Ranger Report By Daniel F. Murley
After a few days of fine seasonable damp and drippy weather, the sun shone brightly this morning and vapors of steam rose from the deeply moistened redwood trunks in the grove around the house. I sat transfixed and content as I watched the wispy ethereal mists drift into the morning air and I drifted off momentarily into this fairyland of ferns and fractured light. A singular sound pierced the quiet and the soloist was recognizable but somewhat lonely. Normally when this little critter is heard he is accompanied by a host of choral partners. These harmonic creaking voices of the après rain boys can be heard calling for their mates, or just belting out some sounds with their “mates” around the pond or pool. The rain brings out the best in these lovely little local vocalists. This solitary croak came from a beautiful brilliant lime-green tree frog. Common though they are, Pacific Tree-frogs (Hyla regilla) are more often heard rather than seen but this guy was not too shy and as I tip-toed through the wet grasses, I spied him. I was happy to view the striking little iridescent emissary of the wet and wild world beyond our walls. This adventuresome or wayward character was possibly living up to his lot in life as an amphibian, a word that loosely translated from the Latin means “double-life”. So maybe this guy was trying to get into the scene beyond the pond and strike out on his own. The two-inch crooner seemed “dressed to kill” with his iridescent day glow lime green jacket and a jaunty black-stripe over his eyes. Obliging his pose on a dandelion plant I snapped a publicity shot for a possible CD cover before he sprang away. The clever camouflage of the green gadfly allowed him to melt into the grasses and I never saw him again that day. That evening though, we did hear, coming from the seasonal creek, that telltale serenade of the little green frog with the booming voice.
One can only hope that the bird on the wire will remain long enough for a momentary glimpse of the passing casual observer. Once in a great while a perched predatory bird will not take flight even after a vehicle has stopped near its perch. The trick we have found is to slowly yet safely (checking for other traffic) roll to a gradual stop in the nearest turn out. This day we did just that and the object of our attention allowed a full thirty second viewing. The brown-streaked breast and the long banded tail with its rounded end gave us the clues to surmise that this beautiful avian hunter was none other than a Cooper’s hawk. We noted that because of its overall brown body coloration that it was a juvenile and probably fledged this year. Maybe it was youthful curiosity which kept him tilting his head from side to side eyeing us rather than taking flight immediately as a more mature bird might.
Regardless, while we watched from our vehicle we discussed the origin of its name. I joked that maybe it got its name from its helping historic coopers in constructing barrels. With its firm gripping feet and chisel sharp beak, fashioning the essential wooden pieces might be possible but wielding a hammer might be a significant challenge. A cooper was once an essential occupation in 19th century California and with wine taking over the local economy there has been resurgence in their importance. My favorite guess came from the suggestion that it might have been named for John Roger Cooper who, further east along the Russian River drainage from the spot where we were stopped, built a mill on his Molino Rancho. He was granted the land in 1833 by his brother-in-law Mariano Vallejo. Cooper was an influential figure in early California. He was the brother of Thomas O. Larkin (after whom Larkin St. in San Francisco is named), the husband of Encarnacion Vallejo, who had business dealings with the Russians and owned property in Monterey, San Francisco and once owned the Rancho Punta de Quintin Corte Madera where San Quentin Prison now stands. Though we went on and on about this famous early Californian we were quite far away from the person for whom the bird of prey gets its name. The Cooper’s hawk was named for William Cooper, an East Coast naturalist and conchologist (student of shells) whose collecting of natural history specimens assisted the likes of J.J. Audubon and Thomas Nuttall. In the company of other prominent 19th century natural historians he was one of the founders of the American Museum of Natural History. With this said I vowed that some day in the not to distant future we would all travel to New York to visit this venerable institution. Bored or nervous by now, the hawk took to the wing and disappeared into the trees.
Oftentimes at this time of year, I am fascinated and can sit transfixed observing the patterns presented by our coastal autumnal environs. The fruit of the California Buckeye can be seen hanging pendulously on limbs laden with these large two to three inch diameter “nuts.” Inevitably a sad soulful ballad by blues singer Billie Holiday creeps into my head regarding quite a different kind of “strange fruit.” Still I love the song, the singer and the buckeye tree. While cruising along the ridge top I was halted in my tracks when, in among the hanging fruit of said buckeye tree was one huge bulbous growth which, if it was actually a buckeye seed, would have been the world’s largest and a massive mutant to be sure. Upon closer investigation however I was able to easily see that this basketball sized grayish balloon was actually a hornets’ home. Yes, this was an intricately constructed paper palace meticulously manufactured by many infertile female worker wasps. Now I take a little liberty with the interchangeable use of hornet and wasp, but though truly different insects, they both belong to the same family Vespidae. The queens, drones and workers in this aerial condominium will use it for only this year and all that work of munching, masticating and manufacturing the distinct dwelling will then remain only as a reminder of all the frenetic activity of the colony. For only the young fertile queens will live long enough to hide out for the winter months and start a whole new swinging, stinging settlement next spring.
Speaking of stinging, I was very conscious of the offensive and defensive abilities of the workers of this Bald-faced Hornet house and approached cautiously. I got close enough to notice the frenetic autumn activities of the nest. On the outside a couple of workers were repairing the paper shell while others of their kind flew in and out of the bottom entry hole. Drones, those fertile males with no stingers, so to speak, mated with future young queens and all, save those newly crowned queens, would soon perish.
While intently focusing my camera lens on the busy scene, I suddenly became aware of the hum of tiny wings in my now reddened ears. Without need for any more poignant warning from the now somewhat disturbed residents, I slowly backed up through the tall brown grasses and after achieving a more comfortable distance from the nest, I snapped a few parting shots of the entire tree and its striking appearance and then quickened my footsteps to match my rapidly beating anxious heart.
Bald-faced Hornets' (Dolichovespula maculata) nest in California Buckeye (Aesculus californica) By Daniel F. Murley
“As still as a millpond” was the ocean on this warm, windless autumn day and I imagined that the temperature was already reaching for seventy degrees Fahrenheit. As we turned to hike up the slope, we spied a flock of a dozen or so Brown Pelicans flying in formation over the water. In a single line, each of the big birds would intermittently flap, flap, flap, glide, flap, flap, flap, and glide again, with their broad powerful wings beating out a rhythm only they could truly appreciate. Reluctantly leaving this and other beautiful seaside sights, we headed up the hill, homeward. There were many tasks and chores awaiting our attention which would fill a goodly portion of the remainder of this weekend day. Circling and soaring above the treetops ahead of us was a gang of Turkey Vultures. To see them with labored wing beats, awkwardly trying to take flight when frightened from a gory repugnant roadside lunch stop, is quite different from watching their effortless aerial ballet once aloft.
We finally reached the shadow of the tree line we were happily surprised by the sight of one my favorite winged creatures. On slate-blue wings a determined Cooper’s hawk navigated the forest with strong, rapid and deliberate wingbeats and echoing his strident characteristic call…kek kek kek kek. From the earthbound family group was heard an audible sigh of admiration
Reaching a shady sheltered clearing, we stopped to take a rest and have a drink of water. We coastal types are not used to temperatures this high, this early. As we sat and sipped, the girls pointed out and jumped up jokingly imitating the fairy-like thistle down gently drifting past on a gentle breeze. I soon saw that some of the white fluffy wingless fliers had been caught in a beautifully woven spider web and we settled again. In a cluster of dappled gray-barked Alders we saw more of our resident “red-headed eagles.” This group had not taken to the thermals as yet and most had their massive black wings spread out like feathered solar collectors warming their blood and drying out those feathers before taking flight. We went into our normal discussion of beauty being in the eyes of the beholder and I pointed to one very large “regal eagle” resting on a leaf-barren limb. “Can you believe it?” I queried. “That lounging lovely might just be the Renee Zellwegger of this roosting group.” Knowing my affection for the comely movie star, the glances were quick and decisive and I now saw the backs of my own little lovelies headed rapidly up the trail. I jumped up to follow and quickly quipped, “Well, how about Elizabeth Taylor?” All I heard thereafter was the rapidly diminishing footfall off through the bushes as I was left with the flapping wings of the big black birds also indignantly deserting me.
