OVER THE LAST FEW YEARS I’ve been piecing together a sort of backroads route through Owens Valley—a means of getting from here to there by taking the path of some resistance. So far as I know, driving from Lone Pine to Bishop isn’t feasible without four wheel drive and a purloined LADWP gate key to make it around the back side of Tinnemaha Reservoir. The most “practical” option I’ve found thus far keeps me on the straight path of State Route 395 for about ten of those sixty miles. Steering clear of tarmac, I turn onto sandy, brush-lined two-tracks at places marked not with signs but landmarks: just past a ditch lined by willows…first left after the haystacks. My favorite bit is an eight mile stretch of pre-395 “highway”—two lanes of crumbling antique asphalt lined with encroaching vegetation, in places buried under drifts of wind-blown sand. (Old roads in this tumbleweedy, plants-sprouting-from-all-the-cracks condition have a post-apocalyptic quality I find strangely appealing.) Parts of my preferred route are east of the river, shadowing either the historic railroad bed of the Carson & Colorado line or what’s left of a long-abandoned canal system hugging the base of the Inyos. You’d never know, from the looks of things now, that most of the action in the valley after whitey first showed up in the 1860s was over there in that dry and desolate zone—fields, railroad stops, bustling villages. And now, barely a trace left behind.
Thanks in part to being gainfully unemployed half of each year, with time to spare, I’ve acquired a taste for taking the slow way instead of the highway. For those days of no-hurry, puttering along on the back back roads at ten or fifteen miles an hour feels just right; it makes for risk-free gaping and eliminates altogether the prospect of drifting into a tragic high speed head-on while doing so. In second gear you can admire dramatic vistas out the side windows…gaze wistfully at summits…keep an eye out for snakes. There’s time and mental space to recall bygone adventures, to dredge up details like how the air and light felt on some special day years in the past while still making forward progress in the present. Sandy stretches along the river allow you to drive by feel while side-gawking: correct course without a glance when rabbitbrush grazes fender or front wheels start to climb out of their ruts. Of course, I have standard stops along the way for all-purpose viewing. Soaring eagles and migratory flights of white pelicans have me out of the truck, binoculars in hand. Owens Valley is my home in the broader sense of the word “home” and I derive a great deal of pleasure simply looking at it.
Several days ago, heading north, I took that stretch of old highway past Aberdeen and Taboose Creek Campground. But, rather than continue straight on the formerly paved section that traverses the west side of Poverty Hills (seldom graded, terrible washboard) I turned right on the Goodale Creek Road cutoff and got back on 395. Quicker this way. The plan, such as it was, entailed a stop in Big Pine to visit my friends Martin and Dori before pressing onwards. But first, a short but not-so-brief detour.
Some backstory. Recently, heading home from Bishop, I discovered a roundabout way to sidestep another half-mile of pavement; probably not worth the trouble but it provided an opportunity to explore. Just south of Big Pine, an inconspicuous PG&E service road angles westward toward the powerline. I veered off there and followed it aways before turning onto a narrow track that wound around without rhyme or reason, then crossed a little creek-like water diversion and eventually ran into the old pioneer cemetery road. There, I bore left and passed by the dump, taking me back to 395.
So, on this north-bound trip, I decided to try out my new bypass from the opposite direction—cement it in my mind in case I ever feel the urge to go that way again. To that end, I turned left at Cemetery Road, passed the dump and…et cetera. This was a blustery December day at autumn’s bitter end. Finding the aforementioned creeklet now rimmed with ice came as a shock, reminding me that winter was nigh. The watercourse was bordered by head-high willows, some still bearing a few withered leaves. Nearing the shallow ford, movement caught my eye: the willows were chock full of “white-crowns”—that is to say, white-crowned sparrows—a common and widespread species of little-brown-bird, very handsome. Like other highcountry songbirds, white-crowns leave their breeding grounds come fall to congregate in the lowlands where they weather their winters, snagging enough stray insects and leftover seeds to get by.
