Sunday, January 13, 2013

One Long Tale of Marvels 1999


            During the off-seasons I’ve been landscaping my rented property with stone stairways and walled terraces. For building materials I drive off on little collecting- expeditions. All the rock is hand-picked and carefully loaded into my truck’s camper: jumbo-sized granite cobbles out of Lone Pine Creek—tumbled smooth by Mt. Whitney’s runoff —and, from the north end of the Alabama Hills, a type of metamorphosed granite that fractures neatly into flat-sided slabs. (Perfect stairsteps… some weigh more than me.)  Yesterday morning, kneeling in my sandy driveway, I was admiring one of the best finds yet: a doormat-sized hunk of rock, five inches thick, that was standing on end like a mock-tombstone. Perched on its smooth, sunlit face were two Robber Flies.
            These are “good guy” flies that we all see but seldom notice. Swift-flying killers, they pounce on resting insects or snatch them out of the air, then carry their victims off to suck out the juice at leisure. Some types are large (for flies)—up to more than an inch in length—and many species have the long, lean form so common in predators, be they finned or feathered or furry. Robber Flies come in black or shades of grey, may have a yellow-striped abdomen like bees or wasps, and are often partially covered with fine, dense hair. I’ve noticed them sunning on rocks or twigs for years, sometimes with prey clutched under their bellies, without knowing more than these few facts.
            I was squatting a foot away from the motionless pair when they first caught my eye. One was quite a bit larger. Then: the smaller fly strode purposefully up to the other and with his two front legs…played her like a drum. I’m incorrigibly analytical and this bizarre act called forth my scientific alter-ego. Knowing insects somewhat I thought, The female is typically larger.…hmmm…. Their behavior had all the hallmarks of a courtship ritual, which follows this Universal Formula: the male-whatever boldly approaches a female, who pretends to be unaware of his presence, and he does something completely ludicrous. Looking bored, she responds with hauty disdain. Or simply ignores him.
            He stepped back and they were still. Again he approached—his body at right angles to hers—and she remained motionless while he beat another perfectly rhythmic, staccato drum-roll. Her front legs were stout and covered with short, dense hair; his were much more delicate and without the fuzz. One of those legs’ tarsus (that is, lowest leg section) was striking a point immediately behind where the antennae arose from her head. His other fell upon her back, mid-thorax. This whole performance was repeated a number of times with the drumming lasting several seconds: he’d back up…pause for a few to catch his breath…then stride forward and, with a grand flourish, rear up on tiptoes with front legs arched over her and pound away. It was a striking caricature of an emotional pianist, glistening with sweat, attacking the keys in melodramatic rapture at the climax of a Beethoven Piano Sonata—a real showman. The female exhibited not a hint of notice. Those legs were a blur but his touch so light there was no sign of impact upon her body, no sound. But were she hollow and resonant, and my hearing much more acute, I’d have caught a drumroll of lightning-speed that no human could match.
            After a half-dozen drummings he backed away and there was a sort of stillness amplified by my spinning brain. The female took off but landed only two inches away. The male followed, taking off a fraction of a second after, with an identical flight: he landed in the same position and the exact same distance away from her. A pause. Then a repeat flight. This I could hear—some special wing-buzz—and it also had a rhythmic quality. She’d fly and land, he’d follow an instant later. Pause…then motion. “Zzzzt-Zzzzt…Zzzzt-Zzzzt.” Another universal pattern of courtship: the girl runs (but not too far!) and the boy follows, blind to all else. A few of these short, mirrored, hopper-flights. Then a standard three second pause before he’d revert to drumming his prospective mate. But when I shifted from my cramped position they flew away and the show was all over, leaving me there in that morning sunlight, drenched in grace and delight. Hoo! I’ll never get to see THAT again....Wow! There’s this short, bare-bones sentence in a book by Joseph Wood Krutch that captures the essence of what bugs do: “Entomology is one long tale of marvels.” He wasn’t kidding…bugs do the darnedest things.
            I’ve written so many of these two-page nature-sketches. They’re all about the same; some folks enjoy them, others aren’t so enthusiastic. After all—there’s no pithy moral; no plot, no conflict with resolution. These are just intimate, detailed descriptions of the semi-miracles I’ve been lucky enough to witness simply by being in the right place at the right time and paying attention. I share them because of the impact they have on me: I’m just “out there walkin’ around” when my attention is suddenly caught by a movement. I latch on, focus down, and observe. One of my notable roles seems to be that of the Un-dispassionate  Observer. A paradox: as a witness I’m coldly rational and detached but, at the same time, an intensely and emotionally involved participant. Contradictory,  yes, but…so am I made. Our world is vast, infinitely complex, mysterious, and full of delightful surprises. Seeing The Dance of the Robber Flies had its predictable effect on me: it catalyzed a vivid hyper-perception of the magnificence of our world—the world I get to live in!—and the under-appreciated significance of the fact that we are all here together in the first place. I have no answers—never had any, never will—but I dearly enjoy watching, seeing…and wondering. 