Turkey Vulture - Cathartes aura - By Daniel F. Murley
Still and staid, the solitary figure sat motionlessly above the early morning river mist. We were traveling the road on the first day of high school headed for Santa Rosa. I slowed to a stop beneath the stately feathered form and all of us beheld the large yellow eyes and stocky build of this bird of the darkness. In the gray morning light the Great Horned Owl took on a mythical appearance and soon we were swapping tales each of us had heard about the curious creature of the shadows, Bubo virginianus. Now that famous Latin naturalist Pliny, in his work Historia Naturalis, described this nocturnal creature as a “prophet of woe.” I quickly added, so as not to jinx the girls on the first day of school, “Ahhh! What did those old Romans know anyway? They thought the earth was the center of the universe.” Still, slightly nervous smiles crossed our faces.
We all agreed, however, that universally, many myths and legends did deal with the owl as being a creature who dealt in one way or another with the spirit world. Local Native people believed in many tales in which the owl’s calling or hooting was a sign of impending sickness or death and that one could talk or reason with a hooting owl by speaking to it directly.
In Gaelic stories these night birds represented the messengers and dutiful step- children of the gods. They could be omens of both good and evil, harbingers of luck or omens of death. Owls were also seen as representing a kind goddess figure who could communicate with the members of the spirit world. “Dyllvan,” the night bird of many Scot stories, was condemned to fly in the dark because it was a selfish creature who could not get along with its other feathered companions who inhabited the daylight hours.
I recalled that Henry Daivid Thoreau mentions owls in his lovely book of the outdoors, Walden. He writes: “I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not recognized. They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have.”
Despite all the negative connotations for the owl, we all “rejoice[d] that there are owls.” We also agreed that this and many other species in the family Strigidae were some of the most beautiful of all our feathered neighbors. So, we smiled our happiest smiles and bid the big bird farewell. As we turned to leave, I noted that he gave us an all-knowing wink. This wise old owl’s winking sign belied a silent beneficial wish for continued curiosity and lifelong learning. I winked back, and with a tip of my hat, we were off for school. ––– Great Horned Owl - Bubo virginianus
While traveling along the ridge road above the coast, our attention was drawn to a shimmering red apparition just off the road’s shoulder. A normally beautiful full- crowned Oregon Oak (Quercus garryana) was colorfully festooned with the cascading bright brick-red leaves of a huge vine of Poison Oak (Rhus diversiloba.) We chuckled about how beautiful this itch-producing plant could be and in fact how in this colorful state had actually drawn unknowing visitors to collect the beautiful boughs for household decorations, only to pay terribly later. In mid-snicker, I instinctively touched the brake pedal to slow our vehicle as another vision appeared in the grasslands to our west. I pulled into a turnout and directed everyone’s attention to a solitary figure sitting calmly in the roadside grasses.
With half-closed eyes and a distinguished look of disinterest, a handsome cat sat basking in the low-angled orange rays of the early morning sun. His tawny coat blended remarkably well with the dry tan annual grasses which surrounded his classic form. I mentioned that despite his comparatively small size this creature could easily have been sculpted from stone standing on guard in front of some great municipal museum or library. This was not a lion of the African savannah but rather a beautiful bobcat (Lynx rufus) of the Sonoma County coast. This particular specimen seemed very calm and contented even though we were quite close and hardly quiet. These cats oftentimes take advantage of early morning or sunset situations to hunt small mammals which are also active at that time. This behavior gives these guys the descriptive term of crepuscular, which means they are active at dusk and before sunrise but these critters will be nocturnal or diurnal depending on the season. From this cool cat’s behavior this fine morning I bet that he had just consumed a breakfast brush bunny treat or a chubby chipmunk snack. This brought looks of concern to the girls’ faces for though they knew wild animals are just that, “wild,” bunnies and chipmunks have been favorite members of the wild critter community for many years. “Well,” I proposed, “maybe he just dined on a fine feast of non-native opossum.” We all nodded and grinned at that suggestion and just then the bobcat decided he would move along as we should do the same. So as he slowly ambled off a finally disappeared in the tall tan grasses, we watched as the seed heads of those grass stalks shook and wiggled above his now invisible body. This was his territory and he knew it.
Bobcat - Lynx rufus By Daniel F. Murley
A trip to gather the wild fruits of the earth would not be complete without a close encounter of the insect kind. For our little berry picking gang, the harvest was wonderful and abundant but it appeared that Oona, much to her dismay, was taking home more than luscious tasty berries. After reveling in the take, with bags of sweet purpleness held high, Oona felt an odd crawling sensation on her upper right arm. Quicker than I could ask what the sharp squeak was about, her limb flailed in wild, rapid, violently shaking movements as instinctively she involuntarily whipped her arm to cast off the unwanted whatever it was. Her reflexive arm and shoulder shake has caused a large, rather nasty looking insect to fall to the ground near her feet. As she and the others moved away from the creature, I knelt down to get a better look at this big brown, two inch long, chunky critter. Upon closer investigation I saw that this was none other than an admittedly odd-looking member of the order Orthoptera, that group which encompassed grasshoppers and crickets. This fine specimen was the species known as Stenopelmatus fuscus. These are more commonly known as Jerusalem Crickets or Potato Bugs. Though reluctant, the girls did come closer as we examined this weird vacant-eyed escapee from the Holy Land. Well, I am not sure from where it came or for that matter where the common name originated. They do not eat lots of potatoes but I imagine if presented with one while they were burrowing under the ground they would nibble on it. They usually eat plant roots and sometimes other insects and they do have very strong mandibles and spikey formidable legs for digging. Regardless it was quite intriguing in appearance.
One of the more interesting names I had heard used for these insects was humorously discussed as the girls peered curiously at the big bad bug. These seldom seen insects are sometimes called "niña de la tierra” or “child of the earth” and have many strange folk tales surrounding them. It is said by some that that they make scary sounds like crying children and that their bite is poisonous. Neither is true; they don’t even make noises like their cousin crickets and though their bite is painful, as I can attest, it is not poisonous. I began to tell my bite story when the rest of the group decided it was time to get those berries home and so we left our little “ugly” cricket and headed homeward. I also commented as I often do about odd looking wildlife that though it may look unattractive or repulsive to us this might be the Brad Pitt of the cricket world and we just didn’t appreciate its handsome features. “Check out those dashing antennae!”
Seeking shelter from the September sun, we ambled over to the shadows provided by the large tree’s canopy. Once in that cool shady spot, other senses were stimulated and soothed. Colorful patterns of yellow, brown and green leaves shoneon the forest floor. With the gentle pressing of the soles of our boots on the mosaic, dizzying vapors arose, wafting on the light breeze and tickling our olfactory. We were standing under a tree not only of many stimuli but of many uses and as many names. The California Bay Laurel, Umbellularia californica, Bay Laurel, Pepperwood, Myrtle, Myrtlewood, Bay or however one wants to call this tree, which can grow to huge proportions, has been used for many varied uses by different cultures. Local Native people had great reverence for this tree and its powers. The fragrant leaves were used not only to cure head aches and teas from the leaves used to settle intestinal problems, but fragrant boughs were hung in dwellings to keep away insect pests as well as protect against maleficent forces. Even when storing the highly prized woven baskets, Bay leaves were used to preserve both their physical and spiritual integrity.
