"Here is where the journey is," philosophized Doug Wood when I finally picked the book back up. "…why do I go through it? Because no one else can go through it for me." It's true. And I love going through the challenges of a canoe trip. Planning, paddling, portaging, wayfinding, camping, and even cleaning up once I'm back home all carry a satisfying amount of effort and reward. Plus, there are the sunsets.

I wonder, how do geese feel about their endless modes of misery?

The crystal clear waters splashed against the pebbled shore as we gathered up our gear. Conifers of every size crowded the distant banks, beckoning us into the wilderness. Our group was full of excited chatter as we piled gear onto picnic tables near the water, our anticipation for the adventure ahead growing with every breath. But our excitement wasn't the only thing growing. With each strong gust of wind, my nerves also began to grow. The winds were already high and growing stronger with every hour. We needed to get on the water now if we were going to make it to our campsite. Otherwise, the winds could become too strong to paddle in, and we would be locked out of the Boundary Waters by mother nature.

The mini-bear darted close, then scurried off, posing motionless for brief moments to survey the area for danger. From the top of a lichen-covered rock, they sounded their characteristic clucking alarm call, tail hiccupping with each repetition. Even though they sniffed hard at my little baggie of trail mix, I made sure the chipmunk never got a single peanut. They seemed to be finding their own food just fine anyway. Precariously positioned on flexible stems, a ruffed grouse stretched her neck to rip at scarlet rose hips like a cat playing with a Christmas tree. Deb and I chatted in the setting sun. When we fell into a contented silence, a family of beavers on the far side of the lake took up the thread of conversation with their adorable grunts.

The chipmunks, grouse, and beavers have the right idea, I think. Fall is the perfect season for enjoying good food and fellowship whether you're at a campsite with friends, in a lodge made of sticks, or at your community's harvest dinner.

My heart raced as I reached my hand into the bag. What if I broke them? What if I let them escape? Then my fingers found a familiar grip, and before I knew it, I was holding this bird just like I had the warbler. Now that I was the bander and not just the releaser, the vibration of their heart felt different. Their safety was in my hands. My own heart slowed, and I took a steadying breath.

Maneuvering the veery so that I could grip their right leg in my left thumb and forefinger, I slipped the open band over their leg. Now they were ready to contribute to science!

"This bird will be forever connected to you," Jim reminded me after we'd sent the veery flying back into the brush. My heart fluttered happily

I barely caught the flash of brown out of the corner of my eye, but Kevin had a clear view. He followed the flight path of the bird until they landed on the far side of a small channel lined with arching sedges. Despite the bird's pinstriped camouflage blending seamlessly with the tall grass, and having never before seen one in the wild, his identification came instantly: American bittern!

Bitterns hunt alone, mostly at dawn and dusk, and are said to be easier to hear than to see. Their deep booming, gulping calls travel far across marshes, but the male "thunder-pumpers" are vocal only during their spring mating season, and so it's not even that easy to hear them. Add to that bitterns' decline in parallel with the decline of their wetland homes, and we'd resigned ourselves to admiring their mystery instead of enjoying an encounter.

From a distance, the forests of July look like a lush tapestry of green. But when you step into the loosely woven strands and take a closer look, the leaves are etched with feeding trails, dissected by holes of all shapes and sizes, and covered with the debris of life. It's a principle of ecology, of course, that every Being is food for someone else.

Feeding styles vary. Some invertebrates are "leaf folders," while others are "leaf rollers" or "leaf tiers." All of these insects and spiders use silk that contracts as it dries to shape leaves into shelters.

I set out to find examples of all of the leaf architects.

The Wild Wonders Summer Camp kids chattered away as they dug into their lunches, oblivious to the yellow-bellied sapsucker who skirted up and down the bark of the tree just a few feet away, in search of their own lunch. I watched as the sapsucker took flight, their speckled wings flapping quickly through the trees, until they landed on the bark of another tree and disappeared! It took me a second to realize that they had entered into a small hole hidden in the bark of the tree. Had I not watched them enter, I never would have noticed the hole high up in the bark, or learned of the nest inside. But I could not focus on the yellow-bellied sapsucker nest for long. My campers had finished lunch and were getting restless.

Katherine Woolley is about to start her senior year as an environmental education major at Western Colorado University. When Katherine arrived for her second round as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she announced that she hit a certain age and suddenly became a birder! This week she shares a neat ornithological observation.

"'Peep peep peep peeeep PEEP PEEEEEP peep peep' I rolled over in my bed and groaned. Spring had come early to Colorado's Gunnison Valley where I attend university. A flash of yellow on my window bird feeder caught my attention. There perched a male house finch sporting banana-colored belly feathers where the red normally is."