                                                                                                                   5 Nov 1999, 13 Jan 2013


© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.
                                                                                                                    

     

Severely Compromised 1999


            For a few seasons I was frequently hosting Forest Service groups. Many of these “dog and pony shows” were political—the Toiyabe Forest  Supervisor taking Senator Harry Reid’s staff, generals and colonels from Pendleton, or his own minions on horseback mini-vacations to Piute cabin. Some were show-me tours for Bridgeport or other Toiyabe personnel. Occasionally, volunteer groups would come up for a couple of days—nine bodies to do the work of three. As these junkets’ frequency increased my boss, Lorenzo, began referring to the cabin as “Club Piute.” Part of me was glad and proud to see folks enjoying my idyllic backcountry scene but I mostly dreaded these visits. (Also, the potential for injury to people inexperienced with livestock was huge and a very real cause for worry.) But when the Forest Super got busted—for genuine crimes of personal enrichment—and was forced to “retire,” the trips ended.
            Fortunately, I’d never been required to outfit or cook but had been their packer and otherwise helped things along. Usually I’d give up my bunk and move into a tent up on the hill behind the outhouse where it was quiet and away from all the chaos. Every time: too many people, too much stuff, hassles with horses… plus being rudely shaken from my peaceful routines and solitude caused me to grow anxious. Particularly when the Forest Supervisor came up with his cronies. Then, I’d just head for the hills—a good excuse to camp out and work on some distant project—but stressful nonetheless.
            There was only one time I was actually asked to vacate the cabin. This was October, 1989; late in my second season at Piute. Our “DR” (District Ranger), John McGee, was bringing up three local entrepreneurs plus his Range and Recreation Officers, presumably as a gesture—at, ahem, taxpayers’ expense—of “harmony and cooperation” between feds and community. (Its purpose was never clearly laid out but this sort of thing actually is important in a small town like Bridgeport where the Forest Service is a major presence.) It was our Rec Officer, Bill, who told me about their upcoming trip and when he suggested that I “might not want to be around” he glanced at me pointedly with his brows arched so that I’d catch his drift.
            This was somewhat dismaying; the indian-summer weather was exquisite and in only a handful of days I had to close down my baileywick for the season. Not to mention the inconvenience and extra work of having to pack up and go off for just a night. But altered plans are a particular feature of ranger-life; something we learn to accept—partly as a result of working for the government, partly from living in the mountains (where Ma Nature calls all the shots and doesn’t care about “plans.”)
A week passed and the day of their arrival was nigh. I still had nothing in mind, still felt ambivalent about leaving, but a good idea finally showed up just before my “guests” did: a close-to-home camp-out up in my tree. That’s right…up in a tree.
Standing on the porch you can see a sheer, forty-foot-tall cliff-band of the same slatey grey rock the cabin’s foundation rests on. It juts out of a steep slope rising behind the river’s far shore, about three-hundred yards away as the raven flies. My hammock was installed in a stout pine that hugs this cliff’s perpendicular face before proceeding skyward. Some days, after work, I scramble up the side of the bluff to a flat ledge just below its top. This is key: from the ledge I can finally reach a virtual ladder of thick limbs and climb with relative ease to my hammock—a little aerie slung in the top-most branches, about seventy feet off the ground—with grand views of mile-long Upper Piute Meadows and, beyond, the Sierra crest curving across a quarter of the skyline.
            Something I’d wanted to do for awhile was to actually spend a night up in the pine. This would be a perfect opportunity; I’ve done so before in other trees by slinging my old climber’s hammock (designed for sleeping on multi-day climbs like El Capitan) from limbs instead of pitons. Aptly called a “peapod”—made of nylon webbing and green rip-stop fabric—it looks like one and you’re like the proverbial pea when nestled deeply within its thin walls. It feels wonderfully secure in exposed places and provides a great way to spend quality time in tree-world—incredibly peaceful and relaxing.
            I just stuck around all day catching up on chores, knowing from experience how long it’d take to get a show like theirs on the road, followed by an eleven-mile-ride. The group wouldn’t arrive until early evening. By mid-afternoon I was ready to haul gear across the river and up the tree. My pack was stuffed with sleeping bag, a little stove, can of hearty soup, box of crackers and some water. Next morning they’d leave pretty early and I could be back home for some late breakfast, ready to put a day to good use.
            I wanted to be gone before my guests arrived so left early, with plenty of time for an evening stroll. My black cat, Mr. Rip, eagerly followed me across the log bridge below the cabin and the kitten, Velcro, followed Rip. They were clearly in the mood for a hike and of course I welcomed their company. (Cats like to take walks, too—you just have to start letting them know it’s OK when they’re young.) Rip got diverted along the way by some critter but joined us a bit later as I was “setting up camp.”On the ledge, right where the four-foot-wide trunk shot over our heads, in this sweet little niche with needle-covered floor; a fine place to have “dinner” so I laid out the stove and cooking gear. Then just after I’d started up to the hammock with my sleeping bag Rip arrived. He paced around while looking up at me and mrrowing, asking to come along.
