The Henry W. Rincker House

 The intersection of Nagle, Milwaukee, and Devon Avenues in Chicago is perhaps best known as the location of Superdawg, the nationally-famous hot dog stand topped by the iconic characters Maury and Flaury.  It’s a busy intersection, notwithstanding the fact that one of the corners represents the southern boundary of a forest preserve.  There’s a lot of history here.  Once upon a time, the forest preserve was a popular golf course called Bunker Hill.  Across the street was a mini-golf course called “De-Mil” (Devon - Milwaukee).  The Milwaukee Avenue streetcar met its northernmost terminus at Imlay, just a stone’s throw north of Devon (the old turnabout is still there and used by CTA buses).  The aforementioned Superdawg has been serving fast foodies since 1948.  

What most people don’t know is that the intersection was ground zero for one of the most notorious controversies in Chicago history, and it had nothing to do with hot dogs, golf, or street cars.  

It all started with a man named Heinrich (Henry) Wilhelm Rincker.  

Rincker was born in Herborn, Germany, in 1818.  His father Philipp owned and operated Rincker Bell Foundry, a business that is still going strong in Germany over two hundred years later.  Rincker descendants claim that as a young man, Henry decided that instead of following in his father’s footsteps, he wanted to work in the church.  This infuriated Philipp to the point that he disowned his son.  Official City of Chicago documents claim Henry enthusiastically modeled after his father and sought a career in bell-making.  Regardless, Henry would leave his parents behind in Germany and head for the United States around 1846.  He had seventy-five cents on him, and by the time he and his young family reached Chicago, he was flat broke.

To make ends meet, Rincker took on a job as a bell maker (NOT a minister) for a small foundry located at 198 West Randolph Street (now 209 West Randolph Street).  He later relocated to the intersection of South Canal Street and West Adams Street (where Union Station presently sits) and started his own foundry, afterward becoming the most prominent and successful bell maker in Chicago.  His bells were featured throughout the city, including atop the Chicago Courthouse before it was destroyed in the great fire of 1871. 

As a result of the cholera outbreak in 1849, Rincker lost his wife and one of his two sons.  At that time, he lived at 172 West Washington Street (now 182 West Washington Street).  A move to the country was imminent.  Newly re-married, he traveled northwest along the Northwest Plank Road nearly eleven miles and purchased land near the North Branch of the Chicago River.  There, in 1851, he built his new home in the German Gothic Revival style.  It was constructed of bricks manufactured from mud collected from the banks of the river, and covered in locally-sourced wooden siding.  Rincker continued to work at his foundry in Chicago, commuting daily from his country estate.  Tragedy struck once again in 1856 when his eight-year-old daughter died.  This death proved to be an insurmountable calamity, because at that time he sold his foundry and his property and moved to Indiana, where he became an ordained minister.  He would spend the rest of his life working in churches in both Indiana and Illinois, eventually purchasing 600 acres in Shelby County (Illinois) and calling his estate Herborn, after the town he was born in (Herborn, Illinois technically still exists on maps but isn’t more than a hamlet).  He would also dabble in bell making in his later years, never losing his touch.

Rincker in his later years as a minister

Henry Rincker died in 1889 at the age of 71 in Herborn.  But the story is far from over.

Rincker's gravestone at Rincker Cemetery near Herborn, Illinois

The house Rincker built by hand near the North Branch of the Chicago River lived on.  The year he died was also the year his former property became part of the latest annexation to the city of Chicago.  Soon, the once bucolic landscape Rincker had cherished as his respite from city life became quite urbanized itself.  The Northwest Plank Road became Milwaukee Avenue.  The 1920s saw tremendous growth throughout Chicagoland and neat rows of sturdy brick bungalows began popping up almost overnight.  By 1960, the old Rincker house was completely immersed in the strange metropolis, positioned awkwardly behind a Walgreens drug store and a grocery store called Lilac Farm.

Modern garages for the homes along North Neenah Avenue can be seen in the background.

