Below I’ve written some impressions about my recent trip to New York, and added some photos.  The story includes notes on where I travelled, parks I visited and some thoughts on the landscape. Of course there are many observations on the natural history of the area, including local birdlife. Most photos are mine, but one is from Flickr commons, which I gratefully acknowledge.

Looking west, on the left is the northern point of Inwood Hill Park in Manhattan. To the right,  the Henry Hudson Bridge and far right, Riverdale (the Bronx). In the foreground is the Harlem River. The Jersey palisades are in the distant background. For almost 20 years this was the scene that greeted me every morning when I left the house. Nov. 2015

Summing it up in a word or two, returning after many years to the homeland – this being for me New York — was good.

New York State is large, of course, and has many regions, from Long Island in the south to Canada in the north. In between we have Niagara and its famous falls, Lake Ontario (1) and the St. Lawrence River, the Adirondacks, (2) the Finger Lakes and the Catskill Mountains, just to name a few areas. I have visited many of these regions, and, as you proceed north up the Hudson, they combine to make a vast and sometimes rugged landscape. (3,4,5)

However, my personal New York, the New York where I spent much of my life, is the southern part of the state, including the Hudson Valley, Westchester, of course the city, and parts of Long Island. (6) On this trip, with all my close family in Westchester, the county just north of the city, it had to be the primary focus. Gratefully, I have no disasters to report — no lost luggage, floods or hurricanes, hurt feelings or bruised egos – just about everything went well.

It may be age — just possibly wisdom — but I’ve come to see travel in a new light. In a nutshell, if I get back in one piece, it was a good trip! Success is to return unscathed. And so I did return to the Bay Area a week later — at least as well as I left — but greatly enriched with many new images of family, foliage and friends.

There seems to be an inverse relationship between expectations and achievements: try for less and accomplish more. While I was tugged in many directions, the family was by far the main thing. Although not always scintillating, my time with them was more precious than far flung excursions to the Catskills, Berkshires or Suffolk County (on Long Island). (7) These places are also parts of my history and my New York — and all exciting to visit. But this time, there was no time for my personal version of “this is your life,” to see everything one last time.

All the details of the trip blended perfectly: reasonable airfares, smooth flights and affordable car rates. I even got an upgrade on the car, and the reunions with friends and family went well. The weather cooperated very nicely (just one-two days of drizzle, overcast or fog, no serious rain). And I had time to visit old neighborhoods and some of my favorite parks in Westchester and New York City. Equally important, I had chosen (coincidently) early November to travel, with the eastern woodlands still aflame with fall color.

The days were mostly mild and sunny, but when I left the house most days at 7am, it was in the 40’s — jacket and sweater weather. I even saw my breath occasionally as I came out into the early morning air. The fall colors were a little past prime, but still everywhere you looked, it was magical! From many shades of green, the woodlands had added great washes of gold and scarlet. When past their peak, these colors dry out to a papery brown.  Eventually they lose their glory, but for a month or two even the eyes of the blind are opened. No one can be impervious to this wild bacchanal; you cannot escape this carnival of color. As the leaves carpet the ground also, it’s hard to find the horizon at times. Above and below, it’s like a dream, the once-green world broken into infinite fragments of color. You’re part of a big celebration thrown by the local chlorophyll association, and it lifts your spirits just before winter sets in. Nature’s Mardi Gras before four months of dark and cold and bare black trees.

Especially noteworthy this time was a visit to my alma mater, Inwood Hill Park, a small woodland preserve of great beauty in Manhattan. This is where my interest in natural history began to germinate in the 1970’s, and ever since it has been a sacred spot to me. It was wonderful to see it again after all these years, never more beautiful. Parks do not seem to age.

In the parks I searched at various times of day, mostly early mornings, birds were fairly active – calling, even singing, flitting everywhere between the trees, ground and shrubbery.  The woodlands back east are very dense, profuse with vegetation, and the birds appear and disappear in a twinkling. Songbirds are frequently seen only for a few seconds. Of course many birds, such as the flycatchers, warblers or swallows, had already migrated south by the time I arrived. November is indeed late in the year. But there were plenty of birds left to see; I averaged 20-30 per day, mostly songbirds.

Without too much effort, I saw a total of 40 or so different species. Favorites among them were White-throated sparrows, Hooded mergansers,  Waxwings, Red-bellied woodpeckers, Grackles, Wood ducks, Cardinals and, surprisingly (at least for me) Palm warblers. None of these were rare or unusual, but all welcome. All bought back memories of feathered times past, the early days of birding in New York.

Small mammals that tolerate civilization well (not talking about cats and dogs here) such as squirrels and chipmunks, were fairly common. I always delight in seeing chipmunks — one of my great favorites– they’re so tiny, fast and comical. And their dashing racing stripes too! I love their big bulging cheeks (when full) and the way they occasionally stop, sit on hind legs, and stare at you!

All the larger mammals, even if present, are secretive and frequently nocturnal, so generally are very hard to find. And where I was, mostly within urban or suburban areas, I assume their populations were relatively low in any case. Thus I had no luck with foxes, deer or skunks, all exciting encounters with the wild. I did see monarchs almost every day, however. And whenever I saw the tiny purple heads of asters among the grasses at the side of the trail, they gave me a jolt of recognition. Asters were about the only flowers left so late in the year, a wonderful sight.

