The Quackers - The Stories

Quackers #40 – Space, a New Frontier

For an entire week Rusty and Richard had been embroiled in a huge disagreement over space. Not the constellations, planets, and stars kind of space but actual surface area, give me some elbow room kind of space.

I was certain the whole thing would blow over in an hour or two. Instead, it continued to simmer until day three when everything suddenly boiled over and exploded. Hearing the commotion, I ran into the room to find my brothers bill to bill sputtering with anger and frustration. Words and reason had deserted them. I jumped between them and screamed, “Stop this madness!”

Instead, they continued to rage. They swore it wasn’t over and declared they would not utter another word to each other except through me. That was definitely not my plan.

After the explosion, a cold war was waged with me in the middle. I loathed my job as go between. I stumbled under the weight of defeat as my peacemaking efforts continued to fail day after day. With tension and stress overwhelming me I began to constantly daydream about how good life had been before the great quack-roversy.

I begged for a truce at meal times. Sadly, my words fell on deaf ears. Sitting down for a meal had become a digestive nightmare.

Making a bad situation worse, my brothers stumbled on yet another way to make my job as go between and our meals even more aggravating. For reasons known only to them, they insisted on delivering any mealtime requests in high pitched British accents. This morning Rusty started bright and early with, “Sidney, old chap, might I trouble you to instruct “Mr. It is all my space” to quit hogging all the toast?” To which Richard replied, “Right-o Siddy, perhaps you could inform, “Mr. I own the whole world” to cease inhaling all the butter and we might come to an arrangement.” I am growing an ulcer.

So much turmoil now left me with a need for space. I set out for the beach, alone.

The water was tranquil. Small ripples played on the surface becoming gentle humps as they moved closer to shore. They crested and broke at almost the same point and then lazily lapped the sand. Lifting my face to the sun I settled in and waited for the beach to work its magic.

It wasn’t long before the perfect peacemaking idea rocketed into my brain and had me scrambling for home.

Renewed and determined I ignored the pouting faces across the table and said, “Bottom line guys, there is only so much space on our little planet.” Richard immediately rolled his eyes and interrupted, “Exactly! That is why I need the entire space in the garage for my project.” Exasperated, Rusty yelled, “So do I!”

Undaunted, I continued, “I’ve listened carefully to you both. It sounds like the problem is really about use of space. Maybe we have enough and just need to think about it differently.” As they shrieked in protest, I held up my hand and pleaded, “Can you just listen?”

“In a place called Boundary Creek, Idaho there was a similar problem. Instead of two brothers fighting over space it was grizzly bears and lumberjacks. Given, it was a much larger space but like you two, they both had important reasons for needing and using the space.”

“The grizzlies needed it to forage for food and to move across it to reach their hibernating spots in the mountains. They needed it to live.”

“The lumberjacks needed it to harvest the timber that grew in this space so they could feed themselves and their families. They needed it to make a living.”

“Both had good reasons for needing the space. The problem came about when they both wanted to use the same space at the same time, just like you.”

“I don’t know about lumberjacks but grizzly bears are not known for their social graces or their ability to play well with others so sharing the space seemed to be out of the question.”

“If grizzlies could talk, they would probably argue that they were there first so the space was theirs.”

“The lumberjacks might also argue that although they weren’t first their need was as great as the bears but like you two, arguing wouldn’t solve the problem or get things done.”

“Along came the Nature Conservancy to the rescue. They helped develop a plan that served both the grizzlies and the lumberjacks. In the end, the lumberjacks agreed not to harvest timber during the spring and fall months when the grizzlies needed the area. By cutting timber during the summer and the winter months both of them could live and thrive. The plan worked for them both. Does that give you guys any ideas?”

Rusty laughed and hugged Richard, “Come on you old grizzly let’s call a truce and see what we can work out.”

As I watched them walk away laughing and planning I knew we were going to be OK.

Quackers #39 – The Original Tree Huggers

Raw energy coursed through the air with each crashing wave. It seemed to swirl around us as we watched another magnificent set stack.

The waves were the perfect combination of power and form. We tingled with anticipation and excitement as we battled to get out beyond the break.

Bobbing in the line-up with a dozen other surfers, I wondered which one of us would be lucky enough to get barreled on one of those waves.

I don’t know what made me look over my shoulder at that moment. What I saw set my heart racing and flooded my body with adrenalin. A huge swell was rolling in like a liquid freight train. I knew it was “the one.”

I felt the surge and my board lifted. There was no time to think. Paddling like a madman I let instinct take over. I worked my board until it was just below the tip of the wave. Moving a little too fast, I pulled a stall by dragging my wing and then slid smoothly into the barrel.

I felt the tremendous power of the wave behind me and the wind pushing me further into the barrel. I crouched deeper to keep the wind from pushing me off the board.

The enormous wave roared and curled over my head. A foaming curtain of white water framed the barrel sending spray raining in all directions. A blur of sound, color and sensation fed my senses as I skimmed through the water at warp speed.

A downshift in power and ferocity was my signal to bail. I shot out of the barrel as it started to collapse. Executing a sharp turn, I was able to fly up and over the top of the wave.

Cheers and shouts of, “Sidney! Sidney!” greeted me as I plunked down on the other side. Pushing my glasses back on my nose and grinning from ear to ear I screamed a victory yell and raised my wings over my head like a winning prize fighter.

I had trouble sleeping that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw an instant replay of that perfect ride. Truly it was awesome but I needed some rest. We were taking off for Georgia in the morning.

With diligent research and through the magic of DNA I had located another branch of the Quacker clan in West Point, Georgia. We were on our way to meet our cousins, Ben, Jake and Troy, the Wood Duck Quackers.

Once we picked up the Chattahoochee River near Atlanta, it was easy to find West Point Lake. From there, finding Hardley Creek Pond was snap. Locating our cousins, that was the hard part.

We scoured the wetlands and peered deep into old growth forest. We trudged through heavy brush and searched the forest floor, still no cousins. Just as started to back track we heard, “Looking for us?”

The voices had come from above. With our necks stretched to the limit we stared into the sky. There, 50 feet above the water, sat our cousins perched on a branch. They yelled, “Come on up!”

We tried our best to perch. It was hopeless. Several embarrassing attempts later everyone, with the exception of Troy, decided to fly back down to the water.

Troy decided to use the branch as a diving board. All eyes were on him as he readied his dive. A strong bounce sent him airborne. With great form he executed a triple summersault and splashed down beside me in a perfect landing. There is no longer any question in my mind, Rusty inherited his dare devil antics directly from the Wood Duck Quackers.

With a million interesting questions to ask our cousins Rusty had to blurt out, “What’s for dinner? I’m starving!” Jake laughed and explained that because they lived in close harmony with nature, food was all around but it needed to be gathered. Richard liked that idea and volunteered to help. Not only did they live in a tree, they also lived off the land.

Jake showed Richard where the tastiest duck weed and sedges grew. They collected seeds, grasses, nuts, pond weeds and some exceptionally tasty algae. They even found a cache of left over acorns to round out their feast.

Troy gobbled seeds and reminisced about their younger days when dragonflies, spiders and beetles were always on the menu. Rusty grimaced and said, “Yuck! You ate that?” I made everyone laugh when I said, “So says the guy who slurps worms from Richard’s compost bin!”

Munching on duck weed, Ben told us how what made them different from us and most other ducks. He said they had sharp claws that enabled them to climb trees and perch. He also amazed us when he told us about the day they were born, “With our sharp claws we climbed up from deep within our nesting cavity snuggled high in a tree. From down below, our mom sat in the water urging us to jump. We leapt from a great height into the water and started eating!”

Jake said their way of life was full of advantages. The wetlands and forest provided them with everything they needed to live and helped protect them from predators like owls and red foxes.

It had been a long day of flying and visiting. Since we couldn’t climb or perch we were stumped for a place to spend the night. Talk of predators made us reluctant to spend the night on the forest floor.

Jake thought he had a solution. He said, “Once when a big storm destroyed many of our homes, a great group of people from town built some nesting boxes. They helped us survive until we found new homes. I know there are still some at the head of Hardley Creek.”

That night we all bunked out in one of the nesting boxes. Troy said they were nice but not as comfy as their cozy tree cavity nestled in the sky. The “tree house in the sky” was very much to our liking. We drifted off thinking of all we had learned from our cousins, the original tree huggers.

Quackers # 38 – Words of Wisdom

In the brilliant sunlight the water looked like sparkling diamonds on rippling blue satin. It was beautiful. A few days of June gloom had us welcoming the sun back like a long lost friend. We tilted our faces skyward, closed our eyes, took a long luxurious breath and smiled.

Something was different today. It must have been the return of the sun. We all felt it. Instead of racing to the water we deliberately slowed our pace to enjoy feeling the warm sand under our feet.

We paddled out with long, slow strokes. The cool water felt great as it threaded through our feathers with each pull. Before taking off, we allowed several promising waves to pass us by for the sheer pleasure of sitting a few moments longer with the sun on our backs.

Even the waves seemed to be caught up in the day’s spell. They rolled in at a leisurely pace, held at the peak for a moment and then gradually unfurled toward shore for some awesome rides.

On the way home Richard stopped to grab the Daily Press while Rusty and I hurried ahead to start lunch.

Three bites into my sandwich I noticed a change in Richard. Well, two changes, but we won’t count the big glob of mayonnaise on his nose. His smile had disappeared. He looked troubled and kept shaking his head as he read. Then he said, “I’m so upset! Someone wants to cut down the ficus trees in our neighborhood, again. It says here they are messy and hazardous.”

He read a little further before he pushed aside his half eaten sandwich. He put the paper down and declared, “I’ve lost my appetite. I need a walk.”

Richard felt as if he had walked for miles. He stopped under the shade of a towering ficus tree. Sitting down, he nestled back against its trunk. He looked high into the branches and before closing his eyes for a few moments rest, he said, “I wonder what you think of all this tree-cutting talk.”

Just as we began to worry, Richard came walking through the door saying, “A tree talked to me!”

A little alarmed, Rusty tried to help Richard to a chair saying, “Are you OK? Did you bump your head?”

Richard shrugged him off. “I’m fine. She even has a name. It’s Philomena B. Ficus!”

We exchanged glances. Maybe it was best to just listen for now. “Philomena, she said I could call her that, told me she has been a resident and a productive member of this community for decades. She went on to say that she has suffered in silence for years as disparaging remarks about her and her people have echoed throughout the neighborhood.

“Holding back her feelings all these years had made her heart heavy with sadness and despair,” he added. “She was so happy for the opportunity to share her feelings with me.

Richard said as she told her story her voice reminded him of a soft, whispering wind.

“Year after year, day after day, I have served our community. Never once asking for or expecting thanks. Each day I consume your carbon dioxide and freely give back life sustaining oxygen in return.

“Throughout the neighborhood my roots and those of other trees provide a natural water cleaning system that benefits all.

“Through water evaporation and the shade provided by my leaves I cool the temperature of the neighborhood by several degrees. In a single growing season, I have taken 11,000 gallons of water from the soil and breathed it back into the air. My mere presence can reduce air conditioning bills by 10-15 percent!

“We trees work so hard to contribute. Has anyone stopped to think where that baseball bat came from that hit the homer in that big game the other day? What about where the material for furniture, paper, homes and yes, even toothpaste came from? Keep in mind I am only mentioning a few at least 5000 items my people provide.

“We give so much and ask so little in return and yet the talk continues about destroying us because of the berries we drop or our roots grew too large. Do you punish your loved ones for having natural functions?

“I should mention that all of the carbon we have sequestered for you over the years is released back into the atmosphere when we are cut down. Did you know that deforestation accounts for 20% of the carbon emissions a year?

“All we ask for is a little soil, sun and water and we return to you tenfold. I hate to remind you but trees are the reason all human life exists on our Earth.”

After that she spoke no more. Trees don’t talk, do they? Richard said we all need to stop talking so much and instead listen more closely.

Quackers # 37 – I Wish it Was Only a Dream

The water is foul and full of oil rainbows that swirl and widen with the current. Determined, I keep struggling toward shore. The water turns darker and thicker with each lapping wave.

I cringe as another wave showers me with more sticky, rust colored oil. Already I am exhausted.

Worried, I talk to myself, “Sidney! Quit swimming and fly before it is too late.” I raise my wings to prepare for flight but they are heavy, saturated with oil. It is already too late.

The oil oozes and drips down my head clouding my vision. It slides into my nostrils hampering my breathing. I clamp my mouth tightly shut but the noxious taste still seeps into my mouth. The smell and taste of the oil makes me sick and dizzy.

The oil weighs me down causing me to sink lower and lower in the water. I can no longer fight the waves as they push and tumble me farther from shore.

I shiver, miserable and cold. The oil has ruined the insulation of my feathers. A crashing wave sends me swirling away in the wet, oily darkness.

Startled, I force my eyes open. Richard and Rusty are shaking me awake. My nightmare about the Gulf oil spill had come again.

Like the rest of the world, we watched in horror as the disastrous BP Gulf oil spill unfolded in front of our eyes. We felt powerless to help. That robbed us of our spirit. Later, the terrible photos of helpless birds blanketed with thick, gooey oil sickened us and robbed us of our will.

Today I decided we had been feeling hopeless and downhearted long enough. The time had come to get our mojo working again. We needed to get back to being men; I mean ducks, of action.

As we ate breakfast a news report came over the radio saying, “Tar Sands threaten ducks.”

That lit Rusty’s fuse. He jumped up shouting, “Where does Tarzan get off threatening ducks? I will never watch a Tarzan movie again, never!”

“Geez, Rusty. Calm yourself”, Richard said. “He said Tar Sands, not Tarzan.”

From the report, we learned that Canadian energy companies are trying to build a tar sands oil pipeline from Alberta, Canada through the American Heartland and all the way down to the Gulf Coast! The proposal is actually in the hands of our State Department now and is quickly moving forward.

“Are they crazy?” Now I was the one shouting.

“We have oil spewing uncontrollably in the gulf with no end in sight and our State Department is considering this? Someone really missed the wake up call,” Richard said shaking his head.

He knew about tar sands oil because mining it had already threatened 3 billion land, water and shore birds that use the Canadian boreal forest for breeding.

“Tar sand mining is bad news,” Richard said. “Not only does it use massive amounts of energy it also requires large amounts of water, something the world really can’t afford to waste. It takes 2 – 4 1/2 barrels of water to make one barrel of oil from tar sands. The process also releases tons of dangerous carbon pollution into the atmosphere.”

“You guys don’t want to see what tar sand mining does to the land. It is like strip mining, only for oil. Huge areas of Canadian boreal forest have already been destroyed and more than 50 square miles of polluted water called “tailing ponds” has been created and left behind.”

Richard continued, “Beautiful, pristine forest has been replaced by a toxic moonscape of earthworks, tailing ponds and 80 foot piles of sulphur. It is one of the most environmentally destructive fossil fuel resources to extract and refine.”

The mention of toxic tailing ponds triggered something in my memory. I told my brothers I was sure I read that two years ago 1600 ducks lost their lives when they got stuck in toxic tar sand sludge. They weren’t the only ones. Black bears, deer, red fox, moose beavers, wolves and bats also became victims because of the toxic sludge and tailing ponds left behind.

That really fired Rusty up. He jumped on the computer for more information. He learned that the National Wildlife Federation had mounted a campaign to stop the proposed pipeline before it has a chance to get underway. Rusty pumped his fist and yelled, “Yes! We can help!”

Suddenly we were energized and feeling hopeful again. Maybe we couldn’t stop the spill in the Gulf but we sure could work on other ways to protect our environment and wildlife.

Letter writing, emails and talking with everyone about stopping the tar sands proposal in its tracks would start today.

Smiles returned to our faces as we worked and planned. We felt better than we had in a very long time. Being ducks of action again sure felt good.

Quackers #36 – Honoring Tradition and Nutrition

Richard had worked long and hard perfecting this year’s garden design. It was the largest he had ever planned. Thinking about some of the new additions he’d included this year, sugar snap peas and honeydew melon, made our mouths water. He had talked of nothing else for the last week. I bet if we blindfolded him, stuck him in the middle of the garden plot and pointed him north, he would still be able to point out the placement of every seed and plant.

Planning for everything, he knew what tools he needed, how many stakes and even how much string.

Dividing the plot into thirds, he assigned one to each of us and explained, in detail, how each plot would look when completed. He estimated a week of hard work would get it done. That and teamwork. The time came for action. All was a go. The team was ready and in place.

At least we thought we were. For the first hour we worked like crazy. Then our energy flagged. We dragged through the rest of the day. It was as if someone drained our batteries. That night we talked and talked, desperately trying to figure out what went wrong and get back on track. There was work to be done.

It was Rusty who figured it out. It all traced back to missing our morning surfing session. Call it our cup of coffee, call it our breakfast of champions, apparently that early morning commune with nature was what we needed to jump start our day.

As the sun rose the next day we were already paddling out to catch a few waves. When we started work this time we would really be ready to go.

It worked so well we had to force ourselves to stop for lunch.

After we ate, Richard surprised me with 6 chili pepper seedlings. Knowing my love of chili, Cousin Juanita had sent Richard the seeds all the way from Albuquerque. My very own chili plants, yum. I can taste the possibilities.

In addition to the chili seeds, Juanita had sent along another handful of seeds for Richard to try. She said they were from her “Three Sisters Garden.”

Three Sisters? He rang up Juanita for an explanation.

Juanita was eager to share, “It’s a traditional Native American garden that has been grown for over 10,000 years. It is corn, beans and squash. Did you know that when they are eaten together they provide a nutritionally perfect meal? The seeds are planted in a special way that creates the perfect ecological balance for the seeds and the soil. This crop was so important for survival that a story about three sisters was created to insure the knowledge was passed on from generation to generation.”