In 1977, builder-developer Anthony Roppolo purchased the 5.2 acres upon which the two businesses and the Rincker house sat.  His plan was to demolish all three of the buildings and re-develop the site; he envisioned a more modern shopping plaza as well as a 112-unit condominium called “Landmark Square”.  By this time, both Lilac Farm and the Rincker house were vacant; only the Walgreens showed signs of life (and still does at this intersection - more on that in a bit).  When community leaders caught wind of Roppolo’s plans, they waged a war against the developer.  One longtime local resident claimed that based on collected petitions, 99.75% of the locals opposed the new development plan.  41st Ward Alderman Roman Pucinski got a wrecking permit for the Rincker house revoked and then began working on obtaining landmark status for the old house.  And in 1979, the city of Chicago awarded the 128-year-old Rincker house with the landmark title. The Commission on Chicago Historical and Architectural Landmarks considered the house the last of its kind left in the city, bolstering its significance.  As a condition of landmark status, the ordinance “provides for the preservation, protection, enhancement, rehabilitation, and perpetuation of that landmark”.  

Initially, Roppolo appeared to be receptive to the idea of moving the Rincker house, but two very suspicious fires seemed to indicate that perhaps he was playing dirty.  The second of the two fires occurred early on a Saturday morning in March of 1980.  Firefighters were able to extinguish the blaze, but not before the fire caused significant damage to the upper level of the house (it was noted that firefighters were proud to have saved the ornate gingerbread trim).  Despite the fire damage, acclaimed architect Wilbert Hasbrouck supported restoration of the house, saying, “it is as much a landmark as the Board of Trade building, and it is mandatory that it be saved.”

Damage caused by arson

The climax of this story occurred on the morning of August 25th, 1980 - just five months after the fire that gutted a portion of the Rincker house.  That morning, the everyday sounds of the city were punctuated by the rumbling of a bulldozer and the moaning of an old house collapsing into a pile of rubble.  In a flash, the building was no more.

The demolition of the Rincker house made headlines that week, in Chicago and beyond.  Confused residents were to soon discover that the house’s demolition was an accident - or so that’s what Roppolo claimed.  After failing to have the house demolished through legal avenues, he reached out to Lela Cirrincione of Cirro Wrecking Company.  Through a lethal combination of deception, confusion, and a slapdash municipal administration, the Rincker house was swiftly merely a footnote in the annals of Chicago history (the details and subsequent court filings can be read here).

Once the dust settled, the site’s redevelopment ensued.  All of the buildings were demolished.  Gone is Lilac Farm, and replacing it is a large Shop & Save.  Walgreens remained a presence after the original building was demolished; it, along with one or two other businesses, is arranged side by side so as to provide as much parking as possible.  As time moves on, fewer people can recall the old Rincker house.  A lonely sign, erected by the Commission on Chicago Landmarks, is the only memorial.  If there is any silver living to the destruction of the Rincker house, the sign says it best: 

“After the house was demolished without the approval of the Commission on Chicago Landmarks, the Commission and the community, led by Alderman Roman Pucinski, brought a lawsuit against the owner (Roppolo) which resulted in a settlement for the City, to be used for the preservation of other designated landmarks.”

Herpetological Patronyms of the Chicago Region

 Among the Chicago region’s roughly fifty species of amphibians and reptiles are a handful whose common names enshrine individuals that in one way or another were inspirational to taxonomists.  Naming a species as though it belongs to someone was popular during the 19th century and is generally viewed today as an antiquated practice.  In fact, many even see it as controversial for various reasons and there has been some dialogue related to amending some of these names.

Most people, including many naturalists and herpetological aficionados, aren’t aware of who these people were.  With strong interests in both natural history and cultural history, I think it’s important to know who these patronyms are honoring.

Fowler's toad (Anaxyrus fowleri). Described in 1882 by Mary Hewes Hinckley based on specimens from Massachusetts. The Fowler's toad is named in honor of Samuel Fowler (1799-1844), a New Jersey physician-turned-politician who dabbled in minerals. He is also the namesake of the mineral fowlerite.