Our discussion drifted to topics ethnographic and we could imagine any group who might walk through these hills stopping in this umbrage to rest a while and chat a little. The Native folks might have been out gathering foods like the edible nuts of the Bay or… I pointed to a patch of bright little windmill-shaped yellow flowers out in the brightly lit field to the West. I hurried out and beckoned my companions to follow. Touching the little plants and squeezing the stems I definitely experienced the aroma of tar and the stems were surely sticky to the touch. Once the girls arrived from their shady rest I tapped the head of the bloom with one finger and into the cupped palm of my other hand dropped a shower of tiny black seeds. “Mucha kili” I whispered, “Mucha kili”. “Black grain” was the Native term for the seeds of these plants.
We went on to discuss the Native uses of many of the common plants we now take for granted and I mentioned how a tasty mixture of Tarweed seeds and other roasted wildflowers and annual grasses made up a healthful delectable treat called pinole. The ground material was eaten dry or shaped into little cakes or balls, a type of granola bar or granola ball. Patience and concentration both in the collection of ingredients and construction of collecting baskets, trays and tools were hallmarks of an efficient seasonal subsistence strategy. Our immediate strategy was to pass around the water bottle and get back on the trail but still stay on the track of our interaction with the natural world and an appreciation thereof..
From where the notion came, no one knew, but sometimes, just sometimes one gets a great notion. Such was the concept which overcame Hannah first and then subsumed us all. Quicker than one could say “berry pie,” we were, one and all, out the door, into the car and headed for the briars and the brambles. Though we knew the window of opportunity was quickly closing both on the remaining light of the day and on the remaining fruit of the season, we were off in great haste.
Once at our destination, we divided, in order to conquer. This particular blackberry patch, though close to the road, provided an easily reached source of our desire…Rubus ursinus, the California blackberry. Hannah and Oona went into the thicket and I skirted the edges searching for the fat black and juicy berries which were most easily acquired. While deep in concentrated picking, a conversation was composed of disembodied voices partially muted by the dense foliage.
The story which I related from my thorny location was punctuated with quick, quiet, colorful expletives which held meaning only to me, but which brought chuckles of glee from my hidden, leaf-shrouded companions. I shouted out loud enough for them to hear a berry picking episode from the past. “Hannah! Do you remember which you were a baby and I carried you in the backpack out to the raspberry patches?” “Vaguely!” Came the reply. I told the tale of how when picking in that late summer of Hannah’s birth year, while I sweated and slaved, she would coolly reach out into the bushes and pluck the ripe fruit and manage to get some of the luscious sweetness into her mouth while she wore a majority of the juice on her face and clothing. I would glance back and recoil at the sight of dripping dark red juice covering her face. My mind would imagine a welterweight for whom a title bout had gone long enough for his corner to throw in the towel, but how he remained upright and determined despite his beating, smiling and almost taunting his opponent. The girls were not thrilled with my graphic boxing analogy, for I did elaborate about a bout I had witnessed, but as they appeared out of the dark green thicket, similar grins greeted me.
As we were leaving a local rancher and his wife stopped to ask how successful we were gathering so late in the season. Each of us held up plastic bags brimming with dripping dark fruit and grinned widely with our berry stained teeth. “Save me a piece of the pie!” called the wife from her passenger seat.
Our labors were duly rewarded as that night we made tapioca pudding from scratch and poured the warm mixture over some of the chilled berries. I commented how as a youth, we used to freeze the berries in the summer and pull them out in the dead cold of a New England winter, and then cover them with the warm tapioca. Well, that was then, and this is now, and as sweet as my youthful memories were these are equally as sweet, and as fondly cherished.
By the way we had enough lovely little gems leftover for Sandy and the girls to bake a wonderful berry crisp the next night. That prize was dutifully topped with vanilla ice cream and quickly and cheerfully consumed.
Oona and Hannah in the balckberry patch. By Daniel F. Murley
After numerous consecutive foggy mornings the sun finally won the battle early on this July day and I was not the only one on the coast enjoying the warmth of its rays. At the mouth of the Russian River the easterly angle of the rays struck offshore rocks and they took on a glow of bronze while surrounded by cobalt blue water. As the rays warmed the sand spit where the river meets the sea, all forms and sizes of lounging Pacific Harbor Seals (Phoca vitulina richardii) decorated the shining sands. The variations in color are normal among these local marine mammals and range from light gray with dark spots to very dark gray or almost black overall. In fact those dark ones, when examined up close and personal, show that the dark color comes from a pattern of densely distributed black spots. This morning, some languorously lay about while others contorted their plump bodies into pudgy donut shapes while apparently performing their morning “stretch”. Though they had been stirred by the warmth they seemed in no hurry to actually move from their comfortable locations. On the other hand, or flipper as the case may be, I had to get moving into town. The donut and cruller critters on the beach reminded me that if I wanted to stop at the local café for a cup of coffee before my trip I would have to get moving. So, I took one long last look at the wonderful shining scene at the river mouth and headed inland where the critters walk on two legs and the same sun which gently warmed the coast would be much hotter. As I reluctantly turned to leave, I wished I could chuck my commitments and join the quietude of the peaceful “fin-footed” pinnipeds, but due to my prior arrangements and in-town appointments my fate for that lovely day had been “sealed.”
Many times in the recent past we have zoomed past the green thicket in our automobile while on a time-pressed dash to town. This day on a return trip in the early evening, time permitted a leisurely stop. What had caught our eyes even when speeding past this moist area of greenery, were the brilliant scarlet clusters of Red Elderberry, (Sambucus racemosa callicarpa.) The almost entirely verdant undergrowth was luminously punctuated by clumps of the tiny red berries. As we approached the stand of alders and the briar patch beneath, suddenly the muffled sounds of heavy wing beats filled the damp air. Scared up from their matinee munch was a large flock of Band-tailed Pigeons (Columba fasciata) and their broad wings slapped against their bodies as they took flight into the treetops.
This flurry of activity by this western relative of the extinct Passenger Pigeon brought on a flurry of comment, with conservation and extermination the major topics. So as not to dwell on the negative too much, I interjected a few pertinent facts and folklore about the birds and the berries.
Though the bright red fruit looks tempting and the birds seemed to have been feasting on them, they were not meant for human consumption. Native people of this area ate another species of Sambucus, the “blue” elderberry. The narrower pith-filled branches were hollowed out and used as whistles and when larger branches were split and the pith removed, the dried sticks were used in dancing and feasting as a form of percussion called clapper sticks. “Years ago,” I recalled, “in a class on Native uses of common plants, I made a set of clapper sticks and they actually sounded quite good. It was in that class that I also learned which species were the right ones to consume.” My exaggerated imitation and caricature movements of a Native dancer, as you might imagine, brought some smiles.
Once the laughter and frivolity had subsided, I mentioned that those pretty birds with their iridescent purplish gray feathers and yellow legs are quite good to eat. Like the Passenger Pigeons which graced the tables of 18th and 19th century eastern settlers, when Americans came west they found the Band-tailed birds just as tasty and quite numerous. In fact in the “Days of ’49,” Sonoma County became a hunting ground for market hunters to supply the burgeoning population of San Francisco. The plump baby birds were a favorite dinnertime treat. “Squabs” as they are called were highly sought after and nesting sites were devastated to fill the appetite of the huge influx of greedy humanity who came in search of gold.