Richard listened intently as Juanita continued, “Do you remember old Aunt K’ema from Taos? She shared the story and helped me plant my first Three Sisters Garden when I was just a kid. Aunt K’ema said the story can be told in many different ways but it always starts with three beautiful sisters. She told it this way. Three beautiful sisters grew up together as children. The eldest sister grew straight and tall. She wore a pale green shawl and had yellow hair that blew in the breeze. The second sister was younger and could only crawl at first and clung to her bigger sister. The third and youngest sister wore a green skirt with a bright yellow blouse. She had a way of running off by herself but was always there for her sisters. When they grew up they moved to separate fields. Living apart was hard and they missed each other dreadfully so they decided to move back together. Together, they once again flourished and vowed never again to separate.”

“When Aunt K’ema showed me how to plant the garden she said, “The eldest sister (corn) should be planted first in the center of a tall mound of earth. When she has grown about 6 inches her sister (beans) should be planted in a circle around the edge of the mound. After waiting a week the third sister (squash) should be planted at the edge of the mound, about a foot away from the beans. The first sister will grow tall and strong and support her younger sister as she climbs and the smallest sister will help shade the earth so all three will not grow thirsty as they grow.”

With a few changes we were able to make room to plant our first Three Sisters Garden. Like the three sisters we worked together as we made the mounds and planted the corn. Soon we would be honoring a 10,000 year old tradition as we brought the three sisters together once more.

Quackers # 35 – Bringing in the Good Guys

Through dirt, shoots, leaves and grasses it had pushed its way up, seeking the warmth of the sun. Day by day, nourished by rich soil and falling rain, it grew straight and strong. Soon, at the tip of a stem, a small bud appeared. It grew unnoticed among the other plants until that one sunny morning when its delicate yellow face slowly unfolded in response to the warming sun.

Richard had been up since dawn. He was worried about getting his new rain barrel in place before the next storm rolled through. The job went so quickly he still had time for a stroll around the yard before taking off for the beach.

He passed by the spot he calls his “wild garden.” It’s a small patch of earth filled with a wild tangle of plants that he purposely lets go to make seed for the birds. Rusty renamed it the “Tweet Spot.” He says it’s like a Starbucks for birds, only with seeds instead of coffee.

As Richard checked on the Tweet Spot something bright caught his eye. There, amid a tumble of old sunflower seed heads, in a sea of sprouting green, surrounded by spent asters and zinnias, a single daffodil had appeared. Like a tiny sun, its yellow petals seemed to send out delicate rays of warm golden light. Richard’s eyes grew wide with excitement. He shouted, “Sidney! Rusty! Come see. Spring has sprung!”

With those words we experienced two emotions, joy and fear. We were torn. Should we go and see or run and hide? To most, including Rusty and I, spring is a time of renewal, growth and beauty. That’s the joy part. However, with Richard for a brother, spring means lots of extra work for me and Rusty. Hard work in the garden is joy to Richard, for us, not so joyous, thus the fear factor.

We decided to face the inevitable and outside we went. I must give Richard some credit for sensitivity. He did let us admire the daffodil for a full five minutes before mentioning work assignments. Rusty and I both begged, “Please, let’s surf now and work later.” His answer was a resounding, “No! Impossible! We must seize the day!”

Rusty grumbled and muttered something about Richard’s messed up priorities.

The past rains made weeding a breeze. It wasn’t long before Rusty and I were enjoying our work just as much as Richard. Besides, who can stay upset with the sun shining, a sweet breeze blowing and nature surrounding you on all sides?

With the clean up complete, Richard called a huddle. He said, “Listen up! Our goal for today is to turn this vegetable plot into a giant buffet restaurant for beneficial insects. If we do it right we will be rewarded with a naturally pest free garden. Let’s get to it, men!”

In hopes of attracting loads of beneficial insects or ‘good guys’, like lady bugs, lacewings, stink bugs and assassin bugs, Richard had decided to set out cilantro, dill, fennel, yarrow, alyssum and black eyed-susans. These plants all had inverted umbrella shaped bloom clusters or daisy shaped blooms that the beneficial insects seemed to love. By selecting plants of varied heights he was also able to create a structurally diverse habitat that he hoped would attract a diverse array of the ‘good guys’.

Richard said the beneficial insects would use the nectar from the flowers for fuel so they would have the energy to search out garden pests, find mates and lay eggs. The pollen from the flowers would supply them with the protein and fat they needed for good egg development.

Richard said he hoped that the ‘good guys’ would like the plants, decide it was home, settle down and lay eggs throughout the garden. He knew their young would hatch hungry and crawl all over the garden looking for tasty pests to feed on like aphids, thrips and whiteflies. Who needs pest sprays with the ‘good guys’ on the job?

My job was to place the alyssum completely around the border of the vegetable plot while he and Rusty placed the other plants at intervals among the rows. Richard said when the time came to plant the vegetables he would sprinkle out a few more seeds of the plants he had put out for the beneficial insects and then mark his calendar to sprinkle out a few more every 3-4 weeks. That way the ‘good guys’ would have a never ending, 24 hour, all you can eat buffet from now until fall. We hoped that would seal the deal.

With our goal met we hurried to get our boards and make it to the beach before sundown. Rusty paddled hard to catch a nice 3 footer. As he took off he laughed and yelled back at Richard, “Dude, you’ve got to work on those priorities!”

Quackers # 34 – A Call to Service

When we arrived at the beach the sky was changing from a soft rose to a deep magenta and the sun had just touched the water. Our shadows grew longer in the fading light as we hurried across the sand. Soon everything was bathed in a warm golden light. It was the magic hour, that time of day when even the most ordinary objects take on an air of mystery and uncommon beauty.

The waves were small, 2-3 footers with a slow, lazy break that made for a good, long ride. On one ride, Rusty executed a series of sharp turns, shooting trails of water straight into the sky, as he pumped the wave for an even longer ride. Those conditions kept us surfing until a thin strip of magenta was the only light left in the sky.

When we arrived home the answering machine was flashing and our cell phones buzzed with messages. I hit the button on the answering machine as we hunted for our cells. We heard Cousin Juanita Quacker’s voice loud and clear, “Hey! Where are you guys? Call me ASAP!” Each of our cells had the same message.

A worried Richard rushed to call Juanita. She quickly reassured him that all was well and then said, "I’m working on a big project to save the Gunnison’s prairie dogs in Santa Fe, please say you guys will fly in this weekend to help!”

Rusty heard ‘dog’ and quickly used it to reopen his campaign to get one, “Can I have one if I help? What type of dog is a Gunnison’s prairie dog anyway? Is it like a Chihuahua?”

To Rusty’s great disappointment, Juanita explained that prairie dogs were not dogs at all but a burrowing member of the squirrel family native to the Great Plains and southwestern desert grasslands. She said their name came from the barking sounds they make.

Juanita continued with a passionate plea for our help. She said, “It is so sad. All five species of North America’s prairie dogs are in trouble. They have lost 90% of their historical range due to habitat loss, shooting and poisoning and in less than a century their population has declined by 98-99%. The WildEarth Guardians are kicking off a giant campaign to raise awareness about the prairie dogs plight. We want to share how important they are to the ecosystem and environment. They should be put on endangered species list before it is too late.”

We took off the next morning to join her.

As we traveled from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, Juanita did her best to educate us on prairie dogs in general and especially about Gunnison’s. She said, “Gunnison’s are the type of prairie dog found in Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos, New Mexico. They have been in those areas since practically the beginning of time. Currently, they are facing habitat loss not just from urbanization but also in rural areas from oil and gas activity. In just the last century their population declined by 98%. There is only a small colony left in Santa Fe.”

“The prairie dogs are a keystone species in the grassland ecosystem”, Juanita stated. “Over 140 wildlife species benefit from the prairie dogs and their colonies. Their burrows provide habitat to many amphibians, reptiles, small mammals and insects. At least 9 species depend on prairie dogs for survival. One of which is the endangered burrowing owl.” Barely stopping for a breath she went on, “Raptors and mammals need them for food and the large herbivores love the rich grassland around their colonies. Scientists believe that their underground tunneling plays a significant role in recharging the water table!”

We were spellbound as she told us of the advanced communication system prairie dogs use. They have different “words” to describe, for example, a tall human in a yellow shirt, or a short human in a green shirt. They also have “words” for deer, coyote, red-tailed hawk and many other creatures.

Juanita said that prairie dogs are highly social creatures. She has seen photos of them greeting each other with what looked like hugs and kisses. The “kiss” is actually used to distinguish a member of their family or “coterie” from a stranger.

In Santa Fe we hit the ground running. When we talked and shared all we knew about prairie dogs people were more than willing to sign our petitions. Some even joined in and helped for the rest of the weekend!

That last night as we soaked our sore feet and rested our hoarse voices we hoped with all our hearts that our work will help save the prairie dogs and in doing that, all of other creatures that depend on them to live.

Quackers #33 – Exploring New Hobbies

The last rain drops slid lazily across the leaves before dripping to the ground. As the dark clouds raced away patches of sunlight moved in to take their place. The trees stretched their branches higher, eager to bask in the rays of the returning sunlight.

The rain was gone. We were anxious to get back in the ocean even though we knew it would be a several more days before it would be safe. When you are used to surfing everyday waiting 72 hours after a storm because of all the chemicals and other yucky stuff feels like an eternity.

We needed something to take our minds off surfing and the wait. A game of monopoly was the only thing all three of us could agree on.

As we played Richard and I felt sorry for Rusty. The “loss” seemed to be affecting him the most. Every few minutes he would sigh and say something like, “Remember the good old days when we would catch waves all morning long? I sure miss those days.” Anyone would have thought it had been weeks instead of just days since we last surfed. All of a sudden in the middle of the game he just stopped playing and sat staring into space. We knew it was time to get Rusty moving and out of the house.

Nothing pleased him. He didn’t want to skateboard or ride our unicycles. When we suggested a swim at the pool he groaned then whined, “I can’t! Don’t you know the ripples in the water look like waves and that would make me think of the ocean and that would make me think of surfing? That is just mean.”

It was Richard who finally remembered that the best way to reach Rusty was always through his stomach. He coaxed him out of the house with the promise of the largest, ice blended, green tea boba that money could buy…if he took a walk with us.

Rusty clumped along behind us, shoulders sagging and head hanging low. Matter of fact that was exactly what he was doing when he found it. There it sat right in the middle of the sidewalk, a shiny black rock shaped like an egg.

Rusty shouted out with excitement. We ran back hoping it was money he had found.

At first we did not share his excitement. To us it was just a rock but when we saw how happy it made him it became special for us too. Rusty continued admiring his rock and happily declared he was starting a rock collection.

For the rest of the walk Rusty kept his eyes wide open and his nose to the ground. It was amazing the number of rocks he found just by walking down the street. They were all shapes, colors, sizes and textures. By the time we reached home all of our pockets bulged with his rocks.

He immediately jumped on the computer to learn more about rocks. Soon he said, “Did you guys know the whole Earth is made of rock?” Actually we didn’t. Then he told us there are three types of rock, Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic. That was news to us too. The rock he found turned out to be sedimentary.

As Rusty studied he came across a recent article on a rock called peridotite. Recently scientists discovered it has the amazing ability to absorb carbon dioxide, our main greenhouse gas! They found that when carbon dioxide comes into contact with peridotite it changes from a gas to a solid mineral, such as calcite. When Rusty read that it had the potential to become a significant tool in the fight against global warming he really became excited.

With more research Rusty found that peridotite was the most common rock found in the Earth’s mantle, the layer directly below the Earth’s crust. In some places it can also be found on the surface of the Earth. One of those places where a vast amount can be found is in the Middle East in Oman. It also shows up in the Pacific Islands of Papua and Caledonia and along the coast of the Adriatic Sea.

When Rusty read that California had surface peridotite but in smaller amounts a funny look crossed his face. He thought for a while and said, “What if we had more surface peridotite in California? Wouldn’t that take care of all our greenhouse gases?” Before we could say anything he jumped up and ran outside.

The next thing we knew Rusty was dragging miner’s lamps, pick axes and shovels in from the garage. He grabbed the phone as he yelled, “Do we have enough money in the checking account to rent a hydraulic excavator? Let’s get a move on!”

In theory it was a wonderful plan but we had to tell him no. It took some doing but we finally convinced him that the plan was too big, even for us but watch out, now he is recruiting volunteers.

Quackers #32- Everyone Has a Job to Do

A loud crack of thunder was followed by several more deep booms. The sky grew darker and it began- rain, glorious rain. When it tapped on the pane I slid the window open and welcomed it like a favored guest. I wanted to hear it drumming on the sidewalk, pinging off metal and splashing from the downspout. It had been a long time since we’d heard that music.

We love the rain. On a rainy day we don’t stay in, we go out! Rain makes us smile and want to quack out loud.

Our first thought was, “Grab your board!” Then we pictured the pollution and bacteria from the storm runoff flowing into the Santa Monica bay. That vivid image quickly moved us on to plan b.

When we saw the big puddles forming and little rivers running along the curb we decided a walk in the rain could be almost as much fun as surfing.

Rambling down the street Rusty stopped to make boats from fallen leaves and launched them down the ‘rivers’ complete with crews made of grass blades. Richard and I dedicated ourselves to jumping in all puddles as we splashed our way through the neighborhood.

Our long, meandering path eventually brought us to the beach. We found fiercely powerful, 8-10 foot waves building. Line after line of waves roared toward the shore raging, flinging spray and foam high into the air as they traveled. Breaking, they covered the sand with great sheets of white water and mounds of foam. A strong rip current would momentarily interrupt the wave pattern as it sucked water and sand back out to sea. We stared mesmerized by the scene until Rusty shouted over the noise of the waves, “Mmm. That looks tasty. How about stopping for a latte with extra foam on the way home?”

We took the long way home so we could pass by one of Great Grandpa Quackers favorite old spots. It had been a very special place. He had found it one day at the far edge of the golf course between Dewey and Rose. He said when the first good rain came it would turn into a tiny wetland with an elongated pond that seemed to magically fill with scores of wiggling tadpoles. Once that happened, he and Great Grandma Quacker would round up all the kids, hike over and spend the day. It was often so pleasant they would camp overnight. They would roast marshmallows and listening to frog songs far into the night before drifting off to sleep.

The special place is long gone, replaced by a drainage ditch. Thinking of Great Grandpa Quacker’s story made us happy. That we would never experience the special place made us sad.

To take our minds off the sadness I decided to tell a true story about the mountain yellow-legged frog of the California Sierras that in a way reminded me of Great Grandpa’s special place.

“When the frogs were gone some people realized how incredibly essential and important those tiny creatures were to that food web. They had been critical for maintaining the structure of that ecological community. Thought to be unimportant, they turned out to be the keystone species. Removing them had caused a dramatic shift that proved disastrous for frogs, birds, other creatures and the habitat.”

Richard looked at me and said, “Sidney, Stop! This is not cheering us up.” I begged them to wait and went on.

“Recently something wonderful happened. Someone decided to change things. In Sequoia and Kings Canyon national parks crews started taking non-native trout out of the lakes and high-country basins. The results were amazing. With the non-native trout gone the few frogs that had somehow hidden and managed to hang on immediately started to reclaim their entire habitat!”

“Removing the non-native trout was such a success that biologists are now proposing to remove trout from an additional 75 high-altitude lakes and about 50 miles of stream to bring back the ecological balance to the area. In other words they want to give everyone their old jobs back.”

Even though I had told the story, I still joined Rusty and Richard for a cheer at the end. The story lifted our spirits and gave us hope.

Who knows, if that could happen maybe Great Grandpa’s special place and his frogs could make a comeback too?

Quackers #31 – It’s OK to Cheat Off Mother Nature

It must have been strange, maybe even a little scary. It was late and the sky was so dark that New Year’s Eve. It would have been easy to see the mysterious moving lights. They were out there, past the shoreline, three distinct bright spots of light.

It was eerie. The lights bobbed rhythmically, up and down, as if they were sitting on the water. A pattern developed. At intervals the lights appeared to rise and with great speed hurtle themselves toward the shore where they would momentarily disappear only to pop up again a short time later bobbing off shore. Time after time this odd pattern repeated until shortly after midnight when the lights stopped as mysteriously as they had started

We had just climbed up the hill from the beach when we heard the people talking about some lights they had seen. Their eyes were wide and they were saying, “There must be a logical explanation! It is probably some sort of weather phenomenon! Maybe it was a really large, concentrated red tide?” One lady said, “It was UFO’s, I’m sure!” We just shrugged and finished packing up our gear and took off for home.

It was the next morning when it finally dawned on us. The crowd at the beach had been talking about us!

Night surfing is not without its challenges but we prevailed. Once we headed out to Dockweiler beach, donned our party hats and strapped on our miner’s head lamps it all turned out totally awesome.

2010. The Year of the Tiger. Rusty watched an old “Rocky” movie on late night TV and decided “Eye of the Tiger”, was the perfect song to welcome in the New Year. I can’t tell you how tired Richard and I were of hearing him sing it. He would not give it a rest. We covered our ears and hummed other songs. It didn’t help. Finally, we asked him to at least change the words to “Year of the Tiger.” His answer to that was to belt out his version of the song, “Went the distance, now I’m not gonna stop, just a duck and a will to survive…eye of the tiger”, rolled his eyes and left the room.

Once we figured out that we were the mysterious lights we did have to wonder about those people, just a little. Even though they were up on the highway they must have heard Rusty at midnight when he roared and then sang “Eye of the Tiger” at the top of his lungs. How could they have missed Richard and me when we slid down the face of that perfect 4 footer holding sparklers and yelling “Happy New Year?” UFO’s, come on! I think someone had just a tad too much sparkling apple juice.

Our New Year’s Day was a quiet one. Between football games I did a little sketching while Rusty and Richard worked on the garden. It was all quite peaceful until Rusty boomed out, “Richard! Come see, a really big bird ‘bombed’ your Rue plant! It’s gross.”

Richard became excited. It wasn’t a bird “bomb”. It was a yellow swallowtail caterpillar. He explained that in its larval stage this caterpillar mimics the appearance of bird poop to keep predators from feasting on it.

Examining several more plants Richard was elated to discover several more caterpillars. Rusty and I could not keep from laughing when Richard sighed and said, “I am going to be a butterfly daddy soon.”

