a Vera Lynn record. Did she have many lovers? I wanted to wear expensive Dhaka saris, high heels, smoke cigarettes (as I had seen her do at dinner parties sometimes), travel— be like her. Would I ever go anywhere? I who failed in math and science, hated bullies, hated school. My head sailed in the clouds. My brain, they told me, was for the birds. My handwriting a bird’s nest. My weak fingers would never grasp a pen properly, my legs never walk normally again. When would my flesh grow light, my bones breathe only air so I could fly? When the bird
appeared from nothing, shapes shifted, my book levitated. The bird floated, not walked. Did it even have feet? I felt my weight lift. Floating was as good as flying. It seemed not to see me, as if it were a peaceful spirit passing through. Strange girl, they said. A dreamer. Did I imagine it then? Hearing a creak of leaf and branch near my deck, the blur I saw earlier turns to flesh and blood—a gawky crow who arrows to the roof from the forsythia and caws shrilly. Curious juvenile, her glance is full of questions. Friend or foe? Food or death? I throw my head back, look up at her. She peers at me over the edge. I slip indoors for bread, then leave ripped bits on the railings. Where is she? She’s hiding somewhere, watching me
watch her. They emerge and melt, these wily beings— show a wingtip, glitter of eye, flick of tail. Leave me a feather to dream on, a map to follow. My mother and I fed them scraps everyday.They jostled each other on the ledge, fought for crumbs, always hung around our windows. Then disappeared into neem, peepul, or the banyan tree as big as a city. Did they wonder where we’d gone? Had they heard us weep? Had they pecked at the shuttered windows and silence? Wild fig seedlings now grow from cracked brick. A sudden woosh
of wing beats. Listen! The air throbs. Three trumpeters pass over me to land on the pond. I wave. This is where I live. And there and here and there. Crow, sparrow, finch, blue jay, nuthatch, chickadee, cardinal, mallard, cormorant, heron, geese, swan. They visit, feed and fade. Return. They know their own. I’m for the birds. I’m never alone.
I love how place — both India and Michigan — are so present in this poem. And I love the story she tells, about seeing a bird in India, being a misfit only for the birds, looking up to her grandaunt, and how she tells it. Also, I want to think some more about this line: All eyes, I would listen.
Ran the ford loop with Scott. Finally, it’s cooler. Much easier to run. We talked about a problematic NYTimes article that Scott had read earlier that was so sloppily edited that they spelled Gov Walz’s name wrong (as Waltz, I think). We also talked about the rowers on the river and the Brooks’ mile on the marathon course.
Mostly the run was easy. My IT band was acting up by the end and I rolled my ankle on something in the grass in the last mile.
Running over the lake street bridge I noticed a single shell on the water. Then more shells, some with only one rower, one with eight. Then buoys. A race! A few minutes later a woman overheard us wondering about it and told us it was a tournament. It was so quiet on the bridge that we were able to hear the oars slapping the water. They made such a delightfully awkward sound. Without sound, the rowers float effortlessly over the water. But when you can hear the oars you can feel the effort of their rowing. I like being able to hear them; they feel more real that way, more body, less machine.
10 Things
dark blue water. near the edges it looked almost black
the lamps lining the path on the st. paul side were on, the ones on the minneapolis side were not — the minneapolis have been stripped of wires and never repaired/replaced
rowers’ voices drifting up from the river near Shadow Falls
it started overcast, almost gray. by the time we were done, the sky was bright blue
a chipmunk darted in front of me, narrowly missing my foot
plenty of color on both sides of the river — yellow, red, orange
the ford bridge stretched in front of us, looking longer than it usually does
on both the lake street and ford bridges, a tiring wind blowing into us
a motor boat near the shore. I wondered if its wake would cause problems for the rowers
turkeys! 3 of them in someone’s yard on the st. paul side
Typed “oars” in the search box on Poetry Foundation and found this poem. I like the form and want to read the larger work — Emptied of all Ships — that it comes from:
4.4 miles longfellow gardens and back 64 degrees / 78% humidity
A little cooler, but still humid. More shorts and tank top. Decided to run past the falls to Longfellow Garden to check out the flowers. Oranges, reds, pinks, purples, yellows. Did the gray sky make the colors seem even more vibrant to me?