I went out early every day to explore the local parks for a few hours, hoping to see as many birds as possible. Places that I visited on this trip included Silver Lake (Harrison), White Plains Rural Cemetery (North White Plains), Inwood Hill Park and Central Park (Manhattan), Mt. Hope Cemetery  (Hastings), (8) Cranberry Lake Preserve (North White Plains) and a few others. Given my limited time, I didn’t have a chance to visit ‘exotic’ birding spots like Jamaica Bay in Queens, near Kennedy Airport. (9)

As previously mentioned, I managed to tally up almost 40 bird species (actually 38), a respectable total given the limited time and scope of my travels. A major boon for birds would have been a shoreline or large wetland, but this was not to be. Despite the lack of a Yosemite or even a Great Swamp nearby, I saw some memorable birds: Hooded mergansers, Wood ducks, Osprey, Palm warblers, White throated sparrows, Hermit thrushes, Cardinals, a Ruby-crowned kinglet and a kettle of Turkey vultures. These TVs were a real surprise, since I was in Hastings, right off the Saw Mill Parkway, just north of Yonkers. It’s woody and suburban, with lots of creatures and lots of possibilities, I guess, but I had no idea!

INWOOD HILL PARK   As noted above, this was my first visit in some years to Inwood Hill Park in Manhattan. Even preoccupied with family obligations, I had no alternative but to visit; given my history, it had for me the same import as Ithaca to Ulysses.

For some sense of historical perspective I might mention Thoreau and Walden, or Muir and the Sierras. That is, men as the creation of, the extension of, their environment. Thoreau and Walden, Muir and the Sierras, — they seem like natural pairings, each one completed by his natural partner. Can we imagine either one alone? And while Inwood Park may not be Yosemite, I should be given credit for taking my inspiration where I found it.

Surprisingly, it took only a half hour or so to drive down the network of highways from White Plains to Manhattan. As I reached Kingsbridge and 225th street, I was struck by the hustle and bustle, the great numbers of people clustered everywhere at the base of the IRT station. Getting a green light, I crossed over the river (the Harlem River) into Manhattan. In a few moments I was in home territory, and raced down Broadway under the El. Two hundred eighteenth (218th) street came quickly, just past the hospital, and I turned right. There was quite a bit of anticipation; for 15 years this is where I called “home.”

This stretch of Broadway isn’t pretty; it is crowded, noisy and dirty, with an industrial feel. But it is soon changes after you turn the corner at 218th street.

The park is still hidden at this point, though only 200 yards away. Then you reach the rise at Seaman Avenue, and it suddenly appears, a small mountain of green woodland in the distance, framed by the river. At first it seems out of place, some sort of optical illusion, confusing to the eye. It must be an illusion of some kind, since it cannot be real; you’re in Manhattan, the heart of a metropolis of eight million people. Green space is in short supply; but down the road, below you, it still looks wooded and wild.

It has no right to be, of course, in the context of this “Bronx” neighborhood. This is not the East Side, or even Pelham, not the outer boroughs; it’s crowded, no room to breathe on a hot summer day. It feels shabby, working class, with an endless parade of bleak six-story buildings block after block. Concrete and asphalt as far as the eye can see. No breaks, the buildings one relentless series of clones. No fancy people, no fancy outfits, no fancy boutiques. Definitely more Bronx than Manhattan. But regardless of the neighborhood, the perception that anything green can not be here — would be wrong. What you are soon to see is entirely real.

It’s difficult to describe the importance of this place to me, since it produced a major change in my outlook and worldview in my mid-30’s. I had spent the better part of four decades creating a highly structured secular, intellectual and political philosophy, buttressed with a great deal of education. After much searching, music was to be my career. But within a few years the park had undermined all this.

Its richly wooded slopes, 200 feet high, set against the Hudson and Harlem Rivers, its idyllic quality and isolation, all combine to produce a great impact on anyone seeing it for the first time – or any time.  Such a remnant of primeval Manhattan miraculously preserved from the days of the Indians, is difficult to believe. People in the neighborhood refer to it with a kind of awe; it is their special secret, unknown to most New Yorkers. For me, within several years of hiking and jogging through its woodlands, observing its trees and flowers on a daily basis, it acquired a kind of reality that most of us associate with a “person.”

Strange as it might sound to the modern rational mind, I am convinced something of the following happened: the park had a “spirit” that “spoke” (not literally, but figuratively) to me. And attracted to its power and beauty, I responded. (10) Words, of course, don’t do it justice and make it sound bizarre, but it was nothing of the kind. Whatever happened, my perception of nature and the world, and the human place in it, was  profoundly changed, and in a very positive way.

At the bottom of this hill, there it was. After a quick swing around the neighborhood, I parked and got out. I walked across the fields and admired, once again, the panoramic view of the West ridge and the lagoon. I was exhilarated to be there again. It was all the same as before — the woodland cascading down the West ridge, the river, the perfect blue sky: it was all stunning, incredible.

I noted the extravagant scarlet colors as I passed under the oaks and Sweetgums, and walked around the crescent lagoon, bordered with willows. I occasionally paused and took a few snapshots to record the moment. The camera jostled with my binoculars as I walked, a sensation I did not like; too many cords, too much baggage, around my neck.