Seeing the caterpillars reminded Richard of an article he had just read about “biomimicry.” He said many scientists and inventors are looking to the natural world to help them create better and more sustainable products, as well as find solutions to some of our most vexing problems.

According to Richard, wonderful things have already taken place by using biomimicry. In Japan and China, scientists are modeling more efficient solar cells after the scales of butterfly wings, which serve as highly effective, microscopic solar collectors.

Richard said there were many more examples and then told us something we had never thought about. He said that living organisms have been conducting their own research and development program for about 3.8 billion years. They have tested and solved many of the challenges that humans are facing today so it is imperative that we do everything possible to preserve and learn from our natural world and wildlife. We don’t know which one may the solution for the next insurmountable problem. It could even be that caterpillar that looks like bird poop!

Quackers #30 – Farming a New Crop

It was still very early when a delightful aroma drifted into our bedrooms and our dreams. I popped my head out of the bedroom and saw Rusty doing the same. If we were still dreaming at least we seemed to be having the same one.

We wandered toward the kitchen still rubbing the sleep from our eyes. There was Richard buttering a tall stack of fluffy, golden brown pancakes. Funny, we thought, it wasn’t Sunday. Humming, Richard poured three steaming mugs of thick hot chocolate and topped them all off with tons of mini marshmallows. When he asked if we would like our maple syrup warmed or at room temperature we lost our ability to reason and speak.

“Warmed it is then”, he said. We grabbed our knives and forks.

While we ate pancakes dripping with buttery syrup and sipped sweet, creamy hot chocolate it was easy to ignore that little voice in the back of our minds that kept repeating over and over, “Pancakes on a weekday?”

As our bellies filled the voice got louder. What was Richard up to? Was he angling for us to rake leaves for the compost bin? Nah, that wouldn’t rate this breakfast. Did he want to borrow money? What had he done? These thoughts and more raced through our minds.

We stared expectantly at Richard hoping for an explanation. He seemed oblivious to us. He just continued humming a little tune and reading the Santa Monica Daily Press.

All of the sudden Rusty blurted out, “OK, OK! We’ll rake the leaves for you!”

Startled, Richard looked up from the paper, “What are you talking about? I didn’t ask you to rake any leaves.”

Rusty squinted trying to read Richard’s face and said, “Then why did you make us pancakes on a weekday?”

Richard answered, “Can’t a brother just be nice? Let’s go surfing.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Richard is a nice guy but I was sure there was more than brotherly love behind that delicious breakfast. It had to be something terrible. Maybe that was his strategy. If we imagined the worst and he told us something not half as bad we might forget to be upset with him.

Some situations call for diplomacy and a subtle approach. I decided this was not one of them. Walking home from the beach I exploded, “It’s driving me crazy Richard. What did you do? Did you blow up my computer? What?”

He had no idea it bothered me so much. “Sidney, I’ll come clean if you just calm down. I volunteered the three of us for eight straight weekends of carbon farming.”

His strategy did not work. Rusty and I fumed. Eight weekends of doing something we never even heard of! He kept saying, “It is for a great cause. Calm down. Just let me explain.”

We said, “Talk fast!”

Richard, always on the lookout for new ways to combat global warming and help wildlife, had found a project called Green Trees. It pays farmers across the Lower Mississippi River Valley to convert their croplands to woodlands. Instead of soy beans or corn they would ‘farm’ a new crop, carbon dioxide.

The goal is to restore a large swath of the vast bottomland hardwood forest that once stretched from Illinois to the Gulf of Mexico. Right now only 20% of this critical wildlife habitat remains. The rest has been cleared for agriculture. The growing global market for carbon credits, where individuals or businesses buy credits to offset greenhouse gas emissions, presented an opportunity that will help the program raise a billion dollars to replant one million acres. The restoration will improve farmers financial stability, help global warming by sequestering and storing carbon dioxide, restore wildlife habitat and keep soil from being washed into the Gulf of Mexico.

We were softening.

Still talking fast he told us of another similar project that The Trust for Public Lands had taken on along the Tensas River in Louisiana. They are planting 11,000 acres of trees. This will not only add to the Tensas River National Wildlife Refuge, it will also sequester 3 million tons of carbon over the next 100 years, create a continuous forested corridor for the threatened Louisiana black bears and provide habitat for other wildlife.

Luckily, we did not have to travel out of state for the next eight weekends. Richard found something closer to home. We would be volunteering in Northern California’s Mendocino County on a Conservation fund effort called the Garcia River Project. It is helping safeguard more than 330,000 acres including 40,000 of watershed and forestlands that are invaluable to the current climate crisis.

OK, Richard was right. They were all important projects and the Garcia River project sounds like a good choice for us. I guess the Quackers are taking up carbon farming.

I still think he should have asked first.

Quackers# 29 – The Quackers in Japan

When I saw Rusty running back from the mailbox I was sure he had lost his mind. He was laughing, yelling my name and waving a piece of paper in the air screaming over and over, "I'm going to Japan." When he finally reached me he was still waving that paper like crazy but the "I'm going to Japan" had morphed into a song with choreography. Laughing, singing, dancing, he spun me around until I was dizzy.

Still a little woozy from all the dancing and spinning I finally glimpsed a Tokyo postmark and guessed the paper had to be a letter from Yamanaka Sensei.

Yamanaka Sensei was Rusty’s former martial arts teacher whom he idolized. Being an exceptional student, Rusty soon became one of his favorites. When Yamanaka Sensei returned to his home in Tokyo he and Rusty had kept in touch. His letters had never generated this much excitement.

Catching his breath, Rusty was finally able to share the reason for his excitement. Yamanaka Sensei had invited Rusty to his “Kanreki”, a very special 60th birthday celebration, and included a round trip ticket to Tokyo!

Rusty begged us to come with him. It didn’t take much convincing. Pass up a trip to Japan and an opportunity to visit our cousins, Koji, Kaoru and little Yuto Quacker? No way!

A quick call to Koji sealed the deal. He said it was a perfect time to visit. I booked our tickets, bought some carbon offsets and we were set to go.

With beaming smiles and warm hugs Koji, Kaoru and little Yuto welcomed us to Japan. At the airport, we popped Rusty into a cab for the Kanreki celebration while the rest of us excitedly planned for the next few days.

The Konreki was awesome. Rusty said he will always picture Yamanaka Sensei glowing with happiness seated at the head of a feast laden table while dozens of family and friends presented him with presents and warm wishes for many more joyful years.

Rusty couldn’t wait to talk about surfing. Koji doesn’t surf but knowing we did, he had done some research. He said in Japan the best time for surfing was August to October when the typhoons blow. We had missed that by a few weeks but he thought we could still give it a try and hope for the best.

We took off the next morning for a place, not too far from Tokyo, called Chiba. We were in the water before Koji finished parking the car. Wondering if we had lost our minds, our cousins watched in surprise when after just two waves we came scrambling out of the water as fast as we had gone in.

Yes, we can now say we surfed Japan, however we will probably not mention turning that odd shade of blue and nearly freezing our tail feathers off in the process. It was cold! We learned two things that day, how to say waist high waves, “koshi”, and more importantly to ask “Mizu ga Tsumetai desu Ka?” which loosely translated means “Is the water cold?” before jumping in without a proper wet suit.

Kaoru thought we were visiting at the perfect time. It was the season for viewing fall foliage. “In Japan”, she said, “We call it Kouyou or Momiji gari. The changing leaves will add so much beauty to our sightseeing.”

She was so right. Near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo on Jingu Gaien Street, we were greeted by the beautiful sight of row after row of stately Gingko trees filled with bright gold leaves. When we strolled in Kamakura at the Tsurugaoka Hachimangu Shrine we were treated, not only to the beauty of the shrine but also trees full of breathtaking reds, yellows and oranges.

We traveled far and wide hoping to catch a glimpse of Mount Fuji. It was not to be. As little Yuto put it, “Fujisan” seemed to be sleeping under a fluffy futon of clouds that day. The beauty of the Hakone region, the dense green forests splashed with the colors of the changing leaves and the serene blue lakes quickly washed away any disappointment we may have felt.

When Richard mentioned green roofs, Koji immediately took us to see the amazing Acros Fukuoka Building in Fukuoka City. One side is a conventional office building, while the other side is a huge terraced roof that merges into a park. The 196 foot terraced garden contains more than 35,000 plants that provide habitat for birds and insects and at the same time captures runoff and reduces energy use in the building. It was fantastic. On our last night we all met for dinner with Yamanaka Sensei. We thanked everyone for an unforgettable adventure and with reluctance said our goodbyes.

That night we slept for the last time in our cousin’s tatami room under gloriously warm futon comforters and dreamed of our amazing trip to Japan.

Quackers #28 – A Squirrel with a Rap Sheet

Richard has always been a problem solver, the “go to” guy whenever something sticky came up. He has the ability to see things from many different perspectives, it really works for him. If Rusty or I hit a wall on a project we run it by Richard and snap, a solution is born.

Recently something happened that turned Richard’s world upside down. The “problem solver” ran into a problem that seemed to defy resolution. That problem was a squirrel. It caused so much havoc and built such a lengthy “rap sheet” with Richard that he stopped referring to it as the “cute little squirrel” and started calling it “Public Enemy #1.” Richard welcomes all creatures to our wildlife friendly yard. By providing food, water, cover and a place to raise young he has created a magnet that attracts local, and on occasion, migrating wildlife.

Richard throws out a special welcome mat for his favorites, the birds. When the weather starts to change, leaves begin to fall and food gets harder to find he goes out of his way to make sure each bird feeder is brimming with black oil sunflower seeds. He says during this time of the year the nutritious protein and healthy oil from the seeds are just what a bird needs to fuel up for the coming winter days.

In a big tree in the courtyard, Richard set out multiple feeders and a combination drinking station/ birdbath, creating a haven that allows us to enjoy the musical chirping of many different birds. Black Phoebes, House Finches, Bushtits, Hummingbirds, Doves, and Richard’s favorites, tiny American Goldfinches, all grace us with their presence. It was a place of joy and tranquility but that all changed the day Public Enemy #1 sauntered into the yard.

He was not the first squirrel to drop by. Scores of others had been quite content to nibble on fallen seeds, nose around a bit and move on. Not Public Enemy #1. He wanted it all and was determined to take it, feeder and all if necessary.

Richard met the challenge head on. He moved the feeders higher, lower, sideways and finally from the tree to a pole. He tried new designs and experimented with different materials but Public Enemy #1 would not leave those feeders alone. That acrobatic, high wire aerialist, one squirrel demolition crew continued to chew through wood, plastic and even metal to achieve his goal. As his ‘piece de resistance’ that greedy little rodent chewed off all the perches so not a bird could eat.

Richard became desperate. He heard adding chili peppers to birdseed would not harm or bother the birds but would deter a worrisome squirrel. He added his hottest, fiery New Mexico chili to the seed and was sure his problem was solved. He heard a noise as he walked away and turned to see Public Enemy #1 dangling, upside down from the top of the birdfeeder using both paws to shovel handfuls of chili laced birdseed into his mouth with no ill effect.

Richard was so obsessed with his problem he began to lose it. One day when we paddled out to surf he just kept paddling. He might have ended up in Catalina if Rusty had not yelled and screamed for him to stop. When he finally did catch a wave that day he shot out in front of me, pearled, flipped his board and took us both down in a tremendous wipeout.

Since he had always been the “go to guy”, it made it hard for Richard to ask for help, even from us. The turning point for him finally came the night he served us ice cold pizza and bubbling hot ice cream for dinner and never realized it. At that moment he put away his pride and asked for help.

The first thing we did was call for take-out and then we dove into action. Rusty and Richard designed and built a new, finely meshed, steel reinforced feeder. After an exhaustive search of every yard sale in Santa Monica, I found a perfect large, slick surfaced, smooth-lipped, dome shaped lampshade. I re-purposed it by hanging it as a guard between the hanging wire and the roof of the birdfeeder. If my theory proved correct, Public Enemy #1 had just run out of luck.

It may have been Rusty’s last minute brainstorm that made it all work. Thinking the squirrel might behave better if he had his own food and a place to eat; he borrowed an old dog dish from a neighbor, filled it with a blend of nuts, seeds and a big dollop of peanut butter and placed it in the newly designated squirrel zone.

Several weeks have passed and still peace continues to reign in the courtyard. Since there already was a name on the old dog dish and Public Enemy #1 was used to it, we decided to just stick with it and change his name to Fido.

Quackers #27 – Art, Fossils and Dragonflies

Dawn Patrol. It was still dark. Our boards rocked beneath us with the motion of the swell. We always savored those precious peaceful moments before the day began. We listened to the sound of the water lapping around our boards, the breaking waves and the soft stirring of the shore birds.

The sun began its day slowly. With a blink and a yawn it gave a good stretch sending out soft tendrils of light across the dark sky. More stirring and another big stretch colored the sky with red, yellow and orange. Finally popping his head off the pillow the sun lit the sky.

The water had taken on an invigorating chill with the changing season. We shivered a little but smiled when we saw perfect 3-5 footers. Giving thanks to the faraway storm that sent them our way we paddled fast and caught our first ride.

The waves were perfectly awesome. It was an effort to tear ourselves away after just a few hours but we had big plans. It was the second Tuesday of the month and that meant we could get into the Los Angeles County Museum of Art for free!

Scrubbed, combed and brushed, we wanted to look our best. We pulled on our dressiest board shorts, buttoned up our most colorful Hawaiian shirts, slipped on our best flip flops and excitedly rushed out the door to catch the bus.

For this trip we had chosen to see Art of the Pacific, Egyptian Art and the South and Southeast Asian Art collection. As we entered each collection we felt we had been transported to the places where the beautiful pieces had been created. We also felt we came away knowing more about the people creating them.

We never visit the Art Museum without also visiting the Page Museum and the La Brea Tar Pits. Rusty would never allow that to happen. If we left it up to him, our entire visit would be spent looking at dinosaur bones and peering into the tar pits.

Rusty could easily be a docent at the Page. Every time we step through the doors he starts narrating as if Richard and I are his out of town guests who are seeing it for the first time, “Over here is where the recovered fossils are cleaned, examined and identified. Please step this way to see the bones of a Harlan’s ground sloth that had arthritis and the only known Saber Toothed Cat to be discovered with his mouth closed.” His enthusiasm is infectious.

We were scouting around the edges of a tar pit looking for fossils and trying to imagine a world where giant Mastodons, Saber Toothed Cats and Ancient Bison roamed when Rusty spotted several dragonflies zipping through the air. He is crazy about them. With a whoop of delight he ran after them.

Richard and I rushed to join him. We saw their jewel-like bodies skimming across the water. We settled in to watch for a while as Rusty told us what he had learned about them.

Rusty said the ancient ancestors of these dragonflies flew in the skies long before the dinosaurs ever walked on the land. The early dragonflies are called Protodonata and have existed since the Carboniferous Period in the Earth’s history. They were among the first insects on Earth and the largest ever to fly. Some had wingspans of up to 29 inches! They shared the land with early amphibians, first reptiles and wouldn’t you know it, the cockroach.

Dragonflies are fast. Rusty said some can reach speeds of 35 mph. We were amazed as we watched the beauties fly backwards, changed direction in mid-air, stop and hover. Rusty says their flying abilities are so extraordinary that aerospace researchers study their flight control mechanisms to find ways to improve airplanes and spaceships.

Rusty thinks Hine’s Emerald is one of the most beautiful dragonflies. He loves its brilliant green eyes, and dark metallic green body with its two distinct, creamy-yellow lateral lines.

Hine’s Emerald seems to need a somewhat specialized habitat of thin soils over dolomite bedrock with marshes, seeps and sedge meadows. It found such habitat in areas of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, Michigan, Missouri and Indiana however destruction and fragmentation of habitat has placed it in peril and continues to be a primary threat to its recovery.

Rusty says if it could happen to one dragonfly it could happen to all of them. He is working on us to help him create a dragonfly pond in the yard. He says it will help save the dragonflies and help get rid of some pesky mosquitoes too.

Quackers #26 – The Unseen World of Giants

It had taken months and a lot of blood (ouch, my smashed thumb), sweat, (whew-ee, that would be all of us)and a few tears of frustration as we worked to get Great Grandpa Quacker’s 1934 Woody Wagon up and running again, but we did it.

For years, every time we opened the garage, that Woody Wagon stared at us with those big round headlights begging us to take it out, just one more time, on a surfing safari. Rusty said there were only two choices, quit opening the garage or fix the Woody Wagon.

Rusty got us moving. We changed out the old engine for a new one that runs on bio-fuel. Then we repaired, sanded and polished every inch of that car until it gleamed like new.

Rusty took the wheel and we hit the road ready to re-live Great Grandpa Quacker’s awesome surfing safari adventures. We tooled up the coast, surfboards hanging out the rear window, styling in our classic Woody Wagon and ready to hit every surf spot from Santa Monica to the Oregon border.

The surfing was spectacular, the scenery dazzling. From Malibu to North Beach it was exactly as Great Grandpa Quacker had described it. We were living his stories.

When I mapped out the route for our safari, I discovered we would be traveling through one of the most precious natural wonders of the world, the ancient coast redwoods. The coast redwoods are the tallest and possibly the oldest, most massive, living things on Earth.

I read everything I could find on the redwoods. When I learned that 150 years of logging and real estate development had left only 5% of the original 2 million acres of coast redwood forest, I knew I could not pass up the opportunity to see the redwoods in person and learn more about them.

Many of the articles I read mentioned Dr. Stephen Sillett, botany professor at Humboldt State University in Arcata who specializes in old growth (ancient) forest canopies. As an expert on these rare, massive giants, I had to talk with him. I took a chance, called and he agreed to meet with me.

Unsure of how my brothers might react and hoping it might help my case, I waited until we were surrounded by the serene beauty of the massive redwoods on Hwy 101’s “Avenue of the Giants”, and then I told them. Richard was immediately agreeable. Rusty, saying the purity of the surfing safari had been compromised, gave me the silent treatment for miles.

I told Richard how Dr. Sillett was the first scientist to enter the upper layer of the spreading, branchy, redwood canopy. There he found an unseen world, an entire ecosystem, hundreds of feet up in the air.