The falls were gushing, so was the creek. The sound of dripping water from the sewer mixed with the wind. Chainsaws echoed below me in the gorge as Minneapolis Parks workers removed dead branches and leaning trees.
Running on the part of the trail that dips below the road, between locks and dam no. 1 and the 44th street parking lot, I could smell the rotting leaves — the too sweet, stale smell of last night’s beer. Yuck! Did I smell anything else? Yes! The strong scent of burnt toast or burnt coffee beans or burnt something somewhere in the neighborhood. The soft, pleasing scent of the tall, fuzzy grass that Scott says smells like cilantro.
I listened to kids being dropped off for school as I ran south. At my favorite spot at the falls, I put in an old playlist. I took my headphones out again when I reached the Winchell Trail. Then I put them back in after I was done and walking home. I listened to a chapter about the benefits of being small in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss.
Since I’m prepping for a week about fall color for my class, I tried to notice color on my run.
10 Things I Noticed: Color
there is still so much green. Everywhere, green. Not dark winter green, but light summer green
a few slashes of red on the edge of the trail, the bright red hair of a walker
orange cones, orange vests, orange signs, a past-its-prime orange tree, orange school bus, orange flowers sticking out above the other flowers
hot pink petals, still intact
flowers glowing such a light, almost white, purple that I imagined them to be ghost flowers
yellow safety vests on a long line of bikers crossing at the roundabout, backing up traffic
dry and dead brown leaves on the edge of the trail, covering the path
the dark blueish gray of crumbling asphalt
dark brown mud
white foam from the raging falls
While walking around the garden, I took a few pictures:
Longfellow Gardens, fall flowers in bright colors that I mostly cannot seeghost flowers at Longfellow Gardens
I love this description of what poetry is/could or should be:
Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
the work of a poet: to imagine; to do more than reproduce toxic stories; to make your people feel safe, seen, loved; survival
Warm, again. More summer attire: shorts, orange tank top. Tomorrow it is supposed to be cooler.
Scott and I ran around Lake Nokomis together. Strange to be sweating so much while running over so many fallen leaves. Summer air, fall ground.
As we ran, we talked about the wet bulb temperature and the flag system for determining when a race should be cancelled.
10 Things
the little beach covered in honking geese
the low rumble of a plane flying overhead
cracked, uneven pavement
a fishy, lake-y smell near the dock
a wonderful view of the water from the small hill between the bridge and 50th
an empty, buoy-less swimming area
a memorial hanging from a fence with bouquets of flowers — was this for the girl who drowned in August?
watch out for the pumpkin guts on the path, they might be slippery!
a woman sitting on a bench, listening to the news on her phone, then a song with a driving beat that I suggested (to Scott) would be good to run to
blue water with small ripples, sparkling in spots from the sun
In September, I did my own variation on wordle, which I called birdle. The first word had to be a bird. This month it’s boo-dle or spooky wordle or something like that. The first word must be a spooky word. So far I’ve done: ghost, witch, ghoul
This poem was the poem-of-the-day on poems.com on Sunday:
Chance threads woven together in coordinated movement
I close my eyes and try to feel my blood pumping
Instead I feel you, walking miles, melting into hills and flowers
The simple power of circling a lake
You knew how to lose yourself, how to leave space
Walking to find a way to be whole
Bird song, leaves rustling
I fall into this moment, my atoms spun just so
This heartbeat is not mine alone
Two bodies walking
Two layers of sound in motion together, hundreds of years apart
Words stored deep in muscle-memory
Carried in hunger, in bruises
Reflected back by grass, branches, rocks
How do I get this voice out of me?
