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Allthorn
Koeberlinia spinosa (ko-ber-LIN-ee-a spy-NO-suh)
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It is the month of February that seems ironically longest, and cruelest in west Texas, not T.S. Eliot's April. My dogs and I, though, are ambivalent.
Each afternoon at 4:30, we've been romping around the most westerly edge of West Odessa. It's a short drive from home, under five miles. There the county roads are marked but not paved, not all wild fields are fenced, and the daily delusion exists of being a mere mile or two from the point that the sun touches the horizon at sunset.
The weather has been cool, not cold. I bring with me my jersey jacket but wear it with its arms tied around my waist. After a couple of hours, after the sun sets, I untie it, slip my arms in its sleeves in order to continue to browse just a half hour more in the ambient light. The dogs agree wholeheartedly with the gesture: Let's stay as long as we can. Although everything is at its barest and grayest this time of year, it does have some benefits.
For one, that makes something like the Allthorn above rather special. It is still green. All (green) thorns, just as the name says, but green is green especially in a sea of gray. This specimen is a nice one -- actually the only one we've found -- with it being about 7 feet tall. Its height is likely another reason it caught our attention. Okay, just my attention. The dogs were off sniffing something invisible to me while I took this photo. It could be said these are the clearest days for sightseeing, with nothing much else to distract. I'm keenly aware it is the safest time to walk, free from fear of snakes while they continue a while longer to hibernate. There is little to no annoyance from bugs who bite. And with the earth under our feet clear of wildflowers and growing things, the horse crippler cactus and lotebush spiny sprigs are easy to see, to avoid. I daresay it is a sparce, but carefree time.
Carefree at least for us well-fed visitors. I'm not so sure how the actual denizens -- of which we see very few -- are fairing during February, lean times. We also can clearly see (or smell) the white skulls and vertebrae littering the fields. Bones are also a favorite of pack rats to strew on and weave in their dens, a macabre sense of style. They also like to use a variety of scat which has been a puzzle to me; perhaps it masks their own scent from predators?
It's also an excellent time for bird-watching, or birding if you are the really serious type. Birds are easier seen in bare trees and they seem to me to be a little reluctant to move around too much, wasting precious energy. I respect that, and use the telephoto a lot.
We humans can count in mere weeks the time before the first green will appear. Then the dogs and I will be singing an ode to joy -- a joy of colors, activity, and many sensual assaults. Yet, while I keep an eagle-eye out for the first flush of spring color, I am experiencing something else also. I am aware even before it's gone that I will miss this winter, a kind of projected nostalgia. I will miss these particular walks with my dogs that, in coming months, will be something entirely different.
Each afternoon at 4:30, we've been romping around the most westerly edge of West Odessa. It's a short drive from home, under five miles. There the county roads are marked but not paved, not all wild fields are fenced, and the daily delusion exists of being a mere mile or two from the point that the sun touches the horizon at sunset.
The weather has been cool, not cold. I bring with me my jersey jacket but wear it with its arms tied around my waist. After a couple of hours, after the sun sets, I untie it, slip my arms in its sleeves in order to continue to browse just a half hour more in the ambient light. The dogs agree wholeheartedly with the gesture: Let's stay as long as we can. Although everything is at its barest and grayest this time of year, it does have some benefits.
For one, that makes something like the Allthorn above rather special. It is still green. All (green) thorns, just as the name says, but green is green especially in a sea of gray. This specimen is a nice one -- actually the only one we've found -- with it being about 7 feet tall. Its height is likely another reason it caught our attention. Okay, just my attention. The dogs were off sniffing something invisible to me while I took this photo. It could be said these are the clearest days for sightseeing, with nothing much else to distract. I'm keenly aware it is the safest time to walk, free from fear of snakes while they continue a while longer to hibernate. There is little to no annoyance from bugs who bite. And with the earth under our feet clear of wildflowers and growing things, the horse crippler cactus and lotebush spiny sprigs are easy to see, to avoid. I daresay it is a sparce, but carefree time.
Carefree at least for us well-fed visitors. I'm not so sure how the actual denizens -- of which we see very few -- are fairing during February, lean times. We also can clearly see (or smell) the white skulls and vertebrae littering the fields. Bones are also a favorite of pack rats to strew on and weave in their dens, a macabre sense of style. They also like to use a variety of scat which has been a puzzle to me; perhaps it masks their own scent from predators?
It's also an excellent time for bird-watching, or birding if you are the really serious type. Birds are easier seen in bare trees and they seem to me to be a little reluctant to move around too much, wasting precious energy. I respect that, and use the telephoto a lot.
We humans can count in mere weeks the time before the first green will appear. Then the dogs and I will be singing an ode to joy -- a joy of colors, activity, and many sensual assaults. Yet, while I keep an eagle-eye out for the first flush of spring color, I am experiencing something else also. I am aware even before it's gone that I will miss this winter, a kind of projected nostalgia. I will miss these particular walks with my dogs that, in coming months, will be something entirely different.
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