

### The

### Saga of Peabody

### And Other

### True Life Adventures

### Stories and Essays

### by

### Sherry Chadwell

Raven Mountain Press

# The Saga of Peabody

And Other True Life Adventures

Copyright 2013 Sherry A. Chadwell

Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All art work by Sherry A. Chadwell

# Dedication & Acknowledgments

To my husband and best friend, Jim, who is a co-conspirator in so many of the tales in this book, and who is always coming up with a great idea for the next wild adventure.

To my parents, Thelma and Rixey, who fostered in me a love of Nature, and who gave me every opportunity to be who I was meant to be.

To the Barn Owls: Shirley, Pilar, Jean, BJ, Sharon, Joan—and Alan, our rooster among the hens, whose loss has left this world a poorer place. You are my friends, my critics and an endless font of encouragement.

And, finally, to this incredible wide world and the funny, fascinating and beautiful creatures that live in it. They are what have inspired the stories within and continue to make each day a new adventure.

### Table of Contents

An April Encounter

The Virgin Tree

Raven

Smoke

Bees—A Requiem

Fun With Flip

A Winter Song

The Saga of Peabody

Mr. Sonar

A Warbler Tale

Wonder Mountain

Incubation—Hen and Machine

Bullbat Ridge

Traces

Eight Eyes

Skunk and the Egg

Storm Walk

About the Author

Connect with the Author

# An April Encounter

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

They say men can hear sound in lower ranges than women. Maybe that's why my husband, Jim, could hear it. I could only feel a low throbbing against my skin, a vibration upon my eardrums that was not interpreted by my brain as sound.

That April day, we'd parked our truck at the end of a logging spur, high on the back side of Wonder Mountain. We walked toward the forest of old-growth Douglas fir and sugar pine, stepping onto a path that led from the open, sunlit road into a shadowed world. Grand old trees rose around us, the wind whispering through their crowns high overhead. Purple lupine and the pale yellows of trout lily and wild iris lined both sides of the path. Foot-long sugar pine cones lay among last year's leaves on the forest floor. The earthy perfume of the woods filled the air. The trail began to climb, following a ridge, the mountain dropping away on either side.

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

The thrumming began to register to me as sound—low, bass, and still felt more than heard. With each step, it increased in volume until we arrived at our destination. Tipping our heads back, we trained binoculars onto the ancient trees around us, concentrating on the bottommost boughs that were still forty and fifty feet overhead. Some of those limbs were as big around as a man's thigh, the bark rough and black. Pale, gray-green streamers of "old man's beard" lichen trailed a foot or more from them.

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

The sound was all around us. We circled and glassed.

Jim saw him first and pointed toward one of the massive, overhead boughs. I trained my binoculars on the spot and found the bird on the limb, standing next to the trunk. He was the size of a chicken, and blue-gray in color. The bird cocked his head, looking down at us. Then he leaned forward, swelled his neck feathers and spread his tail into a broad fan.

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

It was a male blue grouse, sending his mating call rolling out over the mountainside. As we watched, he displayed and called again and again. Two bright yellow sacs, inflated with air, were visible among the feathers on either side of his neck. They acted as resonating chambers to magnify the sound.

For several springs, we'd come to this spot, to hear the big blues booming, but this time we were prepared to try an experiment. Jim had with him an empty two-liter Coke bottle. Putting the opening to his lips, he blew across it in a familiar pattern of bass notes.

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

The grouse froze. Then, with wingtips dropped low and tail dragging, he swaggered a few steps along the branch, stopped, and stood still as if listening.

Jim again blew across the bottle.

The bird became electrified. He puffed out his feathers, raised his tail and fanned it, strutted several more feet along the branch. Then, dropping his head and swelling his throat, he answered.

Woom, woom, woom, woom, woom.

Jim replied with his Coke bottle.

The big bird rocketed from his tree and across the path on whirring wings, landing in a fir on the other side, looking around for his rival. Whoever that interloping he-grouse was, our grouse was going to kick butt!

If he could just find him.

The big blue flew from branch to branch, searching for the other bird. Again, he boomed out his challenge.

Again, Jim answered.

The grouse, noticeably ticked off, displayed and boomed and displayed some more.

Finally, Jim stopped his teasing, deciding he'd given the grouse enough excitement for one day.

After our big blue called several minutes more with no response, he appeared confident he'd frightened his rival off with his superior prowess. He calmed down and returned to his original pattern of booming, with long pauses in between. Jim and I stayed for a while longer, then made our way back down the path and left him in peace.

### The Virgin Tree

The sugar pine towered above the other trees, dominating the skyline to the southeast of our home. She was old when we first made her acquaintance, the only remaining member of the original virgin growth that had covered this patch of land. Our family called her The Virgin Tree.

This was in 1963 when I was thirteen. My father had just retired from the U.S. Army and my parents moved our family to Southern Oregon. They built our house on a beautiful piece of forested property. I'd known little but suburban life until then but I thrived in my new environment, growing to love the woods.

The firs and pines were second growth, the very large old trees having been logged off long before. Just scattered, disintegrating stumps three feet and more in diameter gave mute testimony to what had been. The lone exception was The Virgin Tree, holding court over the rest. She was over four and a half feet in diameter and surely reaching well over a hundred feet above the earth.

I was fairly certain why she alone, of all her kindred, had been spared the logger's saw and axe. When I stood at her base, as I often did, I could see that long ago she'd been hit by lightning, the explosive electric charge gouging a spiral path down her length. The bolt from the heavens could have ended her life—instead it saved it. She survived the strike and it left an obvious scar that must have rendered her lumber unusable. The loggers left the damaged tree alone.

How old was she? Surely two hundred years or more. She'd been here before white man had found this place, when the wolves and grizzlies still roamed the area and Indians still quietly trod the wooded trails as they had for thousands of years. For most of her life the woods had lain undisturbed.

How long ago had the loggers descended upon her piece of forest? Whenever it was, she'd borne witness to the shouts of men and the sharp blows of axes ringing through the woods, to the alien whine of the "misery whips" sawing through the trunks of her sisters. As each massive tree began to sway, the parting fibers groaned, then cracked with reports as sharp and loud as gunfire. Slowly, each tree began its fall, then picked up speed, crashing through nearby branches. It thundered to the ground, crushing smaller growth under tons of weight. One by one the scarred sugar pine's neighbors were taken, until she alone was left, standing amid the sad carnage, the lone surviving elder.

By the time my family arrived, the surrounding forest had grown up around her but had still not reached her height. She stood proudly far above the green canopy, through soft summer days and fierce winter storms.

I regularly visited The Virgin Tree. I liked embracing her huge bulk, stretching my arms as far as they would go, my face laid against her rough bark. The thrumming from the wind in her branches so high overhead, carried down her length to gently vibrate through my arms and face. I imagined I was feeling the very throb of her life.

The years passed. I grew up and left to live elsewhere. Eventually, though, my husband and I returned to live near my parents. Now, The Virgin Tree was in our backyard, less than a hundred yards from our house. I could see her scarred trunk rising from the forest floor, carrying the eye up and up, until she disappeared into the foliage high overhead. I again took up my ritual of visiting her, laying my body against her and feeling the familiar vibration.

And so the seasons passed until, on a particular warm spring day, I glanced in the direction of my old friend as usual. And saw only an open patch of sky in the forest canopy. I didn't grasp at first what I was seeing. Even when I realized that my tree was no longer standing there, I couldn't quite believe it. Stunned, I walked the path through the woods toward where she should be. As I emerged from behind a tangle of brush, there in front of me, lying broken on the ground, was the huge bulk of The Virgin Tree.

How could it be? When had it happened? I hadn't heard her fall, though certainly the crash must have been tremendous. I tried to think when I'd last seen her standing but couldn't remember. Surely, it had been no more than a few days. We'd had no storms, no high winds in that time—what had caused her to come down? For some reason her roots had simply given up their hold on the earth and were now lying exposed, reaching high above my head. I laid my hands on her rough-barked body and the tears welled up. She'd been a part of my life for almost forty years. Never again would I feel the throbbing of the winds traveling down through her.

I walked along her length, there on the softly carpeted forest floor. Incredibly, she'd come down among the smaller trees in such a way that she missed every one of them. Not a one had been damaged. It was as if she simply wanted to lie down for a final sleep and had no desire to harm those around her. Her trunk had split from the force of her fall and her thick limbs were smashed. The smell of crushed pine needles was heavy in the air, the foliage itself still fresh and limber, so recently had she fallen.

I questioned my parents and husband but no one had heard her come down. We could only deduce that we'd all been away from home when it happened. When I later measured her length I found she'd been over 160 feet tall.

Though saddened, I prefer that she'd been allowed to end her life this way instead of by a logger's axe and saw. Now she lies on her forest bed. Over the course of many, many years she will slowly crumble and return to the earth. Long after I'm gone her body will nourish the coming generations of trees and plants and another will push up toward the open spot she left in the canopy.

#

### Raven

In the tales of the Northwest Coast Indians, he is known as Raven the Glutton, Raven the Trickster. His enthusiasm for mischief causes unending difficulties for those around him. But he also coaxed the timid first humans into the world and, taking pity upon them, gave them the Sun, the Moon and the Stars to brighten their lives. He gave them Fire and the Salmon, and he gave them Cedar to provide houses, boats and clothing. The Indians understood that Raven is a special bird, and immortalized him through their creation stories.

Ravens have had a special meaning for me as well, from the time I first laid eyes on them, as a child newly come to the mountains to live. They are creatures of the wild places, intelligent and elusive, and my heart has long lifted at the sight of them.

The uninitiated might consider this big, black bird as ugly and coarse, with his large, heavy beak and rough throat feathers. Not so. His is a noble visage, eyes sparkling with intelligence and the mischief that the Native Americans were so familiar with.

I have lived where I do, in the mountains of Southern Oregon, for most of my life now. The ravens have always been here, captivating, unreachable. They soar gracefully against clean, blue sky or play among black and boiling storm clouds, masters of the wind. Earthbound, I watch enviously, wondering what it's like to own the sky so far above the earth. For years, I longed to reach out to the ravens, to make contact somehow. They weren't interested in me. What did I have to offer that was not already theirs?

In the nineteen seventies, I worked as a fire lookout. One of my two fire towers was located on Sexton Mountain. There was a weather station up there too, and the weatherman put food on the ground for the deer and the ravens. The deer were very tame, the ravens untameable. No matter how stealthy I might try to be, carefully staying low and crawling across the floor of the tower to ease up, inch by inch, until my eyes were barely above the window sill, the sharp-eyed birds got the better of me. If they had not yet come in to get the food, they would stay away. If they were already at the food pile, they hastily scrambled for the skies with a noisy flapping of wings. It was frustrating.

In 1983, I moved a mobile home in among towering Douglas firs, pines, oaks and dogwoods. Wildlife was literally on my doorstep. That's the way I liked it. The day after I moved in, I looked out the front window and was startled to see a raven on the branch of a tree, not a dozen feet from the house, looking in. Surprisingly, he didn't flee at sight of me. He seemed curious about this new thing in his woods. I had never seen a raven so close and I marveled at how big, black and impressive he was as he cocked a shiny, obsidian eye toward the window. Then he left.

Soon afterward I married and my husband, Jim, now shared my place in the woods. In 1992, we began to raise rabbits to eat. When we butchered, we took the discards to an area of the woods, just outside our yard, for the coyotes, foxes and whatever else wanted to dine on them. The ravens came to it and so we were afforded quick glimpses of them, nothing more. They didn't trust us.

As the years passed, and they connected us with the food pile, the ravens became a little more relaxed, continuing to sit in far trees when we came out in the yard, instead of fleeing immediately.

Then, we realized something curious was happening that we have never been able to satisfactorily explain. At first, the ravens came only after there was meat on the ground, apparently spying it as they flew over. Then, oddly, they developed the habit of arriving to sit in the trees around the offal site the day before we butchered. The next day they were still hanging around, waiting for their meal. How did they know there would soon be meat for them? We could think of nothing we did that could tip them off. We certainly never butchered on an exact schedule. It would seem the Native Americans understood Raven well when they ascribed supernatural powers to him.

One day, I got the bright idea of putting up a feeding platform in a tree near the offal site. We only butchered about every six weeks, so most of the time the feeder would hold the only food. Locating it five feet above the ground, I reasoned, would make it more difficult for the bait to be taken by other animals. If I could get the ravens to come to that, it might be a step toward taming them some, and being better able to interact with them.

The wooden platform was some eighteen inches square, with an inch-high rim all the way around it. I knew the meat scraps it held would not be overlooked by those keen avian eyes. If I could get the ravens to use it, then I could, by degrees, move it closer and closer to the house. At least that was the plan.

The weeks went by and the bait remained untouched, except by the occasional Steller's jay. Weeks turned into months. Still hopeful, I continued to toss out the old meat from the feeder and replace it with new. The ravens still ate the discards at the offal pile but would not go to the feeder.

I had mounted the platform using a heavy steel shelf bracket, so it would be sturdy and not frighten the large birds by moving when, I hoped, they landed on it. One morning I found the feeder angled downward, the heavy bracket twisted. A bear had found the tantalizing scraps and helped himself. Oh well—the ravens weren't coming anyway. I abandoned the project.

During this time, a new chapter in the story began. One raven, bolder than the rest, seemed to develop a fascination for our German shepherd, Jen. When Jim and I were safely in the house, the raven came into the yard to tease the dog. Landing thirty or forty feet up in a fir tree, he'd ruffle his feathers and croak at her. Jen would run to the base of the tree and, standing on her hind legs with front paws up on the trunk, bark at him. Teasingly, the raven hopped onto lower and lower branches, getting closer to my dog while she, enjoying every minute of it, ferociously growled and hollered, tail waving enthusiastically. They played this game regularly. We quietly watched from the house, not daring to stir because, at any sign of movement, the bird took flight.