Photo: Tristan Schramer

Samuel Fowler

Fowler's gravesite (North Hardyston Cemetery in Hamburg, New Jersey)

Cope's grey treefrog (Hyla chrysoscelis). Described in 1880 by Edward Drinker Cope (1840-1897). The type specimen originated in Texas. The Cope's grey treefrog is identical to the eastern grey treefrog (Hyla versicolor) in all aspects except its call and chromosome count (versicolor was described in 1825 by John Eatton Le Conte).

Cope led a storied life. He began life as a child prodigy, later studying herpetology in addition to general zoology and comparative anatomy. He was most famous during his lifetime as a skilled paleontologist. He published thousands of papers in his life and inspired countless budding scientists. In 1913, the scientific journal Copeia was named in Cope's honor and it operated with that name for over a century before the name was changed to Ichthyology & Herpetology in 2020. The change was spurred by the increased awareness of Cope's views on race and sex; he held Lamarckian beliefs and essentially favored the "Indo-European race" over the two other "subspecies", which were the Negroes and the Mongolians. His comments toward blacks were brash even for his time and I won't post them here, but it's all out there in the ether and should be found with little effort. Several books about Cope's life have been published.

One last thing - after Cope died, his body was split up and donated to science. His skull resides in the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, from where it was loaned to photographer Louie Psihoyos in 1993. Psihoyos traveled extensively with the skull, photographing it while adventuring throughout the country for his book "Hunting Dinosaurs". At one point, the skull was presented to prominent paleontologist Robert Bakker. Bakker proceeded to calculate the area of Cope's brain by pouring dried pasta into the skull.

Photo: Matthew Ignoffo

Edward Drinker Cope

Robert Bakker filling Cope's brain cavity with acini di pepe pasta

Blanchard's cricket frog (Acris blanchardi). Described in 1947 as "Acris gryllus blanchardi" by Francis Harper (1886-1972). The type specimen was collected in Missouri in 1938 by Charles E. Mohr. Blanchard's cricket frog was named in honor of Frank Nelson Blanchard (1888-1937), noted Michigan herpetologist.

Blanchard is best known for his tenure at the University of Michigan, where he taught for many years. He published "A Key to the Snakes of the United States, Canada, and Lower California" in 1924 and his development of field methods was instrumental for future generations.  His wife Frjeda was the first scientist to document Mendelian inheritance in reptiles (how traits are passed down from parents to offspring).

I'm super privileged to own an original copy of Baird & Gerard's Catalogue of North American Reptiles in the Museum of the Smithsonian Institution (Part I - Serpents) from 1853, previously owned by Blanchard (the book eventually made its way to herpetologist Joe Mitchell, from whose wife I purchased it).

Photo: Joe Cavataio

Frank N Blanchard

Graham's crayfish snake (Regina grahamii).  Described in 1853 by Spencer Fullerton Baird and Charles Girard; the type locality was from Texas.  Graham's crayfish snake was named in honor of Col. James Duncan Graham (1799-1865), a prominent early topographer from Virginia.

Graham is known for his participation in exploring the Louisiana Purchase early in his life, serving in the Second Seminole War, and assuming leadership roles in a number of topography studies throughout the United States, including along the US-Canada border.  Two other species of reptile are named for him - one anole and one patchnose snake.

Photo: Nathan Kutok

James Duncan Graham

Graham's gravesite (Congressional Cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts)

Dekay's brownsnake (Storeria dekayi).  First described in 1836 by John Edwards Holbrook (and again a second time by Holbrook following his disapproval with his original edition of North American Herpetology, or, A Description of the Reptiles Inhabiting the United States - the second edition was published in 1842).  The type locality is probably Massachusetts, though Holbrook utilized specimens from several states in describing the species.  Dekay's brownsnake was named for James Ellsworth De Kay (1792-1851), an American zoologist.

De Kay's claim to fame was his career in natural history after abandoning his medical studies during the 1830s.  He focused much of his time studying the animals of New York, culminating with the release of Zoology of New York, or the New-York Fauna between 1842 and 1844.  These publications contained hand-colored lithographs by esteemed artist John William Hill.  De Kay collected the first specimen in the state of what would eventually become Storeria dekayi on Long Island.

