Kent TreptowThe moon began to rise as...

Kent Treptow

The moon began to rise as the mist was rolling in, dooming another

night of photography. A double blow, I thought, for the added light

and reduced visibility would surely ruin the delicate time exposures

I was trying to shoot. Still, I decided to linger a while longer,

savoring the stillness of deep night on Upper Newport Bay.

Taking a seat beneath my subject, an ancient agave cactus

sprouting from the hillside like an enormous artichoke, I caught the

scent of sage and mustard drifting in on swirling specters of mist

that filled my tiny ravine and condensed into a thick, dampening fog.

Drops of dew formed on the great, sheathing leaves of the agave,

drawing broken diagonals across its surface as they fell to earth. An

unseen creature rustled in the underbrush. Beyond that, the only

sound was the soft gurgle of the tide rising through the marsh,

punctuated every few seconds by the slap of a fish breaching on the

bay. It was so silent, so peaceful. Almost as if ...

At that moment, a shrill cry erupted on the bluff overhead.

Another echoed from the opposite bank, and still another directly in

front of me. I held my breath and stared into the darkness. Then,

very slowly, they appeared. One, two, three -- no, four sets of eyes

in the brush, glowing red with the intermittent beams of cars

sweeping around Irvine Avenue. Coyotes! A whole pack, roaming the

edge of the bluff.

How amazing, I thought, to find such large, complex animals still

wild in this urban place. But that is the miracle of the Back Bay: It

endures as a wilderness despite being encircled by human development.

As if to affirm the point, the pack carried on unconcerned, yelping

and yipping into the night in a defiant, disjointed chorus, a prairie

song in the heart of the city.

Humans have been hearing that song as far back as 10,000 years,

when indigenous people camped on the bay’s bluffs and fished its

waters.

Today, the bay’s 892 acres are shared, at various times, by nearly

200 species of birds, 78 species of fish and almost a million yearly

human visitors. Six species of endangered birds live here, including

one -- the light-footed clapper rail -- that successfully breeds no

where else on earth.

Small mammals and reptiles roam the hillsides. In the winter, as

many as 30,000 shorebirds will wander the mudflats. And though it is

degraded by accumulations of trash, waterborne pollutants and

sedimentation that threatens to turn it into a giant meadow, it

remains a wild place. This is a place full of surprises and small

natural wonders for anyone willing to take the time and effort to

look.