Love this poem. It makes me think of Thomas Gardner and his discussions in Poverty Creek Journal about running with the ghost of his dead brother. It also make me think of my early poem about running with my mom. And, the first lines — trees, light, weather, people — makes me think of Georges Perec and his attempt at exhausting a place by focusing on what happens when nothing happens — weather, people, cars, and clouds.
Reading Graeper’s bio, I found this very interesting bit:
Explorations of place—real, remembered, escaped, imagined—are at the core of his poems. Graeper created a site-specific, handmade Park Book series based on places like New York’s Central Park and Battery Park, which he distributed surreptitiously.
I did this too; I just didn’t distribute it to anyone. Maybe I should? First I need to record myself reading the poems and set up the audio tour.
That was hot and sticky and difficult, but also fun and rewarding and worth all the sweat. So much sweat! Scott and I decided to run south to St. Paul instead of east. Running over the Ford Bridge, Scott pointed out the almost motionless river — if you looked closely (which I couldn’t, but Scott could), you could see little ripples in the water.
I heard water gushing three times: 1. a hidden spot near the power plant just past the ford bridge, 2. the falls at hidden falls, and 3. the sewer pipe near 42nd street
overheard: Passing by 2 walkers, one of them said to the other, His lawyer was like What was he like? Were they speaking metaphorically or colloquially?
I smelled exhaust from a clunky car in the neighborhood, wet pine needles, rotting leaves in a gully that I thought was stale beer.
Also heard my shoes squeaking several times on the wet pavement, the honk of one goose, a little kid in a running stroller talking to the runner pushing him.
We talked about Hemingway and Faulkner (Scott had taken a class 30 years ago in college about them). Faulkner wrote in a stream-of-consciousness, while Hemingway used sparse but robust language. I mentioned that when I walk I’m more likely to think like Faulkner, and when I run Hemingway. I like thinking like Hemingway more.
Scott also told me about an article he read in Ars Technica — A revelation about trees is messing with climate calculations — about how trees influence cloud cover and how scientists need to adjust their climate change models to account for the complications this tree-cloud connection creates. I want to read this article, then I want to write a poem that has as a line or the title, the tree-cloud connection.
The east side of the river had more color than the west. We saw some yellow, red, and orange! trees, but also lots of green. We’re not at peak color yet.
Before we went out for our run, I looked through my entries on this day in past years: 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022. All about my mom. She died on September 30th in 2009. Scott’s mom died a year ago yesterday. I had planned to think about them as we ran, or to write about them after, but now I’m too wiped from the run.
Found this fitting poem buried in a twitter thread:
Feeling a little better on day 5 of my cold. Still difficult to breathe, but maybe that was more because of the humidity and not my congestion. It rained again last night so everything was wet, the dirt trail muddy, squeaky, soaked leaves. Heard some kids shrieking (with glee) near Dowling.
Listened to cars, my feet, kids yelling, water dripping as I ran south and on the Winchell Trail. Climbed the 38th street steps and put in Olivia Rodrigo. Also, took this picture at the bottom of the 38th street steps:
slowly, my view of the river is returning / 27 sept 2023
leaf trypthych
one: One of the trees that I watch out for every fall has turned a glorious orange. Wow! Not neon orange, but a warmer, pinky orange. This tree is on the edge of the 44th street parking lot, next to the bike rack, after the trail that winds down to the Winchell Trail, before the trail that crosses the double bridge. It’s a maple (I think).
two: Running on “the edge of the world” — the spot on the Winchell Trail that climbs and before it curves looks like you will fall off into empty air — everything suddenly became lighter. This was partly because the trees have less leaves here and there are less trees, but mostly because the leaves at the bottom of the hill were green, while the leaves at the top were a soft yellow.
three: After I finished my run, walking back, I passed under a tree and suddenly noticed it was snowing yellow leaves. Leaf after soft yellow leaf slowly drifting down to the ground, looking like snow if snow were a gentle, glowing yellow. I love snowing leaves.
