First trip in to Piute…arrived the previous day and starting to get moved back in.
16 Jun (Sun) Worked in the cabin all through the a.m., getting things put back in their proper places. Swept ten thousand mouse turds out of the bottom compartment of the tall cabinet and got stored foodstuffs squared away. ◦◦◦◦◦ Walked up the Kirkwood trail in the afternoon. Good to take a walk, check out snow conditions, see the early flowers. Took my cruise axe. Had to wade across the upper log crossing [fallen log “bridge” somewhat upriver from the cabin used during spring flood]. Normally, the entire log is high & dry but at present is under 3–4” of water. I took care. That is, tried to avoid a tragic, premature death. ◦◦◦◦◦ Another fine day for a stroll in the woods. Sweated not too profusely. Rocked the trail as I rolled along, clearing many fallen branches. Whacked out a few small trees, some that the snowpack had flattened. (J.D. called these “snowdowns.”) Walked as far as 79 Camp [named for a sheepherder carving from 1879 on a tree in the camp]. Beyond there it was more snow than trail so I turned back. Found a dead bird by the trail—a Stellar’s jay chick that had apparently fallen from its nest. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, here’s a classic example of how my brain works when I dash into the nearest phone booth and come out transformed into scientist-mode. I’ll treat this as a psychological profile written in third-person rather than recount yet another nature drama. ◦◦◦◦◦ Ranger Tim spots fledgling bird still in pinfeathers and down laying motionless beside the trail. In rapid succession: Did it fall out or got booted out of the crib by aggressive sibling? (It happens….) Notes pinfeathers and general black downiness with bluish highlights. Stellar’s jay. Maybe ten days old. No movement. Is it dead? RT lifts it up by one wingtip. It is dead and already stiff. Several ants are crawling around in the throat region. No visible holes into the body cavity, no maggots—Freshly dead. RT feels neither sorrow nor remorse—just a purely clinical, scientific interest. Here is a good, clean specimen I can learn things from. He notes the oversize horny bill, yellow in color at this stage of development, extremely broad at its base. Unlike in adult birds, the outer edges of the bill protrude from the sides of the head sort of like a wrap-around visor. As configured, when an adult arrives back at the nest with worm or moth, bills—thrown open in an instant—reveal several giant gaping holes that virtually eclipse the nestlings. ◦◦◦◦◦ Further examination: RT, on hands and knees, grabs a twig and wedges it between the mandibles, prying them apart with his fingers and spreading them to their full 180° gape. Amazed by what he saw, noting Bright yellow interior studded with tiny, semi-rigid white spines—reminiscent of those on a cat’s tongue but sparser, all pointing downward from the funnel’s mouth—a dark hole leading directly to the stomach. The gulping motions, as soon as contact is made with the worm/moth, sends the nestling’s latest protein packet delivery down the hatch quickly and irretrievably. After a pause, thinks: The violence of a nestling’s devouring its meal is not altogether unlike a piranha’s. ◦◦◦◦◦ The tongue was a wonder RT was not quite prepared for. He had no idea that, at the end of the tongue, there was a rigid structure—Amazing! Like fingernail material but black—shaped like an arrowhead, complete with reflexed spurs at the trailing edge. He poked at it with the twig. Clearly, designed to get into pinecones and pry out seeds; shell all sorts of pods; dislodge beetle larvae from bark crevices, et cet. An amazingly versatile and durable utensil. ◦◦◦◦◦ As RT gazed down the maw of this unfinished jay he saw one more thing to lend perspective: minute, glistening white “spines” clustered around the rim of the bill. At first, RT took them for some other means of hooking into a meal but the white objects were in two spots only and asymmetrically arranged. RT realizes: Blowfly eggs. Two females had already located this ideal place to deposit their eggs. Tomorrow the eggs will be maggots. By then, ants will likely have made it into the body cavity and begun the process of paring the chick down to thin bones, carting off tiny chunks to their own nest—probably tote off the maggots, too, as long as they’re small enough to handle. The Great Wheel of Life rolled on before RT’s mind’s eye. He maybe felt a bit of instinctive revulsion upon recognizing the fly eggs but grokked his lesson well. It was a good one: a reminder that we all—all living things—move quickly through some version of same biological re-cycle process, reduced ultimately to large organic molecules. In many ways, it is a beautiful thing. As essential as life itself. RT offered up his usual silent expression of gratitude. Thank you! More feeling than words. ◦◦◦◦◦ Back home at sunset. Skipped my river bath again—too windy; water too cold.
Copied on the first page of this volume of the Piute Log:
“Experiencing the present purely is being emptied and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.”
—Annie Dillard
©2023 Tim Forsell 6 Jan 2023
I always feel fortunate to check the blog and see a new entry.
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