Things evolved a step further. Jen and I had long had a habit of hiking up the logging road behind our house. Now, two ravens began to accompany us. They'd fly ahead, perching high in a tree to wait for us to catch up with them. As we passed, they again flew ahead and waited. In this manner, they accompanied us for a mile or so, and then allowed us to go on without them. I had a feeling that one of them was Jen's playmate. Why did they do this? Was Jen still the draw?

About a year after my abandonment of the bear-mangled feeder, I was housecleaning. It was a late afternoon in winter, and the woods outside were dim and cold, the ground white with hoarfrost. Earlier in the day, about fifty feet from the house, I had dumped some scraps I thought the wild critters would like. Now my eye caught a movement among the shadowy trees, right at that spot. I eased over to the window and peered out. A raven was on the ground, walking deliberately about, picking at the scraps. Staying very still, hardly daring to breathe, I watched him. When he left, I immediately raided the refrigerator for whatever I thought he'd like and again scattered it on the ground, hoping against hope that he would be back. The next day he was.

I fed him for four or five days and he came regularly. It surprised me that he was willing to put himself at such a disadvantage, so close to the house, flying to the ground where he could be more easily ambushed. Maybe he was having an especially difficult time finding food.

I retrieved the old bear-battered feeder, hammered the bracket straight again, and mounted it to a tree beside his feeding spot. I baited it with scraps of meat.

The next day, the raven landed in a nearby tree and eyed this new contraption suspiciously. But he saw the food on it.

He sat and studied the platform.

He flew to another tree for a different angle.

And to another tree.

He waited.

He watched.

I was spying from inside the house and impatience was getting the better of me as I waited for him to do something.

In time, he landed on a branch about three feet from the feeder. He seemed to sit there forever, thinking it over. Through binoculars, I could see every breathtaking detail of this magnificent black bird.

Finally, he hopped onto the platform...

...and leaped straight into the air as soon as his feet touched it, flapping away to a tree. He was sure it was a trap and nearly had him!

He sat on his new perch for another eternity and thought about it some more. Then he flew to the branch by the feeder again. Again, after much pondering, he jumped lightly onto the platform and quickly back to the branch he'd just left, looking like the whole situation gave him the willies. Again and again, he went through this routine, each time staying a millisecond longer before leaping off.

Finally he stayed, tensed as if on pins and needles, and eyed the food. He leaned forward and picked tentatively at a piece...

...and practically threw himself over backward in alarm. He fled again out of reach.

Taking a minute or two to regain his composure, he returned to the feeder. Again he picked at a piece of food—and again flapped off in alarm. Two or three more times, he did this before he finally steeled himself enough to pick up a piece of meat and not drop it. When it didn't bite back, he swallowed it and picked up another and another, until his throat bulged and meat hung out of his beak. He flew off.

Just like that, the ice was broken and he became a regular at the feeder. This was the same bird who played with Jen. I called him "Raven," of course. Quite often I saw another raven fly in with him but stay back, sitting in a tree, never approaching the feeder. Instead it waited until Raven left with his meal and then followed him, I assume to share in the spoils. I guessed that the larger, bolder Raven was male and the shyer one was female—his mate? I was sure now that these were the two that accompanied Jen and I on our walks.

Jim was as tickled as I was, following every step of the drama. We enjoyed our new friend together.

I fed Raven suet and other scraps from the butcher. We were no longer raising rabbits and so this would be the source of his food. I had to limit what I put out because he would take everything on the feeder, making as many trips as necessary to finish it off. Ravens cache extra food and I wasn't going to stock his pantry for him. Neither did I want to make Raven dependent on us. For his own sake, he needed to remain wild and self-sufficient. I fed him only enough to bring him to us.

If I had a large lump of suet or meat, I wired it to the feeder so he couldn't just grab it and be off with it—he had to work to pull away pieces and I could watch him at my leisure.

I found he liked raw eggs. A chicken egg was a fairly large object for him to grasp—he'd very carefully work his beak around it as it lay on the feeder, making sure he had a good hold, before lifting it up and flying off with it. I'd locate the empty shell on the ground after he finished with it, one end of it neatly removed and the contents cleanly sipped out.

Raven speedily became tamer. He tolerated our moving around in the house. Eventually, instead of sitting quietly waiting for me to bring out his morning meal, he began to demand breakfast in loud, raucous tones, sometimes before daybreak. As Jim and I burrowed our heads under the covers, I thought, what have I started?

Originally, when I walked out of the house with food for the feeder, he would fly off to a tree further away. In no time at all, though, he began to stay where he was while I put out his food and, as soon as I disappeared into the house, he flew to the feeder. Soon enough, I could walk around in the yard while he ate.

I began to try and imitate his vocalizations. It was difficult but I learned that, if I thoroughly relaxed my throat and made as if to clear it, I could bring out a guttural "caw." I listened to him and practiced. When I spoke to him, he answered. Eventually, I could walk out the door and let go with loud caws and he would come flying in from distant parts to be fed. I had no illusions that he was fooled into thinking I was another raven. He equated those sounds with me and food. I could have trained him to come to any sound, but I enjoyed talking "raven."

He took to just hanging around for lengthy stretches, and sat and preened just twenty feet above the ground as I walked right past his tree. I would talk raven to him and he would reply. I was in heaven. I had dreamed of this for so long. From the time we first started feeding rabbit parts to the ravens, until now was a span of about eight years.

The months passed and almost every day brought Raven to the yard. Then winter was over. The first week in April, I had to be gone from home for three days. I put out some meat before I left, but the rest of the time the bird was on his own. I told Jim not to worry about feeding him. Raven was used to relying on other sources of food as well as the little I gave him.

When I returned, I put out meat and called Raven. He didn't show up. Nor did he the next day or the next. My calls went unanswered. Days turned into weeks. I was certain he would not have willingly abandoned such easy pickings. It was obvious something had happened to him, and I was heartbroken.

The place seemed so lifeless and quiet without my big, raucous bird. The other, shyer bird didn't show up either. My brief association with these marvelous creatures was over. During the summer, I watched ravens fly overhead or heard their cries in the distance, and I was heartsick for what had been for too brief a time, and sad for my wonderful bird.

Soon enough, summer was over. Jim and I began to tidy up the yard, getting ready for the coming winter. I was busy, making trip after trip in and out of the house. As I came out one of those times, Jim called to me, "Here's something interesting you'll want to see."

I walked out into the backyard and there, sitting on a low branch, was a big, black bird, ruffling his feathers comfortably and croaking. My heart swelled. It was certainly Raven, no other. Where had he been and why had he been gone so long? I hadn't a clue.

He began to make his "I want dinner" noises. I had no meat thawed for him, so I quickly put an egg on the feeder. He wasted no time in picking it up and flying off with it. He was back and, I hoped, back to stay.

That was October 2001. He stayed around all winter. He again accompanied Jen and me on our walks, sometimes joined by the other raven. He became even tamer over that time. I worried some about whether he would get so complacent that he was vulnerable to those people who would mean him harm. I needn't have worried. More than once, while Raven was with us on our walks, we heard the sound of an automobile climbing up the road toward us. Raven would immediately drop from the tree he was in and sail downslope to disappear into the woods. He knew me. He knew Jim. And he knew Jen. But, it appeared he was too wise to trust humans in general. My mind was eased.

Sometimes, while out walking, I don't see him and I caw loudly for him. A distant answer carries to my ears and soon he comes sailing in low over my head to land on a nearby branch. We carry on a conversation in raven. He'll often accompany us—whether just Jen and me, or Jim included—as we continue to walk. We don't feed him on these walks but he comes anyway. There is now something more than food binding us. My dream has been realized. I've become, if only somewhat, part of the world of the raven.

#

### Smoke

I stand on the porch, fretting, peering through the haze that has settled among the trees around our home. Something about the scene reminds me of the fog that creeps in on early fall mornings. But it's midsummer, and these are not the mists of autumn but smoke from forest fires. Instead of cool, clean air, I breathe in the acrid smell of burning timber. It's July, 2002, and hundreds of thousands of acres are charring across Oregon, started for the most part by a series of lightning storms.

The sun overhead has been transformed into an orange ball by the filtering haze. The light dappling the forest floor isn't its usual warm gold, but an unnatural and ominous ruddy hue. My eyes sting from the smoke and my throat is raspy.

I am a forest-dweller and the smell of smoke signals danger. At any time, during the hot, dry days of summer, a fire could start nearby and destroy things precious to me. I know the smoke in my yard comes from miles away but still it makes me uneasy.

For the moment, though, I'm the lucky one. My home is not in imminent danger. Others, though, face the loss of theirs. A few days earlier, my sister, Candace, watched in anguish as one of the wildfires gobbled its way through several thousand acres of timber, heading for her home and those of her neighbors. She hoped it would be stopped in time but she was packed, ready to evacuate at a moment's notice.

Fire agencies attacked the monster. The big air tankers roared overhead, barely above the treetops, spreading red clouds of chemical retardant to smother and slow the flames. Helicopters dipped buckets into nearby ponds and rivers, and released plumes of water that seemed meager against the enormous wall of fire.

The beast came on, until it was only one ridge away. Then it topped the rise, moving steadily downhill toward the homes. The firefighters on the ground, weary and soot-covered from days of struggle against this enemy, battled desperately to stop it. "Cats" gouged fire lines down to bare dirt. Ground crews, with hand tools and chain saws, labored to dig their own firebreaks.

All this seemed pitifully inadequate against a conflagration whose perimeter was measured in miles—a roaring inferno that might top a hundred feet in height and reach a thousand degrees in temperature, creating its own fierce winds, sending burning embers beyond the lines grubbed out by Man.

The firefighters worked on day and night and, bless them, they saved the houses. Just a country road and a neighbor's property stood between the leading edge of the fire and Candace's home when they contained it. Now it's a matter of "mopping up," making sure none of the embers still glowing among the charred remains of forest has a chance to flare up in a sudden breeze and jump to new fodder. Yet, it looks like my sister and her neighbors have been lucky this time.

Others were not so lucky. Already, around the state, homes have been lost to other wildfires, lives forever changed. Some of the men and women who battled the fires lost their own lives in the effort. And still more forest burns, still more lives and property are in jeopardy.

Amid all this danger and heartbreak, it is difficult to see anything positive about the flames. But fire is also renewal. If allowed into the forests on its natural schedule, it clears the dead wood that would fuel fires of such devastating heat and ferocity. It creates open, robust forests where trees have room to grow, and wildlife is plentiful.

In tracts of forest where fires have been aggressively extinguished for decades, the hillsides have become brushy and overcrowded, the ground piled deep with dead brush, branches and conifer needles. Spindly trees grow too closely together, competing desperately for light and nutrients. The scarcity of birds and animals is noticeable.

The symbiosis between fire and the land fascinates me and I often find myself walking across a mountainside that may have burned just a few weeks earlier. The smell of smoke still hangs over a desolate landscape. The blackened skeletons of trees tower overhead and each step brings up puffs of gray ash. But, looking out over the surrounding slopes, I can see large islands of green, spared by the flames. These oases were safe harbor for wildlife fleeing for their lives, and offer shelter and food now. They'll be the source of seeds to repopulate the burned-out areas.

All around me, green shoots emerge from the feet of seemingly-dead oaks, madrones and manzanitas. The groves of burned knobcone pines are truly dead and will not resprout from their roots, but in a few months, after the rains have soaked the ash below them, seedlings of young pines will appear. The flames that killed the parent trees opened the tough cones and allowed the seeds to scatter, to bring a new generation into being.

By the following summer, chipmunks and lizards clamber up the charred trees. In a very few years, plant regrowth is well on its way and deer are noticeably larger and healthier, thanks to the abundance of greenery that draws nutrients from the ash.

It would seem the smoke that wafts through the trees of my yard today is the symbol of both loss and renewal. Those of us who choose to live amid the beauty of our Northwest forests face the possibility of tremendous loss. Yet the forests evolved to co-exist with the flames, and I cannot help but see fire less as an enemy to be extinguished quickly and more as an ally that keeps the health of the forests I so enjoy.

#

### Bees – A Requiem

I like honeybees. What's not to like about creatures that form marvelous, complicated societies; turn flower nectar into golden, sweet honey; store that honey in combs that are works of art from wax produced by their own bodies; and buzz their way into the blossoms of plants, pollinating them so they may produce fruit and seed. The fact that a bee is capable of delivering a painful sting is a minor drawback that doesn't bother me.

I once considered getting a hive or two of my own, but we have bears around us and I decided it would an exercise in futility, considering that celebrated ursine sweet tooth. So, instead, I hoped to one day just find a bee tree. Simply because I like bees. Over the years, I kept an eye out during hikes through the woods, but found none.

Then came the day last summer when my husband, Jim, poked his head inside the front door and called out to me, "Hey, Sherry! I think you'll want to come see this." Whenever he uses that phrase, I know there will be something interesting. This time, Jim had discovered a bee tree—right on the edge of our yard. He'd happened to walk on the back side of an old black oak and there they were, coming and going from a narrow opening, some nine feet above the ground. Against the dark green background of the woods, a shaft of summer sunlight turned the bodies of the workers to gold as they came and went on urgent bee business. I have no idea how long the hive had been there—we seldom walked on the far side of that oak.

Now we had our very own bee tree. Over the rest of that summer we watched our bees. We noticed that the opening of the hive was glossy brown with propolis, a kind of glue that bees make, and it looked like ours had used it to narrow the opening still further, rendering their home cozy and safe. We found that, by shining a flashlight at just the right angle into the opening, we could see clean, white comb hanging inside. We moved quietly and slowly and the bees did not object to our being so close.

As fall approached, and the nights became colder, the bees were slower to get out of bed in the morning. Then, winter set in and we saw no more of them. They were inside to stay, snug and well-fed on the honey they'd worked so hard to gather during the warm weather.

Spring was slow to come. I periodically checked for bee activity but all was quiet until, on an early March day, when the sun finally had some warmth to it, I found bees. They were crawling sluggishly outside the hive opening and a few were flying about. Some clung to nearby twigs, basking in the sun.

Over the next few days, the temperature dropped again and the insects once more became dormant. But spring was on its way, the days definitely warming. We saw the bees more and more often until, once again, the hive was humming, the workers coming and going regularly, pollen baskets on their hind legs bright yellow. I was happy that our bees had come through the winter just fine and were once again doing bee things.