I’m trying to practice noticing smells this week. Not sure I can ever find 10 smells, but here’s today’s list:
Smells I Noticed
wet earth — musty
the trace of sewer stench — sour, unpleasant, above the river on edmund
sewer stench, full blast, above the ravine near the 35th street parking lot — sour, like rotten eggs, or used diapers
smoke from a fire down in the gorge
I think that’s all I remember. I need more practice.
Found this poem the other day by Kelli Russell Agodon. It was posted on Verse Daily — a great resource for poems!
5.5 miles marshall loop to Fry 62 degrees humidity: 90% / dew point: 61
Cool, sticky, thick air. Lots of sweating. For our weekly Marshall loop. Scott and I ran several more blocks (past Cretin, Cleveland, Prior, and Fairview) to Fry, then over to Summit and back down to the river. We heard the bells at St. Thomas chiming 2 or 3 different times — or more? Scott talked about the Peter Gabriel tour video he watched last night. What did I talk about? I can’t remember. Oh — at one point, I pointed out the light passing through a tree above Shadow Falls, making it glow. The beauty of September light! I also talked about Glück’s line about the light being over-rehearsed and how the bushes and flowers and trees looked worn, past their prime, over-rehearsed.
10 Things
a line of dead leaves floating on the surface of the river, almost under the lake street bridge
slippery, squeaky leaves covering the sidewalks
between fairview and fry the sidewalk narrowed — Scott guessed that it might be as narrow as 4 ft (it’s supposed to be 6, but is often 5)
drops of water falling off some leaves, illuminated by the sun
ORANGE! several bright orange and burnt orange trees
lions, pineapples, bare-chested women with wings — lawn ornament on Summit
waffles, falafel, “mixed” popcorn, Thai, ice cream — restaurants/stores passed on the run
overheard: it’s hard to tell how well the Vikings will do — a biker to 2 other bikers
looking across from the east side to the west bank of the river, thinking I was seeing some sort of color — not BRIGHT color, but the idea of it: red instead of RED! Asked Scott and he said, Wow, that’s some RED! [how color works for me]
3 roller skiers on the bridge — no clicking and clacking because there wasn’t room for them to swing their poles
One of my favorite local poetry people (and one of my former teachers) posted this mushroom poem by Emily Dickinson. A nice contrast to another one of my favorite mushroom poems by Sylvia Plath:
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants – At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot
As if it tarried always And yet it’s whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay – And fleeter than a Tare –
’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler – The Germ of Alibi – Doth like a Bubble antedate And like a Bubble, hie –
I feel as if the Grass was pleased To have it intermit – This surreptitious Scion Of Summer’s circumspect.
Had Nature any supple Face Or could she one contemn – Had Nature an Apostate – That Mushroom – it is Him!
Tarry is to delay or be tardy. The tareis the weight of a container when it’s empty. A scionis a young shoot or twig of a plant, especially one cut for grafting or rooting OR a descendent of a notable family.
Favorite lines today:
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants – At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot
As if it tarried always And yet it’s whole Career Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay – And fleeter than a Tare –
a quick note before describing my run: For some reason, I felt compelled to rhyme things today. Most of it was unintentional, but a few times it was deliberate. Was I somehow inspired by a line from the song, “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)”? I watched a video of Gwen Verdon singing this song — and dancing too — last night. Here’s the line:
Hello, lamppost, what’cha knowin’? I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’ Ain’t’cha got no rhymes for me?
Sticky. Uncomfortable. Thick. Lots of sweating. Flushed face. Heavy legs. Dark with hazy, humid air. I had intended to cross over to the Winchell Trail, but it looked crowded near the river. So I just turned around and went back north on Edmund. A chance to check the house that posts poems in their front window. Was there a new one? Unfortunately, in this bad light and with my bad vision, I couldn’t tell. Oh well.
before the run
A few more stanzas from Forrest Gander’s “Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpas”:
Cardiac Hill’s granite boulders appear freshly sheared Look, you say, I can see the Farallon Islands there to the south over those long-backed hills one behind another a crow honks
Running above the river on the paved trail it’s difficult, even in the winter, to see the terrain below — the limestone ledges, the steep slopes. Often, it’s all leaves (on the trees or the ground) and brambles and bushes.
