Photography and Writing by James McCarthy


Barred owl

great horned owl

walking the path
down to the river

crash of pine branches
a big bird flies off

turkey or spruce grouse
oh — wow — an owl
eyes black as coal

alights on pine

large and stocky
rounded head
no ear tufts
mottled brown wings
white breast
vertical brown bars

ah, then, a barred owl

swamp owl
hoot owl
eight hooter
wood owl
rain owl
le chat-huant du Nord
(hooting cat of the North)

sit down

to see
comes next

owl stares back
as curious about me
as I am about it

head turns
looks behind
slow turns back

no fear

holding the gaze
one minute,
two, three

time slows until
a whisper of feathers
owl flies off

ghost flight

into the woods

rustle of dry leaves
walking the path
down to the river



Lament of the Old Woman of Beare

Ebb tide has come to me as the sea.
What the flood-tide brings, the ebb-tide takes away.
I have known the flood and I have known the ebb.
The sun does not touch me. In me I feel the cold.
But still a seed burns there.
The time is at hand that shall renew me.

— a version by John Halstead

, the old woman of Beare, the veiled one, laments in a 10th century Old Irish poem for the loss of her youth, for sweet loves and wine-filled nights of long ago that have given way to white hair and a cold that creeps into her bones untouched by the warmth of the sun.

I’ve been thinking of this early Old Irish poem in relation to the Celtic festival of Imbolc, which is traditionally celebrated on Feb. 1. It is the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, the turning point of winter, a time when the lengthening days give rise to thoughts of spring. The Celts, no less than us, looked forward to spring and the return of warm days and the new life that would rise up from the cold ground.

They watched closely for the signs of this turning. Imbolc, from the Old Irish
i mbolc, meaning “in the belly,” refers to the pregnancy of ewes. The lambing time of year, for them and for us, is a sure sign of the coming spring.

But we also have our Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog who comes out of his earth-hole on Feb. 2: If he sees his shadow, he quickly returns to his burrow and we know our winter will last six more weeks. This year, that ageless chubby groundhog did not see his shadow, prompting his handler to proclaim on his behalf, “There is no shadow to be cast! An early spring is my forecast!”

In Maine, we never get too carried away with hopes for an early spring. After all, that groundhog is from “away” and not nearly as grounded in the vagaries of our winters as we’d like our own weather prophets to be.

I had always wondered about the origins of the Groundhog Day tradition and the prophecy based on whether or not a shadow is cast. And then I learned about Imbolc and the Celtic stories about the old veiled woman Cailleach who rules over winter and death. Imbolc, the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, is the day she gathers wood for the rest of the winter. If the day is bright and sunny, she can gather lots of firewood to keep warm and she lengthens the winter to hold back spring as long as she can, which, in the world of myth-dream, also extends her own life as the old veiled woman of laments. But if the day is overcast, she sleeps in, fails to gather much firewood and rather than going cold herself she brings about an early spring. That’s one version of the tale.

Another is that Cailleach dies on Imbolc, but is reborn as Brigid, a maiden who rekindles earth’s fire and the renewal of life in spring.


Here in Maine the old woman’s veil is the winter’s snow.

Walking with friends on the trails of the Cathance River Nature Preserve in early February, I revel in the fresh snow blanketing the ground, creating cover for the voles that tunnel underneath, safe from predators as they nibble on their feed stock of grasses, seeds, bulbs, tubers, bark and roots. The height of the sun in the sky tells me it is surely mid-winter, but the cold and snow suggest otherwise. I don’t give much thought to Punxsutawney Phil or Cailleach of the old woman's lament or how long or short this year’s winter might be. It is bone-chilling cold this day and the snow looks like it's here to stay for quite some time.