On a day in early April, all that ended. When Jim checked the tree, he noticed there was no activity at all. We worried, but the day was a little cool and we hoped everyone had just decided to stay home. The next day there were still no bees. And the next, and the next. The hive was dead. One day the bees had been fine, and the next they had disappeared—the classic symptom of Colony Collapse Disorder, a calamity that is decimating honeybee populations throughout the globe. I had hoped that our bees would escape it, but it was not to be.

My mind has accepted they're gone but my heart still compels me to walk over to the tree, listening for the hum and looking overhead for bees turned golden in shafts of sunlight.

#

# Fun With Flip

"Has anyone seen Flip today?" my mother asked the family.

We looked at one another, then back at her.

"No."

"Huh-uh."

"Um, I don't think so."

I was a young adult of twenty-one, and still living with my parents and younger brother and sisters. Flip was our black tomcat. He was usually put out each night before we went to bed. The next morning he'd be waiting at the door to come in for his breakfast and then usually spend the day sleeping in the house. Sometimes he wouldn't show up until the afternoon or, occasionally, waited until the following morning to put in an appearance. At the time of my mother's question it was evening and Flip hadn't been around.

My mother shrugged. "Well, he'll probably come in tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow morning came and no Flip.

I stepped outside and called him. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. He-e-e-ere, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty."

No sign of him.

Later in the day, when he still had not shown up, I went looking for him. Fearing he might be shut up somewhere, I checked all the outbuildings that had a door. Nothing. I looked under the house, a favorite haunt of his, and called him. No Flip. Now I was becoming worried. Finally, I did the only other thing I could think of. I walked through the woods around our house, calling for him periodically and then pausing to see if I could hear an answering meow.

I froze, listening intently. Had I heard something? Yes, there it was again. It was faint and it did sound like a cat meowing. I walked toward the sound. When it stopped, I called out, "Kitty, kitty, kitty?"

There it was again and, yes, it was definitely a cat meowing, sounding distressed. With apprehension, I continued searching. Where on earth was it coming from? I was having trouble pinpointing it.

It was very close now but where......?

I looked up. Oh my God! It was our black cat and he was fifty feet up a fir tree! He looked down at me and meowed. What on earth had motivated him to climb so far up that tree? I surmised something had been hot in pursuit of him, perhaps a coyote. Or maybe a stray dog. Whatever it was, it must have really gotten the old adrenaline going. He had done a heck of a lot of shinnying. That tree was almost devoid of branches all the way up to where he perched. He was standing where sturdy live limbs started.

I tried to get him to come down, using the most persuasive tones I could muster. He looked at me and meowed. I kept calling him but he would not or could not bring himself to swing around and descend backwards down the trunk. I felt helpless. It was late autumn and we had already had some cold rains. If he was up there during one of those rains, he would be soaked and very likely dangerously chilled.

I went back to the house and related the problem to the family. Both of my folks thought Flip would come down when he got hungry. I returned to Flip's tree with some canned cat food and a piece of waxed paper to put it on. I looked up at him and clanked the table knife against the can in a signal he knew only too well. He meowed forlornly. I set the food out at the base of the tree, making sure he could see what I was doing, and left.

The next morning Flip still didn't show up at the house and I returned to his tree. The food sat untouched on the waxed paper—a little surprising, considering all of the wildlife we had around there. Flip sat on his same perch. He was beginning his third day up there and hadn't had food or water all this time. I was sure he couldn't be very comfortable either, balancing across two limbs.

I came and went, throughout the day, checking on him. By this time, the rest of the family was becoming very worried also.

The fourth day dawned and Flip was still in his tree. The morning sky was solid with gray clouds. The forecast was for rain that night and temperatures near freezing. I had to do something.

I had been mulling over possible rescue plans and felt I had come up with something that would be difficult, somewhat dangerous and definitely scary, but I thought it could work. I needed to get Flip out of that tree before it rained.

I was on my own as I was the only one home that day. I poked around in storage sheds and scrounged the necessary equipment. Carrying it all to the tree, I laid it on the ground and studied it. Did I have everything? A piece of clothesline about seven feet long; another very long piece of the same rope; a large number of forty-penny spikes; a claw hammer, and a swede saw. Yes, it looked like I had everything I needed. I was going to climb up and get my cat.

I strung the shorter piece of clothesline around my waist, through the sturdy belt loops of my denim jeans, then around the tree and tied it in a double knot. This would be my version of a lineman's safety belt. I figured if I lost my footing, I might thoroughly scrape my face down the rough bark but the rope should keep me from falling to the ground. Flip watched the proceedings and seemed to sense I was going to rescue him because he talked to me the whole time.

With the confidence and recklessness of youth, I didn't consider the fact there was no one else around to know what I was up to, or to help me if I fell. I secured the end of the second longer rope around my waist, letting the rest trail to the ground. I slung the bow-shaped saw over my shoulder and filled all the pockets of my jeans with spikes.

Calling up words of encouragement to Flip, I hammered in the first nail. These were to be my steps. I pounded in more of them, as far as my arm could stretch up the tree, alternating them left and right. When I could reach no higher standing on the ground, I looped the safety rope a foot or so up the trunk, hugged the tree and stepped up onto the first two nails, bouncing up and down to test their strength. They stayed firm.

I stepped up onto two more and, balancing myself against the trunk, used one hand to hold a nail against the right side of the tree and the other to start it with the hammer, tapping until it was far enough in to stay by itself. Then, hugging the tree firmly with my left arm, I pounded in the nail with my right.

For the next nail, I leaned over to the left to tap it in until it stayed, then again hugged the tree with my left arm while I awkwardly reached over and pounded in the nail with my right.

Advancing the rope again and putting my arms around the trunk I stepped up higher and hammered in two more. Continuing this way, I slowly made my way up the tree.

I had brought the saw to cut through the few dead branches that would have kept me from advancing my safety rope. There was no way on earth I was going to untie that rope to get around them.

So it continued. Pull two spikes from a pocket. Pound them in. Advance the safety rope. Step up. Now and then slip the hammer down into the waist of my jeans and pull the saw from my shoulder to awkwardly and laboriously cut through an occasional branch. Return the saw to my shoulder and pull out the hammer again. Fish in a pocket for two more nails. I concentrated on the task at hand and tried to ignore my increasing altitude.

I was young and fit but I had never in my life done anything like this and I was using my leg muscles in ways they had never been used before. The strain on them was constant, with no way to rest them. Two thirds of the way up the tree, I could feel my legs fatiguing. In spite of the cool day, I was soon soaked with sweat. Part of it was from the effort of climbing but most of it was anxiety. The ground was getting further and further away.

As I neared Flip, he became excited, meowing animatedly. I spoke to him often. When I was about ten feet below him, the hammer slipped from my grasp. Down it plummeted to land on the forest floor. I could have cried. I needed that hammer. There was nothing to do but make my tired way back down to the ground to retrieve it.

It was wonderful to again stand on solid earth and I untied my safety rope and sat down for just a few minutes, with my back against the tree, to give my legs a rest.

Then I stood again, and recinched the long rope around my waist so that it was tighter—I was going to have to tuck the hammer into it and I wanted it to stay put. Then I retied the safety rope and started my climb back up the tree. At least this time I could go right up without pounding in nails and sawing limbs. I was back up in no time.

Adding more steps, I was soon about six feet below Flip. As I fished another spike from a pocket, without warning I felt a warm flood raining down on my head and shoulders and an acrid odor enveloped me. Knowing instantly what it was, I frantically ducked my head and tried to lean around the tree away from it. It didn't do much good. I didn't know a cat's bladder could hold that much and I wondered if he had held it in the whole time he was up that tree. I guess he was so glad to see me that he literally couldn't contain himself.

When he was finally through, I leaned back around and glared up at him.

"Boy, if you ever climb a tree like this again, I just might leave you up there."

Trying to ignore the fact that I now smelled like a litter box, I hammered in the last nails and then my head came up past the branches he was standing on. Oh, you never heard a cat purr like my Flip did. He was so happy to see me that he rubbed his head all over my face again and again. I couldn't help but forgive him. I petted and cooed to him.

Then it was time to get him down. Taking hold of the long, extra clothesline I had brought up, I untied it from around my waist. Remembering the dropped hammer, I made sure I didn't let it slip from my hands. I knotted it securely around Flip, making a harness that he could not fall out of. The whole time my cat continued to purr and rub against me.

Now came the really fun part for Flip. Before he could realize what I was up to, I grabbed the back of the harness and tugged him quickly off the branch, holding him out at arm's length. His attitude changed instantly. His green eyes went wide and he frantically tried to grab onto something. I made sure to keep those flailing claws away from the tree and me.

I began lowering him, hand over hand. He wailed piteously. I talked to him, trying to calm him but he was too terrified, poor guy. As he descended, I tried to keep him away from the tree trunk but the rope swayed with the berserk cat on the end of it and eventually swung him close enough to grab onto the bark. I tugged on the rope, trying to break loose his hold and he clung on as though his life depended on it—I guess to his mind, it did.

Eventually I was able to break him free and he swung away from the tree again, squalling. Unfortunately, the momentum carried him right back again and he latched on once more. Again I worked him loose and learned to lower the rope quickly a ways before it swung back. That way I could make some progress toward the ground before he grabbed hold again. We got into a rhythm, Flip and I.

Jerk him free, lower him quickly, ka-chink as he dug in.

Jerk him free again, lower him, ka-chink.

Jerk.

Lower.

Ka-chink.

Thus, he eventually reached the ground. When I saw he was safely down, I released the rope, tossing it out away from him so it wouldn't land on top of him. The last thing I saw before beginning my own descent was the end of that white clothesline whipping rapidly through the woods and disappearing toward the house.

I climbed down without incident, gathered my equipment and trudged toward home, weary, wet and reeking. As I got to the house I could see the end of the clothesline lying quietly on the ground, the rest of it disappearing under the house through the opening I had entered when I had looked for Flip there a couple of days before. I dropped the gear on the ground, to be dealt with later. Talking encouragingly to him, I pulled gently on the rope and little by little brought him reluctantly out into the open. I picked him up and carried him into the house before releasing him from the harness. I gave him food and water, and then I went into the bathroom to take a long, hot, much-needed shower. I was so glad the ordeal was over.

Oh, and Flip never, so far as I know, climbed another tree. He lived a long and happy life—using up a few more of his nine lives, I imagine—and died peacefully at the age of sixteen.

#

### A Winter Song

Y _ou're not a real winter steelhead fisherman until you've heard the water ouzel sing._ Author Unknown

Southern Oregon's Rogue River has long been a favorite of fishermen in pursuit of the big, sea-run trout known as "steelhead." Two times each year, the powerful fish surge up from the ocean to spawn in the Rogue and the streams that feed it.

One run occurs during the golden days of late summer, while the canyon still glows with sunlight and echoes with the songs of birds and the endless splash, gurgle and mutter of the river on its journey to the ocean. Brightly-colored parades of kayaks, boats and rafts float by, their passengers' skins browned by a summer's worth of sun. As they swoop through the exciting tumbles of fast water scattered throughout the length of the river, squeals and laughter ring off rock walls.

These are the days of the summer steelhead. Warmed by the mellow water temperatures, the big fish willingly take the lures presented to them. The fisherman needs no prodding either, to launch his boat or to stand on the banks and cast his line. The sun feels good on his shoulders and the breeze that ruffles his hair carries the pleasant smells of the river and of the conifers rooted in the steep hillside behind him. Looking up, he might see a bald eagle or osprey outlined against the blue sky.

Soon enough, autumn slips in, bringing cooler days. The sun still shines but there's a briskness to the air, unknown just a month before. Now, dark waters reflect the tints of autumn. Where before, the gray of rock and bright green of summer foliage dominated the river palette, now there are pigments of gold and red intermingled. Happy rafters still make their way down the current, but in reduced numbers. The birds have quieted their singing, though not their activity among the rocks and bushes lining the banks.

As October eases into November and then December, the Northwest winter settles over the Rogue. Gray days rule the canyon now. The first storms of the season have torn the leaves from bush and tree and whirled them into rock crannies, drifted them along the banks and dropped them into the river. The rafters and kayakers are, for the most part, gone. Many of the birds—waterfowl and songbirds—have fled for warmer quarters further south and the wildlife that is left is more subdued, quietly going about the business of survival. Raccoons and otters, great blue herons and belted kingfishers remain.

The winter rains make their first tentative entrance in early November and then settle in, in earnest, pounding the rocks, dripping from bare branches, rippling the surface of the water. The once-mellow Rogue swells into a roaring, foaming torrent, tawny with the silt brought to it by its swollen tributaries. The new voice of the river is powerful, dangerous.

It is while winter has an iron hold on the canyon, during the shortest days of the year, that a new run of steelhead makes its appearance—at first just a few fish here and there and then the numbers swelling as the urge to reproduce drives them against the heavy flow of the water. They are still dressed in the colors they wore in the sea, bright silver sides and iron-gray backs.

Now, a different kind of fisherman appears—the winter steelheader. My husband and I are among those, who prefer the solitude of the Rogue at this time of year, the somber days, the mist softening the hillsides. As I stand on the riverbank, icy winds tug at my collar and the pattering of rain on my slicker is counterpoint to the sonorous tones of the river. I fumble with cold-stiffened fingers to tie lure to line or rebait my hook.

In these frigid waters, the steelhead are more reluctant to bite. As I huddle against the cold and wet, and cast my line again and again, waiting for that tug that tells me a fish is on, a liquid, burbling melody lifts above the roar of the river. So delicate is it that it's barely heard, but it rises and falls with a beauty that lifts my heart. Incredibly, in this dark day of cold and rain, it's the cheerful song of a bird—the water ouzel.