In discussing the nestlings which now are present in many local sites, I wondered aloud if the word “squabbling” came from the squawking and bickering of the baby birds in the nest as they vied for the attention of one of their ever-patient parents. There was no squabbling when I suggested that we head home before the ice cream, carefully stored in the car, completely melted. As the birds to the trees, we sprinted to our waiting automobile and sped home to our coastal nest in the Redwoods.
Band-tailed Pigeons (Columba fasciata) in a Red Alder (Alnus rubra). By Daniel F. Murley
Before the now bronze disc of a sun slipped into the sea it provided a soft refracted glow causing the amber annual grasses to glow in the still evening air. As we walked along the side of the winding rural road we all commented on that calming luminous late afternoon effect. Though on our way home we all had our eyes open for any more ripe berries which might be clinging to their thorny jagged green bushes. In mid step I halted and pointed frantically yet quietly to edge of the road just ahead. Gasps and recoiling movement followed as all saw the creature on the ground. “”Hail his majesty!” I called in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll bet that’s ‘Rex’ or ‘Leroy’ or maybe…” before I could get another joking word out of my wise-cracking mouth, “his highness” spotted us. He quickly moved from a lounging elongated state to a more compact yet not quite coiled posture. This very large reptile Lampropeltis getula, commonly known as the California King Snake had been basking on the warm dark surface of the road directly in front of a very large raspberry patch. No doubt he was happy to have the delicious fruit all about him, though not necessarily to eat, but rather to attract hapless small mammals seeking to taste of the delectable berries. Those little berry pickers might then become an unsuspecting snack for this beautiful snake. We as rather large pickers of berries were not fearful of this long, lean and lovely creature but rather marveled at its colorful appearance. In this complimentary light its reptilian form with alternating dark brown and creamy white bands took on a surreal appearance.
Surreal also was the tale I told of how, in my wild and crazy Ranger youth I had displayed a dear friend’s pet King as a regimental striped tie. Yes, I had endeavored to wear the “repp-tile” cravat with a blue blazer and yellow button down oxford on a late night visit to a small town “watering hole.” The snake, having more sense than I, wouldn’t stand for this. Well he couldn’t stand because of his lack of limbs but let us leave it to say he would not stay still, and he was quickly and gently returned to his resting place in my friend’s automobile.
King Snakes are normally non-aggressive and when disturbed would rather display a fierce appearance sometimes hissing, rolling into a ball, and rapidly vibrating their tails in the dry leaves and grasses. These powerful constrictors most often choose to flee rather than fight. They are however immune to rattlesnake venom and definitely are no squeamish squamata.
Well, we had no intention of bringing home a new member to add to our household and after some curious questioning about the truth and consequences of my “What Not to Wear” snake apparel tale, we gingerly moved past the handsome specimen. We also did not attempt to steal any berries from the bush behind that fantastic four foot long serpent.
King Snake (Lampropeltis getula) By Daniel F. Murley
An incessant tattoo reverberated through the forest this early morning and echoed loudly enough to stir my interest. I motioned to the family scattered around the living room couch to come out and listen with me but my mimicking histrionics of the drumming were met with immediate skepticism.
Though definitely not the finest rendition of that raucous swing hit, “Big Noise from Winnetka,” I thought to myself that the somewhat rhythmic rapid beating on what sounded to be a tree trunk, was at least enthusiastic. “Hey!” I called again to the reluctant recent risers, “Come on out here and check out this west coast, deep forest version of Gene Krupa.” In unison I was soundly questioned as to “what in the world” I was talking about. I quickly shook off the doubting group’s reluctance and decided to clarify my characterization of the drumming and the drummer I wished them to hear. “There is a determined woodpecker out here pounding out a frantic beat on that pole over there and by the sound of it there should be wood chips flying everywhere…would you like to take a look?” Once given an explanation in simple English terms they quickly put on footwear and were on the porch with me. They knew that we have many beautiful species of the family Picidae in our coastal forest neighborhood and this exuberant resident was surely one.
Looking up to locate the bird, we saw that the warming morning sun had driven away all but a few wisps of fog which now drifted easterly over the treetops. All our heads snapped to the left as the rapping began again in earnest. Sure enough there were chips of bark and wood flying everywhere from the spot where this red-mustachioed male flicker was cheerfully chiseling away. Not commonly known to be a member of the woodpecker family, this handsome Colaptes auratus cafer is often heard before it is seen. As we watched I pointed out that this “Northern” Flicker could be excavating a nest hole. One of the girls wondered if he might be digging for insect breakfast and another asked why I used the term “Northern” instead of “red-shafted.” The flickers we have here are normally seen feeding on the ground for they love to eat ants and other easily acquired insect treats. Once thought to be separate species it has been shown that red- shafted and yellow-shafted flickers actually interbreed so they have been lumped into the name “Northern.” However the moustache on his face made up of bright red feathers told me that the under parts of the wings were probably that beautiful salmon color we would expect from a red-shafted. “The yellow-shafted have a black mustache.” With that definitive and probably too loud statement, the lovely bird let out a loud “Keer,” puffed up its black spotted belly, and took to an undulating flight on those brilliant salmon-red wings.
We headed back home joking about the curious fact that the males in each sub-species were the birds with mustaches… “Hey Dad, with your mustache now turning gray, what color are your wing feathers?”
Red-shafted Flicker (Colaptes auratus cafer) by Daniel F. Murley
The sun was in slow decline in the west and even as the shadows lengthened we all chose to postpone our household chores, put aside those final school projects and abandon our clicking computer keyboards to temporarily escape into an evening out of doors which gently, quietly, but persistently beckoned. Short sleeves and smiles were the order of dress and once on the move those smiles broadened and our pace was relaxed. Insects of all shapes, sizes and species had taken wing to frolic in the unusual stillness. Moths fluttered, bees buzzed and millions of unnamed winged minis and itsy-bitsies danced in the hazy evening light to jazzy tunes we were unable to hear but to which the bugs did jitter and jive. Amidst the antics of all the Terpsichorean teeny-weenies, we were delighted by the great number of variations of the color green. In a burst of growth many trees were putting on new foliage. Hannah mentioned that deciduous trees have that seasonal knack for putting on large leaves in the summer, providing shade from the summer sun. Oona quickly added that they lose them in the fall to allow the warming rays of the less powerful sun to warm the area in the winter. Sure enough the Maples and Alders and most of the true Oaks which are definitely deciduous were blasting out bright green leaves. The evergreens, not to be outdone, were adding little terminal limbs loaded with tender soft green growth. Each tree, whether it be a Redwood, a Grand fir or a Douglas fir, was responding to the seasonal stimuli to add foliage.
As we approached the top of the ridge and emerged from the mixed hardwood/ coniferous coastal canyons, we stopped short to marvel in the unmistakable change in topography and vegetation. Now in sight was one of our favorite species and in particular one of our favorite individuals of its kind. As if a sculptured finial of green and white atop a hillock of amber annuals, this gorgeous California Buckeye tree caused us to stop, breathe in that warm dry grass fragrance, and allow our eyes this visual feast. The air was warm and we all agreed it seemed that the annual grasses were browner earlier than usual. Even the full flourishing Aesculus californicawith its sweet-smelling white flower spikes was showing signs of summer. Admittedly, buckeyes turn and lose their leaves earlier than most deciduous trees, but this change in coloration and fading of the flowers seemed early to all. Though we enjoyed the lovely warm evening we agreed that summer had come early this year and that combined with a lack of rainfall last winter caused us to engage in the inescapable discussion of climate change. However as the sun sank and we headed home we still reveled in the beauty which surrounds us and even broke into a rendition of a favorite tune from the girls’ youthful repertoire, that favorite of young and old, Woody Guthrie’s “Jig along home”.
Well, I went to the dance and the animals come,
Jaybird danced with horse-shoes on.