Three weeks later, on the third Sunday of February, again walking with friends in the preserve, I notice how much snow cover is now gone. We’ve had several days in the mid-to-upper 40s, warm enough to make you think of spring but early enough to worry about apple trees going to bud too soon, snowshoe hares no longer hidden in white snow but standing out to winged predators like a fast-food restaurant with a blinking neon light. Then, as we go deeper into the woods, with enough coniferous trees to shelter the snow from the sun’s direct rays and warmth, it's winter again, with bent grasses frozen in ice and snow still hiding green mosses and the duff of the forest floor.

Then I notice all the circles of bare ground around tree trunks. Ah! That's the sign that always puts me in mind of Imbolc — even if it is a good three weeks after the true mid-point of this year’s winter between Dec. 21 and March 20. When I see those circles I know, truly, winter is turning: That the trees now take in so much of the sun's warmth and energy into their trunks, the stored heat emanates outward, melting away the encircling snow.


Down by the river, where ice still lines the banks, a pattern of ripples spreads outward from a lip of overhanging ice. Drips of melting ice? A small rivulet of snowmelt pushing through to the river? I dare not risk going to the edge of the riverbank to lie down for a better view. Whatever the cause, I take it to be another sign of spring’s slow, sure coming.


The wheel of the year turns slowly. New life stirs in the world at large and within. The ebb tide of winter will soon become the flood tide of spring. Sap rises, tight buds unwind. Snow melts, the river rises.

I notice where green mosses circle the base of trees, no longer buried in snow. Were they always green beneath the snow? How do they live when as much as 80% of the sun's energy is reflected by a blanket of snow.

I do not know. I do not yet speak their language.

Dried ferns, broken and bent. How do they know when it's time to become fiddleheads, slowly unfurling as spring advances?

I do not yet speak their language.

Why so few chickadees during our winter walks this year? Where are they hiding? Are we too noisy to hear their voices during the dead of winter?

I do not yet speak their language.

How can I say "I know these woods" when so much goes unnoticed, unheard, unknown?

The simple honest answer: I do not yet speak their language.

Mother of rivers



Columbia Icefield, one of the largest accumulations of ice and snow south of the Arctic Circle, straddles the Continental Divide of North America in Alberta and British Columbia. It completely covers a peak called Snow Dome, a triple divide where glacial melt feeds rivers flowing into the Pacific, Arctic and Atlantic oceans.

Seen from the Parker Ridge Trail, the Saskatchewan Glacier flows east from the Columbia Icefield, which is mostly hidden from view by a mountain ridge. The glacier, a narrow tongue of ice receding up a deeply incised valley to its source in the icefield, is approximately 8.1 miles long and covers an area of 11.5 square miles. It is the primary source for the Saskatchewan and Nelson rivers that flow eastward for 1,600 miles into Hudson Bay. Hudson Bay feeds the Hudson Strait, which flows eastward into the Atlantic Ocean.

Glacial ice melt from the Columbia Icefield also flows to the Pacific Ocean via Bryce Creek and the Bush and Columbia rivers. Ice melt from the Athabasca Glacier flows to the Arctic Ocean, via the Sunwapta, Athabasca and Mackenzie rivers.

The Columbia Icefield feeds eight major glaciers and is about 125 square miles in area. It has an ice depth of 328 feet to 1,197 feet, receives up to 275 inches of snowfall per year and is a primary source of water in North America.

It is sometimes called the “mother of rivers.”

so much depends

the flow of
ancient ice

snowmelt trickles
cascading rivers



The Athabasca Glacier, one of eight major glaciers that make up the Columbia Icefield, covers an area of about 11.5 square miles. It is about four miles long, descending from its source in the icefield at an elevation of 9,186 feet to its terminus at 6,315 feet, which is not far from Canadian Highway 93.

Athabasca Glacier has advanced and retreated many times: In 1715 the glacier would have been spread across what is now Canadian Highway 93; but it is now in a period of rapid recession, having retreated almost a mile in the last 125 years.

