Rob Bettaso

I have never been a gym-rat but I do enjoy my work-outs at the Outdoor Gymnasium that we more frequently refer to as Nature. In last month’s edition of this magazine, I began telling the story of my recently having spent several hours at Woodland Lake — a local recreational hotspot in the town of Pinetop-Lakeside, Arizona. My goal for that day was simple, elemental, even as it consisted of doing nothing more than walking. However, I did stipulate that my walk would entail 10 laps around the lake, and, since each lap is approximately 1 mile, my goal also included testing the soundness of a recovering sore knee without unduly taxing it. As such, the 10 laps/miles would be separated into three shifts: one starting at dawn, another during midday, and the last ending in the early evening darkness (three laps in the first shift, three in the second, and four in the third). I ended Part one of this story having completed the first shift. I will now tell of the remaining two.

With a sigh, I clicked off the TV, happy that I had spontaneously caught a re-run of one of my favorite films: Treasure of the Sierra Madre, a Huston/Bogart classic. Looking up at the clock, I noted that it was about time for me to head back to Woodland Lake to begin shift two of a project I had dubbed: THE TEN MILE KNEE TEST. I had already eaten a fortifying early lunch, but I decided to follow it by wolfing down a hunk of chocolate brownie. I didn’t want to embark on my second set of laps without plenty of fuel in the tank.

Unlike my early morning hike, the midday hike saw the presence of many more people enjoying time along the lake’s paved, very level trail. This may have been due to the pleasant increase in temperature, though, both the cloud cover and the breeze had increased noticeably since my first set of laps earlier in the day. No sooner did I hit the trail when, suddenly, two kids ran up from behind me and jostled me as they passed me in their haste to get to wherever. Though my recovering knee was feeling strong, I couldn’t suppress the envy I had for their boundless energy. Naturally, it is in our senior years when Oscar Wilde’s quip that “youth is wasted on the young” makes the most sense.

Up ahead, the same kids that had startled me were now worrying a small flotilla of ducks and, before long, the birds lifted from the water, took a quick couple of spiraling laps upward, and then came fast over my head close enough for me to hear the whir of their wingbeats as they made their way to the northwest. I wondered if they might settle at nearby Rainbow Lake, where there is no walking path around the lake and the ducks can drift and feed in greater peace.

I continued on my way and crossed the uncovered bridge and then passed the fishing pier that was being used by a few families dutifully attending to rods, reels, and assorted tackle. The angling public essentially paid my salary for many years, back when I worked as a fisheries biologist for the Arizona Game and Fish Department. Back in those days I worked more with endangered, native fish species than I did the sportfishes that, in past decades, were imported into our state’s waters. Both the native and the introduced species are beautiful and interesting; and I only wish that the latter weren’t virtually wiping-out the former — the nonnatives having quickly established themselves in our lakes and streams. But I suppose that is more our fault, than any of the fishes.

My mind turned from fishes to birds when up above, I heard the drumming of a woodpecker high in a pine. I stopped and used my binoculars to search out the industrious bird, suspecting that it was a Hairy Woodpecker, since that is the species I most frequently observe in this little section of the forest. Before long I found the source of the hammering, chipping, and chiseling; sure enough, it was a Hairy. The Hairy’s presence was not as antagonizing to a nearby Abert’s Squirrel as another common woodpecker species often seems to be: had the Hairy been an Acorn Woodpecker instead, that same squirrel would likely have gone to great lengths to chase off the Acorn Woodpecker, because the two compete for the same vital winter food sources – pine seeds and oak acorns. The pines, mostly Ponderosa Pines, in turn have to compete with the oaks, mostly Gamble’s Oaks. Whether it is pines, oaks, fishes, woodpeckers, squirrels, or humans; life often involves a great deal of competition and there are, all-too-often, winners and losers. And sometimes, losing means extinction.