Rusty kept me on ignore until I began talking about Dr. Sillett’s method of moving about the canopy, called ‘skywalking’.

Our meeting went well. Rusty, of course, couldn’t wait to hear how Dr. Sillett ‘skywalked’ in the trees. He told Rusty that first he set a climbing line using a rubber tipped arrow. Then, using a modified arborist–style safety swing, with ropes, harnesses and pulleys, he ascended into the canopy. The skywalking actually occurred once he was in the canopy by using motion lanyards on a web of climbing robes. Rusty was heartbroken to hear that he would have to become a graduate student at the University to climb with the Dr.

With rapt attention, we listened as Dr. Sillett described the aerial gardens of the redwood canopies. There are colonies of fungi that play an import role in this ecosystem. They help plants absorb nutrients and water. They also help produce the rich soil mats that support earthworms, bugs and barely visible crustaceans, called copepods. Leather ferns dangle from branches and Sitka spruce and western hemlocks sprout from the soil. We all laughed at the picture he created describing chickadees, ruby-crowned kinglets and brown creepers, 300 feet in the sky, gorging themselves on the thickets of red and black huckleberries growing there.

This lush, climate controlled refuge is also home to several varieties of mammals including the California myotis, big brown bat, red tree vole, the northern flying squirrel and the Townsend Chipmunk.

We decided out favorite canopy resident was the wandering salamander who lives high above the forest floor in salamander paradise. He sleeps on a comfy, thick soil mat that is also full of tasty insect treats that he enjoys while sitting 250 feet in the air out of reach of ground dwelling predators. Ah, the good life.

When our time was up we vowed to share all we had learned. We thanked Dr. Sillett and with great reluctance got on our way.

The safari was like a nice big chocolate cake, wonderful. Seeing the giant redwoods and meeting Dr. Sillett put the icing on it.

Quackers #25 – Ode to Walden Pond

Quackers # 25 – Ode to Walden Pond

I heard Rusty talking when I came in. Thinking he had a guest, I stuck my head in the room to say hello. Instead I found him by himself and talking away to the computer screen as he checked out the surf reports and live web cams at the different beaches. “Venice. Nope. Dockweiler. No way. Hello El Porto! You are looking so, so bueno today.” Finally noticing me he yelled, “Yikes, you scared me! Get Richard, get your gear. We’re surfing Manhattan today.”

Grabbing our boards we jumped on our unicycles. By weaving our way through the streets of Santa Monica, Mar Vista and Marina Del Rey we were able to avoid Lincoln Blvd. until the last leg of our trip. If you think Lincoln is a bear in a car, try it on a unicycle while balancing a surfboard on your head.

Rusty had chosen well. Once we saw those solid 2-4 foot waves with that long, slow break we knew the ride had been worth it.

Richard sat on his board bobbing contentedly. I rushed to catch the first wave. I knew Rusty was watching so I showed off, just a little. I walked the board and then with a yawn, nonchalantly hung ten. Not one to be outdone Rusty paddled fast to catch the next wave. He walked the board too, only backwards, and finished with a handstand. He is so good. As we paddled back out he told me walking backwards is supposed to build brainpower. He thinks doing it while surfing might just make him a genius. There is always hope.

At lunch, Richard finally finished the book he had been reading all week. Looking excited he asked if we could stop at the Ballona Wetlands on our way home.

We asked what was up. Richard said it all started with this quotation, “I believe there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.” He said the words spoke so strongly to him he rushed out to find more about the man who wrote them, Henry David Thoreau.

He told us Thoreau was a multi-talented individual from the 1800’s, who through his writing had influenced many great thinkers including John F. Kennedy, Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. Thoreau is best known for his book, “Walden.” It tells of an experiment in which he built his own house and for two years lived a simple life, close to nature, in the woods near Walden Pond.

Richard had found a new hero. Thoreau was a naturalist and considered to be the father of American nature writing. He was also an advocate for biodiversity and ecology before those issues even had names. His writings on natural history and philosophy were the basis for modern ecology and environmentalism. According to Richard, Thoreau even invented the idea of nature walks though he called them ‘rambles’.

Inspired, Richard wanted to conduct an experiment too. He didn’t have woods and a pond nearby but he did have the Wetlands. We each received an assignment. I was to ‘ramble’ through the Wetlands, Rusty was to sit in a tree and see the world through the eyes of a bird. Richard, as he heard Thoreau had done, was going to experience the world through the eyes of a frog. Then, like Thoreau, we would write our personal observations and philosophical reflections.

Richard submerged himself in the small pond until only his nostrils and eyes were above water. He noted how soft the algae felt as it brushed his face with the subtle movement of the water. He held his breath as a dragonfly landed close by.

Rusty, of course, noted that the birds were eating and soon was nibbling right along with them. He seemed to be having a contest with a yellow-headed blackbird about who could eat the most insects.

Me, I just rambled. A Red-tailed hawk soared above me while I watched a Yellow-faced bumble bee and a hummingbird dance from flower to flower. A spider creating his intricate web held me spellbound.

As soon as his belly was full Rusty grew bored with life as a blackbird. To Richards dismay he insisted on joining him in the water.

All went well until Richard thought he heard soft snoring. Suddenly, Rusty was gulping, sputtering and splashing. He had fallen asleep.

The mood had been broken and it was growing late. We decided to call it a day.

That evening as we shared our experiences we found that our experiment had sparked an even deeper appreciation for living in harmony with nature. I also found myself thinking how lucky we were to have a brother who often walks to the beat of a slightly different drummer and in that way helps us experience wonders in the world we might otherwise miss.

Quackers #24 – Going Batty

Quackers # 24 – Going Batty

My favorite spot is on the top of the hill at Bay Street and Ocean Way. I stood there watching the sun dance across the silvery blue water and thinking how the colorful umbrellas looked like giant blooming flowers rising up out of the sand when suddenly everything changed. Something hit me from behind. Instead of looking at the ocean I was on my back staring up at my feet.

Head down and daydreaming, Richard had accidently ran into me. Rusty, following closely behind, tried to pull up but couldn’t. Unbalanced he fell forward right into Richard. We all went tumbling down the hill, surfboards and all.

When we stopped I found my foot in Rusty’s belly, my wing in Richard’s eye. Richard’s foot was smashing Rusty’s face and somehow Rusty’s wing had found its way into my mouth.

As people rushed to our aid we quickly scrambled to our feet laughing. We bowed deeply from the waist shouting “Ta da!” and grabbed our boards. Quickly we headed for the water trying our best to pretend our embarrassing tumbling act had all been planned.

The three of us had spent most of the morning building a bat house. Richard and Rusty had been reluctant at first. They weren’t crazy about bats. To them bats were scary, dangerous creatures that flew through the night skies intent on neck biting and flying into people’s hair. It had taken a lot of work to convince them to help.

The bat house idea came to me after reading an article about the U.S. Forest Service closing thousands of caves and former mines in the national forests of 33 states. They were trying to stop a bat killing fungus called the “White-Nose Syndrome”

This “White-Nose Syndrome” fungus makes the muzzles, wings and ears of infected bats look white. The cause is poorly understood and something of a mystery. It is spreading rapidly and has already killed at least 500,000 bats.

There are many theories on the cause of “White-Nose Syndrome”; they all seem to come back to climate change, pesticide use or other environmental toxins. There is fear it may wipe out the endangered Indiana, Virginia and Ozark big-eared and gray bats.

Earlier I read that 40% of all the bats in the U.S. and Canada are endangered or close to being added to the list due to habitat loss and pesticide use. The idea of a new, unknown threat really concerned me. I decided to arm myself with the real facts about bats and lead a crusade to change the way my brothers and others felt about them. I was going to prove that bats did not deserve their “bad boy” reputations.

Bats are probably the least understood animals in the world. We know so little about them. They are portrayed as sinister predators but in reality they are softly furred, shy, gentle creatures. They are also the only mammals that can fly.

To enlist Richard for my project I emphasized the major role bats play in our ecosystem. Since he was the one who educated Rusty and me on the importance of bees as pollinators I was sure once he knew bats were also important pollinators his feeling toward them would change immediately. Thankfully, I was right. When I told him bats pollinate bananas, avocados, mangoes, dates, figs and his favorite, cashews, he was in.

Rusty despises mosquitoes so I informed him that the majority of bats are insect eaters who work diligently at keeping the insect populations down. That got his attention. His eyes grew wide when I told him that one tiny brown bat could eat 600 mosquitoes in one hour. When I told him about the 20 million bats from Bracken Cave, Texas that gobble up more than 200 tons of insects in just one summer night, he was convinced and ready to help.

I thought, just to seal the deal, and in case they needed a little more convincing I should tell them about the fruit and nectar eating bats in the tropics. I told them those bats hold down two important jobs. Not only do they pollinate, they also are responsible for spreading seeds. The seeds they drop account for 95% of forest re-growth on cleared land. That makes them absolutely vital to the survival of the rain forests.

Rusty was still worried about vampire bats or “little Draculas” as he called them. I told him they really do exist but they make up a very small fraction of the bat species. He took off his garlic necklace and felt a little more secure when I told him they are only found in Latin America and that they rarely feed on human blood.

With my brothers help the bat house turned out great. Maybe it will help our local bats. We are looking for tenants and hoping that “if you build it they will come” applies.

Quackers # 23 – Big Daddy’s Gift

The air was heavy and still. It felt like we were wading in water as we moved through it. It was so hot. The beach was the only place we could escape the heat.

It was late when we dragged home from our surfing session. I grabbed the mail from the box and thumbed through it. Buried between the magazines and advertisements was the letter from Guymon, Oklahoma I had been hoping for.

While researching the family tree I ran across a Quacker in the Oklahoma panhandle area I was not familiar with and had dashed off a letter to see if we were related.

I tore open the envelope and found we were related through my Great Grandpa Quacker. Our “new” relative was James Joseph Quacker III. He said everyone called him Jimmy Joe and he was anxious to meet us.

We left the next day. Our only regret was that he did not live some place cooler, like Alaska.

Jimmy Joe’s ranch was located far from the edge of Guymon. Never had we seen such an enormous expanse of totally flat land. A herd of cattle and some trees were the all that relieved the wide open space. We saw a corn field ringed with trees. It was the line of trees encircling the house that helped us find it. Jimmy Joe greeted us warmly from the shaded porch.

After dinner Jimmy Joe dug out the family photo albums. The sun slipped away as we sat on the porch looking at the past generations of Quackers as they farmed the land and tended their livestock. One old photo made us all laugh. It showed a scared young duck being chased by a big, angry bull. It was great grandpa Quacker!

In the early photos we noticed there were no trees on the ranch. Now there were many and they were placed in a way we had not seen before. We asked Jimmy Joe about it.

He said the trees were planted that way for protection. They were called “windbreaks” or “shelterbelts”. He said Big Daddy, as he called his grandpa, planted most of them years ago after the big disaster in the 1930’s called the Dust Bowl.

We became spellbound as he explained, “The Dust Bowl happened before I was born but I can tell you what Big Daddy told us. He said we should never forget how it came about. Big Daddy said that for decades farmers in the area deep plowed killing the natural grasses. These grasses had kept the soil in place, trapped moisture and provided protection from high winds even in periods of drought. The farmers didn’t rotate crops. Never did they fallow the fields to rest them. Cover crops would have brought organic matter and nutrients back to the soil, but they did not plant them. They overgrazed the land with their livestock. This abuse of the land coupled with a long and severe drought in the 1930’s brought about an ecological disaster affecting millions.”

“Big Daddy said during the drought in the 1930’s crops failed and fields were left empty. The natural anchors to keep the soil in place were gone. The soil dried up, turned to dust and blew away eastward and southward in large dark clouds. So thick and dark were these cloud they turned day into night. The storms blew as far as New York and much of the soil ended up in the Atlantic Ocean. Enormous dust clouds filled the air preventing any hope for rainfall. Bare and dry soil made the winds worse and more soil was carried away. Big Daddy said that in 1934 the dust storms were so severe that red snow actually fell in New England that winter.”

“Millions of acres of farmland became useless forcing hundreds of thousands to leave their homes.” Jimmy Joe said when Big Daddy talked of leaving the ranch his voice would choke up and he could not continue the story for a while.

Big Daddy and the family had been forced to live on the banks of the Beaver River where they barely survived.

Jimmy Joe continued, “Starting in 1934, President Franklin D. Roosevelt tried his best to reverse an ecological disaster. He planted 200 million trees from Canada to Abilene, Texas hoping they would help break the wind, hold water in the soil and keep it in place. In 1938 the trees reduced blowing soil by 65%. Finally in 1939 the rains came.”

“Thankful to survive and return to his ranch, Big Daddy, just like the President, planted many of the trees you see now, Jimmy Joe said. He studied soil conservation and cared for the land. He taught his children and grandchildren to do the same.”

After hearing Big Daddy’s story we are convinced that treating the Earth gently and planting trees is critical no matter where you live, especially now.

Quackers #22 – Dreaming of Rainbows

When it comes to gardening, Richard is “The Man.” He knows exactly what is right to plant for each season and usually produces a bumper crop. Richard supplies the knowledge, we supply the labor. For this fall’s planting he chose cabbage, broccoli, beets, bok choy, onions, garlic, salad greens and of course his favorite, carrots.

Richard loves carrots. Recently he discovered “rainbow carrots”. He is absolutely obsessed with them. Having only known orange carrots, he became dazzled by the purple, red, white and yellow rainbow carrots.

Since his discovery, he is continuously munching on a multi-colored palette of carrot sticks. Rusty and I understand his enthusiasm for his new find, however, we do think he is taking it a bit too far when he lovingly looks at the carrot sticks and says, “Where have you beauties been all my life?” We know people talk to plants but give us a break. He is talking to carrot sticks. It is beginning to creep us out.

Richard assumed rainbow carrots were a new variety. To his surprise he learned that multi-hued carrots had been around for a very long time. Continuing his research he found that carrots originated in what is now present day Afghanistan about 5000 years ago and that they were purple or yellow, not the orange we have always known! As time passed Mother Nature stepped in and from those original colors produced mutants and natural hybrids by crossing both cultivated and wild varieties. It is believed that purple carrots were taken westward and that yellow mutants and wild forms crossed to produce the orange we are familiar with.

Now completely fascinated, Richard followed the cultivated carrot from Afghanistan, Iran and northern Arabia in its purple and yellow form to Syria and North Africa where some time in the 1000’s the color red also appeared. In the 1100’s Spain had purple and yellow. Italy and China, in the 1200’s had purple and red. In about the 1300’s France Germany and the Netherlands had red, yellow and white. England in the 1400’s had red and white while in Northern Europe orange appeared along with yellow and red. In the 1600’s Japan had purple and yellow while North America had orange and white. In the 1700’s orange and red appeared in Japan. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he had learned.>/p>

The next morning Richard excitedly told us about the dream he had. He had planted a patch of rainbow carrots and it was time for harvest. He began the harvest and found not only the rainbow carrots he expected but also a white carrot with alternating stripes of purple and orange. Stunned, he pulled another carrot and found a yellow one with red dots. Each pull yielded a different color combination and pattern. Finally, he pulled an orange one with purple dots and took a bite. Not only was it a beautiful carrot it was also the sweetest and most tender he had ever tasted. Still tasting the sweetness, he opened his eyes and knew he must try to grow “dream carrots.”

Immediately after breakfast we were dispatched to the garden with instructions to remove all rocks and clods of dirt for a foot down to prepare for the carrots. He wanted them to grow smooth and straight. Next we sprinkled wood ashes over the soil. Carrots need their potassium. Richard read that onions and chives were good garden companions for carrots and that sage would enhance their growth, so in the ground they went.

Carefully we sowed the carrot seeds and covered them lightly with a fine lawyer of compost. We took care to water them evenly and well. Later we would thin them to prevent crowding.

We had done our best. We hoped that with luck and natural selection we would be harvesting Richard’s “dream carrots” in about 70 days.

Like machines, we dug, raked and hoed, putting in the rest of the garden in record time. Then it was time to catch a wave.

The three of us paddled out letting the water cool us and wash the dirt of the day away.

Rusty and I caught a few waves but after a hard day’s work our muscles were protesting. We called it a day and sat on shore watching Richard catch wave after wave.

Rusty noticed it first. He said, “Richard has an orange glow about him. Look Sidney! His feet, legs and bill are orange. Do you think it’s from the sunset?”

It wasn’t the sunset. I stared in disbelief. Richard was glowing orange. Was he ill? The way he rode those waves I knew he was not sick. Then it hit me. The carrots! He had been eating so many carrots he had actually turned orange. I guess you really are what you eat!

Quackers #21 – The Duck Factory

Our eyes were heavy as we watched the late news. We had drifted off but somehow the words, ‘big waves’, penetrated our sleepy brains. Three pairs of eyes snapped open like roll-up window shades. We scrambled closer to the TV. A South Pacific storm was sending big surf our way. We cheered.

Early the next day we jumped on our skateboards. Balancing our surfboards on our heads we sped toward the Venice Pier. The smell of briny surf was intoxicating. We heard the crashing of the waves and saw white water flying as they collided with the pilings.

Massive, 8-10 foot waves full of roiling sand surged toward the shore. They came in on four wave sets. After each set an eerie lull followed and then the pounding began anew. It sent a shiver down our spines.

The waves were powerful and wild. The break was sloppy and blown out. No pelicans bobbed in the water. Not a seagull soared above. If the shorebirds didn’t trust the water we knew we should not.

Richard and I were watching the waves from the pier when Rusty hurried toward us licking his lips. “Time to go”, he said as he rushed by. We were puzzled but hurried to catch up. A few moments later we heard a yell from the pier, “Hey! My bait has disappeared!”

While we were out, Cousin Hoot from Montana had called. He was going to North Dakota to visit family and thought we might like a break from our big city life.

We met Hoot in Montana and continued on to North Dakota. From the sky the prairie seemed to be dotted with craters. We grew closer and saw they were filled with water.

Hoot told us we were in an area known as the Prairie Pothole Region. He said some people also referred to it as the “duck factory.” Rusty looked horrified and cried, “Sidney, you told me we came from eggs! We aren’t robots, are we?”