Grasshopper danced till he fell on the floor
Jig along, jig along, jig along home.
California Buckeye (Aesculus californica) By Daniel F. Murley
Posted June 5, 2007--------- Above the canyon, above the bright green foliage of the willows and alders which lined the creek, hundreds of tiny dark glistening forms swooped and plunged, dove and dipped, pitched and glided through the warm late morning air. The fog, which in the early mornings fills the canyons, had dissipated and the solar surge stimulated all kinds of action. What we were watching was an extension of the rise in temperature. As the sun warmed the lower reaches of the canyon, insects had taken flight. Buoyed on the warming air, they were lifted above the confines of the tree-lined creek into the domain of these agile aerial acrobats. On the wing, the speedy swallows found a smorgasbord of winged insects to snack upon. They were snatching these bugs not just for immediate consumption but to feed and fill those always hungry, peeping, cheeping, gaping mouths of the youngsters back at their little swallow stockades. It seemed like just yesterday that we had spent some time observing these same birds down at the creek banks gathering material to build those mud nests. They would hover and flutter and then lightly touch down on the soft mud and scoop up some of the moistened soil in their beaks and fly away to carefully place and patch together a little adobe nest. Those avian hod carriers and trowel-less masons were Cliff Swallows who had built their colony’s condominium commune on the rocky cliff banks near the top of the hill from where we stood. At those nests, now baked dry and solid and secure, their offspring were developing the proper consignment of feathers and ultimate wing strength to take to the air themselves. Once fledged, the young Cliff Swallows (Hirundo pyrrhonota) would soon be off on their own adventures and adopt the cycles of migration and propagation of this colorful, energetic and entertaining swallow species.
Though we were all mesmerized by the dizzying antics of the birds I couldn’t resist the opportunity of what was to me the obvious analogy. This year, the younger of our lovely little birds will be graduating from our local grammar school, and though not flying away, will be moving onward and upward in her educational pursuits to high school in Santa Rosa. I believe we have given her enough insects and insights to strengthen her on her flight.
California Crescent (Phyciodes orseis) By Daniel F. Murley
Flitting about the yard is not a normal mode of locomotion for me but of such dainty movements I was recently accused. You see, I was anxiously perusing an elusive trio of capricious critters which refused to stay still long enough for me to identify them. Whirling and swirling on invisible air currents and skipping and dipping across the low-lying vegetation they orange, amber and black dappled little beauties were causing me fits much to the amusement of the rest of the family who had come out to the front porch to view the show. These elusive, delicately winged insects easily stayed a jump ahead of me. Even with their diminutive one inch wing span, they were probably enjoying my frustrative movements as much as the porch peanut gallery. The intriguing names attributed to the butterflies in our neighborhood were bouncing around my brain and occasionally I would mutter a name loud enough to be heard. “Painted Lady,…Satyr,…Wood-Nymph,… Checkerspot…for crying out loud…” Finally one of the tiny tormenters lighted on the bright yellow bloom of a dandelion and I was able to, not only catch a glimpse of its lovely pattern-painted wings but also to capture of an image of the elusive insect. I reminded the girls these adult butterflies were probably cruising for mates and getting into courtship mode. They are able to actually recognize each other by those intricate markings on their wings, by their “suggestive” behavior and by the emission of those secretive weapons of allurement, pheromones. “No, I don’t smell anything unusual, but I’ll bet they do. Look at the way they a flying around like crazy.” The words barely escaped my lips when I realized that I must be crazy to be scampering around like this and crazy also to think that I could actually identify the species of butterfly upon which I gazed. The dizzying dance and the huge number of pattern variations in the butterfly community made it near impossible for me to discern the identity of these aerial artists’ palettes. So, I leave it to you to tell me or as Vladimir Nabokov aptly put it in “The Magnificent Foragers”:
I found it and I named it, being versed
In taxonomic Latin: thus became
Godfather to an insect and its first
Describer – and I want no other fame.
Cliff Swallows (Hirundo pyrrhonota) gather mud nest building material By Daniel F. Murley
Posted May 18, 2007 -------- In apparent reaction to the unseasonably warm weather which has recently scorched the normally temperate coastal climes, there was a subtle floral explosion in the forests which define our neighborhood. Now this bursting forth was not in the normal vibrant green of leafy vegetation but in a subtle orangish-pink of slender stalks. The forest floor in between the large Redwood and Douglas fir trunks was pierced by hundreds of tiny yet tall orchid blooms. They seemed to grow in clusters of many individual plants in a group. As we approached I commented on the lack of green and we soon realized why. These little beauties were members of a group of deep forest orchids called coralroots and these particular plants were Corallorhiza mertensiana or Merten’s Coralroot. They were named after Franz Carl Mertens, a 19th century German botanist. The flowers are an orange pink with three dark veins and the little lower petals have white tips.
These and other Coralroots, members of the genus Corallorhiza are parasitic orchids. They derive their nutrients from eating fungi in the soil under these huge conifers. While most plants make their own food with chlorophyll, these coralroot orchids have little or no chlorophyll and thus no green color. Their name is also a bit misleading, they have no roots but their stiff branching rhizomes somewhat resemble the branches of ocean coral. Now we did not dig any to check those rhizomes but depended on past experience and despite my description my companions were a bit skeptical. Never the less, we enjoyed the fairy-like quality of the tiny colorfully flowered stalks and imagined this as a magical forest for the wee folk who wander the wilds the deep woods. This year for whatever reason there seem to be more of these cute and curious blooms. Take a walk on the wee and wild side and watch out for that which might appear beneath your normal view. We were rewarded by seeing a deep purple coralroot plant just pushing through the duff getting ready to explode.
Emerging
Merten's Coralroot - Corallorhiza mertensiana By Daniel F. Murley
Posted May 18, 2007 --------- A prophetic pointing of the index finger toward the open ocean preceded the huge blast. With a thunderous roar and an immense billowing cloud of white smoke, one of Ross’s cannons signaled a significant event. The first cannon blasts ever heard along this stretch of the Sonoma Coast were touched off by Russian traders in the early 1800’s while practicing with weapons they would never use in anger or aggression. They were in unfamiliar territory and knew not what to expect from either the local indigenous people or the resident Spanish colonists about a hundred miles south at the presidio on San Francisco Bay. However, these were not military men but artisans and craftsmen, carpenters and coopers, sent here in the service of the Russian American Company. The company was here to reap the bountiful harvest of marine mammal skins, and in addition to the ethnic Russian administrators and overseers, were many Native Alaskan “employees.” From this group of multi-ethnic workers was fashioned a type of militia to protect the settlement from threats real and imagined. Archival records show that for whatever reason the Russians here at the fortification in western Sonoma County used a large amount of black powder. Those of us who have had the pleasure of working at Ross and firing the replica cannons for demonstrations and celebrations believe that besides their need to keep up their skills in case of a confrontation, the men at the colony fired the large guns for fun and the thrill of the blast. Bill Walton has been the man behind the blasts for many years and I have had the distinct pleasure of working with Bill as a friend and dedicated colleague. The cannon report today marked Bill’s retirement and he will be dearly missed.
As the smoke cleared and I walked over to give him a congratulatory handshake and hug, I recalled a Russian phrase which will always remind me of our service together: “Mir y Druzbah!”…”Peace and Friendship!”
