I always felt a bit bad for the old giant. He was minding his own business when Jack showed up and proceeded to do a little breaking and entering in the castle. Naturally enough, the giant wanted to grind up Jack and make bread out of his bones. It’s the sort of thing giants are expected to do, and he came up with the highly memorable: “Fee, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman!”—something I heard endlessly during childhood visits to the States from dear old London. So, Jack goes on to carry out repeated black ops missions up the beanstalk, stealing first the giant’s bag of gold coins, then his favorite hen that could lay golden eggs, and finally a magic harp (why the giant had all this swag is not made clear, and how would a giant play a magic harp anyway? The harp was regular person-sized). In the end, not feeling that he’s done enough damage, Jack kills the giant, and goes off to marry the daughter of some boring old count, and live happily ever after as a wealthy man. What a thieving wretch he was! Who took care of the giant’s wife after Jack did in her sweetie? I used to worry about these things when I was a kid.

I was discussing the ethics of Jack and the Beanstalk just the other day with my friend Libby, and declared to her that I habitually take an anti-Jack stance. “And remember, he traded the family’s last cow for the magic beans,” she pointed out. “What a completely irresponsible thing to do! He was a jackass.” So, there you have it.

The giant agave stalk in my garden. For reference, the saguaro next to it is about fifteen feet tall

I moved into my house in Tucson about six years ago, and one of the things that sold me on the place was the literally enormous Agave americana sitting magnificently next to the back patio. More commonly known as the Century Plant, or blue agave, this monster had been neglected for years and was surrounded by its multiplying progeny, known as pups. One of the youngsters was so big it took me half a day to dig out and replant just the one pup.

So, imagine my delight when—a couple of weeks ago—the big agave miraculously produced a Jack and the Beanstalk-sized appendage right here in me very own domicile! The stalk grew, seemingly, a foot or two each day—not quite as quickly as in the fairy tale, but almost—and now towers over the house and surrounding saguaros. In fact, it is now so tall that it will soon start posing a threat to those low-flying police helicopters that swoop over the night-shrouded city blasting the ground with spotlights, much like a scene from Blade Runner.

Any giants, hens, or magic harps up there?

I decided not to try climbing the beanstalk, because mine has all kinds of nasty sharp spines around it, and a fall would probably land me squarely on top of one of the saguaros. Also, even if I could make it up past the clouds, I just wouldn’t have the heart to steal someone’s special golden egg-laying chicken. That’s just mean, and anyway I’m a vegetarian.

In the meantime, the gargantuan stalk is very popular with my gila woodpecker family, who are enjoying using it as yet another elevated platform from which they can squawk obscenities at me. They are excruciatingly noisy birds, and for sure do not lay golden eggs.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

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As a confirmed cat person I have been, for several years, delighted and thrilled by occasional visits to my small desert kingdom by a solitary, wary and very beautiful adult Lynx rufus. He periodically made a tasty lunch out of one of my mourning doves, but I couldn’t really be mad at him as that is the way of life in the wilds.

Recently, while preparing a tasty vegetarian breakfast I looked out my kitchen window to see a bobcat cub frolicking in my fountain. About the size of a house cat, he already had the distinctive glaring eyes and radiant stripes of the desert lynx. I tried to snap a few photos, but he scampered off into the sea of cactus and agave.

The very next morning the cub returned with two siblings and, a little later, his cautious and protective mom. This time, I had no trouble capturing them on camera. The cats just moved right in and made themselves at home: splashing in the fountain, dozing under a mesquite, and climbing like goofy monkeys on a large prickly pear tree that used to stand on the east side of my house. I say “used to” because the diminutive hunting cats had so much fun on the tree they broke off its largest limb. It crashed to the ground and quickly became fodder for javelinas and desert hares.

Some mornings, the four cats walked brazenly onto my patio, scaring the daylights out of my indoor house cat, whose tail fluffed up like a busby—the black, bushy hats worn by the Queen’s Coldstream Guards at Buckingham Palace in my old hometown of London. One of the inquisitive cubs came right up to the sliding door, curious enough about what was going on inside the Logical Lizard’s abode to bump his feline nose on the glass.

Bobcats cover a lot of ground when they’re in the mood, and the family has sadly moved on. I hope mom brings me a new litter next year. They were the most illustrious visitors I’ve had in some time.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

The idea here is to use the ultra-fab macro lens on my favorite digital camera to capture hidden details of the natural world. All of these photos were taken in a single day during a lengthy hike through the Rincon Mountains, outside of Tucson. Amazing what you can see if you take the time to stop and look.

Spines unfolding

Why did the tarantula cross the road? My hiking companion claimed it was because she wanted me to pick her up and stroke her belly—apparently they like that. I didn't see my friend rushing over to do any such thing, so I was happy to just take the photo and skip the belly rub.

Butterfly with camouflage

Spiral of barrel cactus buds

Balancing act

Lichen growing on a boulder

All photographs by Geoffrey Notkin © Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

As I quietly prepared my breakfast I looked out, as per usual, upon my back garden. No surprise, it was already nearing 90 degrees by 8 am. My little fountain chortled away. A few birds staggered in dazed circles halfheartedly looking for food and shade.

Suddenly I noticed an overly large wild bunny (the normally mild and friendly Sylvilagus audubonii commonly known as the desert cottontail) racing across the middle distance in furious pursuit of an overly large and very beautiful bull snake. This was not just some sort of bizarre animal game: the bunny was out for blood. As the snake whipped across the baking sand, the rabbit managed to get the tip of the snake’s tail in his mouth and seemed to be trying to consume the reptile from the small end up.