I met a friend a little later, and we walked into the ‘clove’ area under the West ridge, dwarfed by the massive tulips (i.e., Yellow poplar), oak and maples. With the tulips and spicebush dominating the woodland, we were at the bottom of a sea of chlorophyll, now transmuted into gold. We encountered no one as we walked up to the Indian Cave area.

Sights of birds were rare, however. My eyes were darting everywhere, but no birds. Beside the sounds of jays and Chickadees, perhaps a Robin or two, I heard little. The lagoon had gulls and Mallards, even a Great Egret, but the woodland, very quiet. An occasional squirrel ran through the understory, but no more. I occasionally would snip off a spicebush twig to smell its savory lemon scent. I wondered where all the sassafras went to, or the Black birch, or even the Indian pipes, but they were not to be seen.

Time being limited, we went for breakfast and had a spirited conversation. Afterward I walked my friend to her car and returned to the park. Walking back to the “island,” I glanced at the imposing West ridge and the lagoon, now drained by the tide. I saw all before me in the moment, but these scenes competed with the past. The “island,” due to its relative isolation and quiet, had been my favorite spot for parties, picnics, trysts, even zazen. Friends and lovers long gone—distant personal history — now competed for my attention. Of course it was my history, so I gave them their time.

As I walked along the path, in a kind of daze, I hesitated to go back to the car, but I had to leave. Suddenly, off to my left, by the old boat house, I saw a large bird dive into the waters of the lagoon. It was an Osprey, a complete surprise; I had never seen this in the 20 years I lived next to the park. Perhaps some sort of sign.

WHITE PLAINS RURAL CEMETERY   A surprising place where I found many birds was a relatively small cemetery north of White Plains. It’s called the “Rural Cemetery,” right off a major highway, 287. It is a cemetery two centuries old, with great old trees of oak, beech and conifers scattered around the grounds. It’s quite scenic, with smaller ornamental shrubs everywhere. In some order, along the trails and roadways, were gravestones and monuments crowded together of every size, shape and color. I stopped frequently to read the names and dates of these, my silent companions. Many of the inscriptions were brief and simple, others poignant. I find the graves of children always the most moving. Seeing these little headstones, one tries to imagine their parents’ grief.

And even here, in this the final resting place of so many souls, the trees could not restrain themselves from their displays of color. Ordinarily a very somber place, it was ‘decorated’ with the golden yellows of beech and oaks in vibrant scarlet hues. This sea of pastel colors definitely lifted my spirits.

I went there several times, usually early in the morning, and, beside myself and occasional cemetery workers in golf carts, the only other living things were birds and squirrels. Luckily, the birds were many and active.

I was surprised to see so many juncos, feeding on the ground and fleeing into the trees, white tails flashing, as I approached. Jays screamed non-stop (this is the most common sound in eastern woodlands); Robins flew in small flocks or patrolled the lawns; White-breasted nuthatches hitched over tree trunks. Occasionally Flickers with their gaudy colors flapped from tree to tree, but now their wings were yellow, not pink. Starlings, constellations on their flanks, were common, of course, as they are in any urban environment. With their noisy squawks and wheezing, it was as if they were gasping for breath with avian emphysema. But their plumage was a revelation; it seemed unusually bright and colorful, as if I had seen it for the first time.

The soft and comforting conversation of the chickadees and titmice floated among the trees; they are also part of the common background ‘noise’ of eastern woodlands. When you hear it, you know you’re there. Generally not more than five minutes can go by without hearing their friendly, if flat “chick-a-dee-dee-dees.”

Perhaps the birds that made the biggest impression on me, beside the Palm warblers (not seen in many years), were the White-throated sparrows. I had forgotten how pretty they are after all my time on the West coast.

We see them very infrequently in the Bay Area, at least I do. For me, they account for less than 1o sightings in two decades. But here they were all over the grounds, and their striped heads and white throat patches gave them a very stylish appearance. With an added touch of yellow before the eye, it all combined to produce a great feeling of elegance. I heard their charming and plaintive song, Old Sam…Peabody, Peabody, Peabody!  many times. Parts of it reminded me of our local Golden-crowned sparrows.

Seeing warblers again – the Palm warblers— brought back wonderful days in the mid-80’s, particularly in Central Park. These were my infant birding days, and everything was terra incognita. I was no more successful at telling what birds were than a baby learning to walk. Apart from jays, cardinals, robins, mallards and a few others, they were all flying question marks.

This was true in spades for the hordes of warblers I would see during spring migration in May. I worked only a few blocks from Central park, and I would take outrageous ‘lunch hours’ to roam around the Ramble and the lake, hoping for a big day. (11) My eyes would search for these tiny feathered candles rocketing through the thick foliage. In the spring, with the newly minted foliage and warm days, it was birding heaven; the fall was of course a different story. Was that really a falling leaf, or perhaps a kinglet?  What do those wing-bars mean?

There I learned, eventually, the differences between Black-throated Blue, Magnolia, Canada, Redstart, Palm and Prairie warblers, among many others. Charting the course and identity of these tiny creatures was no easy task, and took a lot of patience and humility. These were never my strongest qualities, but with good teachers, good luck and some optimism, I kept at it and learned a few things.

