As most everyone knows, a cockfight is a match between two specially trained roosters traditionally held in a ring called a cockpit. The activity has a long tradition in American culture.

I have on more than one occasion written about Uktenas, the giant horned serpents modeled on timber rattlesnakes that appear in Cherokee mythology. In doing so, I have never suggested that they are anything but symbols for the nether world of darkness, decay, and death. Recently, however, two surprising nineteenth century reports of “actual” horned rattlesnakes have come to light.

As noted previously in several Back Then columns, the Cherokees and later on the white settlers here in the Blue Ridge lived close to the natural world. In many ways that lifestyle must have been exceptionally rewarding.

Just after Christmas, my wife, Elizabeth, and I were driving south in the San Luis Valley of Colorado headed for Arizona. Situated on the border with New Mexico and bounded to the east by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the valley is one of the more beautiful settings in North America. It is also one of the more remote settings in North America.

In the natural world there are certain experiences that rivet our attention and remain stored in our memory banks. Through the years I’ve written about my own encounters with rare plants, endangered landscapes, copperheads and timber rattlers, coyotes, skunks, eagles, red and gray foxes, box and snapping turtles, and so on. Not infrequently, I’ve received feedback from readers reporting that they have had similar experiences.

For me, no pursuit is truly worthwhile unless it has an associated body of literature one can consult from time to time for insights, inspiration, or just to pass the time.

Back in November at the Great Smoky Mountains Book Fair in Sylva I met Patricia Kyritsi Howell and purchased a copy of her Medicinal Plants of the Southern Appalachians (BotanoLogos Books, 2006).

Maintaining a nature journal has been one of my ongoing, albeit intermittent, preoccupations. Keeping such a journal assists me in maintaining a record of my outdoor experiences — and indoor ruminations — many of which would otherwise be lost.

While conducting plant identification workshops, I always try to remember to discuss two aspects that are essential if one is really going to enjoy plants. I think of these as plant “strategies.” They have to do with pollination and seed dispersal.

Winter is unsparing. It exposes the lines and blemishes on human faces. It reveals worn hillsides and rutted backcountry lanes. It clarifies the ongoing, relentless processes of nature of which we are but a part.