FIELD NOTES Newsletter by Meghan J. Ward

Dear Readers, It’s become a ritual to sit on my back deck in the morning, when the weather allows, and take a few minutes of quiet before I dive into the day. I love the feeling of the sun on my face, and knowing it’s helpful to my circadian rhythm.

As we crest the pass, my daughter’s body visibly lightens and a bounce returns to her step. The hardest work of the day is over. She shifts her overnight pack on her hips and starts downhill toward Howard Douglas Lake, right on the heels of her big sister. We’re on the final stretch of our approach on a quick backcountry getaway as a family.

Letters Home usually go only to my paid subscribers, but I want to give you a window into these monthly notes. They read like a letter inspired by what I’m learning in life — a gift in return for those who invest in my work. If you enjoy my work, on or off Substack, consider a subscription or buy me a coffee on Ko-Fi. Dear Readers, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Dang. I heard this recently, and at first I gave it a mental eye roll until I realized how true it is.

It was a Wednesday night when the baby robins nesting under our back deck fledged. At dinnertime, they were still in their twiggy abode. I noticed how they stood on top of one another, far too big now for their first home. Hours later, I checked once more before turning in for the night, and drew in a breath when I saw the nest was empty. What a gift it had been to discover the turquoise eggs, to see the five tiny hatchlings, and watch as they grew in size, becoming more bird-like each day.

Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. A whole other season could have gone by, and we might have missed it. It was an ordinary Saturday when I ventured under my deck to install a lock box for the key to our shed. I scanned the support posts to find a good spot, marked the screw holes with a pencil and was about to start drilling when something flitted in my peripheral vision.

"Water lapping. Wind rustling. And the next thing we heard was the raw, reedy cry of an elk bugling. The higher tones carried upriver, and I sat up straight, my eyes scanning the banks." Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. Slowly, serenely, we paddled up the ribbon of turquoise blue.

We’ve slid into May and, apparently, April escaped me like sand through my fingers. Alas, I did not get my Letters Home to you last month. But I’m here now, just two days into this new month, when I’m greeted by morning birdsong, a snow-free forest floor, and the hope of spring seeping into my pores. April took my family over 8,000 kilometre…

About 25 minutes north of Paris lies Senlis, a beautifully preserved medieval town once home to early French monarchs. Here, narrow cobblestone streets wind past centuries-old limestone buildings — boulangeries, fromageries, brasseries, and bistros. Wisteria climbs walls and door frames painted yellow, crimson, and every shade of blue.

Dear Readers, In Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, author Robert Macfarlane describes the treacherous Broomway trail — a 600-year-old path that runs for 6 miles off the coast of Essex, England. Being an offshore trail, safe passage can only be found at low tide. Even then, in misty weather, a weary traveller might lose sight of shore and start to walk in the wrong direction. A walk out to sea almost certainly means death.

Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. We’re nearing the shoulder season here in the Rockies — a time of year when every day gets a wild card for weather. One might be clipping into bindings for spring skiing in T-shirts or lacing up hiking boots for an early-season hike. One day, the streets run with runoff from melting snow; the next, there’s a blizzard and the feeling that true Spring is a long way off.