Years living across the street from Inwood Park in the ‘70’s had set me off on a new path, and I was curious about everything I found in nature. Every living thing became my oyster. After mycology and botany (12), ornithology became my main interest. It was a long education, this pursuit of these tiny feathered creatures. Even now, after four decades, it’s a process that continually expands around the edges. There’s just no end to the book of life — always intriguing, always more to learn. Every time I leave the house, even to go shopping, it’s a “fieldtrip,” — you never know what you’ll see.

Whichever side of the continent I happen to be on.

NOTES:

1. Lake Ontario is extremely large, and one of the five Great Lakes. All these lakes are all more like inland seas than what we would conventionally call “lakes.”
2. The Adirondack mountain preserve, just north of Albany and stretching all the way to the St. Lawrence River, is the largest ‘parkland’ east of the Mississippi River, larger than any of the eastern national parks, such as Smoky Mountains, Acadia or the Everglades. It contains over 6 million acres, with more than 10,000 lakes and 30,000 miles of waterways. This is the land of the loon, among hundreds of other bird species. Although half of its area is still privately held, and there are many little towns and villages within it (over 100,000 people live within its boundaries), it remains one of the greatest wild areas in the east. Private development is heavily regulated by the state park agency to maintain its wild and natural character.
3. The human history of the area stretches back to the times of the last Ice Age, 10-12,000 years ago. The European-American history of the region begins at least with Verrazano in 1524, and of course there has been a massive impact on the ecology of the area by the settlement of many millions of people in five centuries.
4. For all of its faults, New York (the city and region) appear to be unique among the cities of the U.S. in its social and cultural development and impact on our history. Just consider some of the people that were either natives or became residents of New York City over the centuries: Alexander Hamilton, Lucky Luciano, Peter Stuyvesant, Vince Lombardi, Walt Whitman, Oscar Hammerstein, John McEnroe, Robert Fulton, Louise Bryant, John Reed, Max Eastman, Washington Irving, Louis Armstrong, Teddy Roosevelt, George Gershwin, Greta Garbo, J.P. Morgan, James Cagney, Babe Ruth, Lorenzo Da Ponte, Jackie Kennedy, Harry Houdini, FDR, Leonard Bernstein, Marlene Dietrich, Herman Melville, Margaret Sanger, Cornelius Vanderbilt, John James Audubon, Carl Sagan and John Lennon — and this is just a short list. For good or evil, no other area of the country could compile a similar list of people and personalities. To write a history of the United States and leave out New York — if one desired – would be to write a flimsy and pointless volume. And it would not be a history of America, because there would be surprisingly little of America in it — at least the conventional story of the development of American civilization.
5. Regarding the human population, there are still eight million people within the five boroughs of the city; not everyone has moved to California and Florida. This results in packing the millions in pretty tightly at times. And the New York metropolitan area, which includes parts of New Jersey, “upstate” and Connecticut, contains over 25 million people, the largest concentration in the country (yes, more than the Los Angeles area). Yet despite this massive concentration of people and infrastructure, the most extreme in the country, there remains many places of great natural beauty, with a great deal of wildlife, woodlands, clean shorelines and birds. Somehow, natural areas and parkland has been preserved. Thousands of concerned and nature-loving citizens, over the last two centuries, have protected and preserved these lands, and we (and wildlife) are their beneficiaries.
6. Anyone with an excessive interest in my biography might like to know that I also lived in several other parts of the area: two years  in New Paltz in the ‘60’s, on the edge of the Schawangunks and just south of the Catskills; and two more in Connecticut, just east of New Haven in a little town on the coast — Guilford. I also spent a great deal of time in rural Rockland County (just north of the city) visiting friends and exploring the area, its parks and observing its birds (in the ‘80’s). Not to mention many wonderful days over a 10- year period visiting in-laws in Suffolk County, on L0ng Island, particularly the areas around Northport and the North Fork (in Cutchogue). So, all in all, I was pretty busy travelling, taking note of the area’s natural history, and having a good time doing so. I still have a pretty good idea of the geography of the metropolitan region, its ecology and overall character. Anyone with similar interests, over four decades, would have done as much, although perhaps with less enthusiasm, organization or joie de vivre.
7. As all good New Yorkers know, the Berkshires are slightly to the east of Albany, in Massachusetts. I have wonderful memories of them from many visits over the years, to places like Stockbridge and the Red Lion Inn — not to mention exploring their hills and dales for birdlife. Out birding, you never know what you’ll find, of course. One day, not too far from Stockbridge, I was out early and discovered two of the largest (probably Snapping) turtles I have ever seen sunning themselves on the edge of a pond. They were the size of very large serving dishes, perhaps three feet long. I was mesmerized, but didn’t go too near, because of that wicked reptilian gleam in their eyes. For a variety of reasons, the Berkshires will be a highlight of the next trip.
8. This is the burial site of my brother, Douglas.
9. Jamaica Bay is the best spot for waterbirds in New York City. I would have seen twice as many bird species if I had visited this spot even for a few hours. I had so many first sightings there over the years, from Gadwall to Saw-whet owls, there seemed no end to them. But it was much too far away, a very long drive through the city, near Kennedy airport.
10. Of course, a psychologist might find a spot in the DSM to describe this phenomenon, with a somewhat different interpretation. But similar experiences are commonly reported by mystics and artists, and even “ordinary” people at crossroads in their lives.
11. These “lunch hours”, on a good day, were several hours long. I wandered around the lake and the Ramble til 3 or 4pm. Thank heaven my office was tucked away in a far corner of the hospital (I worked at) and most of the time, I worked independently. Not to mention I had a very tolerant boss who trusted me and let me set my own schedule.
12. I became interested in the psychotropic qualities of mushrooms in the 1970’s after reading Carlos Castenada’s books. Subsequently I also learned about the sacred mushroom Amanita muscaria (from “Soma,” by R. Gordon Wasson, highly recommended. Also see the works of Richard Schultes in this regard.) But mushrooms soon became a much wider interest, and I got to know Margaret Nydes and some members of the NY Mycological Society. I retain this general interest to the present day. And after meeting my future wife in 1981, a young lady who had great knowledge of (and a degree) in botany, I became an enthusiastic (if amateur) student of botany as well. I pursued this interest as we traipsed through the parks around New York for several years, studying trees, flowers and almost anything that grew. It was only a year or two later, as she also taught me to identify birds, that my primary interest in biology became birds. But of course you really don’t know too much about birds (or any other animal) if you don’t know something about the environment they live in. There is always a close relationship between bird and habitat. So all the botany came in handy; it all fits together in the end. It just takes some time – but who’s counting, when you’re having fun? Ask “sacred fools” like Thoreau or Muir if they thought they spent their time wisely.

