Clear skies, 70°, and no sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower puts one’s butt in a patio chair in the back yard, dogs at your feet, a donned hat to shade the eyes (or protect the bald noggin), and you’ve blown the dust off a fine book worthy of an unseasonably warm January day read. Not too many books out there that fits that bill – maybe only one other…

I chose an old college-days paperback purchase: “Sand County Almanac’. I’m not for-sure, but I’ve read this book at least twice before. Each time I discover more insight and literary excellence from the author, Aldo Leopold.

The combination of this read, the weather, and my backyard nature is just too much irony. I welcomed three rather annoyingly placed bug bites. The one on the cheeky-monkey welled up to nearly tennis ball size (giving me a 3rd cheeky monkey and an easy-to-reach place to scratch); the other two are on the waist and the bottom of my right foot. All the while, I was only trying to make the best out of urban nature enjoyment as Aldo would want me to do.

More irony had me reading with recycled “eco-reader”glasses from a modern plastic chair with my iPhone-iPod playing nature-sounds concentration music through wireless headphones that were quickly losing their charge. But I had my camera at the ready for capturing bugs, dogs, and logs. I hope Aldo thinks nothing less of me for my blending of the out-of-doors with a few modern conveniences. I think I’m OK still….

Sand County Almanac excerpt:

“Thinking like a Mountain

…Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.

Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land….

My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error; it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.

In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy: how to aim a downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable side-rocks.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch the fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes–something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunter’s paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such view.”

Funny how sometimes when you look up from a story, that same story is playing out in front of you. Find a book…go outside. It’s suppose to snow Monday.