While I'm focusing on patronymic common names and not scientific names, it's interesting to note that Storeria dekayi is the only North American snake whose genus and species names are honorifics.  Storeria honors David Humphreys Storer (1804-1891), American physician and naturalist.  Should we explore further and consider the subspecies native to the Chicago region, we find that in Storeria dekayi wrightorum, the subspecific epithet honors both Albert Hazen (1879-1970) and his wife Anna Allen (1882-1964) Wright, American herpetologists.  Trinomial patronyms are exceedingly rare and I'm not aware of any others.

Photo: Joe Cavataio

James Ellsworth De Kay

Dekay's gravesite (Saint George's Church Cemetery in Hempstead, New York)

Butler's gartersnake (Thamnophis butleri).  Described in 1889 by Edward Drinker Cope based on the holotype provided by Amos William Butler (1860-1937), an American ornithologist.

Butler was an Indiana treasure.  Born and raised in southeastern Indiana, he attended school in the state and later founded the Brookeville (Indiana) Society of Natural History and the Indiana Academy of Science.  He published "Birds of Indiana" in 1897, earning him the moniker "father of Indiana ornithology".  Post retirement, he shifted his research focus to the Native Americans of Indiana.

*The Butler's gartersnake's range probably does not include Illinois, but they are found in and around some of the southeasternmost counties in Wisconsin, which the Chicago Wilderness Alliance considers to be part of the Chicago region.

Photo: Joe Cavataio

Amos William Butler

Butler's gravesite (Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis, Indiana)

Kirtland's snake (Clonophis kirtlandii).  Officially described in 1856 by Robert Kennicott, it was actually Spencer Fullerton Baird who did the heavy lifting.  Kennicott did collect the type specimen near his home in what is today Glenview.  Kirtland's snake is named in honor of Jared Potter Kirtland (1793-1877), one of several mentors Kennicott communicated with regularly.

Kirtland, like many of the nineteenth century natural historians, studied and practiced medicine first and foremost.  He was the very first graduate of the Yale School of Medicine in 1813, after which he was a physician for most of his life.  He was also active in politics, serving as a probate judge and a member of the Ohio House of Representatives.  He advocated for access to clean water for all citizens in a time when waterborne pathogens wreaked havoc on human health, and as a staunch abolitionist he sought methods of assisting escaped slaves within his town.  His interests in natural history were broad, and he found joy in studying everything from snakes to mussels.  His personal gardens are said to have been legendary; scientists and celebrities visited from all around to see his many varieties of fruit trees.

Photo: Tristan Schramer

Jared Potter Kirtland

Kirtland's gravesite (Lakeview Cemetery in Cleveland, Ohio)

Blanding's turtle (Emydoidea blandingii).  Described by John Edwards Holbrook in 1838 (and again a second time by Holbrook following his disapproval with his original edition of North American Herpetology, or, A Description of the Reptiles Inhabiting the United States - the second edition was published in 1842).  The type locality likely originated in the Chicago region as the notes state it was found in the Fox River in Illinois.  The Blanding's turtle is named after William Blanding (1773-1857), a physician and naturalist from Massachusetts.  There is a growing movement to change the common name of the Blanding's turtle, possibly in part because of the way "Blanding" evokes blandness.  Suggested alternative names include "yellow-chinned turtle" and even "smiling turtle".  Personally, I side with historic tradition on this topic, and I hope future generations can learn about historical figures through taxonomy the way I've enjoyed doing so for years.

To close this entry, I thought it might be best to summarize Blanding's life by transcribing his headstone's inscription:

"To the memory of William Blanding, M.D., born at Rehoboth, Mass. 7th Feb 1773, died at same place 12th Oct 1857.  He devoted the rigor of his mind and body to healing the diseases and promoting the happiness of his fellow men.  Science claimed much of his attention in maturer years.  He was a member of the Academy of Sciences at Philadelphia and contributed largely to its endowment and collection.  His protracted age, and much suffering were alleviated by the great Physician of Souls."