Peter Matthiessen

A little more than a month ago, in early April, one of the great writers of our time, Peter Matthiessen, died in New York, at his home in Long Island. He was not only a writer; he lived multiple lives in his 86 years. He was a distinguished novelist and non-fiction writer (principally natural science), having received awards in both fields, and was a founder of the Paris Review (of literature) in the 1950’s. In addition to his writing, he had a long career in progressive politics, supporting Cesar Chavez (in his book Sal si Puedes), and Leonard Peltier and the American Indian Movement in their struggles.

Matthiessen in 1995 at a Buddhist retreat.

He was also an accomplished decades-long student, and eventually Master, of Zen Buddhism. This last achievement, to anyone who has tried to practice Zen or, for that matter, any form of Buddhism, knows how difficult this is.

So much good karma in one person is hard to believe – extraordinary, really — but exceedingly welcome. I am glad that he was celebrated during his lifetime and not only at his passing. It is good to see the truth of his art and life recognized and even acclaimed.

Some of his most well-known books, among more than 30 that he wrote over 60 years, were The Snow Leopard, In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, Wildlife in America, At Play in the Fields of the Lord, The Shorebirds of North America (also called The Windbirds), The Tree Where Man was Born, and Killing Mr. Watson.

He said that he preferred writing fiction to non-fiction, even though he was prolific in the latter category (including natural science, contemporary politics, travel and history). The reason for his literary preference? Essentially, because fiction is not limited to the facts (or more properly the ‘facts’ are created and manipulated by the author at will) and therefore one has more scope for literary invention and experimentation. I suppose this is true, although his non-fiction, as I read it, was always powerful, entertaining and enlightening, not to say witty. In one interview he said that non-fiction could be as fine as a well-made piece of furniture, but it wasn’t “sculpture.”

Matthiessen was something of a hero to me, although I suspect a grown man is not supposed to admit to having heroes — much less living ones. However, in my personal pantheon, where Thoreau, Muir, Beethoven and Socrates sit in majesty, and where I wander in from time to time for inspiration and guidence, a chair is being prepared for him. The vote is not yet in, but I think he has a good chance.

I’ve read a number of his books over the years, and they made quite an impression on me. They helped create my vision of man’s place in nature, a vision I cherish. Born and raised in New York, I shared some of the same Long Island landscapes he was generally familiar with. The sense of “home” when I walked through the forests of the tri-state area was no doubt similar. I am also a student of Zen; it informs and shapes my outlook in many ways. For these reasons, I feel a kinship with the man, and I would like to share a few thoughts and reflections on his life and career. For those interested, there are many informative articles and obituaries on-line. The New York Times has a good one, for example, and there are many others.

I think there was much to admire about the man in addition to his writing — although I assume he saw his literary work as his main achievement. In the overall scope of his life, I think writing was his way to record his exploration of nature and human nature. His many books may perhaps be read as a very long journal of his personal and spiritual growth.

His social conscience — what you might call a person’s ‘compassion quotient,’ which I prize above all else, was evident in many of his books. Certainly in his work on the Native American struggle for justice in the 1960’s and 70’s (which he wrote about In the Spirit of Crazy Horse) it is evident. He also knew and wrote about Cesar Chavez and the struggle of the National Farm Workers Association to bring better conditions and higher wages for the farm workers.

Matthiessen with George Plimpton, Editor of the Paris Review

His social conscience was perhaps the more remarkable because he came from a wealthy family and lived, for example, on the very wealthy East Side of Manhattan as a young man. He went to elite schools such as Hotchkiss and Yale. Yet after service in the Navy at the end of WWII, and time in Paris, he went off on his own to pursue a career as a writer. In the course of these writing assignments he explored a great deal of America and most of the world’s continents. He even became a fisherman for a time, which allowed him to write Men’s Lives: The Surfmen and Baymen of the South Fork. This last book was about country and waters very close to his heart: the eastern, very rural parts of Long Island, in Suffolk County, where he lived most of his life.

