Last night, H. and I put baby booties on sea birds. Actually, baby socks made into bird booties.
There were grebes and murres in our section of the hospital. More than 400 ailing seabirds were driven by van and flown by a Coast Guard C-130 to IBRRC in Fairfield, California. The birds came from Washington and
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Hugh and I spent the weekend in Morro Bay, attending a conference that included a dynamic keynote address from photographer George Lepp. It’s an admittedly geeky endeavor when you consider that a ball-head and a bubble level can get some rousing applause in this crowd. I love it. Events like this validate my gear brain
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Ever since I picked up a telephoto lens and aimed it at my first non-human earthling, my seasons have morphed into migration schedules. Winter = Ducks. Spring= Babies. Fall (best time of all) = Shorebirds.
I used to be an urban-girl-night-person — before I knew what I was. Autumn was: early darkness, early cocktails. (Okay,
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Capturing the flotsam tossed around on San Francisco Bay — this episode shot in a small beach cove at Hayward Shoreline. Check out Bay & Beach Flotsam #3 for more info on the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

Always my favorite SF Bay residents . . . photographed from Tiburon this afternoon.

Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve isn’t haunted, but it’s a park grown upon the ghosts of California’s history.
In terms of our earliest history, the spirit of the Ohlone and Miwok people still permeates the land. When I stand on our remaining wild hilltops, I look to the expanse of tract development over what, by
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I almost expected Man-Thing to come crawling out of the mud this morning. The humidity evoked spirits of the bayou: moss, mosquitos, mint juleps. The only time California resembles a swamp is in the wake of a tropical storm, the same wake which pummeled us with record rains a few days ago.
We did about four-miles
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