From 1995 to 2001, I lived on a private property near Lone Pine. The ”house” was a run-down double-wide trailer with A-frame structure attached—formerly home to an old couple, long dead, who were part of a like-minded spiritual/philosophical group centered around one Dr. Franklin Merrell-Wolfe. Back in the 1930s this exceptional figure, along with a small group of acolytes, homesteaded four-hundred acres at the base of fourteen-thousand-foot Mt. Langley, christening it “The Great-Space Center.” (You’d need background on Dr. Wolfe’s decidedly esoteric teachings to understand why it was given such a cosmic-sounding name.) Last man standing, he died in 1985, aged ninety-eight. The property went to his granddaughter by marriage. When I moved there it was mostly unoccupied and going to seed. My friend and mentor, Lorenzo, rented the original house. Thanks to his referral, we ended up next-door neighbors for seven years, living off the grid: no phones; candles and kerosene lamps for light…water from a spring-box up the hill. Rent was $200 a month. I had free rein to take on landscaping projects of my choosing. Over the years I dug out a spring-fed pond, built rock retaining walls and stairsteps…and cleared lots of brush.
I’VE BEEN ON A BRUSH-BURNING SPREE here at the Great Space. When I moved here three years ago the quarter-acre below the shack—my “front yard”—was a virtually impenetrable sagebrush thicket. So I’ve slowly but surely been clearing and burning surplus shrubbery in order to get it back to something resembling a natural state. At the very least, I’ve created space for dainty desert wildflowers whose seeds—already there in the soil, waiting patiently—refuse to germinate without sufficient breathing room. After two years’ effort, it’s looking a lot better. And those wildflowers I just mentioned? They’re back.
So on this first full day of Spring (yesterday was equinox) I was out in the yard at 4:15 a.m., heaving armloads of dry brush into my burn pit down by the fenceline. There was little need for the light of a waning moon: sagebrush leaves are coated with a highly flammable resinous material so after each new delivery tall flames leap skyward, illuminating the surroundings. Starting around five the robins (early-birds that they are) began to stir and converse softly among themselves from tree to tree. At first hint of gloaming the eastern sky began its gradual metamorphosis, taking an honest hour to go from steely grey to fiery ultra-pink. The dawn’s increasing glow spread over everything and into me. At some point, the robins commenced with their dawn-songs. Other birds, too. Later, at the light show’s climax, I stood sweating by the dwindling fire and drank in yet another classic Owens Valley daybreak; captivated as always by the expansive view from my front yard: a unique vista that spans the entire valley from the White Mountains, far to the north, across Owens Dry Lakebed, all the way to Telescope Peak—its summit, off in the hazy distance, barely poking up above the Argus Range. A still-snowy Sierra at my back, ignored for now, all ready to get lit up. Another day….
On burn-days, I try to be more or less done with the open-flames part by sunrise. Today’s blaze was down to a bed of glowing coals when Old Sol finally topped the Inyo crest, dazzling me when I finally looked up. It was time for a breather so I headed up to the house and brewed a pot of tea. Then it was back to raking embers (so they burn down to ash; the final step prior to wrapping things up for the day). On my way out, mugful of pekoe tea in hand, I started to swing the A-frame’s sliding glass door open.
This door-panel, old and worn, slides grudgingly at best and requires some effort to move. I had it less than a quarter of the way open when a hummingbird swooped across the porch at about head level, skidded to a stop, and turned toward me. It was a female Rufous—one of the very first hummingbirds I’d seen thus far; an early arrival. With door handle in one hand and steaming mug in the other, I turned to stone. There was maybe three feet of empty space separating us. We locked eyes. And then, lord knows why, this crazy bird zipped through the partly open door—into my house!—and screeched to a halt just inches from tip of my nose. Hovering in place, she continued to look me straight in the eye. This audacious act was so unexpected and happened with such suddenness, it more or less shut me down. My brain went into stand-by mode, locked into the Here & Now to such an extent that my ever-present internal dialog was temporarily silenced. Instead, all my focus converged on the semi-natural nature drama unfolding before me. The familiar low hum emanating from the blur of the hummingbird’s motorized wings, way louder than I’m used to hearing it, seemed to fill the room. A soothing breeze bathed my cheeks: rotor-backwash from said whirring appendages. Riveted, I stared into my uninvited guest’s minuscule eyes—a pair of glistening jet-black beads; small, yes, but chock full of verve. Neither pupil nor iris showed but those two tiny portals radiated willful intent. Indeed, her immobile visage somehow managed to convey total command of the moment.