Privilege such as he had, living at the top of the socio-economic pyramid, usually gives a man myopic vision of the lives of the people living at the bottom. “Blue bloods” cannot usually understand the terrible choices people often make as a result of poverty, or the frequent tragedy and drama of their lives. It does not lead to greater understanding and compassion. On the contrary, all too often it leads to corruption and contempt for the hoi polloi. We could cite many examples, but thankfully, in the case of Matthiessen, it was not so. He was made of sterner stuff; and no doubt his parents, despite their wealth, must have given him some of his capacity for compassion and sympathy with others, no matter at what level they lived their lives.

Perhaps it should be mentioned at this point that there was a discordant note in his early life: as a young man in the 1950’s, in the dark period of the Cold War, Matthiessen took a job with the CIA. While this sounds disturbing to anyone of progressive politics (it does to me, for example), it should be understood in its Cold War context and life in the 50’s.

As far as I understand it, his job was not real James Bond material — undercover in Eastern Europe, for example, pistols blazing — but writing reports from Paris on leftist writers he found there. Given his subsequent development — his interest in wildlife, conservation and religion, not to mention defense of and sympathy for the downtrodden — this early career choice seems strange.

I think it can be understood in the context of the Cold War. Personally, I am old enough to remember some of the climate of fear that prevailed at the time. The “anti-communism” of the 50’s was real and it was extreme.

I can recall, although only a teen-ager, the constant commentary of the Cold Warriors in every form of media, denouncing the “godless Russians.” TV, radio, magazines, books; it was everywhere. And this was in New York, not Nebraska or South Carolina.

And at home, right here in the U.S., Senator McCarthy and HUAC found Communists everywhere, although no one else ever found as many as they did. However, it was no laughing matter: men’s lives were destroyed by this simplistic, not to say un-American, rhetoric. The public was terrified and paranoid about “Communist” assault within and without. In reality, of course, the hunt for “reds” was mostly cover for persecution of progressive thinkers, union organizing and social and economic change of any kind.

The idea that “Communist Russia” was out to destroy or conquer the “Free World” was repeated so often it was accepted as gospel by almost everyone. What they did – the conquest of Eastern Europe and China — was often cited as an example. In fact, Nikita Khrushchev, the Russian leader at the time, despite his roly-poly and often folksy media image, said as much in his famous UN speech, with his unforgettable line “we will bury you!” Few doubted that they were just waiting for a good chance to launch their ICBM’s over the Arctic Circle, bringing the end to everything we held dear – such as life. Once begun, we knew, this war would bring the end of civilization as we knew it, world-wide. Not a pleasant prospect. Sputnik, the Korean War, revolutionary movements in Africa and Latin America — not to mention Fidel Castro — only made it worse.

And it was true that atrocities were committed by Communist armies and movements in various parts of the world, such as Eastern Europe. Hungary was a dramatic example; Russian tanks and troops entering Budapest in 1956 was certain and visual “proof” of anti-communist rhetoric. Czechoslovakia was another example. Despite many thousands of U.S. troops in Europe, in defense against just such a Russian invasion, these events could not be stopped.

It was therefore understood by most Americans that we had to protect the “Free World” by manipulating, whenever necessary, the political affairs of nations around the world. Otherwise we were doomed; the whole world would gradually become “red,” or at least pink. If this included overthrowing a dangerous government now and then, like Iran or Guatamala, or supporting vicious Latin American dictators, like Batista or Trujillo, or invading foreign countries when necessary (Vietnam, Dominican Republic, Panama), it could not be avoided. Unfortunate, no doubt, but necessary.

So this is the context in which I consider Matthiessen’s job as a CIA agent in the 1950’s. He may have fallen to some extent for Cold War rhetoric, or merely needed a free ticket to Paris (as he joked). A friend of mine who knew him at Hotchkiss (high school) said he was something of a rebel, and wore a python around his shoulders when he went to class. This does not quite jibe in my mind with a career in the CIA, but I guess I could be mistaken.

I have not read his biography or read his CIA reports, so I am not sure exactly what to think. According to some accounts, he said this assignment allowed him to further his literary career. It seems clear that he co-founded the Paris Review as cover for his “mission.” (When George Plimpton, subsequent editor of the magazine and a childhood friend, found out about the CIA connection, he was outraged.) In any case, he soon left “the company” and joined humanity again, this time on the right side.

I never met him in person, unfortunately. He did not make many public appearances that I, at least, was aware of. Especially out here in California for the last two decades, I was busy raising my family, teaching courses and exploring the state. I found many glorious spots, and not a few wonderful birds, but my free time was very limited. If he came to California, I found out about it after he left. My contact with him was thus through the printed page. However, as all readers know, books – well-written books – illuminate the souls of both writer and reader to such an extent that they give rise to passionate attachments.

Matthiessen editing a manuscript.

Over the years I found several of his books on birds and wildlife that made a great impression on me. I loved (and still do) his style of writing, which was a mixture of erudition, “restraint,” poetic reflection and wry wit. It was a style I tried to copy over the years, since you want to reproduce what you admire. But despite my admiration, it did not flow naturally from my pen.