An interpretative sign just below the glacier’s toe states: “If the glacier continues to recede at its current rate, there will be very little left in 100 years. A new forest will begin to grow where the ice is now; a large lake may even form where you are standing today. Within the next three generations the Athabasca Glacier and the water it provides in communities across western North America may almost disappear. Strong scientific evidence points toward human activities as the primary cause of climate change.”

Evidence of its movement is present in the lateral moraines, the parallel ridges of rock debris deposited along the sides of where the glacier had once been. The debris is of two types: rocks scraped off the mountainside as the glacier advanced, and rocks that have fallen from the valley walls in landslides that collected alongside the edge of the glacier. Unless you look closely, it’s easy to overlook the recessional moraines — the debris deposits created during temporary halts in a glacier’s retreat — that run perpendicular to the lateral moraines.

holy water
moving ice
mother earth

gives birth

rivers and mountains




More than 70% of Earth’s surface is covered by water. But only 3% is fresh water and of that 77% is frozen in ice caps and glaciers, 22% is groundwater and 1% is in rivers, lakes and wetlands. The Columbia Icefield is one of the world’s major storehouses of fresh water. As such, it should be cherished and revered.

Meltwater from the Athabasca Glacier runs in rivulets to form a small lake a short distance from the toe of the glacier. Sunwapta Lake is the source of a river by the same name, which is one of the headwaters for the Athabasca River.

Small rivulets just below the lake create a complex network of branches that continuously separate and reunite in the upper Sunwapta River as a result of variable sediment loads deposited in the river’s channel during periods of high water: A braided river.

carry rocks
to the sea

lay them down

to be carried
another day

John McPhee, in his fascinating book on geology, “In Suspect Terrain,” says braided rivers carry so much sand and gravel they do not meander through a valley like most streams: They testify, he says, “to the erosional dissembling of raw, young mountains.”

“Rivers come and go, they are younger by far than the rocks on which they run,” he writes. “They wander all over their valleys and sometimes jump out. They reverse themselves and occasionally disappear — their behavior differentiated by textures in the solid earth below.”

Sunwapta is a Stoney Indian word meaning “turbulent river.”



The Sunwapta River eventually merges with the Athabasca River, which flows northeast across Alberta for roughly 760 miles before converging with the Peace River to form the Peace-Athabasca Delta, the largest inland freshwater delta in the world.

The Athabasca’s journey to the sea continues through the delta to Lake Athabasca, its waters flowing northward via the Slave River to Great Slave Lake, the Mackenzie River and the Arctic Ocean — a journey of more than 2,400 miles.

It is the longest undammed river in the Canadian prairies. Its watershed comprises 94 rivers, at least 150 named creeks and 153 lakes.

A little more than 18 miles south of Jasper the river makes a 90-degree turn and dramatically narrows at Athabasca Falls, a 75-foot waterfall
that has carved through a layer of hard quartzite and softer limestone below to form a small gorge. The force of all that falling water is conveyed by a thunderous roar as millions of gallons of glacial meltwater take the path of least resistance, pouring into a swirling chasm carved out of sedimentary rock on its way to the sea.

Fed by melting glaciers
the falling river
makes a rainbow

setting sun
falls behind



After making its sharp turn and sudden drop at Athabasca Falls the river flows northward. Bluish-white water — saturated with “rock flour,” the powdery sediment created by the slow grind of the glaciers on the underlying rock — swirls out of view through a mountainous landscape of wild boreal forest on its way to the Arctic Ocean.

En route to Fort McMurray, 550 miles to north, the Athabasca runs through a gauntlet of municipalities that dump treated sewage into its waters, as well as several pulp and paper mills that also discharge into its waters. It is no longer a pristine wild river, and will soon become even less so at Fort McMurray, the Ground Zero of the rapacious extraction of tar sands oil from Alberta’s massive bitumen deposits that are estimated to contain 169 billion barrels of recoverable oil.

Call it “tar sands” — or “oil sands” as the oil companies prefer — there’s no disputing it’s a messy job to extract crude bitumen from a mixture of sand, clay, silt and water in order to fuel our world’s addiction to oil.