I look around for the little singer, smaller than a robin. If he stands still, his gray color disappears against the wet rocks, yet I have no trouble spotting him as this little bit of cheer seldom remains still. Instead, he bobs up and down in place, as if there is just too much life to be quietly contained in that little body. Forever busy, he flits here and there, hopping from rock to rock, flying over the river on stubby, whirring wings. Every few minutes, he pauses long enough to release that lively string of notes.

Then, amazingly, the little songbird slips below the surface of the fast-moving water. Moments later, he pops up and scrambles onto the rocks, back to his bobbing dance. It is hard to believe what has just happened—that this creature, so delicate in appearance, can make his way beneath the foaming water without being dashed against the rocks or swept downstream. But he is a creature of swift currents and completely at home, poking amid the gravel on the bottom for insects and other bits of aquatic life. Winter or summer, he's never away from the water. Even his song, liquid and bubbling, seems a piece of the river.

Come spring, most of these little ouzels will leave to build their round, mossy nests along the tumbling tributaries higher in the mountains. Those fishermen who only venture to the shores of the river during the warm days of summer will miss the little bird at his best. The few ouzels that remain are easily overlooked in their somber coats, and their songs overwhelmed by the summer noises of the canyon.

Only when the dark days of winter come again, and the little ouzel returns in numbers to the Rogue, will he come into his own and cheer the cold, wet days.

And only the winter steelhead fisherman will hear him sing.

#

### The Saga of Peabody

The cry rang through the woods, startling me. It was loud, harsh, so eerily out of place on this quiet May afternoon. Jim, and I were in the midst of our daily exercise, hiking up the steep logging road behind our house, each of us moving at his own pace. That day, Jim had really leaned into the grade, rounding the corner ahead, so the cry had not reached his ears.

As I came even with a brushy draw I heard it, a squalling, very loud, like nothing I'd heard before, followed by a period of silence, then another squall. At first, I thought it was a bird, then it seemed more like a mammal of some sort. I called out to Jim, alerting him to what I'd heard, then began to follow the sound. The cry appeared to come from the other side of a dense thicket of young firs and huckleberry, and I had some misgivings as I pushed blindly through it on my hands and knees. After all, I didn't have any idea what was making the noise or what the circumstances were.

I broke through into a cool, dim open space, walled and roofed with greenery. Thick, soft moss formed a carpet under me. The sound had stopped but, as I stood up and looked around, I saw a small gray shape lying curled on its side on the moss, unmoving. This must be the origin of the sound but I was surprised that such a loud noise could come from a source this small.

Jim called to me from the other side of the thicket. "Do you see anything?"

"Yes. It's a deer mouse." I answered. "But something's wrong with it."

As I moved closer, trying to make out details in the muted, green light filtering through the foliage, things seemed not quite right. The creature appeared the size of an adult deer mouse but, instead of the brown coat and white underparts of the adult, it had the soft gray and white of a youngster. Hmm, I thought as I stared at the still rodent lying with eyes closed. It's awfully darned beefy for a mouse—adult or youngster.

"No. It's a baby pack rat," I called. At that moment, it squalled again. I picked it up as Jim pushed through the brush and joined me.

The little rat was so young his eyes were still tightly closed. He could not have crawled far so we were sure his nest had to be close by. Jim quickly located the mound of sticks that had been the baby's home, uphill from where we had found him. We were reasonably sure that, if this little guy had merely bumbled out of the nest, his mother would have heard his cries and come to collect him. Pack rats are nocturnal so, at that time of day, she should have been home. The scenario, we guessed, was that the mother, out foraging for food, had been killed. The babies, when they got hungry enough, began to crawl blindly, groping for the mother that had always been there for them. Eventually, they found their way out of the nest—or at least our baby did. We examined the stick pile and the surrounding area for siblings, and listened for other cries. Nothing. There seemed to be no others.

We pushed back through the brush and onto the road, where we looked at the foundling in my hand. How alone and hungry he must have been as he cried out desperately for his mother. He only had the strength to twist and turn feebly as I held him. We had no idea how long he had gone without food.

I saw fly eggs mingled in the fur of his belly. It appeared the insect laid its eggs on him because it instinctively knew he was not long for this world. With my fingernails, I began to comb the eggs out of his belly fur and from spots here and there on his face, as Jim and I talked.

Then the little fellow opened his mouth. My stomach lurched and I could feel the horror rise in me. His mouth was packed full with fly eggs! Although I know it was irrational, at that moment I felt hate and disgust for the insect that had done this to the helpless baby before it was even dead. I had to get the little guy home and get them out. Jim stayed behind to check once more for other survivors and then, if he found none, to resume his exercise.

Jim and I are wildlife artists and I have a collection of dental tools I use to sculpt clay and wax. As soon as I reached home, I selected a tool with a flattened end, cleaned it and used it to scoop out as many eggs as possible from the baby's mouth. I got load after load out. I knew I wouldn't get them all but I didn't expect they would be a problem—fly larvae eat dead flesh, not living. I then gave him a bit of warm water with an eyedropper. He seemed thirsty. And yes, I'm calling the little pack rat a "he," as that is what he was.

By that time, Jim got back with the news that he'd found no other babies. To feed the one we had, we made up some warm milk, using the non-fat powder I keep around for cooking. I didn't think a rat mother's milk would have much fat and I was afraid that regular cow's milk might be too rich, and eventually lethal to the little guy.

We gave him some with the eyedropper. He swallowed a bit of it but didn't seem interested in taking very much. Off and on, the rest of the day, we gave him what warm milk he would drink. As often as not, he got it up his nose and coughed. I worried.

We made up a cozy bed for him in an old dishpan, with cloths layered on top of a heating pad, and a towel spread over the top of the pan to hold in heat and exclude bright light.

When we went to bed that night, we both slept fitfully. Each of us got up a couple of times to make sure he was okay, each time expecting to find that he had died.

He made it through the night. The next day, we began to feed him Pablum, left over from a previous orphan. Because it was made up of corn, wheat, rice and oats, we figured the baby cereal would be good for him. We thinned it considerably with warm milk and, though he still had some trouble with the eyedropper, things went a little better. He was fed often that day, and we also offered him straight water from time to time.

The heating pad didn't seem to be keeping him warm enough so we put him in an empty five-gallon aquarium, with plenty of soft cloths. We suspended a light bulb overhead to provide warmth and it seemed to do the trick. He appeared more comfortable and he definitely felt warmer to the touch.

He was quite an attractive little guy, with gray fur that was wonderfully soft to the touch. His underparts and feet were clean white. He had delicate black whiskers and dainty small toes. His eyes were tightly closed and his ears folded flat against his head. His tail was lightly-furred.

By the third day, I was worried he wasn't getting enough to eat. He had so much trouble with choking that I thickened the cereal mixture, hoping it would be less likely to "go down the wrong way." That seemed to help some.

About this time Jim, seeing the trouble "Rat" had with the eyedropper, suggested I mix up a stiffer batch of Pablum, with just enough water to make a paste, to see if he'd eat that.

I was skeptical. "He's too young."

But I did as he asked because I've learned to trust Jim's instincts in such things. Sometimes he seems to bull ahead too much but, doggone it, it usually turns out well.

By gosh, Rat ate the "Pablum cake" held out to him on the end of the eyedropper. He ate it easily. I'd say that was the turning point. I believe Jim may have saved our orphan's life. I don't know how much nutrition Rat was getting down before, but he handled the Pablum cakes well.

Jim was heartened by this success, and the next few minutes found him trying to think of what else we had around to feed the baby.

For Pete's sake, I thought. He ate the Pablum cake but that doesn't mean he can handle all that other stuff Jim was throwing out as ideas—slices of apple, raisins, bread, lettuce.

Once again my hat was off to my resourceful husband. Rat did eat some of those things and, as the days passed he thrived and we added more items to his list of edibles, even though his eyes hadn't even opened yet.

Those eyes finally did come open about four days after we got him. They were large, shiny black and beautiful. His ears unfolded into delicate, twitching little radar. His whiskers were always moving. He grew incisors. Soon, he no longer needed the light bulb for warmth. Our wild mammal reference book told us we had what is officially known as a "dusky-footed wood rat," another name for pack rat.

He eventually ate lettuce, raw spinach and peas from our garden, apple, dry cat food, crackers, bread, and softened garbanzo beans, to name a few. He held them delicately in his front feet, as he nibbled. Unfortunately he also had access to Oreo cookies, Doritos and pizza. He became a chocolate freak.

Then our clean little guest developed an unpleasant habit. He began to urinate all over his belly. We had been in a routine of picking him up and scratching and playing with him. He really seemed to enjoy that. It wasn't so much fun for us, now that he had a soggy yellow belly. But he did name himself. Henceforth he would be known as "Peabody."

Fortunately Peabody's "pee-body" phase ended quickly. His belly became spotless white again. He was marvelously clean and sweet-smelling with no "mousy" odor whatsoever.

Peabody was a wonderful pet. He seemed to look forward to us picking him up. Jim, especially, played with him a lot. During his first days with us, Peabody snoozed on our lap or in our hands. As he grew older, he didn't sleep so much and more actively ran around all over us. But always he enjoyed being handled. He would raise his chin, like a dog or cat, for us to scratch under. He showed obvious enjoyment in that, closing his eyes and tilting his head this way and that to get a better angle. If we scratched along the inside of a hind leg, he would s-t-r-e-t-c-h that leg till it was straight and spread the toes on that foot.

Jim would roughly massage the loose skin on the wee rat's body, ruffling his fur and making the skin go into folds. The silly rodent loved it. Jim was adept at finding Peabody's "scratch spots." He would scratch among the little guy's whiskers and Peabody would tilt the whiskers this way and that. He'd scratch under a front leg and Peabody would lift that leg and hold that pose.

We replaced the cloths in the aquarium with fresh dirt. Our little pack rat liked that, excitedly exploring this new substance and digging in it. As the days passed, he became quite agile—when we put a hand down to him, he'd clamber all the way up the arm. We had a hamster water bottle attached to the side of the aquarium for water. Peabody started trying to climb that but couldn't seem to get a grip, thank goodness. That is, until the day I looked into the aquarium and no Peabody. He'd done it.

I worriedly searched the house. Nothing. Then, I saw whiskers peeking out from behind the books in the bookcase under the aquarium. Relieved, I scooped up a nonchalant Peabody and returned him to his home. And removed the water bottle and started giving him his water in a dish.

One day, Jim decided to make Peabody a sleeping bag from an old sock that had a hole in the heel. He kept the opening wide by rolling it around the empty cardboard ring from a roll of tape. Peabody was delighted! He learned to dive into the opening, immediately flip over onto his back and stick his nose out of the hole. There he lay, with his hind feet and tail sticking out of the opening in front.

The day came when Peabody started carrying around small sticks, fir cones and pine needles that happened to come in with the dirt. His pack rat genes seemed to be coming to the fore. Of course we brought in larger twigs, four or five inches long, and small straws and delighted in watching him carry them to his sleeping bag. He arranged them around and over his sock. At first his arrangements were crude but, with practice, he became more adept.

We recalled the stories of pack rats and their attraction to shiny objects. Supposedly they will steal such things and stash them in their large, stick nests. We offered him bright toys such as coins but he was totally uninterested. Ah well, maybe that would come later.

Peabody became more and more active and his routine more nocturnal. During the day, when he was sleepy, we could handle him easily and give him his scratchings and rubdowns. But as evening came on, it was hard to keep him contained. He wanted to climb and jump and scurry.

One thing about Peabody, he had an extremely sweet, gentle disposition. No matter how we might hold him back when he'd rather squirm free and do his own thing, no matter how we might frustrate his intentions, he never became cross. He never, ever bit either of us. He liked to lick our fingers and hands and often would gently scrape his teeth across our skin in greeting, but we never worried that he'd bite us. It just wasn't his nature.

As much as we loved and enjoyed Peabody, we had known all along that it would be in his best interest to turn him loose. We wavered from time to time and thought how nice it would be to fix him a little cage and keep him, but we knew that was a selfish attitude. Peabody couldn't be content with us forever. Eventually he would feel the need to build a big pack rat nest and father pack rat babies. And do all the other things that pack rats are born to do.

Of course there's danger out there. There's no end to predators ready and willing to enjoy a rat meal—especially an Oreo-fattened one. But Mother Nature had equipped Peabody well. Already he instinctively darted for cover at strange sounds. Even though he'd never been harmed or threatened in his life with us, something told him to be alert for danger. He wasn't afraid of us in the slightest but he seemed to know other possibilities existed. Because we knew he would eventually be set free, we were glad to see this developing wariness. It would stand him in good stead when he was on his own.

We weren't sure exactly how to turn him loose. There were a number of dilemmas. First was "when." We didn't want to throw him out on his own too soon but we also didn't want to wait so long that he'd grown complacent and had lost the necessary "edge" to survive in the wild. We took each day as it came, waiting for what felt like the right time. Besides, we were enjoying him and weren't in any big hurry for him to go.

The second consideration was "how." Peabody was no longer the helpless baby he'd been when we first found him, but we didn't want to just take him out of his cozy home and dump him in the woods. We felt that some sort of transition was in order.

The third question was "where." I initially felt that by his old nest would be best. Since his mother had likely been killed, there should be an open territory waiting for him. He wouldn't have to fight another pack rat for a place to live. Jim was worried about that plan. It was less than a half mile from there to our house, and he was afraid that Peabody might find his way back. That could be lethal since we had two cats that had, at times, brought the remains of rats onto the porch.

We reread our reference on this species of pack rat, trying to gain as much information as possible, to help us in our decisions. We had forgotten the passage that said the "dusky foot" is considered a rather colonial animal, with several often living within the same territory. Well, that solved the problem. Peabody probably wouldn't have trouble finding a niche.

We still had a while to decide, so we worked on the second consideration, the transition, while we put the first and third on hold. We brought out our all-purpose cage that Jim had built of quarter-inch hardware cloth on a wooden frame—the one we'd used for setting hens and for mountain quail and other creatures that had temporarily come into our life. We don't keep birds or animals cooped up permanently so it had always been sort of a "halfway house." It measured three feet long by two feet wide and two feet high, and was open and airy. The door was in the top to make it easier to access and more difficult for the current resident to escape.