Coasting toward the little rivulet, I was surprised when they all didn’t take wing but quickly realized that the whole flock was just then coming in to drink—the group-mind pulling them down, noisy intruder be damned. One-ounce sparrows rained down like confetti. And kept on coming. Already, some dozens lined the shallow water flowing across the road. They seemed to materialize from the aether, alighting in vegetation bordering the brook or straight onto muddy ice slicks beneath the willows. Dozens of sparrows were jammed shoulder to shoulder, muscling in for a drink in the fashion of thirsty cattle. My truck’s metallic bulk and droning engine didn’t alarm them in the least. By then I’d eased to a stop ten feet from water’s edge and still they kept showing up. And showed up some more. Striped crowns were bobbing up and down continually, each bird frequently lifting its head to let water trickle down a beakful at a time. I couldn’t hear what they were saying amongst themselves. Bird gossip, I suppose.
Up on the Sierra crest it was snowing. The highest summits were hidden under snow-cloud as were the upper parts of neighboring canyons. I knew exactly what it was like to be up there in those clouds…knew just how it would feel in such weather. This made me glad to be in my truck with the heater on all nice and warm, watching a nature-movie through the wide screen windshield. In fact, it felt as if I were in a theater (minus the popcorn) and I was delighted in some primal fashion by mere proximity to a flock of little birds who were going about their business, unmindful of my presence.
I was leaning on my steering wheel, taking in the show with a big grin when my “inner scientist” turned up. This was perhaps the biggest mob of white-crowns I’d ever seen in one place and I felt this sudden impulse to estimate the number of birds in the flock. After decades of birding you develop a knack for ballpark-figuring flock size. Here’s how it’s done: depending on the crowd’s size and amount of movement and mingling, you swiftly count ten birds, say, or twenty if they’re holding still. (Hint: crossing the eyes a bit helps in visually isolating this random grouping within a larger field.) Then you can double its size, maybe double that, and finally estimate what fraction of the whole group this bunch represents. For some reason, I enjoy the process.
Stripey-head sparrows were still turning up but others were beginning to leave. I started my first count and reached eighteen when, suddenly, the whole lot disappeared. Vanished. They were just GONE in a meteoric whoosh!And in the same instant some foreign object—something bigger, a blur—streaked across my windshield/movie screen and dove into the willows. Whatever it was slammed into the thicket at speed. What was that!?! What just happened?!Had there been other spectators sharing my private theater experience, the entire audience would have erupted in one big, room-filling “Oooohh!!” I was clutching the steering wheel, at the edge of my seat. Some halfhearted thrashing-about in the bushes…an indistinct shape. Then, a kestrel—the little falcon—lifted into the air and soared out of view. It was a “he” (inner-scientist’s wordless snap ID: dark spots on belly, not brown streaks; tail black-tipped, not barred; blue grey wings = ♂) and he came up empty. I found myself exultant, cheering inside—a tacit salute to both winners and losers in lieu of clapping and shouting, Bravo!! Encore, encore!! But all the players had left the stage and were not coming back for a bow. Show over. Graced again.
Maybe a week before this minor drama unfolded (in fact, it was the day I first tried out that new cutoff via Cemetery Road) I was headed south and stopped in Big Pine to see Dori and Martin. It’d been awhile. During our catch-up, Martin mentioned a recent trip to Independence; something about the courthouse…taking care of some legal paperwork. Out of the blue: “Have you ever seen those big trees in the back?” I shook my head no and Martin just grinned. ”There’s some cool old trees back there…you should go check ‘em out.” We both have a thing for trees so that was all the hint I needed.
