Honey bees are some of the smallest bees in North America. Their small sizes gives rise to a higher pitched ‘buzz’ than their larger cousins carpenter and bumble bees. However, when they gather in large numbers the hum of a busy colony can create an intimidating volume that seems to blanket the grass. This small beach surrounded by the limestone cliff faces cut into the earth by millennia of flooding and drying has attracted dust such a mass of honey bees. They surround me and cover me in a low hum. The bees seem to have been lured to this particular alcove of Lake Mojave for the easy access to water among the saturated rocks along the shore without much risk of a gentle wave capturing them and drawing them under the surface.
The alcove I am perched inside of is L shaped and full of a nearly clear blue water. The limestone canyon that the water fills gives the water a bright green hue in its shallower sections creating an eerie gradient reminiscent of a sulphur lake in Yellowstone. I am sheltered from the wind blowing off of the lake by the crumbling canyon walls and dense growth of salt cedar. This whispy plant grows into a giant bush with delicate leaves and branches that capture and dance with the wind. It is an invasive species in this part of the country and poses a large threat to the native flora. Its uncanny ability to spread along water corridors and choke out other plants has caused it to spread hundreds of miles, carried by the wind. Originally brought from China as an ornamental it now goes nearly unchecked in the springs and rivers of the Southwest.
This alcove is just big enough to throw a stone across to the other side, if you were to put in a little effort. The water doesn’t get more than knee deep until you turn the corner and head out into the lake. No fish appear to inhabit these waters, and none are native to them although several species of game fish have been stocked into it. The National Park Service is currently battling the spread of an invasive mussel which strains algae from the water. The decrease in natural algae, which are an important factor in enriching the water with oxygen, chokes out fish with higher levels of CO2 in the water. No natural predators of the mussels in the lake means that they spread unchecked and put the lakes of the region in an ecological downward spiral.
A pair of mallards has been diligently defending this alcove from other pairs. The male carefully watches as the female searches the area for food. Although the follows her, he refrains from eating anything himself in order to ensure that the female and by consequence their young get the most nutrition possible. He will chase off any other pair that enters the area.
Turkey vultures circle overhead, keeping their broad wings fixed outstretched to reduce energy loss from flapping. They have come to this area in search of trash and scraps that have been left by inconsiderate campers. Following the breeze and occasional thermal they spiral along the shore of the river, ever watchful for an easy scavenge.
The mallards approach me now, revealing a glimmering purple patch bordered with thin lines of black and white tucked under their wings. The male shows off his curly black ornamental tail feathers.
I wish I could describe the bird songs coming out of the buses as the sun sets with anything resembling accuracy. The sky to the west turns a pale purple on the horizon and silhouettes of dozens of bats streak in sporadic patterns across the darkening sky. As the ruckus of tweets and shrills from the bushes fades it is replaced by the gently pulsing violining of crickets. The air is cooling now and the breeze is fluctuating. I begin to remember the notes about last night I wanted to make.
I spent the night out under the stars for fear that the howling wind would rattle a tent too much and keep me awake. As I lay down and zipped up the sleeping bag a spectacle of shooting stars streaked out of the southern sky, putting a big smile on my sleep face. I looked west and saw Orion dancing across the top of Keith’s rattling tent, Sirius close in tow. I spent the night battling the blasting gale from my shelter of one of the tires of our truck. It served as my wind blind as I lay perpendicular to the truck with my pillow pressed against the wheel. Every few minutes a gust would kick up sand and lash it across my face. Not caring much for the sensation of sand and gravel on my face and in my ears I pulled my t-shirt off my arms and bulled it over my head so that I could continue to view the stars through the scope of my sleeve. The shirt provided enough protection from sandy ears and also allowed me to open my bag enough to dump excess heat and avoid sweating. I fancied myself ingenious for my flexibility.
My writing continues with notes and thoughts on Kathryn, but those are for me and I won’t share them.
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