I was so shocked by this scene that, without thinking anything through, I rushed out into the garden and broke it up. “Hey bunny!” I yelled. The rabbit stopped gnashing at the snake’s tail and looked up at me, with as angry a visage as a cottontail bunny could manage. The bull snake, cool and efficient, took full advantage of the distraction and instantaneously slithered up into an adjacent cholla tree. I admonished the bunny: “I put veggies out for you every day. What are you doing with the snake?”

Snake hides from bunny

At that moment I realized I had missed perhaps the greatest photo op of my lifetime. I shuffled inside to get the camera, but by then could only manage a few snaps of the bull snake skulking around on the cholla branches. The crazed rabbit had already taken off, perhaps hopped up on crack or bunny steroids, and no doubt searching for a mountain lion to tangle with.

A good macro (close-up) lens allows an observant and patient photographer to examine the minutiae of the plants and animals that live with us here in the Sonoran Desert—a unique habitat teeming with natural wonders, some of them not found anywhere else in the world.

In the old days, the dedicated photographer had to haul a bulky macro lens around in the camera bag and mount it on an SLR for those close-up shots. Digital cameras, with their built-in macros, have made those brief journeys to inner space so very much easier, but no less fascinating.

Here are some details from this week’s adventures.

This handsome fellow, blending extremely well into his surroundings, is one of about ten horned lizards or "horny toads" belonging to the Phrynosoma species

Bark patterns on an elderly mesquite tree

A beautiful cluster of Coryphantha vivipara, the "Bisbee Beehive." This elegant plant is rarely seen around greater Tucson.

Wisps around a yucca plant

Industrious red ants working on their cave. Don't let these guys bite, it really hurts.

Ferocactus wislizenii is a survivor. Three new heads grew from the body of this injured plant.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

I did my research and planted the grapefruit in my front garden with all attendant digging, mulching, watering and fertilizing. It was not happy. Although my well intentioned vendor promised me the tree would deliver luscious fruits within two to three years, the leaves turned white from sunburn and most of the branches dried up into parched bone-like appendages.

During a pool party at a friend’s house, I was impressed by a lemon tree our host had installed into a large container. It was flourishing in the shade behind his house. So I took my pickup truck down to Tubac and purchased an enormous ceramic pot, about the size of a New York City closet. I carefully dug up my distressed grapefruit tree and relocated it into the big pot, and placed the them on my shaded patio.

The tree began to thrive almost immediately, with tender new leaves sprouting everywhere. Last spring the tree became enveloped by a platoon of large yellow butterflies and they made mincemeat out of the new growth. I tried to shoo they away, but did not have the heart to swat any of them, as they were so beautiful. This year we experienced no insect invasion; instead, a mourning dove took up residence and built an ingenious nest of interlaced twigs among the green leaves.

Not quite a partridge in a pear tree, but similar

The first few times I walked by she panicked, and fluttered away. I learned to sidle out onto the patio slowly and quietly and she soon became accustomed to me. Each morning, I sat for while, just a few feet away, drinking tea, while she kept her melancholy black eyes on me. She gave birth to two chicks and tended to them during the long hot days.

Shortly after, it so happened that I threw a fairly large party at my house. Concerned about my new resident’s nerves, I taped a sign to the tree trunk: “Dove nesting in tree. Please give her some space.” All my guests were very respectful and with a few photographers present, many photos were taken.

It amazed me how quickly the chicks grew. After a few short weeks one left the nest followed, a couple of days later, by the second. Once the kids had headed off to bird college, their mom moved on too, to points unknown.

It was enthralling to watch the cycle of desert life unfolding on my patio. The cleverly crafted empty nest remains ensconced within my peripatetic tree and, if I’m lucky, perhaps my adopted dove will be back next year.

One evening, a few months after relocating to the Sonoran Desert, and while I was still happily but judiciously adjusting to frequent meetings with snakes, lizards, hawks, tarantulas, coyotes, and javelina, I noticed a cat sitting under my neighbor’s palo verde tree. It was a spring evening, shortly before sunset and the cat thoughtfully sniffed the air, clearly enjoying the breeze and abundant dusk aromas.

As I wheeled my garbage can down the long driveway I looked back at my neighbor’s visitor and thought to myself: “That is a really big cat.” He stood up, stretched, and walked languorously across the yard, at which time I realized he was not an overgrown house cat but, in fact, a lynx. Lynx rufus, known as the Sonoran or Mexican lynx, and locally as a bobcat, is a lithe and elegant fellow, shaped a little like a cheetah with long, striped legs, but decorated with pointed ears and tufts under his cheeks. Fully grown, Lynx rufus might weigh 35 pounds, and grow to about the size of a collie or smallish German shepherd.

Distinguished visitor: a dazzling Lynx rufus perched atop my garden fence. He kindly waited just long enough for me to take two hasty photographs. One of my more existential friends claims that, due to his frequent visits, the lynx has obviously chosen to be my spirit guide. Does that make me a cat person?

He and his pals have been back to visit my wild desert garden many times since then. Occasionally he’ll catch one of my doves for dinner, which is a little upsetting, but it is the natural way. If you’re lucky enough to meet a bobcat, give him a little space. Lynx rufus is an endangered species and receiving a visit from one is a special treat indeed.