Photo: Tristan Schramer

William Blanding

Blanding's gravesite (Village Cemetery in Rehoboth, Massachusetts)

The Berry Tavern

 In June of 1827, Fortunatus Berry and his family moved from Springfield, Illinois to Galena, and then shortly afterward a short distance away to a small settlement then known as Gratiot’s Grove (then in Illinois but today in Wisconsin).  During this time, the region was experiencing a “lead rush”, and miners flocked to the area.  Berry built a log roadhouse in 1829, and when the Galena-to-Chicago stage line extended its service to Gratiot’s Grove in 1840, he constructed a larger tavern to attract travelers.  This tavern boasted seven guest rooms, bar and dining rooms, dance hall, and livery stable. The tavern would remain a focal point for many years, serving as not only a rest stop but at times a school, a doctor’s office, a post office, a polling place, and a church.  Locals met here to plan their defensive strategies during the Black Hawk War. The tavern eventually changed hands, and by 1883 the structure was converted into a farmhouse.  It remained a farmhouse for over 130 years.

The tavern is infamous for being the site of several historic occurrences.  In 1842, a murder took place here, the result of jealousy combined with alcohol.  In July of 1854, cholera claimed the lives of nine family members and guests at the tavern as well as eight others who had very recently stayed there, including four stage drivers.  Not even the local casket maker survived; with his death, the bodies were taken to the root cellar and stacked until they could be prepared for a proper burial, which was done on-site.

Through the years, all of the associated barns and outbuildings have been demolished.  A historic homestead directly across the street was completely leveled just a few years ago.  The one factor that probably led to the preservation of the old tavern is a stone marker placed at the site in 1914 by the Daughters of the American Revolution of Shullsburg, which states, “The stone marks the old Chicago stageroad, and the tavern built by Fortunatus Berry in 1829”.  

In 2013, three impassioned individuals acquired the property and set up a non-profit called Friends of Berry Tavern.  Their goal is to restore the old tavern and the root cellar back to their original conditions and promote the site as a public space.  One of those individuals is Cory Ritterbusch, an acquaintance of mine for some years.  Cory plans yearly events at the old tavern that include personal tours, folk music, food, drinks, and old-fashioned outdoor games.  This year, I finally managed to attend the festivities with Aimee and Lumen and it was fantastic.

Folk band playing at the old tavern.

This is where the kitchen led to the bar area.

A bedroom upstairs.

Original hand-hewn oak beams in the basement - with the bark still attached!

The infamous root cellar (with new roof).

Deep in the rear lower level of the root cellar.  

A wayward gravestone in the tavern basement.

                                                       

The gravesite of Elizabeth the wife and Elizabeth the daughter, victims of the cholera outbreak of 1854.

On the road, we helped this painted turtle off of the road.

We stopped at a beautiful state park on the way home and I was pleased to find several pickerel frogs along a cold, clean, fast-flowing stream.

Slightly Off-Topic: Roger & the Burmese Eggs

 Among the multitude of memories that have carved out an existence in the back folds of my brain is that of my experience with Burmese python eggs.  But in order for the reader to understand that part of the story, first I have to go back and explain how it all began.

During my years as a reptile department manager at a local pet store, I met countless people that I might refer to simply as “characters”.  I think pet stores have (or had) a special way of attracting society’s idiosyncrasies.  I’d seen them all.  Leather-clad motorcyclists, metalheads, and adults that cosplayed as Japanese cartoon characters.  But some of these customers would never stand out in a crowd.  Among these, was a man named Roger.

I met Roger rather unceremoniously sometime around 2004.  He was an imposing man, in his mid fifties and standing at least a full six inches taller than me.  I could tell that he visited the store after he got off of work because he was always well-dressed - button-down shirt tucked into his slacks, and with a slight Santa belly.  He would later tell me that he was a Marine Corps veteran and had spent time serving in Vietnam.  His neat composure, therefore, was no surprise.

Like many customers, he started out as a loiterer.  He would frequently stop in and just look at all of our reptiles and amphibians.  It didn’t take long before Roger went from being a loiterer to a talker.  And talk he did.  Roger became friendly with all of the employees at the store with the exception of Tony, the owner, and that’s just because Tony was all business and wasn’t ever a chatter during business hours unless you had money to spend (and even then, not always).  In fact, Roger spent so much time hanging around and talking that Tony would begin to work at his nervous pace, indicating to the others that maybe we should get to work and stop amusing this guy.  