With a laugh from deep in his belly Hoot explained that it wasn’t a real factory. It is called the “duck factory” because so many ducks are born there. He said more than 60% of migratory birds in the U.S. use the Prairie Pothole Region for breeding and as a migration stopover.

We were awed by the number of water filled craters covering the plains. Hoot said about 10,000 years ago the glaciers from the last ice age receded and the area known as the Great Plains was created. The receding glaciers left behind millions of shallow depressions in the earth that became wetlands. The shallow depressions are called Prairie Potholes. The Prairie Pothole region includes areas of North Dakota, South Dakota, Iowa, Minnesota and Montana. It also extends into Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba and Saskatchewan, Canada. It was one of the richest wetland ecosystems in the world.

Hoot said he was making the trip because he was concerned about his parents and his birth place. The Great Plains and Prairie Pothole Region had become number one out of the 25 most important and threatened wildlife habitats on the continent.

Hoot’s parents told us that before he was born scores of potholes had been drained for crops or development. They shared the sadness they felt when their home had been destroyed and how difficult the relocation had been.

Worry creased their elderly faces as they talked of global warming and the effect the increasing temperatures might have on the potholes. They had also heard talk of more pothole draining to plant corn for ethanol and soy for biodiesel. They feared their golden years would be ruined by the continued shrinking of their homeland.

We all decided Hoot’s parents deserved to enjoy their golden years and that the wetlands were too important in the fight against global warming to stand by and do nothing. We would work to save them. We need them to help prevent flooding and to store water. Our rivers, streams and ground water would face more pollution without them. What would the hundreds of species of wildlife, not to mention humans, do without the food, water and cover they provide? We had to spread the word.

As we worked on our strategy we discovered some good news. The North Dakota Farmer’s Union has been helping by selling carbon credits to save the land. Ducks Unlimited launched a program where landowners permanently sell the rights to their stored carbon. The Duck Stamp, one of the primary sources of funding for purchasing or leasing land in that area to protect it, may be increased.

Rusty is doing his part. He opened a lemonade stand and is using the money to by Duck Stamps. He gets a lot of attention when he cries, “Buy my Lemonade, save the Duck Factory.”

Quackers #20 – Safe Passage

Breathless, Rusty came running into the house screaming for me to call 911. His eyes were wild, he was pale. I reached for the phone trying not to panic, “Is Richard hurt?” He answered, “No, its Ray! Hurry, Sidney, just call!” He ran back out. Quickly, I started dialing the phone and ran after him. Rusty yelled to our neighbor, “Ray’s been hit by a car!” I was ready to hit the last number when I realized he meant Ray, the raccoon. We might need a Vet but not 911.

I heard Rusty shout, “Check for a pulse!” Richard was staring down at the baby raccoon, his head bowed low. Sadness filled his voice as he said, “It’s too late Rusty. He’s gone.” Rusty cried out. “Move over. Let me try mouth to mouth. He can’t be gone. Help me with the chest compressions. It’s Ray, we have to try to save him.”

We pulled Rusty away and sat him on the curb. Our neighbor, Mrs. Angeletti, brought him water and patted his shoulder while Richard carefully wrapped Ray in a towel and gently carried him into the yard.

Raccoons are not pets, just a different kind of neighbor. We noticed a mom and three babies one night from our balcony. We think they came by to look for snails and slugs in our garden or to sample our neighbor’s cat food.

The smallest was our favorite. He always trailed behind the rest stopping to sniff this or inspect that with great curiosity. Rusty dubbed him Ray. We tried our best to comfort Rusty. We helped with the funeral arrangements. Richard carved a beautiful headstone and planted rosemary around it for remembrance. Still Rusty remained sad.

I made Rusty’s new favorite, fish tacos, for dinner. He just picked at them.

Richard and I talked about the weather then sports but nothing interested Rusty until the topic of Wildlife Corridors came up. We both read about the “Y2Y, Yellowstone to Yukon” Initiative. It is a joint, U.S. and Canadian, conservation effort to ensure the Yellowstone to Yukon region retains enough connected, well managed and good-quality wildlife habitat for animals to travel safely between protected areas, like national parks, as they roam in search of food and mates. Their vision is to have human communities and wildlife communities in that region coexist in a way that allows both to thrive. We read that housing, roads and other development are causing fragmentation and keeping wildlife from moving freely between suitable habitat and that these barriers are growing rapidly.

Global warming is also playing a big part. Vegetation is moving upward in both latitude and altitude as the temperatures rise. A contiguous, suitable habitat would allow wildlife to follow these habitat shifts.

In some areas highways have already fragmented populations. In Banff National Park, Canada, 22 underpasses and two overpasses have been built to help moderate habitat fragmentation and adverse ecological conditions created by a highway. When we showed Rusty a picture of one of the overpasses and told him how it had cut wildlife mortality on that road by 80% the sparkle returned to his eyes.

Rusty could barely contain his excitement. He said, “We could do that here! Let’s build underpasses and overpasses to help save our wildlife. Call the Mayor!”

I set up an appointment with Mayor. Richard continued to research the subject. Rusty circulated a petition supporting our proposal. With an air of importance, he told everyone he met, “I’m taking a meeting with the Mayor.”

The Mayor listened intently as Rusty described his vision. He was impressed by the number of signatures on the petition. He told Rusty, “I’m feelin’ you Rusty, but this must go before Council. I’ll add it to next week’s agenda.”

Rusty’s heart was pounding and his voice quacked a little. That soon passed as he gained strength and courage by speaking from his heart. We stood by his side as he eloquently listed the reasons wildlife overpasses and underpasses should be part of the City’s Land use and Circulation project that was currently in development. He also urged it be designated as a public benefit. The audience roared their approval. To the sound of thunderous applause we returned to our seats. The Council debate was long and heated. Voices were raised, comments were challenged. We cringed when we heard, “Have you Quackers gone crackers?” and “This is absolutely absurd.” We cheered when we heard, “Our hedges could be used to support tiny bridges creating an aerial corridor throughout the City. This could be our Y2Y initiative standing for yard to yard.” And “I like the sound of that. It’s . . . so green.”

We tasted victory as the final vote was announced. Our proposal was on the way to the Planning Commission.

We did it for you Ray.

For more information: www.y2y.net

Quackers # 19 – Gardens in the Sky

After 108 Sun Salutations we were trying to remember exactly how Richard talked us into going to Santa Monica Yoga to welcome the summer solstice. With a final Om, Richard opened his eyes feeling invigorated, renewed and bouncing with energy. He found me resting in Child’s Pose. Rusty, also known as Mr. Dramatic, crawled toward the door on his hands and knees. With some embarrassment we allowed Richard to wheel us home in a borrowed grocery cart. Once home, we fell through the front door, sprawled on the couch and immediately fell asleep. Moments later our snoring duet, in two part harmony, drove Richard from the room.

About an hour later we awoke, stiff and achy. Richard was ready to hit the beach. He was sure a little sun and salt water would fix us right up. The waves were small, 2-3 feet but perfectly formed and glassy. Richard caught wave after wave. After catching one or two, Rusty and I paddled out just beyond the break and lounged on our boards. The gently rocking motion of the swells soothed us. The salt water and the warm sun worked its magic on our sore muscles. As we walked home, Richard said while we were busy composing the snoring symphony he was reading an exciting article on living roofs. He told us they were also called eco roofs, green roofs and roof carpets. He thought they were new inventions but discovered the meadow style cottage roofs had been around for centuries in Europe. We had never seen a living roof but loved the mental picture it created.

Richard said the living roofs were another great tool to fight climate change. They save energy and money by reducing air conditioning and heating costs. The living roofs create shade and add insulation making buildings cooler in summer and warmer in winter. By removing particulates and ozone producing compounds they clean the air. They also add oxygen and sequester carbon. Last but not least they provide habitat for birds, butterflies and other airborne wildlife. He also said that in a downtown setting, like Santa Monica, planted roofs could radically reduce heat absorption. They would lessen the heat island effect that often causes cities to be 10 degrees hotter than the surrounding countryside.

We were not far from home when we saw a man replacing a roof. Richard got that, “I have a great idea!” look on his face. Before I could stop him he had climbed the ladder and joined the man on the roof. Richard must have sounded like a typical salesman when he asked the man if he had considered putting on a living roof. Clearly, he did not want to be bothered. He wiped sweat from his brow and told Richard, “Son, just get off the roof before you hurt yourself.” Richard, not ready to give up yet, said, “ Did you know a sheet of plastic, soil medium and some plants on your one story house could reduce your summer electricity use for cooling by 25%?” The man, looking tired and hot, told Richard, “Get down, now.” As Richard climbed down he shouted up, “My brothers and I could help you!” The man uttered one word, “Down!”

Richard was disappointed but not defeated. He wanted to put his new found knowledge to work. It wasn’t time to replace our roof but he had an idea. We gathered up all the scrap wood we could find. I drew up some simple blueprints while Rusty and Richard gathered nails and began cutting the wood. We were going to make bird houses and bird feeders with living roofs. We would give them to people so they could see how a living roof worked and see how it could help with global warming.

We made birdhouses and feeders with both flat and sloped roofs. We installed a sheet of heavy plastic and soil medium. On the sloped roofs we added a piece of nylon soil erosion netting with the soil. Then we added plants. As recommended in the article we chose sedums for their toughness and adaptability. On some we also planted milkweed, poppies, yarrow and red thistle. These plants would provide food as well as act as a roof. Rusty thought it was totally awesome to have birdhouses with built in rooftop restaurants and birdfeeders with penthouse parks.

Our project turned out beautifully. We gave our neighbors a copy of the article and a birdhouse or feeder. Not only did they love them, they came up with more creative ideas. They thought they would also be perfect on top of mailboxes and dog houses. Now that is what we call innovative.

Quackers #18 – Mosquitoes Need Love Too

Rusty can only survive so long without surfing, or so he says. Traveling had kept us from surfing for two weeks. He said he was fading fast and needed some wave action, ‘stat’. Then he folded his wings across his chest and refused to go any further.

I decided a slight detour to Galveston, Texas might be a necessity if we were to get home. This was a surf emergency.

We saw some dudes carrying boards and got the scoop. East beach was OK but they were having a sandcastle building contest and it was crowded. San Luis pass was alright but we should watch out for the killer tides and killer sharks. Naturally Rusty voted for that one but Richard and I used our veto power and took their last suggestion, Flagship Beach.

On the way to Flagship we spotted a deserted spot with less than perfect 2-3 footers. Rusty could not wait. Thirty minutes later a revitalized Rusty emerged from the water smiling and singing at the top of his lungs, the Beach Boys song, “Catch a Wave and You’re Sitting on Top of the World.” That was our signal to continue home.

It was great to be home. Flowers were blooming, bees were buzzing and birds were singing. Our yard had transformed in our absence. We walked around admiring all the colorful blossoms until Rusty called out, “Richard, come look! Someone put weird, tiny fish in the birdbath.” Richard peered into the water and laughed, “Rusty, these aren’t fish, they are mosquito larvae!” Immediately Richard dumped the water out of the birdbath. From that moment on Rusty was convinced he heard mosquitoes buzzing around his ears. Every few minutes he would brush the air with his wings. He despised mosquitoes. They loved him. He told Richard he was declaring war. He was going to set depth charges in the birdbath and landmine the garden. Looking crazed, he ran to the garage mumbling about a mini flame thrower and with a fist in the air yelled, “Make my day!” We ran after him screaming, “NO!” We got Rusty to sit down for a minute. Richard calmed him while I made some iced tea. We had to talk.

After a few sips of tea and a couple of deep breaths Rusty seemed ready to listen. Richard told him he understood his aversion to mosquitoes but it would be a mistake to wipe out all mosquitoes. They were not total bad guys. They played an important role in the ecosystem. The adults feed on nectar and are responsible for pollinating plants like orchids and goldenrod. They are food for many wildlife species. Dragonflies, frogs, lizards, fish, birds and bats find them quite delectable.

Rusty seemed more receptive. I told him if it made him feel any better only half of the mosquito population was out to get him, the females. They bite to get the iron and protein they need to reproduce. They are stealth trackers, finding us and other vertebrates by following trails of carbon dioxide, body heat and water vapor that we radiate. To that Rusty said, “Great, now all I need to do is quit breathing and drinking!”

Richard assured him that there were more practical things we could do to avoid being bit and being a mosquito farm. Female mosquitoes need water to lay their eggs but larvae are not good swimmers so she looks for water with little or no movement like clogged rain gutters, flower pot saucers, kiddie pools and birdbaths. We would empty all standing water twice a week before the larvae could turn into biting adults.

Rusty wasn’t convinced that was enough. He wanted a bug zapper and some poison. I sighed and told him that mosquitoes are not attracted to light so the only insects that would be killed by the zapper were the beneficial ones we wanted to keep around. As far as poison, it might kill the mosquitoes but it would also kill the “good guys”, like the lizards and frogs that already help keep the mosquito population down naturally.

Richard added that mosquitoes were most active at dawn and dusk. Rusty could avoid going out at that time or could wear long sleeves and pants for protection.

In the end, we were able to talk Rusty out of mosquito annihilation by appealing to his sense of goodness. Richard bought Rusty a citronella candle and made a lotion of lemon balm and mint to rub on. I know that mosquitoes are not strong fliers so I installed a ceiling fan in Rusty’s bedroom and on the porch. A good fan was often all that was needed to keep those pesky biters away on a lazy summer evening. Rusty is keeping his fingers crossed.

Quackers – #17 – A Taste of Southern Hospitality

“Just follow the Mississippi flyway and you will be there in no time”, my uncle said as we packed to leave Albuquerque for Opelousas, La. I guess he forgot we had never traveled via any flyway. He tried explaining the route using the old landmarks he remembered. I just wasn’t getting it. Finally I pulled my trusty Auto Club map from my back pocket and had him highlight it. It turned out to be a piece of cake.

Our first impression of Opelousas was of wonderfully dense vegetation, stately trees draped in Spanish moss and seemingly endless meandering waterways called bayous.

Opelousas, named after the Native American tribe that inhabited the area, is well known as the home of Cajun and Zydeco music, great food and is the birthplace of the King of Zydeco, Clifton Chenier.

Our Tante’ (aunt) Lillie and Tonton (uncle) Pierre welcomed us with a huge party. Quackers came from all over Louisiana, each family bringing a different delectable dish for the table. For hours we feasted on boiled crab, crawfish, shrimp and a mountain of catfish.

When no one could eat another mouthful, Tonton Pierre strummed a chord on his guitar and shouted, “Laissez les bons temp rouler!” That means “let the good times roll!” Mimi picked up her violin and Antoine his accordion. The beat of the music was irresistible. Everyone, young and old, jumped to their feet dancing. Richard became immersed in the music. He sprang to his feet and grabbed the only instrument left, the washboard and spoons. He closed his eyes, furrowed his brow in concentration and began to bob his head to the beat. Soon his wings were flying back and forth as he scrubbed out a driving rhythm on the washboard. The entire Quacker clan applauded and laughed with delight.

At the end of the evening Tonton Pierre brought a tear to everyone’s eye as he sang his hauntingly beautiful rendition of “Jolie Blond.” The next day we loaded up Antoine’s pirogue (flat bottom boat) and took off for the Atchafalaya Swamp. Atchafalaya means Long River in Choctaw. It is the largest river swamp basin in North America.

As we traveled Rusty’s main topic of conversation centered on wrestling an alligator. I suggested the services of a good therapist but he just rolled his eyes.We launched the pirogue into moss covered water. Sunning turtles slipped from logs as we passed. Bald Cypress and Tupelo trees shaded the swamp giving it a serene yet mysterious feeling.

We took turns poling through the swamp always keeping an eye out for water moccasins and alligators. It was during this time that Rusty’s dream of staring in a WWE sponsored alligator wrestling event was abandoned due to an uncomfortably close, face to face encounter with a passing 8 footer. Poling through a curtain of Spanish moss, Antoine said, “All that live here rely on the Atchafalaya for a sustainable living. We have done this for generations without devastating its riches. It is the areas lifeblood. It is a complex relationship that benefits all who love and protect it. The tremendous diversity in habitat and species provides not just for wildlife but for all who live here.”

We could see why so many of our relatives lived or wintered there. It is magnificent. Mimi explained that what we were seeing was a mere shadow of what it once was. The past several decades had turned it into an artificial flood control system surrounded by 25 foot tall concrete levees. This had left the Atchfalayla choking on silt.

Happily, she told us of a 250 million dollar state and federal project in the works to restore the Atchfalayla. The idea was to make it work as it once did, like a mega sponge. For centuries the Basin soaked up the Mississippi River’s annual floodwaters and distributed them throughout its rivers, bayous, lakes and marshland. It brought necessary nutrients to fish and wildlife and laid down natural levees of soil where Oak trees could grow. Many had worked long and hard for this project.

A chant went up for shrimp po-boys and dirty rice. How could we come this far and not see New Orleans? Wanting to keep everyone happy, we went to “Rock and Bowl” on Carrollton Ave. Where else could you eat, dance and bowl? It was a rockin’ good time

We bought a few postcards, t-shirts and Mardi Gras beads then strolled through the French Quarter. We finished our evening at Café du Monde sipping cups of café au lait and eating plate after scrumptious plate of beignets. Still licking the powdered sugar of the beignets from our faces we headed for home.

Quackers – #16 – Not a Wave in Sight

We needed to get a jump on our vacation. Soon our answering machine would be full. Relatives, friends, everyone from near and far would be looking for accommodations at the “Le Quac-Ker Bed and Breakfast of Santa Monica, aka, our house. Last year we had non-stop visitors from Memorial Day through Labor Day. We needed a change of scenery, something different but where? We were stumped until our cousin Juanita phoned inviting us for a spring visit to Albuquerque, New Mexico. She had barely finished speaking when I heard myself saying, “Of course! Absolutely! Dee-lighted!”

