Backyard Adventures – Baby Robins, Garden Rescues, and the Magic of Home

After all the miles logged and trails explored, some of the best adventures happen just steps from the back door.

Since returning from the North Shore, I’ve been doing what I like to call CPR for the garden—reviving, replanting, and trying not to take the carnage too personally. More than a dozen pepper plants were potted, and if I could remember which one was what, I’d tell you. But alas, my neatly marked rows faded into oblivion, and now I’ve got a surprise pepper party brewing. Honestly, I’m not mad about it. A little mystery keeps things interesting.

There have been some surprising survivors, too. My Hypoestes phyllostachya plant—that gorgeous, polka-dotted pink-and-green show-off I thought was a goner— has staged a full-blown comeback. It’s bouncing back like it never got scorched in that heatwave. And this little green plant with delicate white blooms/leaves (still unknown to me, but deeply respected) has proven it has grit. It’s thriving, quietly but proudly.

The squash is standing upright again, looking refreshed if a bit skeptical of my optimism. No new blossoms yet, but I’m rooting for it. The cucumber vine is crawling all over the place, vibrant and lush—but so far, not a single attempt at actual cucumbering. I planted more zinnia seeds, hoping to reclaim some color and match the riot of blooms bursting from other gardens in the neighborhood. I’ll admit it: I’ve got garden envy. Kenobi and I pass beds that are glowing with sunflowers, roses, echinacea, and tomatoes as big as fists. Bees buzzing, butterflies flitting. It’s dreamy.

But then… yesterday brought something unexpected and wonderful.

In the middle of all this digging and watering and second-guessing, I discovered a baby robin being raised in my backyard. It’s strong, alert, and full of personality. We noticed each other at the same time. It spotted me and—too young to fly—took off running, little legs pumping, wings flapping in a hopeful blur.

It darted under a bush and then made a break for the edge of the fenced yard. I held my breath. Too far, little one. But just then, mom swooped in, giving the softest little chirps and steering her baby right back into safer hiding places. It was one of those heart-clutch moments—witnessing not just wildlife, but parenting, in its raw, instinctual form.

I’ve been trying to photograph the feeding ritual, but mama bird is fast. She lands, feeds, and flies again in under two seconds. Blink, and she’s gone. So, for now, I’ve settled for a few photos of the baby alone, standing boldly on downed branches, waiting and watching. Its tail feathers are starting to grow, and its wings are looking longer already. I’m hoping to see it take flight for the first time—if I’m lucky enough to catch it.

Watching this baby robin grow while the garden clumsily heals has me thinking: maybe resilience isn’t always showy. Maybe it’s in quiet persistence. In taking root again. In fluttering those wings just a little more each day.

So no, I haven’t hiked a mountain this week. But I’ve seen survival. Growth. Parenting. And a tiny wild heart learning how to fly—right in my backyard