Basecamp Dispatch: Birds, Books, and Blue Crabs

This week brought a slight reprieve from the heat. The heavy humidity that’s been hanging over us finally broke into evening thunderstorms, which the garden loved but the dog absolutely did not.

Amazing what you notice when the weather finally invites you back outside.

Penny and I head out for our morning walk, and it almost feels cool. Last night’s rain scrubbed some of the humidity from the air, and the thermometer hasn’t quite hit 75 yet, which feels like relief after the three-digit temps last week. The world looks washed clean, every shade of green turned up. It smells like clean mud and the late-blooming cape jasmine from the neighbor’s yard.

The cooler-than-usual temps have brought out the chimney swifts, which we usually only see swooping and diving in the evening as the sun sets, the bats fluttering in between them. There are dozens in the sky this morning, like little cigars with wings against the lingering gray clouds.

Two young kites split the flock, zipping through the middle like fighter jets. They turn somersaults in the air, changing direction on a dime as they try to snag a cigar for breakfast. The swifts split around them, then close ranks again behind them. They don’t seem particularly scared, just miffed at the disturbance of their early-morning meal.

Penny and I stop to watch. One of the birds stops chasing the swifts for one moment to hover over us, its tail twisting in the air current to hold it in place like a helicopter. The bird cocks its head. One bright eye considers us before it turns and goes back to chasing breakfast.

Last week, I was standing in front of my pantry trying to decide what to fix for dinner. Somehow, that ordinary moment turned into an essay about the difference between consuming a life and participating in one. (You can read it here, BTW)

It was partly inspired by John Gonter’s recent post, “Tapas,” where he touched on something I’d been circling around recently — how little modern humans participate in their food. But the more I wrote, the more I realized this idea extends well beyond the kitchen.

The response surprised me. Maybe because so many of us are feeling the same pull toward a life with more connection and less consumption.

I spent Saturday wandering through six used bookstores around Raleigh with my husband. This is a dangerous hobby for people who already own more books than shelf space. The haul did not disappoint.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which is usually when I find the best things. Used bookstores reward patience. You walk in hunting for one title and leave carrying home a stack of stories you didn’t know you needed.

A few that refused to be left behind:

The View from Rat Lake by John Gierach, because apparently I needed another voice reminding me that fishing is rarely just about fishing.

About This Life by Barry Lopez, because I’m trying to learn from writers who notice what the rest of us walk past.

Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, because apparently it was time I finally got around to reading it.

The House of Sky by Ivan Doig, because I am eternally drawn to writers who understand that a place is never just a place.

Right now, these are the ones sitting on my nightstand arguing for my attention. Gierach is currently winning, but the others are making a strong case.

This week, I’m heading back to the coast for some saltwater stories.

I’m working on a piece about chicken-legging for blue crabs, an old-school method I grew up with on the Chesapeake Bay. It’s satisfying when you can catch dinner with nothing more than a piece of chicken, some string, and as much patience as you can muster.

I’ll also be spending some time on the Outer Banks with a surf rod. Officially, it’s research for another story. Unofficially, it’s an excuse to stand on the beach in my bare feet and call it work.

I’ll see y’all back here next Tuesday. Until then, get your butt outside.