Nothing could keep me from a trip to Albuquerque for a bowl of my aunt’s green chili stew, nothing. Wait, I take that back. If President Obama called and said, “Is this Sidney J. Quacker? We must meet immediately to discuss your strategies on global warming. I’ll send the jet.” You know I would say, “Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Absolutely, Mr. President!” however, as a chili gastronome, I would still try my best to convince him to do it over a bowl of green chili stew, in Albuquerque. My brothers thought the trip was a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the southwest branch of the Quacker family tree. It was a struggle keeping an innocent look on my face and the picture of a steaming bowl of green chili stew out of my mind when I said, “Funny, that was my first thought too!” They both burst out laughing and Rusty said, “Sidney, the only thing you thought about reconnecting with was a bowl of green chili stew.”

Technically, Juanita doesn’t live in Albuquerque. Her home is actually in a small, quiet, rural community about 7 miles from downtown Albuquerque, called the Village de Los Ranchos de Albuquerque. It is a beautiful city that runs along the Rio Grande Bosque and has awesome views of the Sandia Mountains. Spanish lesson time, Juanita taught us that ‘Bosque’ is Spanish for the riparian woodlands that run along the flood plains of streams and riverbanks in the Southwest. There was not a wave in sight unless you count a wave of, “Hola!” from the Rail Runner train on the way to Santa Fe. At home we would never encounter horses, goats, llamas or peacocks in our neighborhood, but there they were welcome. Richard became fascinated with the irrigation system or acequias, as Juanita calls them, that run throughout the village. He wants to return for a swimming tour of the Village via acequias. We definitely found a total change of scenery.

On our last day, Juanita took us to her favorite place, the Rio Grande Bosque. With pride, she told us of the work she was doing to help restore the Bosque’s ecosystem. The place was an oasis. We stood under the massive Cottonwoods and among the wetland plants at the edge of the Rio Grande feeling as though we had entered another world.

The river was irresistible. We jumped in and floated leisurely while Juanita told of us of the troubles that had come to the Bosque. She said over the years, the river and the Cottonwood trees had been seriously impacted by human activities. One of these activities, the planting of non-native trees, turned out to be an enormous threat to the health of the Bosque’s ecosystem. The tamarisk, Siberian elm and the Russian olive trees, all non-natives, were out-competing the Cottonwoods for water and robbing them of necessary nutrients. They also obscured the sunlight that the Cottonwood saplings need to survive. The non-natives, sometimes referred to as “weed trees”, reduced the water supplies, increased the fuel load and brought the risk of fire to the area.

Non-native trees, urbanization and drought were some of the factors responsible for degrading the Bosque ecosystem to a point so critical it caused two long time residents, the Rio Grande silvery minnow and the Southwestern willow flycatcher, to be placed on the endangered list.

When Juanita learned the fate of the minnow and the flycatcher and that a fire could actually wipe out the largest remaining Bosque in the Southwest, she flew into action. She joined an eco group. In an effort to restore the riverside ecosystem, they began removing the non-natives and setting out Cottonwood saplings. The best news, it seemed to be working.

Toward the end of the day I rounded everyone up. My aunt had promised enchiladas for dinner, red and green. I didn’t want to miss a bite. We were still congratulating Juanita when her phone rang. It was our cousins Mimi and Antoine in Opelousas, Louisiana. They invited us to visit. How could we refuse?

For more info: Middle Rio Grande Endangered species Act Collaborative Program, Middle Rio Grande Bosque Initiative

Quackers #15 – Ouch! My Bark hurts

Talk about excitement! I had finally saved enough money to buy a wireless keyboard for my computer. For weeks I dreamed of sitting in my big comfy chair doing research, writing, surfing the net wireless and viewing it all on my big screen HD monitor.

I begged my brothers to go with me to Fry’s. They answered, “No way, no thanks, no can do, too bor-ing.” I thought the issue was closed until they reappeared. They would go if Rusty could have a large popcorn and Richard, a trip to the garden center.

My brothers don’t share my passion for electronics and computers. Thankfully, a large selection of movies and music kept their whining to a minimum as I wandered through “wonderland”. I left with a big smile on my face and a firm grip on my new keyboard.

As we paralleled the ocean, quick glimpses of crystal blue water made Rusty anxious to check out the surf. Turning toward the water, it was suddenly like a movie, everything went into soft focus except the incredible 3-5 foot swells that rolled toward us in three wave sets. Neptune lassoed us and pulled. We could not resist. As former Boy Scouts, we were prepared. We grabbed our boards and hit the water. Rusty even forgot about the popcorn.

I could not get enough of my new keyboard. It started to feel like it was attached, a permanent link connecting my brain to the internet. I had become obsessed. I went overboard. Dark circles and bags formed under my eyes from lack of sleep. I had not seen sunlight for a week and my tan was fading. I was out of control. It took Richard to pull me from the abyss.

Richard found me in a zombie state one morning with my fingers still glued to the key board, typing. He decided to take action. He tore back the curtains, lifted the blinds and threw open the windows. He called Rusty. Even with sunlight streaming through the window they could not rouse me. They pulled me out of the chair, turned on the shower and put me in, clothes and all.

I emerged from the shower cold, dripping wet, finally awake but not sure why I showered with my clothes on. I squinted in the bright light. My head was throbbing. I caught a look of myself in the mirror, scary.

Richard picked various herbs to brew up a special tea for me including white willow bark for the headache. He announced we were all going to the park, handed me my shades, the tea and pushed me out the door.

Richard found his favorite tree and literally gave it a hug. He said it would do wonders for me but I politely declined. I was to do nothing but sip the herbal concoction and relax. Richard said the tea and a day in nature would fix me right up

Richard gazed up into the tree and then with a soothing voice started what Rusty and I thought was a story. “Trees are not so different from us. Sometimes they get stressed and get “headaches” too, he said, but they are luckier than we are. They can create their own “headache” remedy. Rusty pretended to be a tree with a headache and said, “My bark hurts” and “Oh, my aching branch.” We laughed and wondered where the story would take us.

To our surprise what Richard was saying was true. Scientists from the National Center for Atmospheric Research discovered that plants, not just trees, generate a chemical similar to aspirin, called methyl salicylate. When they experience drought, unseasonable temperatures or other situations that make survival difficult, they make and release this chemical.

Richard said methyl salicylate may help plants defend, resist and recover from disease. It boosts their biochemical defenses, much like our immune system does for us. It is also believed to benefit nearby plants. When methyl salicylate is released it warns neighboring plants of the danger, enabling them to build up their defenses. Plants may use the chemical to activate an ecosystem-wide immune response and recruit beneficial insects.

It was exciting to think that with this new knowledge, farmers and forest managers could measure the chemical in the air and have an early warning signal when crops were in trouble due to disease, infestation or other stressors.

Richard is smart. He knew the salicylate in the willow bark would help my headache, just like the methyl salicylate helps the plants. He also knew that with the tea, a day in nature, away from the keyboard, would get me back on the right track. Maybe I should have hugged the tree too?

Quackers #14 – The Ark de Triomphe

Surfing Malibu Pier and hiking Malibu Creek State Park had been my brother’s only topics of conversation for weeks. In a huddle, like two generals readying for a military operation, they mapped and planned the event for hours. This was highly unusual behavior for both of them.

The strategy was as follows: At exactly 0648 hours we would be on the beach greeting the sun. We would surf until 1055 hours, stopping for lunch at 1100 hours. Then, at precisely 1200 hours, we would deploy for the hike. I felt like saluting.

The unusual behavior did not stop there. The noise of sawing and hammering filled our garage. If I happened to walk by, all activity would cease. When I asked what was up, they answered with the “Oh, nothing song” sung in unison.

The days marched by in double time. Finally on the beach, we watched as pale yellow tendrils of light streaked the indigo sky. Soon the sun hit the water’s surface revealing wedging, 3-5 foot A-frames bolstered by offshore winds. We were stoked! Paddling out we caught our first wave. Rusty dropped in and took off to the left while Richard and I shared the break to the right. It was like that all morning, perfection.

At 1200 hours, with our bellies full, we headed out. After picking up the hiking trail off of Pacific Coast Highway, we rambled along past towering oaks and the grand sycamores that lined the stream side trail. Rusty and Richard took turns shouldering a large, curiously wrapped package as we trekked toward Rock Pool.

Rock pool was an oasis after the long, dusty hike. I shrugged off my back pack and cannon balled in. I waited for Richard and Rusty to do the same. Instead, they immediately started scouting around.

Rusty hooted with delight when he found a small pool full of tadpoles. They both cheered when Richard found a pair of California newts and Black-bellied salamanders. Spotting two Pacific Tree frogs and several endangered California Red-legged frogs, they exploded into a fist bumping frenzy followed by a victory dance.

I continued to enjoy the water until Richard yelled, “We found them all!” and started ripping the paper off that oddly wrapped package. It was a large, compartmented boat. Something seemed to come over him as he filled a compartment with water and hurriedly scooped in some tadpoles. Frantically, almost in a panic, Rusty collected the newts and salamanders. I knew something had to be done when I saw them knocking each other over as they scrambled after frogs. I yelled, “Stop!” breaking the spell.

The story unfolded after I convinced my brothers to release everything back. The boat was an ark, an amphibian ark. It was designed to rescue and protect our seriously declining amphibian population against any further damage from habitat loss, global warming and pollution.

Richard told me that one third of all amphibians, not just the colorful rainforest species, were being threatened and that 2000-3000 could go extinct in our lifetime. The last time we experienced an extinction crisis like this all the dinosaurs died out. How could he let that happen to the amphibians?

Rusty was concerned because amphibians sit in the middle of the food web. Without them an unwanted cascade of effects would occur in our ecosystems. They were both amazed to find that amphibians carry secrets of biomedicine. Scientists have found anti-microbial substances in the skin of certain frogs that stopped HIV infection. These virus-blocking substances, along with those yet to be discovered, could be lost forever.

Searching for a plan, Richard had come across the Amphibian Ark Program. It was one piece of a larger amphibian conservation plan. It fueled his imagination and the idea for the ark was born.

I understood and supported their intentions but didn’t see how this plan could work. Where would they send the ark once it was full?

After a lengthy conference we decided that for now, protecting our treasures in place might be the best solution. We would also organize a campaign to help people better understand the irreplaceable value of amphibians.

With a new plan in development, Richard and I felt free to enjoy a long paddle around Rock Pool. However, overly influenced by late night TV, Rusty felt compelled to yodel a piercing Tarzan yell, swing across the pool on a vine and dive in creating a huge, water displacing splash. Sputtering, he came back to the surface laughing and said, “OK, who does the best Tarzan, me or Johnny Weissmuller?”

Note: The actual Amphibian Ark was born to collect critically endangered species from the wild to protect and breed them in zoos, aquariums and in some cases, on-site in the wild.

www.aza.org

www.amphibianark.org

Quackers #13 – The Calming Effect of Compost

Rusty has been in a terrible state the past few weeks. He has been reduced to a vibrating bundle of nerves as he waits for the call that will send him winging his way north for the Mavericks surf contest.

Surfing Mavericks has been Rusty’s lifelong dream. This year his dream came true. He won a spot in the famous, big wave surf contest at Half Moon Bay, California. The start of the contest depends on Mother Nature creating the perfect conditions that will send giant swells rolling in from far across the Pacific into Half Moon Bay. This could happen anytime from December to March. When that time comes Rusty will have only 24 hours to arrive and be ready to rip.

We love surfing too but Rusty is definitely the duck for this contest. He is fearless. He says the unpredictable conditions, shallow reefs, strong currents and bone chilling water add to the excitement. When Richard and I think of facing all that and 50- foot waves the emotion we feel is not excitement and our knees knock together like tambourines.

We wish we had the courage to be out there, in the water, right beside him. However, we know when Rusty comes sliding down the face of a 50-foot wave, our view will be from the sidelines looking through the tiny spaces in our wings that we will be using to cover our eyes.

In the beginning, Rusty was fine with the waiting, even casual, but that all changed one day in mid-February when he left his cell phone at home. After he calmed down from the panic attack that followed that event, he literally flew out the door to buy a Bluetooth. He has since had that thing in his ear 24/7. I am hoping surgical removal will not be necessary after the contest.

While Rusty waits for Mother Nature to ‘bring it on’ his nerves are stretched to a pinging tautness. He is overflowing with nervous energy. Long surfing sessions twice a day seemed to add to it rather than deplete it. Meditating with Richard has helped but not enough. He heard that simple tasks could be calming, Zen-like. To our great surprise he took on all the household chores. Still, he has more energy. We should be happy but instead we are worried.

Quite by accident Richard found the fix. He asked Rusty to help him set out some tomatoes. That took Rusty all of 15 minutes. Next, Richard sent him for newspaper and kitchen scraps for the compost. Back in a flash, Rusty tossed everything in. He mixed and spread and finally turned the compost exposing a mass of wiggling earthworms. Transfixed, he stared in fascination. Richard swears that Rusty’s observation of the complexities of the microcosm in the compost bin took Rusty to a different plane. I think Rusty just likes worms. At any rate, he became calm.

There were so many other interesting things going on in that bin but all Rusty wanted to know about were the worms. Sounding like a professor, Richard answered his questions. He told him how during the last ice age, about 11,000 years ago, a massive glacier receded and wiped out nearly all the earthworms in the United States. We were essentially earthworm free until European settlers arrived bringing with them nonnative earthworm species. Those worms repopulated the U.S. He told Rusty how valuable they were to food production. He said, “Worms mix and aerate the soil making it easier for plants to grow. They also tunnel in the soil creating pathways for the roots to follow. They have voracious appetites and can eat up to 1/3 of their weight a day and their waste enriches the soil. In my opinion they are the ultimate recyclers!” As he completed that last sentence, Rusty, who had never stopped staring at the worms, gobbled a bunch, slurping them up like spaghetti. Licking his lips he said, “Mmm, and they taste good too!” Eyes wide with surprise and then anger Richard shouted, “Hey! Stop that! This is a compost bin, not a cafeteria!”

I don’t want to say I told you so but I told you so. Due to the calming effect it had on Rusty, Richard has agreed to let him help with the compost bin but only under his supervision and only until he gets the call. Rusty teases Richard by referring to the compost bin as his personal worm collection and by calling the worms ‘earth spaghetti’. When will that Bluetooth ring?

Quackers #12 – The Song Stops Here

It has been so cold in the morning we decided to skip “dawn patrol” for a while. We tried wearing wetsuits. They just don’t work for us. Frankly, they are not designed for our unique body type and wearing them creates way too much commotion. People freak out. They think they have discovered some weird species of a seal with duck lips and wild yellow hair. It’s too weird.

With dawn patrol on hold for a few days we took our time with breakfast and reading the newspaper. With so much bad news lately we are still debating if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Personally, I think braving the cold might be the better choice.

When we divide up the paper, Rusty must have the comics first. This is not surprising. He also tries to convince us that dessert should be eaten before the main course. He says reading the comics first, prepares him for the rest of the news. He is still working on a plausible reason to eat dessert first.

Rustling newspaper pages and Rusty’s occasional giggles over the comics were the only sounds breaking the early morning quiet. That was until I read the headline, “Climate Change a Threat to Birds”, out loud. Rusty furrowed his brow, narrowed his eyes and started grumbling and asked, “Couldn’t we have one day without more bad news involving global warming? What now?”

I cringed as I read it. It said more than a third of native California birds could vanish by the end of the 21st century.” As if that wasn’t bad enough, it also stated that more than 100 species from California had already moved significantly north.

Rusty and Richard put down the paper and looked at me with alarm. Richard shook his head sadly as I continued to read. The article said the winters had been getting warmer for several years and this was having a negative effect on many birds, not just those in California. They were leaving their usual wintering habitat for more hospitable areas to the north.

Richard shook his head and said, “Adding the warmer winters to habitat loss and the continued use of pesticides, I would say our bird populations are being seriously threatened.”

We waited quietly as Richard stared out the window. He was deep in thought, watching the hummingbirds and the finches at his feeders. Finally he said, “Birds are a necessity. They are our ‘canaries in the coal mine’. Their northern movement is sending us an urgent message. They are warning us not just of critical threats to themselves but also to habitats and systems that affect all life on earth.”

Tears came to Rusty’s eyes while Richard talked. Imagining a world without birds had made him incredibly sad. He hoped Richard had an answer.

Richard’s face lit up with a plan. “There are two ways we can help” he said. “First, we need to call or write our elected representatives and urge them to address the problem of climate change now, today. The second way is closer to home. We could all create bird friendly habitats where we live.

He thought the timing was excellent. February is National Bird Feeding Month. The plan was falling into place.

Richard was excited about the prospect of all our friends and neighbors creating bird friendly habitats. It would be easy. Birds need the same things we do, food, shelter (cover), water and a place to raise their young. It could start with something as simple as hanging a bird feeder in a safe location and setting out a shallow pan as a water source. In many places, existing trees and shrubs might already be providing shelter and a place to raise young. This could work!

I typed up a flyer to pass out in the neighborhood telling everyone about National Bird Feeding Month and how they could help, complete with Richard’s suggestions for a bird friendly habitat.

The three of us believe that caring for birds will help us protect ourselves and the future of the world we share with them and all other living things. We can’t change the whole world today but we can make changes to our part of it. If everyone started making changes to just their part today, in no time it would equal the whole world. We feel it is our duty to help wildlife and ecosystems adapt to changing conditions while we work to curb and reduce climate change itself.

For ideas and help creating a certified wildlife habitat and related info go to:

National Wildlife Federation - www.nwf.org

National Audubon Society -

www.audubon.org

Quackers #11- The Big Plan

Santa Monica Bay, it was more like Santa Monica Pond. With half foot swells there was no need to paddle out. Rusty, never one to give up, walked his board out, jumped on and immediately scraped sand. Sighing with disappointment, we accepted our sad fate and headed home.

As we sauntered down the street, I reminded Rusty it was his day to cook. Technically, he doesn’t cook. He is highly skilled at package and can opening and is an excellent “warmer upper.” He keeps it simple with frozen fish, taquitos or pizza. If my calculations are correct tonight is taquitos. Rusty’s attempts at cooking have given us a deep appreciation for his mastery at opening and warming.