That stiff seasonal Northwest breeze actually made our movement to the cliff edge a challenge. As we got closer to edge the wind’s intensity seemed to increase. Finally, holding our hats and shielding our eyes we looked down upon the rocky shoreline where wind driven waves were being shattered into the tiniest of pieces. Occasionally the spray would even reach our reddened faces with a salty spritz. No sooner had we settled when above the rush and crush came an almost defiant, high-pitched buzzing whistle. Distorted a bit by the breeze we soon recognized the lilting sounds of Melospiza melodia. After searching the bluff top vegetation we eventually spotted an indignant Song Sparrow precariously perched on the farthest singular twig of a salt-pruned but vibrantly green coastal coyote bush. He looked us right in the eye as if to say with a cocky tilt of his distinctly striped head, “What the heck are you doing out here?” His stare became fixed and then slightly nervous as I aimed the lens of my camera in his direction. Before reluctantly retreating back into the thicket, which grew in a tangled clump on a sandstone shelf below the lip of the ledge, the ruffled, rufous-streaked resident let loose a couple of high honking chimps and then disappeared. When I queried my companions about whether they heard the bird’s call by asking if they had heard those chimps, you can just imagine the replies I received particularly, from the Physical Anthropology professor. Anyway, we all had a good laugh about non-human primates on the Sonoma Coast and before being driven back from the bluff top ourselves, we commented on the exceptional choice of residence of our lovely little passerine pal. This hearty six-inch solitary songbird had found his own secluded and scenic niche in our varied and vital coastal environment…what a wonderful environment it is in which we all share.
Song Sparrow (Melospiza melodia) By Daniel F. Murley
With slow deliberate steps on long black legs, the tall brilliant white creature skulked forward through the tall grasses. Each step produced a disjointed movement of individual parts as if one section of the bird would move and then wait for the other parts to react and catch up. As this three-and-a-half foot tall Great Egret carefully stole through the low growth, our presence was hardly acknowledged. Concentration was in the bird’s beady eyes which scanned the ground as it walked. The head was attached to a long, powerfully serpentine neck and was fronted by long thick yellow bill. We marveled at its majesty amidst the scruffy growth of reeds and rushes through which it ambled.
In the late 1800’s dedicated female followers of fashion adorned their heads with hats which were decorated with the delicate stylish plumes of members of the Egret and Heron family, Ardeidae. Those feathers, when on the natural owner, were truly attractive as they were used to attract mates. During breeding season, the delicate lacy plumes of the head, back and tail were displayed in the wild (and it seems in polite society) to achieve the desired purpose of potential procreation. The decimation of the bird population by plume hunters pushed many wading birds to the brink of extinction. In fact, the society named for naturalist John James Audubon highlighted the public outrage for the unregulated commercial hunting of these birds for the plume industry and championed the protection of many species of birds and their habitats. The Great Egret which was high on the “bad guys’” hit list became the symbol of the National Audubon Society, one of the oldest environmental organizations in North America. We shook our heads in disbelief that the carnage of these beauties actually took place and the mind-boggling, binocular-dropping fact that it took over 300 Great Egrets to yield just two pounds of feathers.
Trying to bring a little lightness to this sad treatment of this feathered feature attraction, I quoted a few verses from a ditty I had composed a number of years ago:
I mentioned in our regal talk
Of royalty and jewelry,
That these birds in the not too distant past,
Were objects of wanton cruelty.
It seems that women in years gone by,
In pursuit of the highest fashion,
Wore hats festooned with egret plumes
And nearly damned the population.
Thank goodness how the times have changed
And now we all may see,
This white and willowy wading bird
Sublimely statuesque, and free.
We soon bid the egret fond adieu
And headed up the hill.
And I joked, those lovely birds survived
Through simply strength of “quill.”
Great Egret - Ardea alba By Daniel F. Murley
Ducks, duck ducks
In a word this guy appeared “cool”. The flat water, upon which he slowly drifted, barely rippled with his slight forward motion achieved through the measured movement of his orange webbed feet. Those bright appendages could be seen near the rear of its small feathered body. The feather coloration appeared as if each tiny plume had been individually painted and then carefully placed on this sleek streamlined form. Every now and then the dapper duck would dip its head beneath the water’s surface, probably perusing the shallows for a finny snack, but possibly just dunking its green double-crested crown to slick back his glistening feathered “do”. Now this Red-breasted Merganser (Mergus serrator), a bird of the bays and estuaries of our area, did eventually disappear out of sight and its body shape, foot position and bill style all served a most important function, the acquisition of food. He has big webbed feet, on short legs, set far back on his body, with a long sharp bill, containing serrations around the edges, specifically designed to catch and hold on to slippery prey.
Across the way we could see the feathered hind quarters of a common relative duck species. That fat behind of a male Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos) wiggled and we giggled as we watched. I pointed out that “anas” is the Latin word for “duck” and in Greek “platyrhynchos” means “flat bill”. He was probably dabbling in the shallows for tasty aquatic vegetation, ducking and bobbing and munching away. I corrected myself about the “munching” part because birds don’t have teeth and they actually grind up their food in their gizzards. Soon the discussion of the two different types of “duck” took flight. The differences in what the birds eat determine what they look like, or more correctly, how particular features of their body are shaped. The merganser, besides being a diver and catching fish underwater, can fly very fast but can not walk very well because of the position of its diving feet. We noted that a waddling Mallard is not the best on land but is still able to walk better than its diving cousin. Its strong wings allow it to lift straight out of the water into flight and though it flies slowly with its pudgy form it can land quickly in a small space. The divers need a long water runway to land and take off. We had many jokes about the “divers” and the “dabblers,” particularly about that flat quacking bill….no, not him, the other bill.
Merganser – photo by Daniel Murley
Black Phoebe - (Sayornis nigricans) By Daniel F. Murley
The distant resonant tattooing of an unidentified woodpecker echoed through the valley as we stood under an old Live oak on this early March afternoon. Our conversation with our 97 year-old host was centered around and beside a large farm pond which he had excavated some seventy years ago. Today the pond was visited by many different species of ducks, geese and other water birds. In the spreading limbs of the Live oak George had placed a number of carefully constructed bird houses and the accommodations were being fully occupied by an active group of returning Tree swallows (Tachycineta bicolor.) While one bird, with its head poked outside the nest box hole would guard its residence with vigilant peeps and rapidly bobbing head gestures, the other would zoom about catching a little insect lunch on the wing while gathering nesting materials and then return to relieve its partner at their chosen tree-top abode. The frenetic flying about was quite a sight to behold. We humans were not the only ones to find interest and amusement in the frenzied swallow tenement scene. A curious local flycatcher, a Black Phoebe (Sayornis nigricans), perched on a nearby limb, bobbed its black tail up and down, cocked its dark-feathered head this way and that and just seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of the returning migrants. Soon though, all of us found our fascination giving way to hunger and as we went inside for a fine Italian lunch prepared by a visiting scholar from Florence, the Phoebe hopped off its perch and snapped-up an insect treat from the air. Our trip to this lovely ranch near Chalk Hill was to visit with local rancher/artist George Greeott. My companion, Paola Sensi-Isolani was interviewing George regarding the early days of wine-making and grape growing in Sonoma County. I am not sure about how the rest of the day went for the birds but we had a wonderful afternoon of reminiscence and conversation.
Moving en masse across the green grass near the small pond, the large group of small black creatures caught our attention and evoked comment. Hannah was quick to point out that the changing form reminded her of one the single-celled organisms she had studied in biology class. Sure enough, like those tiny protozoa of microscopic fame, the body of this form moved freely and the shape of the whole changed with each tiny movement. We noted that even the name amoeba came from the Greek word for change. Well, this form we were watching was not small, did not live in water and unlike amoebae which have no feet, this black blob was propelled by lots of little webbed appendages. We were watching a very large group of Fulica americana, American Coots, numbering in the hundreds.Often maligned for their odd up-close appearance and disdained by hunters for the purportedly “muddy flavor”, when viewing these wetland residents in the fading evening light, this flock was an intriguing sight. Admittedly, that once we got close enough to view an individual in the black feathered gang, their odd faces were decorated with a white face plate which was an extension of their whitish bills. Between their beady red eyes at the top of that bill shield was a brown spot. These decorations on these gray-black birds brought chuckles and questions. It was thought that all the facial markings might be useful during courtship and some bill spots are actually useful to help young birds find the location on the parent whence the food is delivered.