Inside this, we placed a wooden nest box that we'd used for setting bantam hens on eggs. It measured one foot on each side, had a round doorway about six inches in diameter and a roof that lifted off. Into this, we put rags and hay for warmth and, of course, Peabody's sock sleeping bag.

We located the whole set-up beside some bushes, at the edge of the yard, and I pulled some of the edible, leafy twigs through the wire so Peabody could sniff or nibble them. We covered the floor with dirt, twigs, and fir cones. Jim wedged in a dead branch for him to climb on. The weather was mild so we didn't worry that he'd be too cold after having been used to the warmth of the house.

Peabody seemed to take to this arrangement with enthusiasm. He ran around and explored the cage, and appeared to enjoy his cozy nest box. Over a few days he arranged straws, twigs and dead leaves in the opening to make it smaller. As he used up his supply of twigs we replenished it.

As each night approached, Peabody became alert, whiskers twitching and shiny eyes bulging. The slightest "off" sound sent him scurrying into the nest box. Yet he still had not the slightest worry about us. We were his family. All we had to do was open the door in the top of the cage—and lift the lid of the nest box if he was inside—and he would run over to the hand offered to him. Then he would lick and tooth-scrape our fingers, or even grab hold of the hand and clamber up the arm.

We soon stopped putting our hands in toward nightfall because he was now so active and so agile at that time of day that we were afraid he'd squirm out of our hands or leap off our arms and be gone. He then might linger in the area until one of our cats caught him.

But daytime was another story. Then he was sleepy and sluggish and there was little danger of his escaping. Yet, when we lifted the nest box lid, he was still ever ready to pop out of his sock, to see what we might have for a treat, or to be picked up and petted and fussed over.

After six days outside, the time had come to give Peabody his freedom. However much we might want to postpone the inevitable, there was really no justifying a delay. He was as ready as he'd ever be. We had found him May 27. It was now June 25. In the month he'd been with us he'd grown into an independent, healthy, active adolescent.

We had already made our plans. We decided on a place Jim had seen halfway up the mountain behind us, far enough away, we felt, so Peabody was unlikely to return home. Jim had noticed an old pack rat nest so it must be suitable habitat. There was plenty of brush for cover and a small stream for water. What more could he need?

Although Peabody would be more alert and active in late afternoon or early evening, we decided to release him in the morning. Late in the day, predators would also be more active and we wanted to give our little pack rat plenty of time to adjust and settle in, during a time of least danger.

We put Peabody, along with some food and his sock, in a large paper shopping bag, making sure to include a couple of Oreos as a farewell gift. As Jim drove us to the release site, I sat with the open bag on my lap, sadly petting and scratching our wonderful little guy for the last time.

At our destination, we parked the truck. I carried the sack as we carefully picked our way down from the road, searching for a good spot to release him. Jim finally found it—an old rotting log beside the stream, with abundant huckleberry bushes next to it for cover. The log had crevices that would make good hiding places and Jim pulled off and arranged some large slabs of bark into a cozy niche. We put the sock and food there. We placed Peabody in there too, after each of us held him, gave him a good fur-ruffling and said good-bye.

Peabody was wired. He didn't even stop at his sleeping bag or food. He explored, disappearing and reappearing in the crevices, his whiskers bristling with excitement. That is what he was doing when we saw him last. I don't know if he ever went back to his sleeping bag and eats but we felt confident we'd done our best by him and given him a good chance to survive. It was a far cry from the weak little baby with his mouth stuffed full of fly eggs to the sleek, alert, slightly tubby young adolescent we'd taken to the spot in the woods. I know our lives are richer for having known and experienced Peabody.

#

### Mr. Sonar

Bats.

To many, the word brings a shudder. After all, isn't it common knowledge that the horrid, leathery-winged, sharp-toothed creatures carry rabies, and drink blood and, maybe worst of all, get caught in your hair?

I've never felt any fear or revulsion for bats. I know they're not the only mammal that can harbor rabies, and only one tropical bat species drinks blood. As to getting caught in my hair—well, I have yet to have that happen.

For as long as I can remember, the little animals have fascinated me. I still enjoy walking outside on a summer evening, just at dusk, and watching them swoop and flitter after insects. I've sometimes been able to hear the rapid-fire click-click-click of their voices as they use them, and the echoes that bounce back, to navigate and to locate small, flying prey.

Bats are everywhere around us. I've found them squeezed under the ship-lap siding of my parents' house and hanging up under the roof of the carport. I've squirmed through a narrow cave entrance and, while still lying on my back, switched on my flashlight to find a cluster of them on the rock three feet from my face. They didn't appreciate having their slumbers interrupted by the light—but then, I suppose I wouldn't either. One brisk November day, I curiously explored a few feet into an abandoned mine and found bats clinging to the stone walls. This group was deep in hibernating slumber, oblivious to my flashlight beam.

Many years ago, during the summer of my thirteenth year, I noticed a bat flitting around our front porch, collecting the moths that bumbled softly against the outside lamp. Evening after evening, I pushed my nose against the glass panes in the door and watched him.

One night, wanting to get a better look, I slipped out and stood very still next to the light. He hesitated for several minutes, passing back and forth at the edge of the illumination cast by the bulb. Then, to my delight, he accepted this new development and returned to his hunting.

I was enthralled, and waited expectantly for each appearance. So long as he stayed outside that bright circle of light, he was hidden from me by the blackness. But when he dashed in to snatch a moth beside my head, it was as though he abruptly materialized, then disappeared again with equal speed.

Would he take a moth from my hand? I caught one and held the hapless insect in my fingers, allowing its wings to flutter so the bat would know it was there. After the little hunter took a few moments to think about it, again flying back and forth at the edge of the light, he came in and took it from me. I was thrilled. It all happened so quickly—a sudden dash to my hand, the lightest touch as he lit on my fingers and took the offering, and then was gone. It was over almost before I realized it.

Thus began a regular ritual that summer. Whenever I saw him hunting around our porch light, I went outside. By now he accepted me without pause. There might have been a dim realization on his part that this was a good deal for him—I did all of the catching, and he had simply to take them from me.

I snared moth after moth as they were drawn to the light, then, holding my hand up about a foot in front of my face, waited for him to dive in for the struggling treat. There was some frustration on my part though. As close as my hand was to my face, I should have gotten a wonderfully-detailed look at him, yet he was so quick that there was only a flash of movement, that feather-light touch on my hand and then it was over. No matter how I tried to imprint details onto my brain, I was left with nothing more than a ghost image.

It was then I recalled reading comments by a researcher that these animals seem to exist in a different time plane than we do, living at a sort of hyper-speed. We have only to observe a bat when it has come to rest, to see this—ears twitch and body quivers nonstop, every movement jerky, like film footage sped up. Its metabolism is so rapid that it must eat enormous amounts of food just to replace the calories it uses. Watching my bat, I could believe this.

He became Mr. Sonar, after the form of echolocation he used, and I looked forward to our partnerships on the porch. When my father regaled his co-workers with tales of my bat and me, he received dire predictions that I would be bitten, perhaps even get rabies. Dad repeated the warnings to me with a smile. My folks have always believed in just living life and letting common sense rule. That's my philosophy, too. The conclusion in my child mind was that, if Mr. Sonar was flying around and eating normally, then he must not be sick. Had I listened to the naysayers and given up my interactions with my bat, I'd have missed out on a wonderful experience.

That summer was the only time I did this with Mr. Sonar or any bat. At the end of the warm season he left, I assumed to hibernate away the cold weather. To my disappointment, he didn't return the next summer. No others came around the porch light and so, that's been the only such experience for me. But it added to my love and awe for the mysterious little creatures, and the recollection still lies pleasant and warm among my store of memories.

#

### A Warbler Tale

"Uh-oh, what's Molly up to?" My husband was staring out the living-room window. I walked over to him, following his gaze out to our yard—and to our gray and white cat, obviously stalking something on the ground. We hurried outside, to prevent her from hurting whatever it was.

Molly greeted us with a purr, while over her head, two birds fluttered back and forth, from branch to branch, chirruping in obvious distress. The cat turned back toward the tiny baby bird that had caught her interest. We shooed her away, gathering up the baby from the ground, then looked around for others. We found and collected another youngster, and then another, while Molly followed, making disappointed mews.

After a thorough search of the area, we found no more little ones. Did they fall from a nest, or were they dumped out as the nest itself tumbled from a tree? Our yard was not much more than a clearing among large Douglas firs, with smaller shrubs scattered about. We searched these for a nest, and looked on the ground for the remains of one, but we found nothing.

The parent birds shadowed us, frantically calling. Well, that was good. At least they knew where their babies were and wouldn't easily abandon them. The adults were small, not much over four inches long. The male was a lovely gray and white, with a bright yellow head and rich, black throat. His mate's colors were softer and more demure. We recognized them as hermit warblers. That explained why we saw no nest. These birds spend the major portion of their lives high in the forest canopy—that's fifty feet or more above our yard. The nest likely had been up there, and it was a wonder the youngsters weren't hurt by their fall. We could see they were well-feathered and near to fledging—their stubby wings had probably assisted them to a soft landing.

We held the little ones in our hands, and examined them to be sure they were uninjured. They looked back at us with bright, dark eyes, tufts of down sticking up every which way from the tops of their heads. It was then we noticed swellings on their backs, each with a tiny hole in the middle. We recognized immediately that the nestlings had been parasitized by the larvae of a bird blowfly, each baby hosting two or three of the things. We'd read somewhere that young birds can become so agitated from the irritation of these larvae that they sometimes jump out of the nest. Is this what had happened? If so, it certainly was curious that they all decided to leave the nest at the same time. One thing was sure—we now had three little ones in need of care.

While I held the babies, Jim went into the house and came back with tweezers. He used them to very carefully pull on an exposed portion of one of the larva. It popped out easily, and he tossed it aside. He repeated the process on all of the birds until he had freed them of their ghastly passengers. To our surprise, when he touched the tweezers to some of the larvae, they squirmed out on their own. They were large, maybe three-eighths of an inch long, and fat. They must have caused a lot of discomfort to such small birds and certainly could have weakened them simply by feeding on their blood.

We dusted antiseptic powder into the holes the larvae had left behind, and hoped the youngsters would be okay. Between being fed on by those awful grubs and having fallen from who knows how far above, they had been through it.

The next order of business was to put them in a safe place, so their parents could care for them. I scrounged up a small cardboard box and folded the flaps down inside so the top was open. We put the babies in and carried it to a nearby tree where there was a wooden shelf we used as a winter bird feeder, nailed about five feet from the ground. We put the box on it, then retreated to the house to observe what the parents would do.

The mother and father, dedicated little caregivers that they were, flew around the area looking for their lost kids. Undoubtedly hearing the cries of the young ones, they found their way to the box on the platform and lit on the rim, peering down at their youngsters. Then they quickly left to rustle up chow.

One after another, the mother and father birds fluttered in with a caterpillar or some such morsel. They perched on the edge of the box, then disappeared inside, only to quickly reappear, without their cargo. Obviously it had been shoved down a welcoming, open mouth.

The parent birds were so immediately accepting of the new arrangement that we wondered if they'd mind us walking outside to watch them. When we did, they hardly paused in their comings and goings. Every few minutes we moved a little closer. It didn't seem to bother them. Finally we stood beside the box, and they perched on the rim right next to our faces.

The cardboard sides were just a little too high for us to see the parents actually feeding their kids inside. Always willing to push the envelope, we wondered if the parents would mind if Jim lifted the box from the platform and set it onto a low stump where we could stand and look down into it. He did so while they were off on one of their forays.

Mom and Dad Warbler, beaks stuffed with goodies, flew to where the carton had been and found it gone. They quickly reconnoitered and discovered the new location. Again, they landed on the edge, hopped in and fed the babies. This time we saw it all.

We realized we'd be more comfortable sitting than standing. How about if Jim and I sat down on a log and placed the box on the ground between us. Would the adult birds still come in?

Yes, they did.

The game was getting interesting. The parents seemed unflappable in their zeal to keep stuffing those hungry little mouths. If there'd been any indication that the adults might be frightened off, we'd have left them alone. But, so far, they ignored us.

Next, Jim picked up the box and set it in his lap. And still the birds came.

Well, well, well. I cupped my hands together and Jim set the three fledglings in them. I sat on that log, stone-still, hardly daring to breathe as I waited to see what the mama and papa warblers would do.

This was a tad more daunting for them. They hesitated, flew around, landed on nearby branches.

Then, marvel of marvels, the mother flew in and landed on my thumb, with a caterpillar in her beak. The little ones immediately gaped and began cheeping, begging for the meal. She sat there just a moment and looked up into my eyes. I was absolutely still. She then leaned over and popped the caterpillar into a wide-open mouth. What a thrilling experience for me—to have a wild bird land on my hand and feed her babies as I held them.

I sat there for several minutes, while she made trip after trip. I was awed at the rapidity with which she found food. Each time she left us, flying up into the trees, it seemed to take her only a few minutes to find a new morsel. What keen eyesight these little birds must have to so quickly find the hidden insects they ferried to their young. And how many insects there must be in that patch of woods, that they can find so many of them.

At this point, it was only the mother bird who fed the youngsters. The male danced nervously around the area, flitting from branch to branch with a tidbit in his mouth, but never quite dared to come in and land on my hand. It was the indomitable female that showed no fear.

Jim took his turn holding the babies and the mother came to him as well. She continued to find and deliver meal after meal, and her hungry brood readily accepted everything she brought.

We knew we'd have to come up with safe temporary housing for our foundlings until they could fledge and survive on their own. As well-feathered as they were and, as quickly as little birds develop, we suspected it wouldn't be long, perhaps just a day or two. We could put them back in the cardboard box but it wouldn't be safe to leave it on the bird feeder. Either Molly or our other cat, D.C., would hear the little ones and be up that tree in no time.

We decided to secure the box on the railing of our porch, right in front of a window. That way, we could continue to watch our new family. But how to keep the cats from causing a problem? After a bit of head-scratching, Jim remembered some old chicken wire we had on hand. The openings in it were two inches in diameter, large enough for the diminutive birds to slip through if they could be persuaded to do so. Yet it would hopefully prove to be an effective barrier against the cats.