Back home, Richard spent the rest of the day meticulously sorting and packaging seeds from his last harvest. He saved hundreds this time. Seed sorting must be thirsty work. He practically wore a path in the floor going back and forth to the kitchen.

I admire Rusty. He gives his best effort to everything he does, even if he is not the best at doing it. On his night, he ties on an apron, dons his chef toque and is transformed from plain, Rusty Quacker into “Chef Rus-tay.” He loves telling us that the hundred folds in the chef’s toque symbolize the 100 different ways a chef knows how to cook an egg. We would be overjoyed if he knew how to cook an egg just one way.

With his toque at a rakish angle, Chef Rus-tay rolled up his sleeves and with a flourish flung open the freezer. Suddenly, hundreds of small packages tumbled out and slid to the floor forming a small mountain. Rusty grabbed for some as they drifted to the floor. They looked like the seed packets Richard had worked on. Why were they in the freezer? “Richard!” Rusty said with his best Ricky Ricardo imitation, “You’ve got some s’ plaining to do!”

Staring sheepishly at the mountain of seeds, Richard said, “Did I forget to mention I started the Westside Seed Vault in our freezer?” Rusty was exasperated, “What am I supposed to do for dinner? Warm up some seeds?”

Richard looked horrified, “Absolutely not! Those seeds could save the agricultural diversity of the whole Westside!” We just looked at Richard. What agriculture on the Westside? There are pots and kitchen gardens, but agriculture? I felt Richard’s forehead to see if he was OK.

Richard explained. He had recently been to a lecture on the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, an enormous manmade, seed freezer. It is located on a remote island in a place called Spitsbergen, Norway, in the Arctic Circle. At this location, a design was implemented by digging deep into the frozen rock of an arctic mountain. It was perfect for saving hundreds of millions of seeds for centuries or even longer. The stored seeds represent every important crop variety available in the world today. When loss of a seed sample could mean the extinction of a variety of plant, it is reassuring to have this “insurance policy” protecting crop diversity and our worldwide food supply. The speaker told Richard that saving the world’s crops is equally as important as saving endangered species and the rainforest. He went on to say that crop diversity could be the most valuable resource for addressing climate change and water and energy supply challenges. He felt it was the key to meeting the food needs of our growing population.

Unfortunately, much diversity has already been lost over the years. For example, in 1903 U.S. farmers used 578 varieties of beans. Just 80 years later only 32 still existed. Richard added that the Arctic Circle location was great for security. If one wasn’t deterred by four months of total darkness a year and extreme, severe weather, it was also inhabited by polar bears. Rusty laughed at the thought of polar bears on sentry duty roaring a challenge of, “Stop! Who goes there?”

We understood the concept of what Richard was doing but did not agree with the necessity of having a seed vault in our freezer. We reasoned and cajoled, finally convincing him that there already were regional seed banks close by and as he told us, the Svalbard was there for anyone who really needed it.

The aroma of warming taquitos tantalized us. We were all starved. Wanting to make amends, Richard whipped up a tasty guacamole and an amazing salad. They were so good we agreed to help him this weekend passing out his extra seeds at the Farmer’s Market.

Quackers # 10 – Rusty gets a haircut

We decided to pay a visit to our old neighborhood in Venice. Rusty heard big waves were on the way and he was dying to see the new Tsunami warning signs. Don’t worry. The waves and the signs were not related!

Richard and I exchanged looks and gulped hard at the height of the sand berms this year. Mountain climbing equipment to ascend and a rope to rappel would have been nice. Just how big were the expected waves? Cresting the berm, we were flooded with relief, no mega waves. Rusty was disappointed with the waves but loved the Tsunami signs. We hope we never see a Tsunami. How would we keep Rusty from trying to ride that too?

At the end of the day we took a route home through the old neighborhood. We were on Main near the post office when Rusty started with the barber shop thing again. He had been talking about getting a haircut for weeks and wouldn’t explain why. He stopped in front of a barbershop that offered haircuts and tattoos. Why did I come this way? Rusty thought this was the perfect place. Where else could you get a tattoo while getting your hair cut? I reminded Rusty again, “Feathers, we have feathers, not hair.” He answered, “hair, feathers, whatever, I want a haircut.”

First he wants a haircut, now a tattoo. Where would he put a tattoo? Rusty answered, “One on each foot, of course. I think a gigantic wave on my left foot and since escargot is my absolute favorite food, a snail on the right. It would be awesome! You always talk about being organized and efficient. What could be more efficient than a haircut and a tattoo at the same time?” Rusty kept his face pressed against the window while Richard and I used our best arguments to keep him from going in. We practically had to drag him away.

As we walked toward Lincoln Rusty was still talking about tattoos. He had at least fifty reasons why we should go back. All the while Richard and I are wondering, why the sudden interest in a haircut? No Quacker we knew had ever had a haircut. Let’s not even mention the tattoo.

On Lincoln, Rusty saw another barber shop, Floyd’s. Have I ever mentioned that Rusty lives for Andy Griffith reruns? He loves Andy, Opie, and Barney. Lately, Floyd, the barber, has become his idol. When he saw the name, he was sure it was a “sign”. This was the place for his haircut. We were worn out. It was time to give up and give in. We told him, “Get the haircut, but tell us why!”

It seems Rusty had read an article about the ship that spilled 58,000 gallons of oil in the San Francisco Bay in November of 2007. It stated that more than 5,000 mats of human hair, provided by a group called Matter of Trust, were used to help soak up that oil slick. The mats, made from hair collected from salons all across the country, were a great help in the cleanup effort. They soaked up oil like a paper towel. The hair mats have also been in use by the San Francisco Department of the Environment for their used motor oil collection program. Rusty was further impressed when he read that Matter of Trust was conducting an experiment with $10,000 worth of oyster mushrooms spores donated by Washington State mycologist Paul Stamets. If all goes well the mushrooms will digest the oil on the mats and turn the mats into compost! Rusty just wanted to be part of the effort by donating his hair (read that feathers) to an organization that was doing so much for the environment. He read that individuals, salons, barbers, and even pet groomers could donate hair for future efforts, why not him? I still don’t understand the secrecy about it but Rusty is hard to figure sometimes.

Richard and I took off for a snack leaving Rusty at Floyd’s with suggestions for ‘something with a nice side part’ or maybe a buzz cut. On our return, as we rounded the corner, we heard Rusty chatting with several people about the hair mats. Then we saw him. Stunned, we watched him proudly display his new haircut, a Mohawk! We were quackless. Rusty loves the Mohawk. We are still getting used to it. It was for a good cause. How fast do feathers grow anyway?

To find out how your salon, barber shop or pet groomer can participate go to www.matterof trust.org

Quackers #9 – A Royal Visit

It was Friday afternoon and our “to do” list was complete. I’m still not sure if it was due to good planning or just good luck.

Rusty and I wanted to head straight for the beach. Richard wanted to go hiking on his favorite trail at Will Rogers State Park. With daylight at a premium, I was not sure we had enough time for that hike, even if we flew. I suggested an urban nature hike to the beach and then some surfing.

Compromise reached, Rusty and I slipped into our flip flops and grabbed our boards. We waited and watched as Richard laced up his hiking boots, filled his canteen, donned a khaki vest with at least fifty pockets and zippers and popped a safari hat on his head. Finally, we were marching down Ocean Park Blvd. to the rhythm of our slapping flip flops and the clump of Richard’s boots.

We love walking with Richard. He notices everything. Without him, we would have missed the tiny, black finches darting from tree to tree as we passed. Who else would insist on stopping at Merrihew’s Nursery to smell the sweet blossoms of the citrus trees that line the fence or notice the different colors and textures of tree bark? At Main and Ocean Park Blvd., Richard let out a loud whoop, scaring us both. He shouted, “They’re here! They’ve arrived! The orange and black, did you see it? It glided by and then drifted off on a current of air. It was so beautiful.” Suddenly we knew. The Monarch butterflies had arrived. The royal visitors were in residence.

We were excited and relieved to see the Monarchs. There had been a great deal of pressure to develop areas along the coast, threatening their winter homes. We wondered if the loss of open space had affected their food sources. We worried about warming temperatures, development and habitat destruction upsetting their migration. Their arrival filled us with joy and hope.

A few years ago we discovered the wintering Monarchs in Palisades Park purely by accident. I was setting up my camera along the railing for some photos. Rusty was poking his head over the railing peering down into the eucalyptus trees below. He noticed several clumps of dead leaves hanging in a tree. As a breeze came up, those “dead leaves” suddenly took flight in a blast of color and motion. Surprised and in awe we watched as the Monarchs lifted in the air and glided throughout the park.

Rusty became fascinated by the Monarchs. He discovered that most of the Western Monarchs settled in the Monterrey Pine Forest of Pacific Grove, California. When the Australian eucalyptus trees were introduced here sometime in the late 1800's, we were able to share the Monarchs. The eucalyptus trees, like the Monterrey Pines met all the Monarchs needs with an added bonus, they flowered in winter. The flowers provided them with a nearby food source. He was surprised that these delicate looking creatures fly more than a thousand miles and at heights of up to 10,000 feet to arrive at their winter homes. He was amazed to learn that the arriving butterflies had never seen their winter homes before and that several generations of Monarchs had lived and died since last year’s butterflies flew home. Every year new migrants make this long journey to a place they have never been, with only instinct to guide them. Rusty pictures them as brave explorers setting out on an uncharted quest that begins anew with each migration. He is happy we can provide an ocean view, bed and breakfast for our royal visitors.

The gift of free time, the Monarchs arrival and some surfing, who could ask for more? One last thing about our visitors, although they are Monarchs, it is not necessary to bow or curtsey when you meet. However, if you would like a royal audience, I would suggest adding a little milkweed, zinnias or marigolds to your garden.

Quackers #8 – Migration Blues Migration Blues

About this time of the year we grow nostalgic. Our cousins are winging in from faraway places and although we are thankful to have settled here, we sometimes feel a little left out. So, we pull out the family photos and recall the stories of the “good old days” when Great Grandpa Quacker used to make the ‘great journey.’

Migrating was a necessity and a matter of survival for Great Grandpa Quacker but he always spoke of it as if it was a great adventure. We still hear him saying, “Boys, the great journey along the Pacific Flyway is filled with peril and hardship, but the wonderful places we visit along the way made it all worthwhile.” He described beautiful lakes, ponds and wetlands filled with abundant food and good shelter. He demonstrated the “V” formation they flew in and how important the tail winds were to their journey. Although he had to weather storms along the way, they were not as frequent or severe as we have today. He would say, “Sidney, we don’t fly in a storm. It is too dangerous. We find a good spot, stop, hunker down and wait it out. That way we come out fine.” Looking at the old photos and thinking of Great Grandpa made us feel connected again.

Great Grandpa noticed things were rapidly changing. Each year as he made the journey he noticed new roads, taller buildings, more houses, coming closer and closer to the lakes, rivers and wetlands. These changes coupled with global warming were of great concern, not just for us but for all migrants. Habitat loss and global warming was turning an ancient, natural process into an increasingly perilous operation. A process for survival was becoming an additional threat to survival.

The unpredictable weather from global warming has caused some of our family to misread the normal cues. They have started the journey too early or too late and were unable to find sufficient food on their stop over. Our cousins, on the Central Flyway, told us that they must time their arrival in Chicago later than ever before and are staying much longer before continuing south. Their stop over is so long, they are considering building a small condo and then renting it out in the off season.

We found some pictures of Great Grandpa Quacker’s favorite stop over, the Ballona Wetlands. They are the reason he decided to settle here. Unfortunately, they were being threatened too. He told us he would always picture Ballona in his mind when he was tired or waiting out a storm. The thought of arriving there to rest always lifted his spirits. He would also tell us, “You boys don’t know how easy you have it. In those days we would fly at 50 MPH for 8 hours and travel for hundreds of miles before we could rest at the Wetlands.” Rusty didn’t always like it when Great Grandpa said he had it too easy. He got in trouble once when he said, “I know, I know Great Grandpa and you had to swim 40 miles in a frozen lake breaking up the ice as you went along to make a path, right?” Grandpa raised his voice and said, “No, boy! Don’t be ridiculous! But that does remind me of the time we had to use snow shoes near Mt. Shasta. It was so cold our wings froze...” Rusty should really think before he speaks.

Great Grandpa loved the Wetlands. Someone shared that great love, a wonderful lady named Kathy Knight. She lives near us in Santa Monica. She is a legend in our family. Each new generation is told of the great sacrifices she made. She fought strong and hard against insurmountable odds to save the Ballona Wetlands. We are forever thankful. Her contribution to ecology of the area is priceless. Thanks to Kathy Knight, when we get that “left out” feeling, we fly to Ballona Wetlands and enjoy a family reunion at Great Grandpa’s favorite stop over.

To learn more:

flyways@nwf.org

www.ballona.org

Quackers #7-Bye Bye Pumpkin Pie

You might have seen this ad in the Santa Monica Daily Press, “help needed/ gardening, call Richard Q.” Beware, it’s Richard recruiting for his fall planting and clean up. I think he does it to shame Rusty and me into helping him. Apparently it works. Rusty and I grumble for a while, but in the end there we are with rakes, hoes and shovels working Richard’s “urban farm.”

Rusty volunteered to harvest the last of the tasty tomatoes by himself. Gee, I wonder why? More than half of them never made it to the dinner table. Within minutes, they were gobbled up and residing in Rusty’s belly. He says, “Hey! This job has to have some perks.”

Richard and I concentrated on weeding the collards, kale and broccoli. Rusty, while picking some fava beans, stopped for a moment and in a slightly creepy voice called over to us, “May I interest you two in some fava beans and a nice chianti?” Someone definitely needs to monitor his movie viewing!

Calling it a day, we were too tired to surf but not too tired for the beach. We jumped on the Big Blue Bus and headed out to watch the sunset. We felt the warm sand beneath our feet and stood for a moment letting the breeze gently ruffle our feathers and cool us from our day’s labor. It was bliss. Rusty dived in for a quick swim. Richard did a few yoga poses and settled down to meditate. I sat, perfectly happy, staring out at the horizon watching the sun slip into the ocean.

To thank us for our hard work, Richard had packed a picnic dinner, including ice cream. Rusty, who also loves to read cereal boxes, read from the carton, “Haagen-Dazs loves honey bees. It says they are trying to find out what is making the honey bees disappear. Did you know honey bees are responsible for 40 % of their flavors? Hey! My favorite flavor could be in jeopardy!” Looking very serious, Richard said, “If someone doesn’t figure it out soon, we could all be eating bread and gruel. Just think, the only thing that would still be in our picnic basket tonight without the bees would be the bread! Did you guys know that one out of every three bites of food we eat is made possible by the honey bees?” Rusty thought he was kidding, but it is true.

I shared my research about the mysterious disappearing bees. It is also called “Colony Collapse Disorder.” The cause may not be so mysterious after all. Two pesticides, already identified by the EPA as highly toxic to honey bees, may be the cause. As a matter of fact, France, Italy and Germany have already banned these chemicals. In those countries, they found the pesticides weakened bee’s immune systems, made them unable to find their way back home to their hives and in some cases simply killed them outright. Honey bees could actually disappear by 2035! Chemicals could be killing the largest work force on the planet! My brothers were astonished.

I also discovered that our Defense Department has funded projects using honey bees to locate land mines and biological agents that could be used in chemical warfare. Rusty giggled and wanted to know if the bees would be undercover or had to wear uniforms. Then he said, “Can you believe it? Not only will the bees be pollinating our crops, they could be protecting our country. That is awesome!” Richard was agitated. He said, “This is a serious situation. Think of this, no bees means no pumpkins! We will have to call off Halloween and Thanksgiving.” Then he whined, “No more blueberry pancakes on Sunday? No watermelon for summer? That’s un-American! What about avocados for our guacamole? Who wants shortcake without strawberries? This can’t happen!”

Rusty, who had been pondering life without ‘Rocky Road’, suddenly exploded, “Where will Pooh Bear get his honey? And more importantly, how do you explain the birds and the bees without the bees?”

We all vowed to help save the bees by buying from farmers who don’t use toxic chemicals. To thank and support our hard working bees, a “honey bee garden” has been added at the “urban farm.” Who knows? Maybe we will need to add a “honey bee USO” soon!

For more information:

www.helpthehoneybees.com (Haagen-Dazs)

www.beecharmers.org

U.C. Berkeley Urban Bee Gardens

Quackers #6-Paradise is Melting

Road trip! I guess it was more like, “wing trip!” We did travel under our own power, winging it to our destination, Glacier National Park, Montana. It had beckoned us for years, but something always kept us from going. We would say, “Don’t worry. The glaciers will be there.” Now with global warming a bitter reality we felt we could no longer delay.

What we heard recently about Glacier National Park distressed us and increased our sense of urgency about the trip. Apparently, less than 100 years ago there were 150 glaciers in the Park. Now, there are only 25. If that wasn’t shocking enough, those that were left were losing 9% of their mass every year! We were stunned by predictions that they could all be gone as early as 2015! Rusty felt these statistics were an urgent call to action. He said, “Everyone should be screaming about this! Something needs to be done now to stop global warming or soon it will be called Puddles National Park.” We had to go now and we had to see if we could help.

We arranged to stay with our cousin, Hoot Quacker. As a baby learning to quack, Hoot sounded more like a hoot owl than a duck. Eventually, he got it right, but by then the name had stuck. He lives in Kalispell, Montana, very close to Glacier National Park. He was “right tickled to have his city cousins visit for a spell.”

His ranch was filled with hundreds of trees and surrounded by mountains so tall they seemed to scrape the sky. We could see Hoot’s love of the land was deep and strong as he led us exploring on horseback. We fished his stream for dinner, foraged for edible roots and dined al fresco under a stand of conifers and aspen. It was paradise but a disappearing one. As Hoot spoke of the melting glaciers and his dwindling stream, we felt his sadness.

As we approached Glacier National Park, Hoot stopped and spread his wings wide to encompass all before us. With reverence and pride he said, “We are looking at a place so precious it was chosen as a World Heritage Site. Global warming is threatening to take this from us. We all have to find a way to stop it.”