Before long, Roger began to seriously consider having a snake as a pet.  He saw me as an expert on the topic (he referred to me as the "guru") and picked my brain quite a bit. He was an active listener and an engaged speaker.  However, much to Tony’s dismay, Roger never purchased a snake from the store, but that was only because he wanted to skip the entry-level species and jump into the giant pythons.  And we rarely carried those.  Against my recommendations, Roger obtained a young Burmese python as his first snake.  He bought it from the Chicago Reptile House down in Orland Park, in part because he liked and respected the owner, who also was a Marine veteran.  I congratulated him, but it was clear to me that he may have been over his head.

Roger loved that snake, and soon afterward he purchased another. And another.  And soon he had acquired a large collection of Burmese pythons and other large snakes.  By this time, he knew that he had to pay his dues for visiting so often so he began to buy things like heat lamps and food for his snakes.  He really loved to talk snakes with me, and oftentimes snake talk would segue into other topics.  At one point he suggested that I date his daughter who he said was “about (my) age”.  It took me telling him that I was already spoken for two or three times before he could be convinced that his idea wasn’t going to work.  Well then!

Just as I predicted, Roger soon realized that his eyes were bigger than his bank account, and he needed to unload some snakes.  He first offered me a coastal carpet python.  I have no idea when or where he acquired this snake, but I did know that this was THE longest carpet python I had ever laid my eyes upon.  Long, but thin.  I kept the snake for a short time and couldn’t get it to accept food, so I gave it to a friend who specialized in Australian pythons.  Next up, an adult yellow anaconda with a typical yellow anaconda attitude.  Each time I saw Roger walking across the parking lot toward the store I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath.  What else was it going to be?

Then one evening, Roger popped into the store, sweating, rambling on about how one of his big Burmese pythons had wrapped around a towel in its cage and wasn’t letting go.  I asked why there was a towel in the cage.  Roger flashed an unconvincing shrug of his shoulders and asked, “Do you think you could come over and get the towel out of the cage?”

“Tonight?”

“If you can, I’d really appreciate it, Joe.”

So there I was, at 10:00 at night, entering Roger’s apartment on the northwest side of Chicago.  It was a small, dark, bachelor-style apartment, surprisingly unkempt.  Roger led me to the snake room.  There, he kept large pythons in six-foot long Vision cages.  The cages were filthy and the water bowls were parched.  Clearly, he was struggling to properly maintain these animals (which is exactly why I was trying to sell him the idea of owning a corn snake or sand boa in the first place).  Roger pointed out a large green Burmese python in the lowest cage in the stack.  “See?  It’s wrapped up in the towel and I can’t get it out”.

I cringed.  It wasn’t a towel, it was a large clutch of eggs.  What was Roger trying to pull?

“Roger, those are eggs.”

Roger once again improvised a look of surprise.  “Ohh, well, what am I supposed to do with those?  Will you take them?”

Maybe it was the pungent aroma of urates wafting out of the cage getting to me, but I did agree to take the eggs.  Removing a clutch of eggs from a large, protective mother python in a very tight space is not for the faint of heart, but I got them all out in short order and put them in the only thing we could find - a garbage bag.  I drove home that night all the while attempting to process what the hell just happened.

When I got home, all of the eggs were placed into a big Rubbermaid container in a warm area, and that’s where they stayed.  Over the next few visits to the store, Roger seemed to have a change of heart.  “If those eggs hatch, I’ll let you pick a couple if you want.”  Ha!  Roger would never know what really happened to those eggs.

One day I looked inside the bin, and saw that some of the eggs were pipping (beginning to hatch).  Frankly, I was surprised, after everything they had been through.  About two days later, every single egg in that clutch - all 57 of them - hatched.  And now I was faced with the big question - what am I going to do with these?  Fortunately, I had an acquaintance at the time willing to take the whole litter.  I didn’t think about it at the time, but, looking back, I hope they all found good homes.