Okay, first we had to lead the parents over to the porch, about twenty feet away. Jim gently deposited the youngsters back into the box. He stood up with it in his hands, and walked a few paces toward the porch, then stopped and waited. The mother quickly found her kids and popped a yummy into a waiting mouth, then left. Jim walked a few more steps and stopped. Again Mama found her babies. In this manner he led the mother all the way, stopping every few feet to let her find him.

Once he reached the porch, we set the box on the railing and used baling twine to tie it securely to a post. We went inside for awhile to let the mother bird get used to the location before we started putting up the chicken wire. I scooped up Molly and carried her in with us—D.C. was already inside, snoozing the day away. With us out of the picture, the timid male warbler began to once again help his mate with the feeding. Now there were again two full-time parents.

After an hour or so, and several trips back and forth by the industrious birds, Jim went to the storage shed to retrieve the chicken wire. We formed a cage of netting completely around the cardboard container, keeping the perimeter far enough back from the box that a cat couldn't reach an inquiring paw through to the baby warblers. Jim secured it with small nails. It looked pretty tacky but seemed like it would do the job.

The parents hung around nearby while the chicken wire went up. When we were through, we backed up a few steps to watch. Once all the activity stopped, the female flew in with an insect in her beak. She landed on the wire, hesitated a moment, and then slipped through one of the openings as though she'd done it all her life. Satisfied we went inside. Soon the male was going in and out of the wire as well.

All the rest of that day, the parent birds took turns bringing meals to the babies. There were periods when one or the other stayed away for as much as an hour. My guess is the bird was taking a much-needed break before resuming the food shuttle. What an incredible amount of energy it takes to feed growing baby birds.

As daylight waned the parents disappeared, to spend the night elsewhere. The youngsters were feathered enough at this age that they did not need to be brooded. The next morning, the adult warblers were back and that day was a repeat of the previous one. It exhausted us just watching them.

Throughout that day, we paused from time to time to observe the action through the window. Occasionally we went out to check on the babies. Fortunately they seemed none the worse for their larvae surgery and free-fall, and looked back at us with alert eyes, perhaps hoping we had something to eat.

Halfway through the third day, I checked the box and found only two little birds in it. We searched the porch and nearby shrubbery and quickly found the missing fledgling, perched in a yew tree about a dozen feet away. He'd obviously flown there. The parents knew where he was, and they alternated their insect-shuttling between the little adventurer in the yew and his siblings still in the box. Later that day the other youngsters followed suit and landed in surrounding bushes. The cats weren't an issue, sleeping the day away inside the house.

None of the fledglings stayed long in one spot, but seemed bent on practicing their new aeronautic skills, moving from perch to perch in bushes and trees. Then we saw them no more. We were satisfied we'd done the best we knew how. It was up to the newly-fledged young ones now.

We wished them well and dismantled the chicken wire nursery.

#

### Wonder Mountain

I sit on a sun-bleached log, overlooking a narrow valley far below. It winds through fir-covered mountains that fill the horizon as far as the eye can see, paling with distance and merging with the cloudless blue sky. Fifteen miles or so to the east, the city of Grants Pass is already hazy and shimmering in the warm air rising on this summer morning.

Through the little valley, meanders the Redwood Highway. From my lofty perspective, it is a gray string beaded with winks of light as the sun catches the miniscule cars that travel it. My eyes follow those heading west and watch them laboriously ascend far-away Hayes Hill, on their way toward the small town of Cave Junction.

Tiny houses keep the highway company and I can just glimpse others here and there, peeking from secluded hollows winding well back into the mountains. My house is somewhere among those, hidden from my sight by a cover of trees. Three hours ago, I was a part of that world below. Now, I sit well above it, near the top of Wonder Mountain—alone but for my dog, Jen.

Wonder Mountain—she dominates the skyline behind my house, and I've known her since I was a child. We have had a relationship, on and off, for over forty years. I grew up in her shadow, left to live elsewhere and then returned to her once again. I've climbed her slopes and camped in her forest openings. I've watched the loggers come and take her trees, churning her soil into bare, red-clay furrows with their caterpillar tractors and yarders, filling the once peaceful woods with the roar of heavy machinery, the grumble and whine of chain saws, the crack and crash of falling trees. When she is left alone once more, I've seen the mountain heal herself, slowly covering her wounds with soft green, sending up new trees toward the sun, to replace the old.

I've climbed her steep flanks in the heat of summer, sweat running into my eyes, and paused to drink deeply at Cougar Spring. It was named by my husband and me for two sets of tracks, adult and youngster, we once saw impressed into damp clay beside it. The water of the spring is always sweet and icy-cold even on the hottest day of full summer. It trickles from the bank within a cool, green swale, the sun kept at bay by a roof of intertwined alder branches, their leaves whispering in the fragrant breezes that dance up from the shadowed woods below. I push through shoulder-high ferns and kneel amid the scents of damp leaf mold and musky elk clover, cupping my hands to drink.

Sometimes, in fall or winter, I climb the mountain slopes to meet the wild Pacific storms that howl through the lofty crowns of old-growth Douglas firs. Buffeted and drenched by icy squalls, immersed in the primeval voice of the storm, I raise my face to the rain.

I've had adventures here, as I pad ghost-quiet along her forest trails. At those times, I become part of the mountain, often unnoticed by her wild inhabitants.

I have remained stone-still on a glorious, sunny fall day as a gray squirrel searched among the fallen leaves for acorns. He worked his way toward me, until he was almost touching my toes, before nervously peering up into my face, and scampering off.

I watched a bear, night-black but for her tan muzzle, amble up to within thirty yards of me before she caught my scent on an errant breeze and veered off, ears flattened, to ooze up the hillside and gone.

I once glided ever so slowly up a trail wrapped in winter fog and caught sight of a bobcat far ahead. I froze in my tracks and he came very close, then turned and leaped deftly off the path, disappearing into the mist.

I stood just inside the concealing trees at the edge of a forest opening and watched a forked-horned buck court a doe. Shaking his tiny set of antlers at her half-grown twin fawns, he tried to chase them away. I was amused as they repeatedly, to his frustration, ran around him and back to their mother. I must have watched for twenty minutes before the tableau moved off and out of sight.

All of these experiences I treasure.

Whenever I can, I climb my mountain, sometimes in company with my husband, Jim, and Jen. At other times it's just Jen and me. At least once a year I shoulder a backpack containing tent, sleeping bag and other necessities, and my dog and I make our laborious way up the mountain's steep trails. Well, I'm the one with the forty-pound pack, so my walk is laborious, while my carefree German shepherd explores and chases squirrels.

That's how I come to be perched on this log right now, looking over the valley below. We're here to spend the night. Each time I climb the mountain to camp, I try and look for someplace different. Hopefully it will be near a source of drinking water, but that doesn't always happen. Sometimes I have to hike a half mile or so to fetch water. This day, though, I've parked myself near Hare Creek, that tumbles from the top of the mountain, all the way down to its joining with Slate Creek. The water of Hare Creek is cold and good, with the mildly-earthy flavor of the forest it passes through.

Soon, I rise and set up the tent. After everything is shipshape, I play with the dog, or explore and admire the wildflowers. As the day wanes, I fix our supper. Then we both sit in front of the tent and watch the sun go down and the stars come out. I listen to the wind sighing through the treetops, music I never tire of. Jen sits beside me, her large ears swiveling back and forth to take in the myriad small sounds of evening. She raises her muzzle, her wet, black nose twitching at the scents carried to her on the still-warm breezes.

When it's time to turn in, we crawl into the tent, I to snuggle down into my sleeping bag, Jen to curl up on the foot of it. I close the mosquito netting but leave the tent flap open so I can gaze at the starry sky until my eyelids grow heavy. As I drift off to sleep, I'm aware of the small rustlings of the forest. There is so much living going on after dark. From time to time, during the night, I'm vaguely aware of Jen raising her head to listen to some slight sound that has captured her attention. Then I feel her put her chin down on my feet again.

I awaken to a chill, gray dawn, to the first sleepy chirps of the birds, and Jen pokes her nose into my face, giving me a cold, wet greeting. I prefer to linger awhile in my snug, warm sleeping bag but Jen fidgets, anxious to see what new smells the morning has brought. I open the mosquito netting and she's off. Burrowing back down into the warmth of my bed, I watch the sunlight slowly crawl across the landscape spread out below me, gilding the mountains first, leaving the valleys filled with blue shadow until later in the morning.

I finally rise and linger over breakfast, enjoying the cool, early hour. As the day progresses and the world awakens, faint sounds occasionally come from far below—the distant whine of a chain saw, someone hammering on wood, the barking of a dog. It's not possible to get away from all civilization here but the sounds are so faint as to have an air of unreality to them.

Jen and I spend the rest of the day doing whatever we want. She is almost constantly in motion, sniffing and digging, chasing birds and chipmunks. She doesn't go far from me and periodically checks back in. I play my recorder—a kind of flute—and I like the pleasing acoustic quality the outdoors lends to the tones. Or I write impressions and thoughts in my journal. Or I just observe Nature around me. This is my time to be quiet, inside and out. I once spent an entire sweltering, summer day lying on my stomach in the shade of my tent, observing lizards and grasshoppers on a hill of earth just a few feet away.

Eventually the time comes to pack up and go home. I delay it as long as possible. It's not that home is bad, but that this is just so good and I don't get to do it nearly often enough. But I consider myself fortunate that I can walk from my backyard to a place like this. I've renewed myself. Come about four o'clock in the afternoon, I finally begin to pack up. Jen and I then make our way back home to our other life, to civilization.

#

Incubation – Hen and Machine

A number of years ago, Jim and I enjoyed a handful of pet bantam chickens that roamed freely about our yard. As we quickly learned, if there was one thing the little hens were hardwired for it was motherhood. That seemed their all-consuming passion and they liked to hide their nests in the woods around our home. Since we really didn't want to be neck-deep in fowl, I practiced chicken birth-control by locating the nests and relieving them of their eggs. The hen-fruit were small but tasty, with dark-orange yolks.

When a hen began to disappear for a while every day, that was a clue she was laying. I kept an eagle eye on her so I could follow when she headed for the woods. Easier said than done. She knew what I was up to.

Nevertheless, I was the picture of innocence as I pretended to be interested in anything but where she was going, watching out of the corner of my eye, trying to keep her in sight as she slipped in and out of the brush. She wasn't fooled for an instant and pretended in turn that she didn't notice me. She wandered first one direction, then another, picking at a leaf here, scratching at the ground there.

Aha, I would think, as she slipped into cover. Then I watched, disappointed, as she emerged from the other side, stood regarding me with a bright, dark eye and then continued her interminable roaming. If I was foolish enough to take my eyes off her for an instant, she vanished.

Eventually, I did find each shallow depression cradling its pale brown eggs. So well did it blend in with the surrounding dead leaves that I could be looking right at it from a few feet away and not see it. A popular nesting location was at the base of a tree or bush. Another often-used site was smack in the middle of the largest, thorniest patch of blackberry briars she could find. Cursing and bleeding, I'd have to wriggle my way in on my stomach to reach the nest.

I always waited until the hen left before I collected her eggs, feeling guilty as I robbed her. Thankfully, the banties seemed unperturbed and continued to visit each nest until that laying cycle was over. When they were ready to try again, they found a new location and the cat-and-mouse game started all over again. With more than one banty sneaking off to nest, it seemed I was spending an inordinate amount of time tiptoeing after chickens.

We finally came up with an idea that ended my chasing around among the trees. We put a couple of wooden nest boxes on our back porch, each with hay and a plastic nest egg to encourage occupation by a hen bent on motherhood. Now it was a simple matter to step out the door and collect the eggs each day. The hens found the boxes and their nest eggs irresistible. In fact, it didn't matter if there was another hen occupying the box. As I stood in the kitchen, I'd hear a complaining squeal. Looking out the window, I'd see one grumpy hen hunkered down, trying to glue herself inside the box for all she was worth, while another, with implacable single-mindedness, slowly, ever so slowly, did her best to ooze in and displace her. Never mind that there was an identical nest box with an identical nest egg sitting right beside them. They both wanted this box.

My guilt was assuaged somewhat when we began to use the hens to hatch the eggs of other birds. Our little banties were finally allowed to become mothers, even if it was to ducks, quail and guinea fowl. When we found ourselves with a batch of eggs, it was an easy matter to get one of the hens broody.

We'd built a wooden box measuring one foot on all sides, with a roof that could be lifted off. There was a round opening in the front, large enough for the hen to come and go. The walls had ventilation holes so the doorway could be blocked with a solid plank. It was a simple matter to put in nesting material and then close the hen inside, on a clutch of maybe a half dozen plastic eggs. In the calming darkness she settled down quickly. We kept the nest box inside a large, wire outdoor cage to keep her safe from prowling skunks, foxes, and coyotes.

By the next day, the feel of the eggs under her had induced the hen into a state of broodiness. We then let her out to feed and water, and to stretch her legs. Once done, she returned to the box on her own and settled down again. We gave her another day to make sure she was ready, then replaced the plastic eggs with real ones and left the door open.

The hen happily incubated them, only leaving the nest once a day to eat and drink, and to relieve herself. If she was setting on duck eggs, we'd sprinkle a little water on them while she was gone, to simulate the necessary moisture the feathers of the mother duck would bring.

When the broody hen returned, she would cluck softly as she carefully stepped through the door and among the eggs, gently turning each with her beak before settling—with considerable shimmying and fluffing of petticoats—onto her treasures again.

Whether the babies were quail, guineas or ducklings, never once did a hen seem to question the authenticity of her brood. Jim and I had heard stories of chickens hatching out ducklings, only to go into squawking, fluttering frenzies when their precious babies found water and happily sallied forth. Not our serene little mothers. Our "pond" was a child's plastic wading pool about six feet across. We arranged ramps both inside and outside it so the little ducklings could come and go easily. While they splashed in the pool, their foster mother nonchalantly picked and scratched in the dirt beside it. When the kids had had enough, they returned to Mama.