Our adventure began on Going to the Sun Road. It did feel like we would reach the sun! We snaked through the Park’s wild interior for fifty miraculous miles. We wound around steep mountainsides and glimpsed purple asters in the glacier carved meadows. We jumped at every twig snap as we ate sweet huckleberries, scared of meeting a grizzly doing the same. At Logan Pass, we stopped transfixed by the icy wonder of Jackson Glacier. As the mountain goats and the long horn sheep leapt easily from peak to peak, we had to pull Rusty back from joining them. That night, snuggled deep in our sleeping bags, we couldn’t stop talking about all we had seen until we finally allowed ourselves to be lulled to sleep by the mournful song of a wolf pack in the distance.

Once home the reality of losing the irreplaceable beauty of Glacier National Park weighed heavy on our hearts. Hoot told us that if everyone would do just three simple things it would make a world of difference in the fight against global warming. We are asking everyone to help.

1. Turn off any lights that are not in use and use natural light whenever possible

2. Replace all incandescent bulbs with compact fluorescent bulbs.

3. Wash only full loads in your washing machine and dishwasher.

Quackers #5-We Are Surfing in What?

The beach was posted today. No swimming and no surfing. Wouldn’t you know, the waves were awesome. They lured us closer promising sweet rides. We were tempted. The water looked fine but then it also looked fine that day we took our cousin, Juanita, to the beach. She got that horrific rash on her feet just wading in the surf. We learned a tough lesson that day. Not only was Juanita’s long awaited beach experience ruined, the rash kept her from wearing her new Manolo’s the entire week! Since then, we have learned to check the Beach Report and take the signs posting beach closures very seriously. The surf continued its sirens song but we remained strong and resolute. Sadly, we repositioned our boards under our wings and with our spirits heavy, turned back for home.

We were already dressed for swimming and did need some exercise. We climbed on our unicycles, for ducks they are so much easier than bicycles, and headed for SMC to swim some laps. Rusty, outgoing as always, began chatting with people around the pool. Just for fun, he told them he was in training for the Iron Man competition. He introduced Richard and me as his coaches. He is always kidding around. While wiping imaginary sweat from his brow, he described a grueling, make believe morning training session of cycling and running. Then, with an elaborate twirling dive, he slipped effortlessly into the water and began, to the delight of all watching, a demonstration of his back stroke. As you might imagine, it is an extremely difficult stroke for a duck. Always competitive, he then challenged the swimmer in the next lane to a race. Poor guy, we should have warned him, with built in flippers, Rusty won by a mile.

Exhausted after many laps, we decided to do a little research while we rested. The SMC library was there and we were curious. What was in the water when they closed the beach? What we discovered turned out to be quite gross. Never before had we considered where the oil in the street or the dog and cat waste we jumped over or side stepped on the sidewalk ended up. We now understood why Richard always cringed when he saw the residue from the neighbor’s toxic pesticides and fertilizers flowing down the sidewalk into the street. We found that all that stuff and more works its way from yards, sidewalks, streets and storm drains directly to the beach. The sewage spills do too. All of it ends up in the ocean and ultimately on everything that is in the water or uses the water. That includes the fish, the plants and us! Rusty said with that mental image he would have no trouble staying out of the water when the beach was posted. Richard felt sad for the sea creatures and plants. He said he could only imagine what it was like to be stuck, without any options, in the one and only place you could call home.

Quackers #4-Terror in a plastic bag

We do other things beside surf, really. I assure you we are not one dimensional ducks. I think, in fact, we are quite well rounded. Just last week, for example, we all signed up for the next “beach clean-up day” coming up in September. Also, my brother, Richard is most generous with his time and talents helping others with gardening and composting issues. I recently finished tutoring with the summer reading program at the library and my other brother, Rusty, devotes a few hours a month teaching a self defense class to seniors, at the park. It just so happens that the most interesting and unusual events seem to take place while we are surfing.

The day had been hot and humid. It was one of those days that pulls all the ‘starch’ out of you and leaves you feeling like wiggly spaghetti. We had walked to the park before Rusty’s class, our boards in tow. I don’t know where the seniors or Rusty got the energy for a class today but as soon as Rusty finished teaching his class we were heading for the beach. Richard settled under a tree with his headphones and CD player. Eyes closed and a faraway look on his face led me to believe he was listening to Pavarotti singing one of his favorites, O Soave Fanciulla, from La Boheme. I looked for a comfy spot to put my feet up and read for a while. Not even the occasional “hi-yah!” from the class could disturb us in our peaceful setting. After the last student thanked Sensei Rusty, we headed out for the beach.

It felt so good to be on the water. We surfed for hours. As the day came to an end, Rusty managed to catch the biggest and best wave of the day. It was huge. He rode it forever but in the end took a terrible wipe out. The white water grabbed him and sucked him down. We saw him tumbling upside down and then he could not stop going around and around. We were really getting scared. When he finally popped to the surface, a plastic bag was stuck on his head. It covered his entire head. He couldn’t see. Extremely disoriented, he began swimming down instead of up and out instead of in. No matter how hard he struggled and thrashed about it was impossible for him to pull the bag off with his wings. Richard and I raced to him. Luckily we were able to reach him in time. We tried to calm him as we pulled the bag from his head with our bills. It took both of us to free him. His chest heaved as he gulped air. He was shaking and traumatized. “I couldn’t breathe! I was suffocating!” he managed to say, still breathless. We both placed a wing on his board to guide him to shore. Still shaken but trying to be brave he said, “As much as I love to fly, this is one day I would have traded my wings for a pair of hands.”

Help the Quackers and other marine life. Go to www.healthebay.org to take action.

Quackers #3-Juanita’s Summer Visit

It’s summer. We live by the beach. Suddenly, distant cousins and long lost friends magically appear at our door. Since Memorial Day weekend the “Le Quac-Ker Bed and Breakfast” has been in full operation. Still, it was surprising when we got a call from our cousin, Juanita Quacker, from Albuquerque, New Mexico. For years we’d begged her to visit, but she was full of excuses. It was always too hot to fly, or too cold to fly and then it was too far to fly. She was right about the last excuse. It was a lengthy flight, since she was using her wings instead of a plane. Juanita is environmentally considerate like that. She insists on keeping her carbon footprint to a minimum. With global warming and rising airfares, I think she made the right choice for her budget and the environment.

It had been a long time since we’d seen her. We were looking forward to her visit. I was, more than my brothers and for entirely selfish reasons. I love green chili. Please, don’t think badly of me, but when I heard she was coming the first words that popped out of my bill were, “Are you bringing green chili?” I finally remembered to say, “Can’t wait to see you! And then, “You won’t forget the green chili, will you?” Yes, I am ashamed.

Juanita’s mom lives to cook. She makes the best green chili stew in the universe. Did I mention I asked Juanita to bring her mom? Yes, I am rotten, but I l-o-v-e green chili. They call it “chili verde.” On our first visit to Albuquerque, they took us out to eat. At the restaurant the waiter asked us, “Green, red, or Christmas?” We looked at him like he was crazy. It turned out that ‘Christmas’ means you want both, red and green chili! Happily I discovered that I could get green chili on everything. I had it with my eggs, on my pepperoni pizza and even at MacDonald’s on a burger! I’m convinced the New Mexico state motto must be, “A day without chili is like a day without sunshine.”

We all had ideas of how to entertain Juanita. I suggested a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry. Rusty opted for hitting all the surf spots from here to San Francisco. Richard commandeered the phone trying to recruit her to help reclaim a junky vacant lot and turn it into a wildflower field/vegetable garden. She heard nothing. Since she was a huge fan of “Bay Watch”, I pictured her gazing into space, eyes vacant, with a dreamy look on her face, while she imagined her version of the trip featuring herself surrounded by beautiful people and handsome lifeguards. She probably pictured the sand caressing her little webbed toes as she ran down the beach (in slow motion of course) and splashed dramatically into the breaking waves. Our suggestions never stood a chance.

Juanita flew in ready for the beach. She had not flapped her wings for 800 miles to sit around the house. She jumped into her swimsuit and grabbed her flip-flops. We loaded up our surf boards and jumped on our skateboards. The race was on. Richard, in the lead, turned and asked, “Did anyone check the beach Report Card?” The question fell on deaf ears.

When we arrived Juanita froze in place. Her eyes grew wide and a smile spread across her face. The large, crashing waves were exhilarating. She loved the feel of the sand under her feet and the salty tasting breeze on her bill. She was not prepared for the size of the waves or the vastness of the ocean. Though beautiful and exciting the power and size was intimidating. At home she swam in the Rio Grande, an irrigation ditch or splashed in flooded fields. Compared to the Pacific Ocean, those places looked like bathtubs. She settled on wading at the shoreline and working on her tan.

As we surfed, she seemed content collecting shells and chasing sand crabs. Later, we noticed Juanita jumping and waving. She was frantic. We paddled in as fast as we could. Distressed and agitated, she was sitting in the sand with tears in her eyes pointing at her feet. They seemed swollen and she was scratching them. They looked hot and were covered with a fiery red rash. What had happened? The beach had not been posted but it had to be the water. Why didn’t we check the Beach Report Card? There must have been another sewage spill! We felt terrible and responsible. The day was ruined. Using one of our boards as a stretcher, we carried a sobbing, a miserable Juanita home from the beach.

Quackers #2-The Ocean Is Not A Toilet

My brother Rusty’s philosophy is “Every day is a good day as long as you can make it to the beach.” I don’t always agree with him but on this I must. Pressed for time yesterday, we set out early seeking our “good day.” It was barely light when we arrived. Already the warm, golden light from the rising sun had kissed the day. The three of us stood there mesmerized as we watched the current weave abstract designs through the dark, cobalt blue water. The sky was opening to a softer, lighter blue, streaked with yellow at the horizon. Three perfect white clouds drifted by. Silently, gulls glided overhead riding the air currents. As I write, I’m picturing the scene again and thinking, “How did we get so lucky?”

There was not much wave action but we decided to paddle out and wait. There is something infinitely peaceful about just sitting in the water, waves or no waves. There we were, three decidedly handsome ducks sitting on our boards enjoying this lovely, but almost flat ocean longing for some waves to ride. Rusty was on his board, lying on his back with his wings tucked behind his head. He pointed his bill to the sky and started belting out some old Beach Boy tunes. I thought I recognized one of his favorites, “Little Deuce Coupe.” He seems, at times, to be stuck in a music time warp. With the Beach Boys, who can blame him? He says their songs make him feel happy. Who am I to interfere with that? I can’t say he is a really good singer. I will say he is a very loud and enthusiastic one. He is quite entertaining. If he happens to forget the actual words to a song, he just inserts a series quacks and keeps on going.

Richard had paddled close by and was talking about, you guessed it, plants. Give him a minute and he will plan, map and offer to execute a garden design for you. If you don’t have room for that he will tell you how to pot a mini-garden in your window. He read about the “Guerrilla Gardeners,” that group that goes around beautifying neglected areas of the city, and immediately joined them. He has a great deal of expertise to offer. I think he also likes dressing like a ninja for their night time gardening forays. I can just see him rubbing his wings together with delight thinking, “Today Santa Monica, tomorrow Mar Vista!

Richard doesn’t like it when we say he is obsessed with plants and growing things. He prefers “extremely focused.” “Obsessed” or “extremely focused,” it is all the same to us as long as we can continue eating the fruits of his garden, not to mention the occasional, tasty escargot. We do wonder about him though when even the clouds look like flowers, vegetables or trees to him. I hope he never has to take a Rorschach test!

I had shared with Richard an article about the “Great Pacific Garbage Patch.” You know, that swirling, gigantic garbage dump floating around between Hawaii and California. He thought I was kidding or crazy. He couldn’t imagine millions of pounds of toxic, floating trash in our ocean and nothing being done about it. I told him, “Dude, it is twice the size of Texas and growing!” He was shocked that most of it came from the shore not from ships. The fact that it was mostly plastic and not biodegradable really concerned him. He was felt sick when I told him that over time it became increasingly toxic and was a threat to the entire food chain. He went from not believing to being horrified.

I was not surprised when his boredom led him to counting the debris he noticed floating by. Unfortunately, there was no shortage. At that moment, he vowed to bring something with him next time to collect the trash and get it out of the water. He counted empty cups and popsicle sticks. What he thought was an invasion of jellyfish turned out to be discarded plastic bags! He saw plastic lighters, plastic spoons, paper, things he just couldn’t identify and an old band-aid. There was so much trash he used up all the feathers on his right wing counting, then all the feathers on his left wing. Both feet had been exhausted in the count too. He had nothing left to count with. How could there be so much trash anywhere and most importantly what was it doing in the ocean? His frustration was building to the breaking point and he bellowed, “Enough! That is enough!” He was quacking and sputtering angrily under his breath. He said, “Richard, our beloved ocean is becoming a trash can. No, I take that back. It is becoming a toilet!” He was fuming. Deeply frustrated, he cupped his wing tips to his bill, took a deep breath and screamed toward the shore, “HEL-LO over there! I guess you know this doesn’t flush!”

Quackers #1-In The Beginning

The three of us were born and raised along the canals of Venice, California. For generations the Quackers have raised their families there. The first Quackers, let’s call them the "pioneer Quackers," discovered the canals during their yearly migration. On what was to be a short stop over, they found a wonderful climate, plenty of water, and bountiful sources of fresh food. It seemed to be the perfect place to raise future generations. Their decision to stay and settle was also greatly influenced by the warmth and welcoming attitude of the Venetians. The mild winters and near perfect weather allowed them, for the first time, to really settle down and have a permanent home. You have heard the corny saying about ‘taking to it like ducks to water’? Well, they did! There would be no need for yearly migrations here. They could stay put, year round, forever.

The pioneer Quackers were also taken with the beauty of their new environment. They loved the graceful bridges over the canals, the ebb and flow of the water and the wild vegetation. They felt they had found the perfect home, a paradise where they could raise their families.

Having lived in the canals for so many years, the Quackers were able to witness many dramatic changes to the area. They were there when the canals became little more than stagnant mud flats and people called the houses "shacks". To many it was the "other side of the tracks" but to us it was still a wonderful place to be and definitely "home sweet home".

It was during that time that our Great, great grandfather Charles Quacker and his best buddy, Jeff Yellowduck, began surfing. It’s my guess that being able to settle in one place and have constant access to food, water and shelter allowed them to develop new skills. They were the first ducks ever to surf. Through trial and error they fashioned their own boards from pieces of driftwood they found washed up in the canals. They sanded and smoothed. They adjusted and tested. Then they hit the waves. At first they both fell off their boards more than they stayed on. Good thing ducks love water! They never gave up. They kept trying and practicing. They took wipe out after wipe out before finally mastering it. They became legends.

Our grandpa was known as "The Big Duckuna" and his buddy, Jeff was known as "Duckdoggy". They took trips up and down the coast that they called "surfing safaris." Have you ever heard of the "Beach Boys" and the songs they sing about surfing safaris? We think they got that idea from our Grandpa Quacker and his buddy, Jeff! My grandpa told us how he and Jeff they traveled up and down the coast looking for "that perfect wave". They made it sound like a quest, an adventure and a goal that had to be achieved. It was on one of those "safaris" they met and surfed with "The Duke". He was as big a legend then as he still is today. By the way, you know that is Duke Kahanamoko, not "The Duke", John Wayne, right?

We begged my grandpa and Jeff for stories of the "good old days."" We could never hear enough. We would ask them to tell us the same ones, over and over again. In our imaginations, the stories became bigger than life, epic, full color movies. As they wove their tales we would close our eyes. We could actually feel the weight of their old, heavy long boards and the swell of the ocean moving beneath them. When they described catching the waves, we were the ones actually completing the ride. In our bellies we felt tremors of fear but also of excitement as they described surfing with "The Duke" on giant waves that were as tall as buildings. Those stories, so vivid and exciting, irreversibly influenced us and determined our path in life. We wanted nothing else. We had to surf.

I know most ducks don’t surf. We are different, exceptional, one might say. The three of us wanted more from life. There had not been any surfing ducks since Grandpa Quacker’s adventures. We were going to be surfing ducks too! Excitement and adventure was what we craved. None of that, "quack, quack, swim, swim," for us. We needed to bust out of the box! We wanted to use neon and color out of the lines! For us surfing was a way to achieve it all. There was nothing else that gave us that feeling of total freedom. With reverence, we took the old boards out of storage, the ones that my grandpa and his buddy, Jeff, had once, so long ago, carefully fashioned. We dusted them off, waxed them up and as they had once done, we taught ourselves to surf. When we tasted the salty spray on our bills and felt the wind ruffling our feathers as we caught that first perfect wave, we felt connected to and joined with nature. Could Grandpa and Jeff have experienced this same elation? We know they felt the same strong connection with nature and the earth. In our hearts, at that moment, we knew that surfing and saving the earth was naturally entwined and would become our mission in life.

After generations in Venice living along the canals, a tragedy befell our family. A duck flu epidemic worked its way through the area, spreading canal by canal. It was a frightening time. It was a sad time. Our feeling of safety and contentment was now replaced by fear and distress. We had to leave. Our hearts ached with the thought of leaving our beloved Venice. It was our ancestral home. How could we leave the place that after all these years had surely become imprinted on our DNA? We were devastated. The flu was terrible but not our only worry. The authorities, because of the growing epidemic, seemed bent on total duck-o-cide. In the end, we all decided leaving was our best and safest decision. We stayed as long as we dared. Finally on a moonless night, under the cover of darkness, we slipped away. After so many years of stability, we were forced to migrate again. We had heard many good things about Santa Monica from those who had left before us. We were unsure, we were frightened, but we had no choice. We set out for Santa Monica.

For months after we arrived we mourned for our lost home. We were sure our hearts would break. Our new home was beautiful but different in so many ways from Venice. As time passed, we settled in. Day by day we grew to love it.

We have been here for some time now and feel roots beginning to grow. We still have the ocean, that is a comfort, but sadly there are no canals here. Our surroundings have become more familiar and our sense of safety and peace has returned. We are beginning to feel like we belong and are part of our new community. We are home again.