As we watched the blob move about we also noted that as in most animals, which are the prey or food items for other animals, there is always safety in numbers. Just as fish school in large groups to confuse other predatory fish, so do birds flock and fly in formation to confuse and confound a predator on the wing or on the ground. Of course the comment came, “What would eat a coot?” I reminded the girls that it was not far from this very spot that just last week Hannah had spotted that coyote and wetland areas like this are frequented by foxes and river otters. I also mentioned that up on the Gualala River a few years ago I saw a Peregrine Falcon, in a burst of aerial speed and an explosion of feathers, take an unsuspecting coot right out of mid-air.
So, we left the birds to their communal wanderings, pecking for food and we headed home for dinner and my story of another blob, that menacing creature of the silver screen which consumed human flesh: the one, the only … “The Blob” starring the young Steven McQueen. All were amused by the film description and the girls expressed an interest in viewing that scientific-fiction classic. Sandy and I agreed and admitted we were interested but really just wanted to see the young Steve McQueen in action is one of his earliest film roles.
When last we discussed the marvelous, misunderstood, and now extinct big bad bruin of the West not long ago, we spoke of Ursus arctos horribilis – the California Grizzly being pitted against a longhorn bull in a gruesome form of entertainment. The description came from Russians who sailed to San Francisco in the spring of 1806 to obtain grain and produce for their needy colonies in Alaska. They were mildly amused by the spectacle and eventually did get their provisions. They knew of a similar, even fiercer and larger cousin species of bear, which troubled Russian adventurers on Kodiak Island and the Alaska mainland.
While walking along a Redwood forest trail the other day, an old moss-covered stump reminded us of the form of a hunched-up bear and quickly the bear tales continued anew. It seems that no matter where explorers and settlers ventured in western North America the accounts of the brazen bloodthirsty bears were told and the more people that entered the bears’ formerly uncontested domain, the more colorful and more frequent the stories. Here on the North Coast even before the white men came, Native folklore contained many references to the bears with whom they coexisted carefully. There are many accounts of “Bear Doctors” and “Bear Shamans” among local Native groups and Sandy was able to relate many details from her research on these fascinating anthropological topics.
We also observed that most large coastal watercourses and even some smaller creeks and streams, such as the Russian River, the Gualala River and Salmon Creek, all supported a yearly anadromous fish population, and thereby supporting healthy human and bear populations. Hannah was quick to mention that both she and Oona had raised tiny salmonids from eggs in their classroom at Fort Ross School. She knew that anadromous referred to fish which are born in fresh water, go out to the ocean, spend a goodly portion of their lives in the sea and then return, often to the same stream in which they were born, to mate and reproduce. That being said I joked that in the days before the mad rush for gold and other California resources, that it was it not only unnecessary to replant already plentiful salmon species but that the fish would eventually have encountered hungry fishing bears when they matured. Those “schooled” fish, those small “fry”, which they released, might have benefited by their time in the classroom, but no Piscine Academy or for that matter no learned University of Ichthyology could have prepared even the brightest finest fingerling for the gauntlet that would have to be swum to avoid the beastly bears. The majority of the fish survived to produce plentiful replacements. Regardless, we agreed that there were once a profusion of Grizzly bears here in Sonoma County and they were both feared and revered and now there are none in all of California…except for the one which adorns the state flag.
"Hunting the Grizzly Bear" - Karl Bodmer from Reise in das Innere Nord-America in den Jahren 1832 bis 1834.
Anticipation was written on our faces. However, the looks were not as intent as they might have been, had the contest we were driving home to view been between different foes. In particular, all of us would have liked to have seen a more Patriot-ic encounter, one pitting a team of colonial New England minutemen versus a troop of Midwestern brown bears. Anyway, the hyped game we were going to view on the television held the chance of a viewing of royalty at halftime. Still, as we rolled along the road past expanses of green annual grasses, I felt compelled to tell a tale of pastoral California before the land’s drastic change following the discovery of gold on the South Fork of the American River and the arrival of menacing hordes from around the globe.
In what might have been called Spanish California, there was a more idyllic lifestyle of large ranches and handsome vaqueros, finely dressed olive-skinned maidens and … endless herds of cattle, with some estimates at as many as 200,000 head. The Rancho period in California was that final gasp of gentility before the “invasion” of the gold–seekers but all was not as fine and refined as it might appear. In fact, the hide and tallow trade which fueled the California economy was not all lariats, noble Spanish horses and brightly-colored brocaded jackets. The land was held hostage to the vast herds of longhorns and native wildlife was exploited and in some cases eliminated in the pursuit of leather cowhides, also known as “California dollars.” In this time just before California statehood, there was a not so genteel practice of capturing full-grown Grizzly Bears (Ursus arctos horribilis) and pitting them in mortal combat with one or as many as three huge, sometimes equally as wild, longhorn bulls. An account of such a battle was written about by Georg Von Langsdorff when he visited San Francisco aboard a Russian ship one hundred and one years ago this month. He and his shipmates were entertained by the officers and men of the Presidio with the staging of a bull and bear fight. Langsdorff wrote: "I could not help being struck at seeing, that the fathers, who in all their instructions to their converts, insist so strongly upon their cultivating tenderness of heart, and kind and compassionate feelings, never oppose these national amusements, though it cannot be denied that they are very cruel and barbarous."
Such spectacles were not uncommon and were highlights of fiestas and feast days and entire settlements in the missions, pueblos and presidios would turn out to view the events. The staged battles continued through the early American occupation but soon degenerated into commercialized displays. Within 70 years after statehood the gay life of Alta California and the Spanish and Mexican culture had all but vanished. Herds of cattle were decimated and the California Grizzly was extinct, gone from the land it once ruled.
We soon were home in our living room ready to watch the modern day spectacle of the Super Bowl. We were more anxious to view the halftime extravaganza than the battle of the animal namesakes. We all joked and wondered what the early Californios would think of our new form of entertainment.
Reaching the coastal ridge top well after the morning sun had risen gave a new look to a familiar location which I oftentimes see only in the half-light of predawn. The grasses had lost the frosty glistening of early day and the greens hidden beneath the crystalline cover now shown verdantly. I was tempted to forego my commitments and soak up some sun on one of those inviting mossy rock outcrops which was drenched in sunlight. As I surveyed a grassy meadow from the road side of the pasture fence my eyes caught a slight movement as if one of the rocks had just quivered a bit. Closer inspection proved that that was not a moving mineral but rather a vibrant ball of fur out in the middle of the meadow. The eyes which inhabited the grayish fur were, though attentive, not intense. The tiny feathery black tufts atop those perky ears wavered in the slight breeze but no sound which reached those sensitive receptors caused any movement but a slight twitch. That noble feline face was contentedly contorted in a semi-smile, unaffected by my presence.
The absorption of the warming solar energy was much more important than the distant threat of my human form on the other side of the wire fence barrier. Possibly digesting a mousey morsel which he had just consumed for brunch, the dappled cat splayed out fully on the green grass, only occasionally moving to stretch its muscular limbs. He was going to remain undisturbed. A morning of warm sunshine had not been available for a couple of weeks and today was the day, “come human or high water,” that this beautiful beast was going to enjoy the day and charge those wanting solar batteries. Though I wished that I could join my feline friend I left him to his lounging and I jealously departed.
