Catch of the Day: Lupine, Elk, and Condor

What is a Glorian? This is the question I have been holding and paying attention to for the last six years. It is not so much something to be defined, as that which is calling to be noticed, the joy of being met when our focused attention merges with another. These are not distant deities, but the holy ordinary, often-overlooked presences — animal, plant, memory, moment — that reveal our shared vulnerability and interconnectedness with the natural world. A Glorian can be an ant ferrying a blossom to its queen and as commonplace and startling as a night sky of stars. It is that moment when time stops and we are present to something so much larger than ourselves.
– Terry Tempest Williams

Catch of the Day: Lupine, Elk, and Condor

I went in search of spring wildflowers—and found so much more.

Lupine. Word had spread that the hills along Bald Hill Road in Humboldt County were alive with lupine blooms. The road winds upward through the coastal Klamath Mountains, rising from shadowed forests to open ridge-top meadows. There, the bright greens of a rain-soaked spring mingled with the bluish-purple spires of lupine. A faint sweetness drifted on the breeze. The abundance of it—the color, the scent, the stunning beauty—nourished me, and especially my heart, made heavy by the ugly news of the world.

Elk. Walking back to my car, I noticed a small herd of elk grazing and resting among the oaks and lupine. They were alert, keeping a cautious eye on me even from a distance. These appeared to be bulls, loosely banded together after shedding last year’s bony crown of antlers. From their foreheads, new antlers nubs were just beginning to emerge. Their winter coats hung in patches, giving way to the sleeker fur of the coming season.

Condor. I looked up to see the immense wingspan of a California condor, nearly ten feet across, gliding on invisible currents. This region has become a refuge for these birds, returned at last to this ancestral land and sky. I was lucky enough to watch one circle slowly above me, effortless and ancient. I only managed a rather terrible photograph—I didn’t have my long lens—but it was enough to identify the bird as “A8.” Most condors are tagged for monitoring; A8 is a male hatched at the Oregon Zoo and released here in October 2024 by the Yurok Tribe and the National Park Service. He is one of a small but growing population now reclaiming the skies of Humboldt and Del Norte Counties. For thousands of years, condors soared above these hills before vanishing because of pesticides and lead poisoning. To see one here again feels like a sacred act of restoration.

Black-tailed deer. On my way out, I stopped to watch a doe feeding calmly along the roadside. She was close enough that I could study her face in detail. What struck me most was her eye and the long, horizontal line of her pupil, so unlike our own. This shape, shared by many prey animals, offers a panoramic view of the landscape, allowing them to detect movement even while grazing. It gathers the horizon into a single glance, reduces glare, and keeps the world wide open around them. A different way of seeing—one shaped by the need to remain aware, to stay alive.

I came for flowers, and left with having touched something larger: a hillside in bloom, lives in transition, a bird returned from the edge of extinction, and the intelligence of wild perception. The day unfolded like a small blessing.

P.S. More photos from Baja coming soon.

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