Do crows honk?
the moon still up over Douglas firs on the climb to Rock Spring yellow jackets and Painted Lady butterflies settle on the path where some under- ground trickle moistens the soil
It doesn’t happen that often — because of my vision, pollution, the bright light during the day — but I like being able to see the faint outline of the moon in the morning or the middle of the day.
Throughout the gorge and on the Winchell Trail, there are springs and seeps. They are especially visible in the winter when they freeze over and turn into strangely shaped columns of ice.
A plan for the run? Not much of one: to take the Winchell Trail instead of the paved path.
during the run
Nope. I didn’t take the trail so no chance to get a view of the river or the bluff or any limestone ledges. Instead I listened to Taylor Swift and tried to keep my cadence steady and quick(er). Between 170 and 180.
10 Things I Noticed
kids laughter drifting over the fence of my neighbor’s yard — a birthday party for her 3 year-old
a big backhoe parked on the street — no digging today, hooray!
a plastic orange slide, spied through the slats of another neighbor’s fence
a dusty dirt trail, so dry it was slippery and uneven
yellow leaves all around
lots of red on the ground
a biker’s bright headlight over on the river road
a mountain bike — don’t think it had fat tires — on the dirt trail, approaching me
2 people in bright yellow construction vests, walking on Edmund
a biker stalking me — approaching from behind. Not really stalking, just unable to pass me before we crossed an intersection
Don’t remember any birds or swirling leaves or bugs or roller skiers or music being blasted from car radios or leaf blowers or falling acorns.
after the run
I’ll have to think about Forrest Gander’s words some other day. For now, I’ll post something else I’d like to remember because I’m always looking for poems about erosion:
Gloomy, everything looking dark and mysterious. I like these overcast mornings, especially when running beside the gorge. All the colors feel more intense — dark greens, yellows, reds, oranges. Today I saw at least 3 different versions of orange: orange leaves pale and almost pink; then orange leaves like a neon crayola; finally the classic orange — what I call orange orange — of construction cones and a sidewalk closed sign.
Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker. Smiled at a dozen walkers and runners. Forgot to try and see the river. Heard some birds (more about that below), the clicking and clacking of ski poles from a roller skier, the irritating squish of a walker’s slides. Smelled tar. Noticed that the path was covered in green leaves.
I felt relaxed and dreamy at the beginning, sweaty and a little sore at the end.
before the run
More with Forrest Gander and his circumambulation. Today, the next few stanzas of Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpas:
as we hike upward mist holds the butterscotch taste of Jeffrey pine to the air until we reach a serpentine barren, redbud lilac and open sky, a crust of frost on low-lying clumps of manzanita
mist holds/the butterscotch taste of Jeffrey pine I rarely think about (or remember if it happened) tasting the air. What might the air taste like on my run today?
Serpentine — another word for winding or twisting? Are there any parts of my running route that are serpentine? I’ll try to pay attention.
at Redwood Creek, two tandem runners cross a wooden bridge over the stream ahead of us the raspy check check check of a scrub jay
Looked up scrub jays. Also called California scrub jays. Like the blue jays here, which are just called blue jays (at least, that’s what I found in my minimal research), they are LOUD. Here’s what the Cornell Lab writes about their sounds:
CALLS
California Scrub-Jays, like other jays, are extremely vocal. Behaviorists have described more than 20 separate types of calls for this and the closely related Woodhouse’s Scrub-Jay. Examples include a weep uttered during flight, while carrying nesting material, or while taking cover from a flying predator; a bell-like shlenk used antagonistically, a quiet kuk exchanged between mates, and loud, rasping scolds for mobbing predators.