The mining process requires massive amounts of water — on average two to five barrels of fresh water from the river for every barrel of oil produced — which is heated to create the steam that’s injected underground to separate the bitumen from the sands. A witch’s brew of mine tailings, containing water, sand, silt, clay, acids, ammonia, lead, mercury and other metals and unrecovered hydrocarbons is pumped up with the bitumen. On average, for every barrel of bitumen mined from the oil sands, two to four barrels of tailings waste is produced.

This toxic soup, the consistency of yogurt, is stored in vast reservoirs awaiting reclamation in some future time by the oil companies.

spring migration
returning waterfowl
sink in foul water

Here’s how Jeff Gailus, author of the engaging small book, “Little Black Lies: Corporate and Political Spin in the Global War for Oil,” sums it up: “[T]he transformation of tailings ponds into healthy end-pit lakes was dependent on the development of future science and technology.” He also makes clear, it will take gobs of money to accomplish that. A reasonable question is whether the oil companies will have any incentive to spend billions cleaning up after they’ve extracted all the tar sands oil from Alberta that’s feasibly and economically possible.

1,600 dead ducks
Syncrude Canada 
pays $3 million fine

Alberta’s provincial government reported in 2013 the tar sands tailings ponds in the Alberta covered an area of about 30 square miles.
The tailing ponds leak. Estimates range from 2.86 million to 3.28 million gallons per day seep back into the Athabasca River. The tailings seepage includes bitumen, naphthenic acids, cyanide, phenols and metals such as arsenic and cadmium within the water.

There are at least nine First Nation peoples with historic connections to the Athabasca watershed. The name ‘Athabasca’ is derived from a Woodland Cree word meaning “where there are plants one after another.” The First Nation peoples’ traditional understanding for the term “river” accounts for both the water and the life it supports as well as its cultural roles as a travel route and a place of significance in terms of fish and waterfowl harvesting and in the use of plants found along its banks.

Traditional knowledge of the river is derived from a deep and extended conversation with all the plants, the fish, the winged and four-legged brothers and sisters, all their relations, that live within its watershed.

First Nation peoples notice changes in the flow of the river, in its color and taste, in the fish, in the nesting and migration habits of water fowl and consider them signs or messages from their relations … in effect, voices of the earth that is always talking with us. People who derive sustenance from a river that flows through their neighborhood have a natural vested interest in that river’s health and well-being.

If the land
is not healthy
how can we be?
— Cree native speaker

First Nations peoples living downriver from Fort McMurray say the Athabasca River is no longer a “big river” with lots of water. It is now full of sandbars. Travel by boat to traditional lands has become more difficult. The river water is silty, muddy and has an odd bitter taste. When you boil water it leaves a scum on the pot.

Dip your cup
into a pot of tea
outer cup turns brown

‘It didn’t used
to be like that’

Fish species valued as traditional food are fewer in number.
“There are more skinny fish than there used to be; the fish are unhealthy looking. … Whitefish don’t taste as good as they used to; they taste ‘mossy.’ Fish flesh is softer than it used to be … Horror stories about grossly deformed fish downstream of the tar sands developments abound”

— Report of the Athabasca Watershed Council, May 2011

‘The government tells us
there is no pollution

We say they are wrong

we have seen the changes’

First Nation peoples have always understood the health and well-being of their ecosystem is linked to their own survival and that of their culture. “Take only what you need” is a deep-held traditional proscription and is the foundation for taking the long view when considering present actions: “What about the seventh generation? Where are you taking them? What will they have?”

Wendell Berry tells us in his essay “Watershed and Commonwealth” that the flow of water in a river “shows us that the golden rule speaks to a condition of absolute interdependency and obligation.” He says:

‘Do unto those

as you would have
those upstream
do unto you’

Time is a river, too.