After a time I reasoned that his taciturn yet poetic style was a mirror of the man, and it was the man himself that could not be reproduced, much less his style. If I am any judge of my own writing, I tend to the baroque and confessional, with effusive asides. And the narrative is sometimes interrupted with tangents — even asteroids — of thought that deflect the body of the narrative from its original intended path.

Almost regardless of my personal taste, this style, chaotic as it appears to me, seems to be the essence of what is churning in my brain, trying to get out. Endless observations on all and sundry, good use of vocabulary, occasional striking images, but with a thin narrative thread. I suppose, of course, the same could be said, in spades, of “Leaves of Grass.” Yet it is considered a classic – despite being, in my mind at least, almost a random collection of thoughts. Imagery yes, but in the end, the only link the man and mind of Whitman. Equally so here: I am the link, the fountain of all this reflection; so many years of thought and wonder — what else could it be?

Regarding Matthiessen—the subject of this essay — I first found his books in a roundabout way. It actually came about, if we consider ultimate causes and the chain of causality in the development of our lives, as a result of my move to New York City in the early 70’s. The connection is as follows:

Needing a place to live, I moved to the community of Inwood. This little-known area was (still is) situated at the very northern tip of Manhattan. The neighborhood itself was no great shakes, no great architecture or cultural attractions (except the Cloisters), but it contained the most beautiful park I had ever seen.

This park, called “Inwood Hill,” was smallish, no more than 100 acres, but it had many dramatic features that added up to an overwhelming visual impression. The central portion was a forested plateau 200-feet high, which rose steeply from the surrounding fields. On the western boundary of the park was the mighty Hudson River, and to the north was the Harlem (River). The woodlands of the Y-shaped ridge were covered with oak, hickory, beech, tulip and maple, with a thick understory of sassafras, spicebush, viburnum and dogwood. Numerous wildflowers rose from the forest floor; birds and butterflies flew among the woodland.

Best of all, the elevated, forested area was almost never visited by the local residents, so when strolling through, you could imagine you were far away from the city, perhaps in the Catskills. And from the top, there were wonderful views of the Palisades across the river, very dramatic in themselves. You could see Riverdale beyond the Harlem to the north, and far to the east, the Bronx.

The park, I discovered, was the last remaining piece of New Amsterdam, the wilderness that greeted the early Dutch in the 1600’s. Miraculous was the only word for it — visually, naturally and historically. Everyone shook their head over it, nonplussed, but were delighted it existed. You must consider that only miles away, in the surrounding city of New York, the great metropolis, over the last 400 years millions of people have lived and died. Somehow, by a series of historical accidents, it survived.

I spent a part of every day in my new-found Walden, if only on the way to the subway. Its beauty, especially the little lagoon made by a bend in the Harlem River, not far from my building on 218th street, was hard to believe.

Over time, due to my daily immersion in the park, I began to notice the details of many of the trees, flowers and birds. They began to take on individual identities, almost personalities. Beyond obvious differences, I had previously never taken the time to look closely at these wild living things. I noticed that a willow was very different than an oak. And a swan very different than a duck. Kingfishers, herons, cormorants, hawks, all lived there, and all very different. I had time to look, and I did, more and more carefully. When you looked closely, the beauty and incredible craft of nature could be seen, and I marveled at it.

In several years, through walking, jogging and wandering through the woodland and fields, the park itself began to take on a “personality.” It was hard to describe, but I began to feel that these plants and animals were related, part of a larger living organism.

Mystical yes, but a real feeling I had, after tramping through the park, again and again. You could look at each individual tree, or take in the whole park, which was the home of all these plants and animals. Strange, perhaps, but a real perception, and most wonderful of all, a comforting and profound perception — that was part of it. By the grace of something, I was a part of it. Naturally, it was my birthright. I had only to open my eyes and see. Looking back, I can see that these years were perhaps the most important of my life, and had the most importance in shaping its eventual outcome. Only later would birds become my primary interest in natural science.

As a result of these epiphanies in the park, in the late 70’s and early 1980’s, that I began to take a much greater interest in natural science. It was then I found Matthiessen’s book, Wildlife in America, which had been out for two decades at that time.

Wildlife in America was Matthiessen’s first non-fiction book, written in the late 50’s. It was the story of a wild America that was profoundly changed by the arrival of Europeans. They arrived with their vast numbers, diseases and technology, all of which eventually devastated both Indians and wildlife .

He was still very young, in his early 30s and back from Paris. He reportedly took several years to visit all the national wildlife refuges in the country to research the subject, often camping out. (The book is dedicated to his parents, Erard and Elizabeth, “with love and many thanks”)

The book described the plants and animals of America prior to 1500. The birds, mammals and fish lived here in astronomical numbers – and relative balance — with the Native Americans. I learned of the fabulous hurricanes of Passenger pigeons (in the billions) that flew over the eastern forests, and lobsters in the Hudson that grew to six feet long. The fate of the Steller’s Seacow, a whale-sized sirenian (a manatee-like mammal) stunned me. I was not aware of its existence until I read about it at that time. It was killed off by Russian seal and otter hunters in the Aleutians in the 1700’s, almost as soon as they found it.