He’d never been quite eager enough to join me in the hammock…at least, not on his own. One time I’d stuffed my furry partner  into an empty pack and hauled him up. Rip seemed plenty happy once we got there, purring and kneading his claws—in truth, out of nervousness—but obviously relished the peapod’s security. He was enjoying our superb vantage as much as me, gazing off with paws and chin resting on the taut hammock’s rim. We’d both watched the horses grazing and when I shouted down at them their heads snapped up quizzically. I had a good laugh and think Mr. Rip did, too.
            I climbed back down and the three of us took a hike, contouring the hillside to a craggy point with fine views down-canyon, across the way, and up toward Dorothy Lake Pass with northernmost Yosemite Park beyond. The cats were all open-eyed and up-eared. Me, as well. Taking a stroll with kitties is not at all like going on a walk with the dogs; I feel more like I’m one of them, seeing the world through cat-eyes.
            We got back to our camp at dusk. Earlier, I’d heard the bunch coming and looked down to the trail: counted six riders and two packstock…watched them splash across the river and pull up to my hitch-rail, chattering loudly. Their banter carried with remarkable clarity through the evening quiet as they unloaded. Then the horses raced out into the meadow—At last, we’re free!— fell to grazing, and silence returned except for river-whispers and muted sounds from inside the cabin while my un-hosted guests got a fire going in the stove. A little pink light was left on the peaks and I ate my meager supper while talking to the cats and listening to those muffled voices from the cabin.
            This caused me to grow curious: Wonder what they’re talking about…? Felt a little devilish thrill: I’ll  go spy on those guys! The impulse to “spy” was right in line with an impish part of my nature; something I’ve relished when opportunity arises since early childhood and through these later stages. I’ve gotta take the cats home, anyway….
            Ten minutes later I was peering through the back window. There was still a bit of light left but it was dark enough that six men around a lantern-lit table would never see me. Three guys in Forest Service uniform were on one bench and across from them sat the proprietor of the relatively-swank Bridgeport Inn, the owner of our little mom&pop grocery store, and a man I didn’t know who ran one of the three motels. I could hear the conversation clearly and listened for awhile (hoping their gossip might turn to ME…) but it was just trivial talk in that har-har-har, good-ol’-boy fashion you’d expect.
            Dinner was winding down when the DR stood up and headed for the door. John was likely stepping out for some air or to check on their stock but maybe “going to see a man about a horse,” in which case he’d be headed my way, so I tiptoed off to hide.
             A short trail from the cabin climbs over a glacially-carved outcrop and leads to my outhouse. I padded over to a tiny level spot near that hump of rock where I could see if he was going one way or the other. Sure enough, the DR was headed for the pot but suddenly veered off the trail onto my little bench and headed straight toward me. Caught off guard, I went for the only available cover: a two-foot-tall “erratic”—a granite boulder which had come to rest here on this little flat place when the last glacier melted, ten-thousand years ago. Diving behind it, I curled into a ball with elbows and knees in the dirt, appalled by my folly. The DR stopped a mere fifteen feet off…complete silence. If he didn’t see my rear end poking up, a snapped twig would give me away.
            John was an okay guy. My boss’ boss’ boss; a quintessential bureaucrat. I was not in the least intimidated by him; I was no concern of his and certainly never caused him any problems. Basically, I was just another face in the office hallway so when I made one of my rare appearances we’d greet each other cheerfully and maybe exchange some lite chit-chat . He might have had a slightly romanticized notion of me as a real ranger, with my cushy backcountry gig…the cabin, the horses…but, all things considered, this could prove a verrrry awkward meeting. Why did he come over HERE!?! What…?
            The answer came forthwith in a great upheaval. The District Ranger spilled his dinner on the ground. I heard all-too-clearly an unmistakable sound: violent and belly-deep, restrained regurgitation—followed by retching, spitting and a vicious oath. While he was distracted I contorted myself into a smaller-yet package, with knees and elbows grinding into coarse gravel. Long, long moments of silence were followed by another eruption, this one liquid and bountiful. The cats had been lurking-about since we “came home”and Rip took this opportunity to jump up on me, twirling and purring happily. It felt like my rump was sticking way up in the air—and a jet-black cat was advertising its presence. Then John moved even closer, within ten feet. It was inevitable that he’d spot me now; quaking inside, I tried to come up with some (lame) excuse. Nothing came.
            I knew why John was puking in my backyard: Lorenzo had told me that the DR was a Viet Nam veteran; had been gut-shot or blown-up and part of his intestinal tract surgically removed. So he had a “delicate system.” There was also a story about the time John was a guest in Doc Grishaw’s camp and had lost a bellyful of Doc’s notorious stew. Not too hard to imagine since that bean-based concoction—served every night—might contain spam, raisins, beef jerky, peanut-butter, pineapple, or all of the above.
            The DR had one more round—dry-heaves followed by more hawking and furious curses. (He’d missed another dinner….) Blessedly, the cat got scared off and John was facing away. Finally he left to rejoin his party. It took me awhile to get unkinked; my joints were screaming. I crept back across the river and up the hill with tail between my legs. Climbed into my aerie where I huddled in near-terminal shame, playing out potential scenarios until finally rescued by sleep. A close call that could have gone very bad. One thing was certain. My spying days were over.
14 May 1999, 5 Jan 2013   


© 2013 Tim Forsell

All rights reserved.