These little hens were conscientious mothers, carefully tucking their charges into their soft, warm underfeathers to protect them from rain or cold weather. They continually reassured the chicks with clucks and throaty soft chuckles. With the alien babies, there seemed to be a language barrier the first couple of days but they quickly learned to respond when Mama called to them.

One super foster mother that comes to my mind was Pepper. She was a plump, black banty that hatched and cared for several broods of "non-chickens." One incident brings home strongly just how dedicated a mother she was. She was incubating some guinea eggs in the wooden brood box when Jim and I had to suddenly go out of town for a few days during the time when they were due to hatch. I assured my mother, who lived next door, that she need only come by once a day to feed and water our birds, including Pepper.

The doorway of the nestbox was a couple of inches above the floor of the cage, so I usually stacked little stairsteps from pieces of wood to allow the chicks to get in and out easily. This time I'd forgotten to do it.

During a spell of cold, wet weather the eggs hatched. One of the little guinea "keets" found its way outside the box and was unable to climb back up through the hole. We arrived home to find poor Pepper, standing in the rain, soaking wet, half in and half out of the doorway. Torn between the brood inside and the plaintively peeping and chilled little keet outside, she was trying desperately to somehow warm them all. I quickly swept the baby up and took it inside our house. Holding it in my cupped hands, I tried to warm it with my breath but it grew more and more still, and died.

Pepper did raise the rest of the keets to maturity. There was actually no better way, in our experience, to hatch eggs than with a bantam. A few times though, we experimented with an old incubator we had. It was a steel, circular container about two feet across, shaped like a pillbox. A little window in the lid allowed us limited viewing of the contents. There was a wire screen inside for the eggs to lie on, and a shallow dish we kept filled with water to add necessary humidity to the warm air inside. It was a very basic machine but it worked well with a little care. We had to turn the eggs a few times a day and needed to monitor the temperature by laying a thermometer on the wire. It was all labor-intensive but fun.

To be sure we had live eggs, we "candled" them after about the third day of incubation. Our candler was an empty, cardboard toilet paper roll taped over the lens of a flashlight to concentrate the beam. If we held an egg against the open end of the roll, the light glowed through the shell just enough so that it became translucent. A viable egg showed a small, dark spot that was the embryo, with a network of blood vessels radiating away from it. It was always exciting to see the developing chick inside. Over the next few days the spot grew in size and the blood vessels multiplied until the insides became opaque and we could no longer see any details.

As the eggs neared hatching, there was another way we could check to see if they were still alive. We filled a bowl with water, warmed to prevent chilling the babies. One at a time, we gently placed each egg into it, where it bobbed on the surface like a cork, rocking briefly after we released it, then becoming still. We held our breath in anticipation. Suddenly the egg began to jerk and quiver on its own, sending ripples against the sides of the bowl, proof of the vigorous little life within. If the egg was within two or three days of hatching, we sometimes heard cheeping coming from inside.

Hatching day was always exciting. As nervous foster-parents, we hovered around the incubator, looking in the little window for signs that the first chick was beginning to cut its way out of the shell with the tiny, sharp projection on the end of its beak, called an "eggtooth."

Eventually, the chick inside chiseled a small hole in the large end of the egg, and its beak became visible as it breathed outside air for the first time and began to cheep. Then, the youngster slowly and laboriously rotated inside the egg and used the eggtooth to cut a groove extending all the way around the end, the egg rocking from its exertions. Short stretches of intense activity were followed by periods of rest. Finally the chick forced the end away like a cap and, heaving and stretching, pushed the rest of its body out onto the screen of the incubator. There it lay, exhausted and wet, until it regained its strength and the warm air dried and fluffed its down.

Occasionally a chick had trouble pushing its way out and we needed to assist it. This is a dangerous undertaking because there are still blood vessels throughout the egg and carelessness can tear one of them, causing the chick to bleed to death. Without help though, it could die of exhaustion. Usually it was enough for us to carefully work the shell open a bit more with tweezers, then replace the egg into the incubator—the chick was able to finish the job.

Surprises can happen though. One time I was holding a duck egg in my hands, assisting the little baby in this way. As soon as I weakened the shell some, the little duckling gave a mighty heave and flopped into my cupped palms, warm, wet and gangly, like a newborn colt. Twenty-eight days before, this had been an egg—now I held a fully-formed little bird. What greater miracle is there?

#

# Bullbat Ridge

Jim, brought the pickup to a halt and turned off the engine. "This is it."

I stepped out and looked around. We were thirty minutes from home, and three thousand feet above it, the road poised on a ridge of rough rock that fell away sharply to either side of us. Clinging to the inhospitable serpentine soil were a few small ground-hugging plants and a scattering of wind-sculpted Jeffrey pines, shaped by the storms that regularly roared through the mountains. Dead snags, bleached and contorted, were sad skeletons of trees that had lost the fight.

It was eight o'clock in the evening. The sun, almost to the horizon, clothed the mountains around us in a golden haze and spilled purple shadows into steep-walled canyons. I breathed in deeply. The oppressive August heat had been left far below. On that high ridge, the air was balmy, and sweet with the vanilla scent of Jeffrey bark. We were there to photograph the sunset and, hopefully, to experience a phenomenon we had reason to believe would unfold.

I retrieved my camera and released our German shepherd, Sage, from the truck. She touched my hand with a cold nose and bounced off joyfully to explore. I began trying to digitally capture the sun's fire caught in the needled foliage of the pines, and the twisted, abstract silhouettes of snags against the reddening, western sky.

Turning the other direction, I photographed pine trunks glowing orange against a backdrop of cerulean, lavender and pastel yellow. Far away and tiny, Grants Pass spread across the valley floor, hazy in the last light of day.

Peent!

The peculiar, buzzing note came from overhead and I

swiveled, trying to locate its source.

Peent! It was answered by another.

Not long now.

A graceful shape, propelled by long pointed wings, arced across the soft evening sky, scattering a series of nasal peents behind it. Then it was gone. I held my breath, waiting. The shadow reappeared overhead, accompanied by another. They circled, flitting erratically back and forth. Studying us?

Our callers were nighthawks. Also known as "bullbats." Neither hawks nor bats, the jay-sized birds fluttered and soared on wings spanning almost two feet, and scooped up flying insects in their oversized mouths. Jim had discovered them on a lone visit to that place only a few days prior, and now we were there together sharing the experience.

One of the birds circled overhead and I rotated, keeping my eyes on it. It dropped from the sky like a stone, toward the dog. Just over her head, it checked the dive, leaving the air vibrating with a buzzing zzzwhoosh, then looped quickly around her twice and shot back up into the sky. I glimpsed white wing patches. Sage, tongue lolling good-naturedly, watched the bird soar up and away.

Then Jim and I began to receive these aerial displays above us as well. Since it's the male who thrums the fast-moving air through his wingtips to make the sound, we assumed that nighthawk was a he. There seemed no aggression to the behavior.

While we meandered and took pictures, the two dark forms above us swooped and harvested insects against an orange sky. Periodically, one of them reminded us he was there, plummeting toward the ground, rowing his long, curved wings as if to increase airspeed, then rocketing up and into the sky, leaving that strange twanging zzzwhoosh in his wake.

An hour passed. Gently, gracefully, night descended, and we put away our cameras. The breeze picked up and ruffled our hair, and sighed through the foliage of the trees. Grants Pass became a handful of bright jewels scattered across black velvet. And still our nighthawk performed. Though we could no longer see him in the dark, we tracked his peents with our ears, as he flew overhead. We learned that, when the peenting stopped, the dive would follow.

Peent.

Peent.

Peent.

Peent . . . . . .

Zzzzwhoosh!

We lingered, in no hurry to go back to the sweltering lowlands. Instead, we searched for constellations among the diamond-bright stars, and listened to the wind and to the nighthawk.

#

### Traces

The written word is a marvelous invention. We don't have to be at an event to know the details of what happened—we can simply read about it. So it is that we can also read the traces left behind by wildlife as they go about their daily—or nightly—routine. Tracks are preserved in soil, hairs are caught in bramble and rough wood, the remains of dinner are scattered about. Even droppings tell something about their originator if one cares to investigate.

The logging road behind our house is a perfect canvas to record the comings and goings of our wildlife neighbors. In the summertime its surface is covered with a layer of thick dust, and winter rains turn that dust into soft mud, both ideal for preserving the impressions left behind by the feet of wandering deer, squirrels, coyotes, insects and much more. It's often easy to read what has transpired.

For example, I once saw the delicate, skittering trail left in the dust by an insect's meanderings. The tracks of a small bird appeared out of nowhere and met the other trail. There were numerous, scrabbling prints from the small feet of the bird, some disturbed dust, nothing more. No tracks led away. It was easy to decipher what had happened. The bird spied the insect and flew down to land nearby. It hopped over and, after a brief, one-sided scuffle, the bird flew off with dinner.

It's fun to read Nature's journal and, with a bit of experience, it's usually easy as well. Here I see the twisting trail of a snake. The thickness of the track and its particular looping pattern lead me to believe it was likely a rattlesnake that left it. Or paw marks cross the road. The round, rather than oblong, shape of the foot indicates the animal was a cat. It's confirmed by the three-lobed rear edge of the heel pad, and by the absence of claw marks. The size indicates it was a bobcat.

Sometimes I see tracks that puzzle me and I'll spend several minutes studying them, attempting to interpret what creature left them and what it was up to. If I can't figure out its maker, time often answers the question for me. I remember one kind of track I regularly saw in the dust as I walked the logging road. I could tell it was that of a large insect, its heavy abdomen leaving a central drag mark, and the delicate pinpricks of its legs forming a row on each side. But what kind of insect? The mystery was finally solved when I saw the bug itself—a large black beetle—making the track early one morning.

Another time, I was presented with a simple groove in the dust, only about an eighth of an inch wide. I could not imagine what sort of beastie made it, and it behaved as though it was drunk or confused, forming elaborate curves and seemingly-random loops, with no apparent destination in mind. Finally, I came upon one of these trails that ended in the funnel-shaped depression belonging to an ant lion, the larva of a small, dragonfly-like insect. Mystery solved—apparently the insects sometimes wander around looking for that perfect place to set up a trap for their ant prey.

During the hot, dry weather of summer, it's common to find bowl-shaped depressions in the thick powder at the edge of the road, where birds have enjoyed an invigorating dust bath. Beside the bowl may be the dainty, three-toed footprints of a quail. Birds aren't the only wildlife to enjoy bathing in the dust and a squirrel or rabbit may leave a long, meandering scuff mark as it has pushed and rolled its body along the ground.

Recently my husband, Jim, and I witnessed another, unusual way that dust can perfectly record tracks. Returning from a solitary hike, he told me, "There's something just up the road a ways, you've got to see."

We walked together for a couple hundred yards before he stopped, pointing out where a bear had come from the woods above, skidding down an eight-foot-high bank and into the road. It was late summer and the months with little rain had dried the ground so thoroughly that everything was dust. The bear must have sunk past his ankles in the powdery red clay of the bank because, as he walked across the road, the impact of every step shook loose some of the red dust, leaving a perfect outline of each foot, even each toe, against the gray, hard-packed dirt of the roadbed. I was reminded of the outline left behind when a prehistoric human filled his mouth with mineral pigment and sprayed it around his hand placed against a stone wall.

We've seen plenty of bear tracks but never before anything like that—it took a special set of circumstances to create that scene. That portion of the road had been recently resurfaced with fine, gray shale, making a perfect contrast to the red dust laid down around the bear's feet. If the surface had still been its old red clay color, I'm sure we'd have noticed that a bear had come down the bank but we would not have seen the outlines around the feet.

Although we do have bears and cougars inhabiting the woods around our home, we don't often see the former, and cougar sightings are rare indeed. We more commonly see their tracks, again those of bears much more often than of cougars. One day, we hit the jackpot. Again, it was Jim who first made the discovery and came to fetch me. In the dust of the road, he had found both bear and cougar tracks, heading in opposite directions. It was apparent that the bear had passed through first because, in places, his footprints were overlaid by those of the cougar.

The spoor of both animals was well-preserved in the velvety powder of the road's edge, and beautifully illustrated the differences between the two. The cougar left the typical, rounded cat prints, with little visible difference between its front and rear feet since it walks on its toes like most mammals.

The bear is built differently and it left very different tracks. The front feet were broad and more or less rounded, with a hint of claws showing. However, because it walks flatfooted on its hind feet, those left what looked a great deal like a human footprint. In that fine dust, even the crease that typically runs across the middle of the hind foot pad was clearly visible.

Snow is another canvas for the art of Nature. We don't get decent amounts of the white stuff every winter in our area of Southern Oregon so, when there's been a fresh snowfall overnight, I can hardly wait to get out first thing in the morning, to see what activity there's been. If it stopped snowing well before dawn, then the ramblings of birds and beasts have been recorded over several hours. Here, a deer has picked its way across the snowy forest floor, there a bobcat hopped over a fallen log. I may find where a ruffed grouse has walked along the side of the old back road, or a gray fox meandered across it, to disappear into the woods. The tracks of squirrels and rabbits are very common.

Footprints are not the only clues wildlife leave behind. I may happen upon good-sized chunks of wood scattered at the base of a dead tree that tells me a big, pileated woodpecker had been chipping away to get to insects inside. Other times, I find cast-off scales from a sugar pine cone, heaped around a tree stump, with the naked core of the cone lying on top of the stump like a gnawed-down corncob, proof that a gray or pine squirrel enjoyed dinner.

When the wild black raspberries ripen on the mountain behind us, bears gravitate to them. These animals, as big as they are, tend to leave very obvious signs of their activities. We find whole areas of the berry brambles disturbed, their canes bent and flattened as a bear sat in the middle of them, pulling the branches toward him with his paws, slurping up the sweet fruit. The thorns of the brambles are good at snagging hair, leaving positive identification even if the squashed plants hadn't clued us in.

