The first part of this entry is about basic ranger-stuff along with the discovery of some “new” nineteenth century sheepherder carvings—always a thrill. The latter part records a classic nature lesson consisting of a brief meeting with a young sandpiper. Non-birders might be surprised to learn that several types of shorebirds are found in the High Sierra backcountry. One, the spotted sandpiper, nests near lakeshores and in meadows bordering streams. Most summers at Piute there was at least one family being reared along the slow-rolling river. Both adults (but mainly the female) build grass-lined nests under turfy overhangs but on more than one occasion I stumbled on a “nest” consisting of eggs (camouflaged with irregular spots that looked remarkably like the salt-and-pepper granite gravel) laid in a shallow depression on a sandbar and virtually invisible. Adults do the “lame duck” thing to lure predators away from nest or young. (Didn’t fool me….) Spotted sandpipers are atypical in that the male provides most of the adult supervision, keeping an eye on the precocious young (they’re out and about, feeding on their own, soon after hatching) while the female is off, fattening up after the egg laying and brooding is over. I’d often see one of the adults working the shallow edge of the sandbar where I bathed, right across from the cabin. They have a delightful and distinctive habit: a continual, graceful bobbing motion as they feed. Handsome birds, the sandpipers were one of those animals that made you glad just knowing they were around.
18 Jul (Thu) Cloudy again and warm. Did a load of laundry but it rained a bit so a coupla times had to hustle my wet pants back into the cabin and the soggy socks, too.
◦◦◦◦◦ In the afternoon, walked up the Kirkwood trail to get that tree I’d “ignored” on 7/5. It was farther than I remembered. Of course—naturally!—the thing lay beside one of the mosquito-infested bogs that line sections of this trail. It was pretty hot and humid and my little folding saw kept binding in the 12” cut. Sweated profusely while being mobbed by bugs various. At times, straightforward tasks take on semi-heroic proportions up here. That is, in the sense that cityfolk could hardly imagine what it’s like to do strenuous labor under these conditions, in a situation they know only from recreating with a pack on their backs, and where they find enough challenge in just traversing the land. Here I am chest-thumping again and being over-dramatic. But, honestly, it seems pointless to repeatedly engage in these downright masochistic battles when there’s absolutely no reward or acclaim. Usually, no one even notices. Or cares. People could easily walk (or ride) around that downed tree. They’d trample a few plants that’ll never grow back but what the heck. We do these things, routinely, because we’re rangers. Bakers bakes bread. Weavers makes cloth. Rangers clears trails. So, shut up, Smith. ◦◦◦◦◦ On the way to the job I spied a “new” old carving—a simply rendered “91” carved on a slender lodgepole exactly like the one carved on a similar tree by the trail just south of Vidal’s camp. Then, after finishing my tree job, went exploring expressly to look for some other new carvings. On a natural bench on the hillside, maybe a minute’s walk from the trail, found another stunning carving, this one clearly dated 1882. Numerous letters (probably initials). Finding these two new glyphs [short for “arborglyphs”] in the course of a short outing just thrills me—not only in the finding of something of historic value written on living trees, but as a reminder that there’s still loads of cool things waiting to be discovered right in my backyard. ◦◦◦◦◦ Strode on home. At the head of the meadow I surprised a mother grouse and one of her brood who both flew up into the nearest lodgepole. We squinted at one another through the tangle of branches. Unless she was a particularly unlucky grouse, there were other young cowering in the grass nearby. ◦◦◦◦◦ And, just a few minutes later, met another feathered infant. It’s that time of year: for a period of a few weeks in July you see fledglings all over the place. Baby juncos and robins and quail leap up practically from underfoot. (Scares the piss outa you.) There goes a scruffy little bird with hardly any tail struggling to reach the shore or the lowest limb of a tree with its parent(s) cheeping/chirping/quacking in alarm. ◦◦◦◦◦ I’d crossed the river on the log at Vidal’s camp. Skirting the bank, spooked a fuzzy young spotted sandpiper. We’re talkin’ a measly powder-puff of a bird with ridiculously long legs. To escape giant predator (me) it leapt into the river and started swimming away, upstream as it happened. Sandpipers’ toes aren’t webbed—they’re wading birds, not swimmers. So the critter was making almost no progress. I turned to go but got only a few yards away before that voyeuristic, scientist inside me took over. The wee small scientist-voice chided me: “You don’t get to check out a baby sandpiper any ol’ day, now do ya?” So I back-pedaled a few steps and got to witness yet another amazing bird-thing. (Never did see an adult.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Making no headway against the current, the precocious chick dove straight for the bottom, a submerged sandbar. Its adolescent plumage of grey and white pre-feather bird fur, unfortunately, made it quite buoyant—there were numerous air-bubbles trapped in the downy fuzz—and it was clearly struggling to overcome the floatiness. It “swam” straight down a good two feet using wings and sorta frog-kicking ‘til hitting bottom. Then it began to “fly” and run simultaneously, still headed upstream but against little or no current. Its wingbeats were in slow motion but this bird was most definitely flying. At the same time it was ever-so-slowly making an escape on toothpick legs, leaving delicate little bird footprints in the bottom silt. With no emotion whatsoever I observed a fine rain of sand grains falling away behind each languid stride and the thin train of bubbles escaping from its mouth. You see, for me as well, all this took place in a sort of dreamy slow motion, a side-effect of the condensed nature of time when whatever you’re experiencing takes on the quality of a vision. (This whole deal was so much more vivid and arresting than my encounter with the grouse—entirely different.) I was on my knees, staring into the river like into an aquarium, somewhat outside my normal self. What I saw was a brave newcomer on planet Earth, most cleverly designed, flying through water long before it could fly through the air! Holding its breath all the while, terrified no doubt. Mesmerized, found that I was holding my breath, too. ◦◦◦◦◦ The sandpiper was probably under water for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. It suddenly stopped fleeing and just like that bobbed to the surface like a cork, coming up under a screen of sedge leaves that were dangling from the turfy bank. It was partially hidden and hung there motionless. I looked down and saw tiny bird tracks in the silty mud so knew it hadn’t been a dream.
→ 2 WBs cleaned → 1 visitor → 1 tree removed → 250 lbs rock → 4 ½ miles
This event was unusually moving for some reason and I thought about it for days. It’s still a vivid memory. (A brief aside: only later did I realize that, in addition to adding forward momentum, the flying motion was also providing downward pressure that kept the bird on the bottom so that it could run. As soon as the sandpiper stopped“flying,”it shot straight to the surface.)
©2018 by Tim Forsell
16 Dec 2018