OTHER SOUNDS
Scrub-jays often clack their bill mandibles together to make a sharp rapping. Their wings make a whooshing sound on takeoff, and they exaggerated this during altercations.
Gander’s rasping check check check must be the Cornell Lab’s rasping scolds. You can also hear the delightfully irritating clicking of the bill mandibles and the exaggerated flapping of their wings.
hewing to the Dipsea path while a plane’s slow groan diminishes bayward, my sweat-wet shirt going cool around my torso as another runner goes by, his cocked arms held too high
hew = adhere, conform…a plane’s slow groan — I’ve never heard a plane as groaning. Usually I write roar or buzz — a boom? I’ll have to listen for groaning planes today.
Yesterday when I was running, and it has too hot and sticky, I checked to see if my shirt was sticking to me. Nope. Not or long enough to have that happen. Does it ever happen? I sweat a lot, but rarely to the point where my shirt is soaked and stuck. With this brief description, I know that Gander’s circumambulation has been going on for a long time and that it is really HOT.
I like Gander’s last line about the cocked arms held too high. I often give attention to walkers’ and runners’ gaits and how they hold their arms. Some small part of it might be out of judgment, but primarily it’s about: admiring moving bodies, especially graceful ones; studying them to see what doesn’t feel right — this is a way to work through my vision limitations and to determine what I am actually seeing; and as a way to identify different movers out by the gorge. I can’t see faces clearly enough to recognize people (not even my husband or my kids), so I rely on other methods, like wide arm swings (that’s how I identify the Daily Walker) or gangly legs (the long- legged walker I call Daddy Long Legs).
Okay, so during my run today if I can, I’d like to think about/notice the following:
tasting the gorge
looking for serpentines
listening for blue jays and groaning planes
noticing how and where (and if) my sweat collects
making note of the different gaits of walkers and runners
during the run
I wasn’t sure how I would try to notice all of the things I wanted to — a taste, a twist, an irritating sound, where my sweat collects, and a distinctive gait — but as I ran, I just started collecting images. It became a game or a scavenger hunt. Here’s how I did it: First, I tried to be open to things on my list. Not searching too hard for them, but being ready if they appeared. Then I briefly stopped at the end of each mile (roughly), and recorded the images I collected — I described them on a voice memo app. I was able to collect all 5, with taste being the last to be found.
mile 1
serpentinetwist: looking up, noticing the trees winding through the air, almost like a river reversed.
irritating bird: Heard the clicking of a bird and I’ve been wondering (for some time) what bird makes those clicking sounds and I think it might be the clicking of the bill mandibles of a blue jay!
mile 2
My sweat is collecting on the side of my nose. I can sometimes see it through my peripheral vision. Now it’s dripping down my cheeks.
a gait: Passed a runner with very fast cadence — short, little steps. This inspired me to pick up my cadence.
right after recording these two images, I took a picture of my view, down on the Winchell Trail at a small overlook, perched above a sewer pipe:
a view from the Winchell Trail between Lake Street and Franklin Avenue
mile 3
taste: Bitter burnt toast coming from the tar they were using to cover the cracks near the trestle.
Bonus: a blue umbrella
A bright blue umbrella on a bench, looking strange and out of place. I noticed someone sitting next to the umbrella. I found this umbrella wonderful for the pop of color it brought to the gloomy gorge, for how unexpected it was, and for how it made me wonder about its companion: a person who likes to be prepared? who loves walking by the gorge so much that they’ll go even if it’s about to rain? who loves the rain? And, why did they leave the umbrella open — to give us all a gift of bright blue? they despise closing umbrellas? the umbrella is broken? Maybe if I was standing still, some of these questions would have been answered, but I like the mystery that moving made!
after the run
This “game” was a lot of fun, and I’d like to try doing it again. Would it work as well the next time? I’ll have to see. It made the run go by faster and helped me notice and remember things I might not have otherwise.
Also: I don’t taste a lot of things while I’m running. I should try and work on that by practicing and maybe reading more of other peoples’ words about tasting the world.