As for Roger?  Well, he continued to stop in the store, but instead of clearing out all of our basking bulbs, he’d buy a few.  Then it became clear that he was burning out, and some developing health issues forced him to rehome all of his snakes.  He seemed unhappy about it.  His mental health appeared to decline, and one day he walked out, never to be seen again.  I felt bad, because he always meant well. 

While preparing to write this, I discovered that Roger passed away in 2022.  Later photos indicated that he was in good spirits, which made me happy.  He was referred to as an animal lover in his obituary, and I for one cannot deny that.

Kirtland's Quest: Helene & Deep Lonliness

 I travel quite frequently.  Sometimes I travel with my wife and daughter, sometimes I travel with friends, and sometimes I travel alone.  There are reasons why I do this that probably don’t need explanation, yet some people question my motive when traveling alone.  Don’t I get bored?  Lonely?  Isn’t that weird?

My short answer is almost always “no”.  I love the comfort of solitude.  Sometimes, I need it.  There are times when I don’t really want to talk, or be talked to.  I don’t want anyone to try to sell me anything.  I don’t want to get caught up in an algorithm.  I need to shake the heavy burden of a society obsessed with smarmy political discourse, manufactured fear and divisiveness, and breaking updates.  In these situations, nature is almost invariably my sanctuary.  Nature doesn’t care about society’s problems, it carries on more or less the way it has for millions of years. 

So I was slightly taken aback when, on a recent trip to Indianapolis, I felt lonely.  I felt like I was missing out on something greater than what I was experiencing.  I was living through Hurricane Helene at her northernmost reach, and then the dreary, misty day that followed.  Oddly, I did not attend the first full day of ColubridFest - the reason for my travels - because I didn’t feel like sitting through a symposium.  This event would have put me in contact with other like-minded folks, but I knew almost no one there and wasn’t feeling particularly gregarious.  

Instead, I hiked a lot, begging for nature’s acceptance.  It was hard to tell if she was willing to do that.  I spent a lot of time looking for the always elusive Kirtland’s snake.  A patch of habitat supporting this species remains near the city.  But the cool conditions, and a lack of suitable cover, prevented me from finding any of the precious natricines.  I did find a couple of Jefferson’s salamanders as well as a smattering of young-of-year green and cricket frogs.

I decided early on that I was going to just hike all day.  So after finding a few amphibians, I just pushed forward, the looming forest my only company.    

Several hours in, I sat and rested at the base of a large bur oak tree overlooking a tall and steep riverbank.  The ground was covered with recently-fallen acorns.  There wasn’t a soul around.  I sat quietly, imagining a lone indigenous castaway in the same setting, in a time forgotten.

Back on my feet, I suppressed the pain in my lower back (a nagging fractured vertebrae from a year ago) as I climbed over fresh, leafy downed trees.  The hurricane didn’t lift without leaving a few parting gifts.  At my age and in my condition, navigating the crown of a large, wet tree on its side presents quite a challenge.  I put a lot of faith into some skinny branches and thankfully I made it through without further complications (read: I still got it).

For miles I hiked, unsure exactly what it was I sought.  Exercise, at the very least.  Hours passed, but the sky remained unchanged.  A fine mist would occasionally blow through, which pleased the slugs but complicated my trek as it would for anyone that wears glasses.  At one point, the forest gave way to a large reservoir, and the path traced the edge for a distance.  This is where I saw a few other hikers.  Pairs or small groups of people, chatting on about the everyday trivial stuff.  And wishing “that sun would just come out!”.

At the end of the day, I returned to my car, drove back to the hotel, and crashed.  The following morning, I drove to ColubridFest for its final day.  It was fun, but my heart was elsewhere.  

I look back fondly on my past years, and I look forward to what the future brings.  But right now, I’m living the best years of my life.  I am privileged to say this, and I’m keenly aware that the reason for this is my family.  Without them, life would be one long, gray existence.  

At home, when I opened my front door, my eight year old daughter ran and threw her little arms around my neck.  And just then, the sun came out.