Never in all my years living on the Eastside, even after driving past it hundreds of times, had I taken time to visit the historic Inyo County Courthouse. Not once, even though the tan-colored three story office building, right by the highway, is—hands down—Owens Valley’s most distinguished edifice. But just an hour after leaving Big Pine (twenty minutes had I not taken the slow way) I pulled up behind it, finding myself on a residential street in a time-worn neighborhood made up of modest wooden houses, many of them built, I’d have to guess, in the 1930s and 40s. I parked by a tall hedge behind which was some sort of open space hemmed in by the hedge along with half a dozen tightly spaced conifers. It was hushed and peaceful in there, I could tell, thanks in part to the lofty shade trees but also because the courthouse did a fine job of muffling the incessant din of traffic, traffic streaming past a scant hundred yards away. The courthouse complex’s rear was accessed from the street by a cement walk leading through a wide break in the hedge. As it happened, this was a Saturday; the place was deserted. I peeked in and saw what looked to be a pint-sized urban park—a common area for the use and enjoyment of both employees and waiting visitors. The grounds consisted of a somewhat scruffy midwinter lawn sporting several wooden benches and a pair of picnic tables. The mere presence of the commanding, multistory government building lent the whole scene an air of solemn decorum. I had absolutely no idea this was here! I was completely taken aback by all the beauty, charmed by the atmosphere.
Passing through the leafy threshold, I was at once enveloped by a warm, fuzzy feeling—a feeling of welcome. Of refuge. The quarter-acre park was populated by well-groomed exotic trees forming a protective wall on the north and east sides. (It would be deliciously inviting here in the summer months.) But on this particular day, with no one around, the place had a sanctified, cathedral-like ambiance. I slowly took all this in, first craning my eyes up an almost perfectly conical redwood sequoia—the Big Tree—whose native brethren reside thirty miles due west of where we stood, at a similar elevation but in a whole ‘nother world. The sequoia was flanked by stately non-native cedars, obviously of two kinds, each extensively pruned. Their massive lower limbs emerged near the base of impressive trunks three feet and more in diameter, the limbs growing first outward before curving aloft. Neighboring trees’ branches intertwined to form a loose-knit twiggy umbrella. The cedars were foreign to me. Their bark and needles were similar to a pine’s—not the flattened sprays of scaly foliage and stringy red bark of our native incense cedar (which, along with the sequoia, is in the cypress family). The barrel-shaped cones vaguely resembled fir cones in that they stood vertically on the tree’s outermost twigs, crumbling in place rather than falling whole. Routed wooden placards on short posts identified individual trees as either “Cedar of Lebanon” or “Deodar,” species of so-called true cedars native to the Mideast and Asia, respectively. The two varieties differed largely in overall form and foliage color: the deodar, taller, with drooping branches and green-green needles; the cedar of Lebanon shorter, stouter, and more of a bluish green tint. I realized then that for years I’d been seeing both of these trees in parks and yards, not knowing what they were. But I couldn’t recall ever seeing any individuals nearly as impressive. Their maturity, dignity, and comforting shade gave the little park its peaceful aura—call it “the old tree effect.” I stayed for only a few minutes longer; this was just our first get-together, after all. Our introduction. In fact, I actually spoke to one of the deodars, whispering, “So nice to finally meet you!”
A few days later, northbound again, I stopped for an extended visit and arrived with a plan: to climb one of the cedars. The open street out back where I’d just rolled to a stop during my previous visit turned out to be employee parking. This was a weekday during business hours and the unpaved area fronting the hedge was now lined with close-packed cars and SUVs—vehicles belonging to people who live right in town or nearby but others who commute from Lone Pine and Big Pine, maybe even Bishop. Bypassing the walkway, I squeezed through a narrow gap in the hedge and strolled around the lawn to scope out my objective: the southernmost deodar—the one I could get up into quickly and, hopefully, not be observed. This was the county sheriff’s HQ, after all, where tree climbing on state property is no doubt a form of trespass. The marvelous tranquility I’d felt on my previous visit was muted this time around. Scanning rows of curtainless windows, I saw small town civil servants at invisible desks—heads down, hard at work—and reflected on how these good citizens head home at quitting time untroubled by the stress and worry of city life (and even if they do commute many miles each day, don’t have to do battle with insane traffic; indeed, some get to walk to work.) Just then two men in suits came out for a smoke and sat down on one of the benches. I attempted to look inconspicuous and unfurtive while they chatted.