Snapping out of my suddenly gloomy mood, I picked up my pace and moved quickly through the rest of my first lap. The remaining two laps passed with numerous other observations pertaining to the wonders of Nature but with no interactions between me and my fellow humans; who continued to increase in number not only along the lakeside trail, but also in the playgrounds, ball fields, and along the disc golf-course (all of which are visible to varying degrees from the trail).

It used to be that on the Woodland courts I would see mostly tennis being played but anymore, it’s mostly pickle-ball. Both sports would be too risky for my old, tattered knee joints and I’m absolutely sure that I won’t be taking up any game that involves rackets. Why risk my ability to walk along a gorgeous lake, hike through a serene forest, or scale a lofty peak just so that I can smack a little ball around? Besides, I’ve never been very competitive; but then again, I’ve never really been skillful enough at anything to become competitive.

I finished up my remaining two laps without mishap and my knees felt as sound after a total of six miles as they did when I started. So, it was time to run a few errands and then return home and rest up prior to my end-of-day visit back at Woodland Lake.

After stops at Safeway, the Larson Library, and the Lakeside Post Office, I returned home for a quick nap followed by some reading from a collection of poems by Randall Jarrell. Time passed quickly and soon I was back at Woodland for my final set of laps. I had saved the batch of four laps for the last shift since I had figured it would still be comfortable hiking weather and it would also be fun to watch the various birds settle into their twilight routines.

The first two laps were pleasant and relatively uneventful. By the time I started the third lap dusk was approaching but there were still plenty of people enjoying their visit to the lake. A couple of Great-blue Herons flew in from who-knows-where and landed along different parts of the shoreline to do their evening fishing. I stopped to watch one but he seemed distracted by my presence and never unleashed his dagger-like beak to harpoon a fish. 

As I walked in the direction of the second heron, a quarter mile from the first heron, a person walking toward me noticed my binoculars and correctly assumed that I’m a bird-watcher. He enthusiastically informed me that just a little ways back he saw a tall, wading bird that he thinks is a Great-blue Heron. I feigned excitement, and told him that I would watch for it. Folks who aren’t birders are often times quite thrilled to see a heron, as they seem to think that the dramatic species is something of a rarity. I don’t dispel their erroneous notion, because, while Great-blues are still very common throughout their range, a day might come when they are not; so it is best if folks place as much value on all birds at all times and not be complacent with short-term ebbs and flows in avian populations. This applies to many different kinds of wildlife, really, because so many species have been ebbing since about the time Homo sapiens laid waste to our early contemporaries and competitors: the Neanderthals.

By the time I was into my fourth and last lap, most of the people had left the Park (though, despite the growing darkness, a couple continued to whack a ball around on the pickle-ball court) and the waterbirds were becoming very vocal. The sky was lit-up in the direction I was heading (west) and even though I was snapping photos every few minutes, I would never keep up with the evolving colors and intensifying beauty. I came to the end of my route and was hesitant to head down the hill and back to my truck. But, it was nearly dark and the rocks, logs, and stumps that lay upon the ground in between me and my truck while I headed cross-country would be tricky enough even using my head-lamp, and I certainly didn’t want to aggravate my bum knee after having passed the acid-test that I had concocted to assess my knee’s recovery.

When I returned home and walked in my front door it was with a real sense of accomplishment. Sure, 10 miles pales in comparison to something the legendary Bob Marshall might do (50 miles with 50 pounds on his back and hiking up and down the mountains of western Montana) but it was still pretty good for a 66 year old guy with a trick knee. Moreover, I was satisfied in knowing that when 10 miles eventually becomes beyond my ability to do, Woodland Lake will still be a fantastic place to stroll for a mile or less while watching the birds go about their lives at dawn, dusk, and every moment in between.



Closing Note: for those of you who may have missed Dan Groebner’s update on efforts to purchase the remaining 400+ acres of Woodland Lake Park, please read his November 2023 article in Outdoors Southwest Magazine or online at outdoorssw.com/featuredstories. Dan’s article is an excellent summary for those folks who would like to join the many others who have come before them in the goal of protecting the entire Park for countless generations to come.