Their appearance and composure had definitely changed from the first time we saw them this morning. When we first encountered this flock they were flapping hard, flying high and honking loudly as they cruised in chevron formation across the pink morning sky. Now they sat serenely with heads high, necks slightly arched, buoyantly floating on the still, slick, dark patch on the imperceptibly flowing river. The patches that they wore gave them a kind of military appearance. These were not shoulder patches of a division or particular army affiliation but more a coloration patch on their cheeks which for some reason looked like a chin strap for a helmet or other headgear. Even with the military touch there was some element above and beyond military which struck us. These elegant birds seemed not dressed for battle but rather for a fashionable affair. “Yes” commented Hannah, “that white patch is not a chin strap but more an ermine muff.” Oona quickly added that even the gray feathers covering their bodies appeared as soft as a lovely curly lamb’s wool coat rather than a staid military uniform. I quickly agreed and explained and described a coat meeting that fashion that my mother often wore out on chilly New England winter days. That coat was always a favorite of mine and my siblings. It was so soft and warm and my mother always had three or for of us youngsters trying to hold her gloved hand and snuggle closely into that furry warmth as we walked along the snowy sidewalks of my youth. I also mentioned how Canada Geese like these we were enjoying were one of my departed mother’s favorite migratory birds to visit our area each year. The many sub species of Canada Goose, which all look essentially the same, can be found on ponds and marshes and in farm fields all across North America. I mentioned, to the feigned grimaces of the group, that these birds must have escaped the Christmas dinner table because besides being beautifully feathered, they make a fantastic seasonal meal.
With that we chuckled and turned to leave the serene scene.I was gratified that even though there was no gray lamb’s wool jacket to be found we all snuggled and joked as we walked slowly along the riverbank with another winter’s tale to tell.
Surrounded by textured greenness, we were nearly lost in a verdant winter wonderland. It took focus, forbearance and directed discussion to finally decide on the arboreal holiday prize. Once home however, the elfish family went directly to work transforming the simple transplant from the greenwood, to tasteful Christmas tree in its new home in the Murley living room. After preparation of my traditional “spe-ci-ality”, Dad’s inimitable Christmas hot chocolate, we sat and enjoyed the colorful glow of the lights in the darkened room, as the steaming aroma of the chocolate mixed and mingled with the subtle fragrance of the evergreen conifer. This particular species, Pseudotsuga menziesii, became a topic of discussion as it gets its common name from one of my favorite pioneer botanists who actually wandered these same coastal hills one hundred and seventy-five years ago. The Douglas fir, with its short needles encircling each rough-skinned twig, reminded us of that adventuresome Scot naturalist David Douglas, who with his little Scottish terrier, “Billy,” rambled and botanized throughout California and the Pacific Northwest in the late 1820’s and early 1830’s. As this season is one on remembrance, I also recalled the feisty, curly-haired, “Bunty,” the Scottish terrier of my mother’s family, the MacDonalds. He appears with my maternal grandparents in an old photograph on the bookcase near the lighted tree.
Back now to Douglas, we discussed the many species of trees and plants he discovered and recorded and how for the most part he traveled by foot, alone. I remembered an account of his seldom mentioned trepidation about the daunting solitude encountered on his fabulous treks and pulled out a quote from one of his letters back to his mentor William Hooker at the Royal Horticultural Society back in London. In 1831, Douglas wrote from the wild and mostly unexplored West Coast of America: “You may judge my situation, when I say to you that my rifle is in my hand day and night; it lies by my side under my blanket when I sleep, and my faithful little Scotch terrier, the companion of all my journeys, takes his place a my feet.”
I commented about how wonderfully cozy our situation was at present and proposed a toast to the memory of the intrepid scrappy Scots and also to lift our hearts and our glasses in remembrance of an equally memorable Irishman who would have been celebrating his 99th birthday this particular December day, my father, James Everett Murley. As “Tiny Tim” might have put it… “God bless us, everyone.”
Posted Friday Dec. 1, 2006 -------- The vaporous exhalations became more vivid and pronounced as we reached the top of the hill in our climb out of the canyon. The Fahrenheit was hovering in the thirties and our breath hovered like ephemeral little clouds in front of our faces as we spoke. We joked as our bodies smoked. The recent exertion had warmed our bodies, and the air in our lungs and the chilly ambient temperature caused our perspiration and exhalations to condense. The hilarity peaked when I removed my blue and gold “Cal” hat to reveal the steaming volcano that was my head. While glancing at the ground I noticed a wonderful product of this early winter, post-rainstorm morning. “Hey, look at this ‘brain’”. While everyone drolly, curiously, examined the top of my head, I snapped, “No, no, not there, down here” with an emphatic, finger-pointing gesture downward toward my old boots. A lovely pinkish-orange-colored fungus had recently risen from the leafy forest floor and stood proudly for us to examine. The fleshy fruiting body had an amorphous general appearance, yet when looking more closely this fungus looked like no typical “toad stool” with cap and stem. This pretty prodigious specimen actually had tiny finger-like appendages or branches rising from a thick base at ground level. This was a member of the Coral Fungi and it really did look like it should be sub-marine or extra-terrestrial rather than actually locally terrestrial. The brain jokes abounded, as in comparison between the fungus and my cerebral cortex. However, I fended them off by commenting that despite the fact that I was also a “fun-guy,” this gorgeous glistening hunk of gleaming gunk was no match for the dull gray glob of functional funk beneath my shiny steaming skull. These are quite primitive forms of life, though sometimes beautiful and sometimes even tasty denizens of this coastal forest community. We wandered on our way becoming more aware of the many different forms and species of the mycological menagerie we may discover during this soggy season of the year.
Posted Wednesday Nov. 15, 2006 --------- From the drenched roadside vegetation in the pre-dawn darkness, rapidly flapping forms fly up in panicked bursts as we motor our way along twisting rural roads. In our haste and theirs it is difficult to definitely identify these species of the early morn but occasionally we catch a telltale glimpse of plumage decoration or body design. For the most part these little birds are thrushes and once in a while we can distinguish the Turdus migratorious from the Ixoreus naevius. Both of these birds are quite familiar and abundant in the winter months but in the half light of daybreak, identification becomes a challenge. Both bird speciesfeed mainly near the ground, scrounging for invertebrates like earthworms, but they eat berries and some seeds when they can find them. After prefunctory joking about the scientific names of the American Robin and Varied Thrush, we began our “name that bird” challenge. The male Varied Thrush in daylight is a handsome conspicuos critter. It is a little smaller than an American Robin and is stunning slate-like blue-gray above, with burnt orange underparts, wing bars, throat, and an orange extended eye stripe. This magnificent little migrant also has a black necklace and facemask. We also found that it seemed to take to the wing a bit more quickly than the orange breasted brown-backed Robin. If we could have heard them sing, Robin sounds would take a significantly distant second to the eerie, dreamy, melancholic soloist song of the Varied Thrush. Unfortunately, we were unable to hear either bird sing.
Finally, as we emerged from the darkness into the pinkish light of sunrise we noticed another apparently eartbound bird scurrying across the cultivated verdant turf of the school soccer field. Again we viewed the silent quick stepper with interest, as well as anxiousness and impatience for rapid identification. Too easy was this task, for the obvious coloration of the similarly sized bird made it momentary and unanimous. The white forehead, brown cap, white breast and belly with not one but two black necklaces on display gave us all the easy “I D” as Charadrius vociferus. Before I could joke about its rusty red rump, I was beaten to the fact that not only is this little shorebird vociferous in name but also in performance. For if we were to approach any closer we would have heard the nervous whiny “kill-deer” call as the bird took off in short-lived running flight, just out of harm’s way.