Side note: There’s something about the way hummingbirds faces are structured that lends them an air of perpetual seriousness. It’s a “look” they all have. Birds lack the array of facial muscles that, alone among animals, all mammals possess. Consequently, they can’t assume facial expressions to telegraph emotion. Most birds wear what you could call a neutral expression but hummers…hummers have this look. So when the headstrong critter coolly circled my face from ear to ear, looking me over all the while, it really felt as if I was under some sort of critical appraisal. (Yes, I’m well aware that is pure projection. Nonetheless.) I followed with my eyes as she returned to her original position, front and center. Then, with head tilted slightly to one side she shot me a questioning look, like, Hmmm…is this character trustworthy? (more projection) before sliding down to check out my thoracic region. After which she rose back up to eye-to-eye level—again, inches from my nose—and once more gave me the twice-over.
As if all this weren’t enough, now for the truly remarkable part: Approaching my face—closer, closer…down a bit…closer—she inserted her needlelike bill halfway up one of my nostrils, exploring its interior with darting tongue as if I were a gargantuan, nectar-laden flower. I could feel the tip of her tongue daintily tapping away at my upper nasal passage—a most curious sensation, seeing as how this part of my body’s outer surface had never before felt touch. (It tickled, ever-so-slightly, but the physical contact was so light I could take it without flinching.) I remained stock-still. After a handful of jam-packed seconds she pulled out, backed up a few paces, and fixed me with that penetrating gaze of hers as if to weigh my reaction. Getting none, she went back and sipped at my other nostril, lingering a little longer this round. Then, with a revved-up whirr, the pint-sized-but-larger-than-life beastie turned on her heels and shot out the door, leaving me all alone in a ringing silence. Everything seemed to stop cold right after she went away but I soon regained control of my limbs. And the ol’ internal dialog kicked back in: A hummingbird just flew into my house! And stuck its bill up my nose!
My unparalleled encounter with one sassy little bird had lasting effect. Over the coming days I relived the incident many times. It felt like the Universe had bestowed a rare gift on my humble person. Why me? And what exactly was she after? Salt, perhaps? Had I been a kind of hummingbird salt lick? I speculated on why our brief meeting had affected me so powerfully. Lots of conjecture with no answers forthcoming. Of course, the event gradually faded from consciousness; got filed away in a memory-drawer together with all my other close encounters with the wildlings. This one, though—this one was a real-l-l-l doozy. For a while, at least, it left me a changed man. Re-invigorated, as it were.
Days passed before it finally dawned on me that the hummingbird’s abrupt exit had in fact left me in a mild state of shock. And by this I mean clinical shock, which is known to produce weird psychological and behavioral effects. As a diagnosis, shock would account for the out-of-body feeling; the blank-headedness; the sense of frozen time. And it would definitely explain my odd reaction in the wake of her departure:
Zoom! Out the door…gone, gone, gone. Without pause, without reviewing or so much as attempting to conceptualize what the heck had just happened, I rushed to the kitchen and started rifling through drawers. Why? Well, to find the hummingbird feeder, of course!—the feeder that I’d disassembled, cleaned, and stashed away back in October shortly after all the hummers headed south for more flowery climes. Where’d I put that thing?! I know it’s here somewhere…. I had this almost frantic urge to find the feeder; to get it filled with sugar-water and back hanging from the cypress branch outside my kitchen window.
Anything to get her to come back!
©2026 Tim Forsell 15 Apr 1998, 31 May 2026
No comments:
Post a Comment