As soon as the suits stood and turned to go I sprang into action. The tree’s first limb split off just above ground level—a monumental thing several feet thick, big as a “normal” tree’s trunk. I scrambled up onto it and, from there, hauled myself skyward on the rungs of a living ladder that transitioned from stout limb to skinny branch, making my way to the very top where at the last I had to wriggle through a thatch of needle-lined twigs. Fifty vertical feet gained me a view of the courthouse roof with its vents and conduits, of office interiors, traffic zooming by on the highway. Beyond there: tree-lined streets, quaint neighborhoods, and off in the distance a broad swath of the majestic Sierra crest providing scenic backdrop. From my airy perch the sound of traffic passing through town was once again prominent; semi trucks, an intermittent roar.
After fifteen minutes I’d had enough sightseeing and clambered down. I looked before leaping off the lowest limb back onto the lawn, brushed off my hands, and took a casual victory stroll. Nobody was standing at their window staring at me, phone in hand. Good. The Sun was low in the west, its light slanting in with autumnal glow. Half the lawn was already in shade. The old trees looked a little different now, as I’d known they would—a consequence of altered perspective. I stood in mild reverence beneath a handsome, middle-aged cedar of Lebanon, taking the air with a warm glow inside.
Suddenly, it began to rain…to rain feathers. Tiny feathers, backlit by the sun, were wafting down around me. What? After several moments of confusion, this flash of insight: a small bird was at that very moment being torn to shreds and devoured by another bird. The circle of life…you know: nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I looked up, made out the general vicinity of the rain of feathers’ origin, and stepped back. Back a little farther. There it was, yes: the silhouette of a sharp-shinned hawk standing atop a limb, forty feet off the deck. “Sharp-shins” are smaller cousins of the goshawk and Cooper’s hawk, all three species members of a subgroup of swift-flying, athletic raptors. They feed mostly on other birds, which they pluck before eating. (I have no idea what evolutionary advantage their sharp shins confer.) The drifting feathers were quite small—songbird-size. Sharp-shinned hawks, common in urban areas, are just who one would expect to find first plucking then eating mini-fowl in a tree in a town. Voilà.
My inner scientist rose up again, inquiring, What species is being consumed? Most of the feathers making it through the needled boughs were drifting in a southwesterly direction into oblique sunlight. I tried to catch a couple for ID purposes, at first going after the big ones (wing and tail feathers) that were helicoptering down in the fashion of winged maple seeds but found them difficult to catch on the fly. I’d chase after one, get blinded by sunbursts, grab thin air. Then dash after another. I could’ve picked fresh-plucked feathers off the grass at will but, for reasons unknown, felt a compelling urge to catch one in flight. Off and on the little hawk came into my line of sight. Once, I stopped to watch—long enough to see its predatory head dip repeatedly, tearing off chunks of tender warm flesh before gobbling them down. I could see blood drip from its beak onto the fat branch where it stood while downy feathers floated earthward on the gentlest of breezes. Resuming my chase, I darted after feathers like a child chasing bubbles until it dawned on me that someone glancing out their window might finally notice that there was some madperson acting crazy out on the lawn. At that, self-consciousness took over and my private magical moment came to an abrupt close. But not before the latent scientist—someone I barely knew right then—made his final identification based on a breast feather’s faint brown streaking: Female and/or immature house finch. Both of us, me and the scientist, standing on the Inyo County Courthouse lawn under a December sun, under the watch of old trees whose sole arbor-aspiration was to abide.
©2020 Tim Forsell 4 Dec 1994, 29 Jul 2020, 29 Jan 2022