Milkweed, monarchs and Mexico

milkweed seedlings166

For a long time I thought of milkweed as a weird plant. I didn’t know what to make of its spongy pod that oozed a white sticky liquid if you squeezed when it was still green. Then, in the fall, the pods burst open, sending thread-fine feather seedlings off to propagate themselves in the fields I’d go walking in near my mom’s home in Ohio. By late November the pods became transformed into dry empty shells, dulled grey by the wind and sun. Milkweed stalks listed into the coming winter winds like drunks weaving this way and that as they stumbled down a city sidewalk.

My good friend Richard Dubé opened my eyes to its rightful place in the world. It was the summer of ’82. I’d just graduated from the University of Southern Maine with a degree in English literature. I fell back to my old ways and became, once again, a day laborer. I’d been pulling weeds in the back nursery at Lucas Tree Experts, where Richard worked as a landscape designer, and he’d come outside to see how I was doing. He pointed to a small cluster of milkweed plants, pods unopened, still green and standing tall.

“Do you know what I think of when I see milkweed?” he asked me.

Here, I should mention that Richard is a trained naturalist. He earned his degree in forestry at Hocking Technical College in southeastern Ohio. That’s where he met Mary, fell in love and got married. I missed their wedding, but they didn’t hold that against me. A few years later they moved to Maine, allowing my friendship with Richard to deepen with weekend hikes in the mountains of New Hampshire and western Maine, beach excursions on Cape Elizabeth, and regular bird-watching and botany walks at Gilsland Farm in Falmouth. Sometimes Mary would join us, but more often it would be just Richard and me ambling along with cameras or binoculars around our necks, ever alert to the possibility of the world revealing itself as wondrous strange. For me, those walks invariably were enriched by Richard’s impromptu lessons in botany.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The pod looks like an Irish currach, the bunched seedlings like the scales of a fish. What about you?”

“Mexico,” he said.

“Mexico? How so?”

“The monarch butterfly,
Danaus plexippus, is the only butterfly that migrates both north and south. For a long time no one knew where they spent the winter months. Now we know. They winter in the mountains of central Mexico. They fly there by the millions, clustering in colonies on pine and oyamel fir trees. They’re so thick the trees turn orange in color and branches sag from the weight.”

“What’s that got to do with milkweed?” I asked.

“Everything,” he said. “Without milkweed, monarchs wouldn’t exist. Common milkweed,
Asclepias syriaca, is the principal food source for monarch butterfly caterpillars. It’s named after Asklepios, the Greek god of medicine and healing … which is interesting, because the milky latex in the leaves is a toxin. The caterpillars accumulate these toxins and when they turn into butterflies the toxins are concentrated in their wings and exoskeletons. Birds and other predators learn that the monarch butterflies taste bad. Sometimes they even vomit. Long story short: they avoid preying on monarchs.”

“OK, so milkweeds are good for monarchs. What’s the connection to Mexico?”

“That’s where they go for the winter, by the millions …”

That conversation took place almost 30 years ago. Even now, remembering the gist of it, the tingle of the epiphany I felt comes rushing back to me. My friend’s generous lesson might well be the first conscious understanding I had of the powerful reality of coevolution and the multiple networks that connect … well, everything.

“Milkweeds, monarchs and Mexico” became for me a shorthand reminder of how our world is, truly, one vast web of inter-being.

In ancient India, this understanding is conveyed by the beautiful image of “Indra’s net,” which stretches infinitely in all directions, with a single jewel glittering at each vertex, reflecting infinitely all the other jewels that are similarly strung like a galaxy of glittering stars. As above so below: delve into any small patch of earth, pick a plant or an insect or bird, and then follow the jewel-adorned threads of net outward and see where they might take you. Monarch butterflies ride the wind, making their way south to their wintering grounds in a volcanic mountain region of central Mexico; Indra, the god of rain and thunderstorms, is the “one who rides the clouds” or sometimes a white elephant. Which image requires more imagination to believe as true?