The well-known fate of the buffalo tells the tale in a nutshell. The prairies, a vast area stretching hundreds of miles from Missouri to the Rockies, were covered with herds of bison. They roamed and thundered in the millions, but by the late 1800’s there only remained great mounds of their bleaching white skeletons. Skeletons and a great silence, relieved by meadowlarks and the constant wind.

These and many other creatures were hunted into oblivion by the settlers. Hundreds of animals and birds went from incalculable numbers to insignificant ciphers. They became almost legendary beings, like the Carolina Parakeet or eastern Prairie chicken. This often happened within a century or two as the pioneers blasted their way west.

It was a sad tale of the conquest of the American continent, stolen from its original inhabitants, both human and faunal. How many Indian tribes went “extinct” from smallpox and small arms fire? One might say that the destruction of American wildlife was “collateral” damage to the overall conquest of the human inhabitants, the theft of a continent. (Matthiessen mentions but does not focus on the fate of Native American tribes here).

The last few chapters of the book note the birth of the 19th and 20th century conservation movement, which gives some hope for the future. But all told, it was a heart-breaking story, one I had not thought about in any great detail until that time.

Matthiessen’s book, among others by Kastner, Thoreau, Krutch, Thomas and others, had a noticable impact on me, and helped to enlarge my growing sense of man’s place within nature. And his unfortunate, almost unconscious, millennia-long destructive impact on nature.

Later in the decade, the late 80’s, I read At Play in the Fields of the Lord, one of his earlier novels. It is about two Christian missionaries in the Amazon, and their lives among the native peoples and the Amazon itself. However, I didn’t like it, despite its imagery and sensitivity to the life of the rainforest. I thought its message was murky and the ending nebulous. When it came to the end, it seemed to just fade out, not “end.”

Much later I found (given by a friend, actually) The Shorebirds of North America, a large and beautiful book with a text by Matthiessen and paintings by Robert Clem. Its subject is the lives and behaviors of sandpipers, avocets and plovers; really, all things Charadriidae and Scolopacidae. A separate paperback edition, with only Matthiessen’s text, is called The Windbirds.

It has a great store of shorebird biology, written with his usual grace and erudition. The book is a great way to learn bird biology; he mixes fact with the near-fiction of their lives — ocean wanderers, seafood gleaners, mudflat ramblers, gale riders and, finally, if fortunate, inter-hemispheric survivors. Whence comes their navigation systems, we wonder? Where is their longitude? Not from Greenwich, since they were there long before Britain. Whatever their GPS, it is found in their tiny, almost weightless brains. Only an ounce of protoplasm, and contained within, the knowledge of the stars. With their perilous lives, by the rules of biology we can’t speak of “courage,” but we must surely feel it.

Hand-held, deficient in avoirdupois, their feathery scimitar flights skimming over the seas, who can fathom these creatures? Matthiessen can, and did in this book. As I read it, I could picture them, as much as I do when I see my local plover at Pt. Isabel.

The poetry, mystery, the unfathomability of shorebirds, everything biology books carefully hide from us, is in this book. A great medley of shorebird lore, written as a prose poem. Perhaps a modern version, with the same spiritual depths, as The Ancient Mariner. The text flows like a mountain stream, but with the overall gravity of a great bay or sea. My favorite among his books I have read, I think.

Some of my students may remember it because I often read it to them in my classes. Especially when we were studying the poignant, wind-driven world of curlews, plovers and the all-too-frequently-anonymous peeps.

My last acquaintance of his books was The Birds of Paradise: Travels with Cranes. This book, little more than a decade old, is his chronicle of journeys spanning the world searching for those princely birds, the cranes. Anyone who has seen one of these birds, such as our native Sandhill, knows how moving this experience is. When I see them I feel an almost magical quality, difficult to put into words. Discounting mere grace and beauty, it seems an encounter with an alternative form of intelligence.

They have been admired, even worshiped, the world over, for millennia. Again, with this book, we delve deeper into the avian soul and its meaning for humans. There are numerous accounts of travels in Siberia, China and Korea in the search of these cosmic messengers, together with George Archibald, a crane shaman, insofar as we have one. This book is also greatly worth reading for its insights and observations, not only on cranes, but the world they – and we – inhabit. Together we win or lose the earth, equally.

Peter Matthiessen has now, as we all must, passed into eternity. All adults, from frequent and painful experience, know that this is the law of the cosmos, from stars to starfish. Birth and death, in an endless cycle. No emperor, no man, no child, no being, despite his eminence — and all our tears — can be above or change this law.

For conscious beings, the prospect of our demise, and that of our loved ones, is the most difficult truth to accept. Except that we know, somewhere in our hearts, that this truth allows heaven and earth to endlessly create new worlds.

Seen in collective terms, where the individual is part of the universal, birth and death is not a tragedy. For me it is analogous to the insight I was given at Inwood Park years ago.

This at least is my understanding of a life spent observing nature. I am not sure what other understanding can be found in nature. I am also not sure if it was Matthiessen’s understanding. As a Buddhist, perhaps.

Perhaps his epigraph from The Birds of Heaven is a good way to say farewell to Matthiessen, who illuminated the world of nature for so many. It expresses the beauty and fragility of life in a Buddhist sense, from a haiku by the Japanese Zen master Dogon:

The world?
Moonlit water drops
From the crane’s bill.