A good many years later my simplistic notion of the monarch’s migration from the milkweed fields of Maine to a small mountainside forest in Mexico took an unexpected leap into a deeper realm of mystery.

I’d been reading an article, probably in a National Geographic magazine, reporting that monarchs flying north from Mexico die long before it’s time to head back the next winter.

What that means is that the monarchs’ migration, both north and south, is completed by a different generation than the one beginning the journey -- four generations later, according to researchers.

Four generations, four different butterflies, each going through the four stages of the monarch’s life cycle: Egg, then larvae (caterpillar), pupa (chrysalis) and adult butterfly.
 Four stages during one life cycle, and that life cycle goes through four generations in one year during the monarchs’ migration from, or to, Mexico. Truly, Indra’s net! Each generation of butterfly enjoys a life of about two to six weeks … except for the fourth generation. These butterflies, born in late summer or early fall, will live for up to eight months, time enough to make the long journey to Mexico, where they will hibernate, mate and die just as a new generation emerges to journey northward and start the cycle all over again.

Somehow, the map to the wintering grounds gets passed on to the generation that needs to find its way to where it all begins, or ends, take your pick. The monarchs’ migration is guided by an inborn genetic GPS system over thousands of miles, with fields of milkweed plants along the journey ripening just in time to provide essential food and cover for eggs and larvae as well as flowers for the emerging butterflies to pollinate.

Not quite a month ago, on March 14, a headline migrated into my computer courtesy of Common “Herbicides for GMOs Driving Monarch Butterfly Populations to ‘Ominous’ Brink.” I felt like I’d just been told a dear friend was ailing, in the hospital, prognosis uncertain.

Too quickly I jumped to the conclusion that it had something to do with continued logging of the monarch colonies’ winter grounds in the Monarch Butterfly Special Biosphere Reserve. Created in 1986 to protect the forests they depended up, I knew that logging of the pine and oyamel fir trees has continued.

But the Common Dreams article cites a newer threat: The use of genetically modified crops in the American Midwest, accompanied by the intensive use of the milkweed-killing herbicide glysophate on 120 million acres of crops, according to staff writer Lauren McCauley.

A critical feeding ground — the milkweed plants growing up between millions of acres of soybean and corn — is being killed off because Monsanto has genetically modified the seeds of those crops to enable the mature crops to withstand extremely heavy doses of its glysophate herbicide, called Roundup. The corn and soybean genetically modified seed is called Roundup Ready; milkweed and other wild plants that flower and provide nectar to bees as well as butterflies have no such protection.

“Before Roundup-Ready crops, weed control was accomplished by running a tiller through those fields and chopping up the weeds and turning over the soil, but not affecting the crops,” Chip Taylor, a University of Kansas insect ecologist told Yale Environment 360. “The milkweed survives that sort of tillage to some extent. So there were maybe 20, 30, 40 plants per acre out there, enough so that you could see them … They have effectively eliminated milkweed from almost all of the habitat that monarchs used to use.”

The monarch colonies in Mexico that used to average 22 acres hit a record low of 2.9 acres this winter. Taylor estimates the monarchs’ population declined by 59% from the previous year. Along with bees, monarchs are one of the principal pollinating insects in North America. Bees are dying in record numbers as well.

Monsanto, meanwhile, is the beneficiary of a rider attached to a spending bill aimed at averting a government shutdown. Congress approved HR 933 and President Obama signed it into law on March 26. The rider, which seems fairly described as “The Monsanto Protection Act,” effectively bars federal courts from being able to halt the sale or planting of controversial genetically modified or genetically engineered seeds, no matter what health issues may arise concerning GMOs in the future. Many members of Congress say they were unaware of the rider when they approved the bill. A grassroots campaign is under way to strike down that 11th-hour rider.

Monarch butterflies are heading North in one of the world’s greatest migrations. How many will not find the food they need to complete the journey?

Indra’s net is being torn asunder.

how long … how long!
milkweeds, monarchs, Mexico
how long?