A few years ago, Jim and I were driving a local mountain road. We noticed a wooden Forest Service sign that had been vandalized. We shook our heads, muttering disgustedly about the destruction some people wreak. Then, something about the nature of the damage made us stop the truck and get out to look more closely. It was then we realized that the vandal had been a powerful animal with large teeth and claws. Our suspicions were confirmed by tufts of bear hair caught in the rough wood of the post.

Now that our eyes are opened to this phenomenon, we see that quite a few of the signs in the woods have similar damage, some just slightly, others extensively bitten and clawed. I'm not sure why, but they seem very attractive to the big bruins. What is it that draws the animals to work them over like that? Is it territorial marking? Resentment at the introduction of something foreign to their area? It's an interesting mystery.

All of the clues mentioned provide a look into the lives of wild creatures. However, for the truly dedicated outdoors detective, there's one more thing left behind by wandering wildlife that can give an even greater understanding of exactly what kind of animal left it and, especially, what it ate—that is "scat," otherwise known as droppings, manure, doo-doo or poop.

Individual animals leave distinctive scat and one can learn the identity of the owner by the appearance of the droppings. Where the animal chooses to do his business can be a clue as well. For example a fox will often leave his scat deposited politely on top of a prominent object like a stone or stump—or on the head of my concrete toad sitting in the yard.

On occasion, it's easy to see the undigested bits that make up a wild animal's stool and then there is no question as to its current diet. When our local manzanita bushes are covered with their dry, rust-colored berries, it's obvious that they're a favorite of the ursine crowd—bear scat will consist almost entirely of the seeds and hulls that passed through to the other side.

For the more adventuresome, a handy twig can be used to tease apart the droppings for further inspection. Jim once did so to coyote scat and found a tiny hoof, obviously belonging to an unfortunate fawn. Another time, while probing among the usual fur and bits of bone to be found in the average output of these canines, I discovered an unusual hair I couldn't, at first, identify. It was maybe three inches long, stiff and glossy black. I ran through my mind all of the possibilities I could think of. Coyotes eat a lot of animals that have hair—like rabbits, rats, squirrels and mice—but those critters have fur that is soft, not stiff, nor is it black. Deer hair is stiff but it's brown or white, and the shafts tend to be wavy—this specimen was not. Porcupines, in addition to the familiar quills, are covered with hair but, again, I didn't have a match. Finally it dawned on me—I wasn't looking at a body hair but at a whisker. And the size told me it was likely from a packrat.

Sometimes scat contains something a little out of the ordinary. Foxes, coyotes and bears are opportunistic and omnivorous feeders and I've found such things as cherry stones and peach pits in their "leavings." Of course, as someone who's had a bear break down a fence and pull off branches to get to the apples on her trees, I don't have to look at their scat to know they like domestic fruit.

Finally, there's one other thing I like to find—owl pellets. After a meal, an owl—as well as other birds of prey—will bring up a neat, compact package containing all indigestible bits such as bone, teeth and hair. These can be even more enlightening to tease apart. Where the droppings of a coyote have little more than stray bits of bone or wads of fur, an owl pellet often contains the complete skeleton of a mouse or other prey—one can get a clearer picture of what the bird ate.

Most wildlife traces point to routine activity—the animal is simply traveling from point A to point B. Occasionally, an interesting story unfolds. I once happened upon a place where the ground was torn up. Studying the pattern of gouges, I realized I was looking at the record of two bucks sparring—scrambling, shoving, antler to antler. The contest appeared to have gone on for some time and with enthusiasm.

Even more rarely, the story is high drama. Such was the case a number of years ago when Jim and I hiked one of the logging roads behind our house. It was a pleasantly sunny spring day. We'd climbed a long hill and come to a corner where the road levels out. To the right, the land sloped downhill and entered heavy forest. On the opposite side of the road, an earth bank rose about three feet, then flattened into a bare landing that was backed by woods maybe ten yards in. The red clay of the road and its banks was still moist from the winter rains.

We noticed large tracks to the right, just below the level of the road—a cougar. Cool! We don't see those very often. The spoor was on the small side—possibly a female? The cat had emerged from the forest and climbed up toward the road then, six or eight feet before it reached it, the tracks were suddenly dug deeply into the clay, claws leaving sharp impressions, telling us the cat had leaped forward. In the hard-packed surface of the road, we found faint marks where she'd touched down once as she sped toward the landing.

We climbed up onto it, already suspecting what we might find. In the bare, red soil, deer tracks emerged from the woods. They were large, perhaps belonging to a buck. The deer had walked casually across the open area toward the road—and the cougar.

Then, at the edge of the bank, the hoof prints suddenly gouged deeply into the earth, scrambling sideways, pressed so far into the soil that, in places, impressions from the dewclaws could be seen. Widely spaced now, the tracks headed back toward the woods, intermixed with cougar tracks. We searched but found no deer carcass. Apparently, the big cat had failed to bring down her dinner, but she and her intended quarry left behind a thrilling story.

#

# Eight Eyes

Years ago, when my husband and I were still dating, he acquired what many would consider an unusual pet. I walked into his house one day and, as I headed toward the couch, Jim cautioned me not to sit on "Eight Eyes." Eight Eyes was a spider. He had moved into Jim's life and home and had the run of the place. I looked around and sure enough there he was, perched on the arm of the couch, a location that turned out to be one of his favorite haunts.

He was tiny, only about one quarter of an inch long. As I sat next to him, careful not to frighten him, he tilted his little head back and looked right up at me. I'd never seen a spider do that and I was entranced. He was a pretty little guy—question mark after "guy"—his body a pleasing combination of blacks, whites and grays. He was chunky and furry, like a miniature terrier.

On the front of his face, I could just make out two black, shiny eyes. I was to find out later that his kind have six more, tinier ones—an additional two in the front and four on the back of the thorax. His kind are jumping spiders. These little arachnids stalk and pounce on their prey like a cat. And they are big on personality, if you can get past the fact that they are—ick!—spiders.

Eight Eyes had a number of little "tricks." If you held your finger above him and gently moved it back and forth, he'd follow the movement with his head. Actually, spiders don't have heads as such, so he moved his whole thorax, gracefully tilting his body this way and that.

To show me one of his spider's best tricks, Jim took a length of thread, and rolled the end between thumb and forefinger until it wadded up into a little ball with a long tail. Then he allowed the ball to settle onto the couch arm a few inches in front of Eight Eyes, and twisted the tail between his fingers so the ball jumped around. Eight Eyes slowly stalked the ball, inching forward and stopping, then inching forward again. When he was close to the prey, he very deliberately gathered his legs under him and then sprang upon it. He quickly realized there was nothing edible there and backed off, but was ready to pounce again if the ball moved.

Both Jim and I played that game with him in the ensuing weeks. We felt just a bit guilty about teasing Eight Eyes with the thread so, after we were through with our play, Jim would search the windows for a fly, swat it, and drop it in front of the spider. Eight Eyes immediately jumped on it. If we moved a finger near him, he defended his meal like a mini grizzly bear, raising his front legs with a feisty attitude, daring us to try and take it away from him.

Any time I visited Jim, I looked around for Eight Eyes. As often as not, I'd be unable to find him. After all, he was so tiny and often going about his spider business somewhere within Jim's home. Sometimes, as I was sitting around, I would see out of the corner of my eye, Eight Eyes rappelling down from the ceiling on a silken line, like a miniature commando. If he was going to land in an inconvenient spot, I'd move my hand under him so he could set down on it, and then allow him to scurry off onto the arm of the couch or chair.

As the weeks passed, Eight Eyes visibly grew, to perhaps three-eighths of an inch long. He changed color, his abdomen, once gray and black, became a rich russet and black. He had become a very handsome spider. It was now easier to see him with his slightly larger size and his brighter tint. We continued to enjoy him.

Then, came the day when Jim realized he hadn't seen Eight Eyes for awhile. Since the spider was often out of sight for days at a time, he didn't think much about it at first. But time passed and still no Eight Eyes and it was clear that, for whatever reason, Jim's spider was gone. We missed him. The little guy had written a chapter in our lives that we would never forget, nor would we ever look at a jumping spider quite the same again.

#

# Skunk and the Egg

A number of years ago we had a skunk living under our floor. When she raised a family there, we realized she was female. That is a story in itself, and will have to wait for another day.

She was a spotted skunk, a lovely and diminutive cousin of that other stinker, the striped skunk. Instead of the twin ribbons of white that decorate her kin from head to tail, she had irregular white blotches arranged artfully over her black body. Another name for this animal is "civet cat," an apt moniker as these animals are as delicate and nimble as a feline.

This particular adventure all started when the creature in question decided she liked the heating ducts under our old mobile home. The ducts were aged and had holes in them, so we'd removed the furnace and, instead, used a kerosene heater. Apparently, some of the holes were large enough to admit our new boarder.

"Skunk" seemed to find the ducts cozy and just to her liking. In early winter, she moved in, becoming used to these beings living over her, and taking on quite a nonchalant attitude about us. The register in the bathroom was the only one not blocked by furniture and we began to see her there, looking up at us. Whenever we saw her, we talked to her. She even harbored no ill will toward our German shepherd, Shilo, and we watched them move carefully toward each other and sniff noses through the grate.

All in all, the skunk was a quiet and considerate boarder, and there was no objectionable smell. Yes, if we put our noses right near the register, we could detect a slightly musky odor but that was the extent of it. Our friend seemed clean and well-behaved. We even began to enjoy the sounds of her comings and goings, the patter of her busy feet sending echoes throughout the metal ducts.

She had the night shift. We would hear her come home, some time in the wee hours of the morning, and putter around awhile before settling down to sleep the day away. Come nightfall, she roused herself, shuffled around some and then went out.

Jim got the bright idea of feeding our skunk dry cat kibble through the grate. Why would we do this? I can't really say, other than "why not?" I suppose we wanted to get to know our cohabitant better.

We began to regularly drop kibbles through the bathroom register, strumming our fingernails across the grate and calling in a high-pitched voice, "Dinnertime!" Soon she associated the sounds with a meal. There immediately came the echoing scuffle of feet moving very fast in the nether reaches of the heating duct, coming in our direction. As we dropped the kibbles down to her, she crunched them with gusto, now and then looking up at us.

Jim was the first to hold a kibble and encourage the skunk to eat it from his fingers. She had no problem with this, and so we both hand-fed her through the grate, making sure to keep our tender flesh safely out of the way of those very sharp little teeth.

Again, it was Jim who came up with the next idea. (You see, it's not my fault—almost all of these wild schemes come from my husband.) One day, while we were feeding Skunk, Jim asked me if we had an eyedropper.

I looked at him. "Okay, what have you got in mind now?"

"Let's see if she'll take milk from the dropper."

"Ooh, yeah." I hunted one up and handed it to Jim. He poured a bit of milk into a bowl and sucked some up into the dropper. Then, while our friend was still beneath the register, Jim slid the tip of the dropper through. The skunk saw this and sniffed it, then started licking the milk in the end of it. Jim slowly squeezed the bulb until Skunk had licked it all up.

I was not sure what we were getting ourselves into but now we had a skunk that, whenever she heard us in the bathroom, came pattering down the duct to see what we had to eat or drink. We regularly fed her by hand and also left her a small pile of kibble below the register.

Our little family co-existed in peace. At the time we had pet bantam chickens which a skunk might very easily consider a delicacy, but we kept them safely penned at night in predator-proof quarters and, during the day when they had free run of the place, Skunk was sound asleep. So no discord marred our harmony. The months passed.

One pleasant spring evening, I was sitting in the living room reading when I heard a "Thump!" against the wall of the house where the front porch was. I got up and looked out the window, but it was very dark and I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Shrugging, I returned to my book.

Thump!

"What the...?"

I got up again, and this time used a flashlight to examine the area. Because of the way the window was situated, it was difficult to see every nook and cranny. I did see the usual odds and ends on the porch, including the nest box we kept in the corner for the banties to lay eggs in. We kept a plastic nest egg in it to encourage them to use the box instead of sneaking off to God-knows-where in the woods. You haven't lived until you've tried to find the nests those sneaky little gals have hidden hither and yon.

Still seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I returned to my chair. We had cats and the dog and there were always noises happening.

"Sherry!"

It was Jim's voice, low and urgent, from outside. I got

up and looked out another window overlooking the porch steps. Jim was standing at the foot of them. He had been doing some woodcarving in his shop, located in a separate outbuilding. Finished for the night, he had walked back to the house. Now, when he caught my eye, he pointed toward the porch. I retrieved the flashlight again and moved to the original window. I still couldn't see anything. The front door opened and Jim eased in.

"There's a skunk on the porch," he said. "It's got the nest egg and is trying to break it against the wall."

"Oh, you're kidding."

Following Jim's directions, I angled the light sharply down to look right below the window. This time I saw the skunk—with the egg. Pointing the flashlight toward the nest box, I saw what I hadn't noticed before—the plastic egg was missing.

We watched, amused, as she took the egg and hiked it between her hind legs like a center on a football team. I could just imagine her calling out, "Sixty-four. Twelve. Thirty-six. Hike!"

Thump!

The egg smacked the wall and bounced off. She scurried to it, rolled it toward the wall, turned around, then maneuvered it into position with her front paws and threw it between her legs again.

Thump!

The egg remained unbroken. Poor Skunk. It must have been very frustrating.

Jim turned to me. "Why don't we give her a real egg?"

Great idea! We regularly collected and ate the banty eggs. It took two to equal one large-size commercial egg, but the yolks were deep orange and the hen fruit was tasty. We had several in the refrigerator. I volunteered to go out and give one to her.

I admit to being a bit nervous. The skunk did look like ours—of course, the only view we ever had of her was through the grate. I sincerely hoped she was ours. Then again, even if she was, we had no assurance that she wouldn't react to my presence badly, in the way skunks typically handle problems.

Easing the door open, I stepped slowly out onto the porch, using the flashlight so I could see what I was doing. I avoided shining it right into Skunk's eyes. She bristled slightly at sight of me standing only about four feet away, and retreated to the corner. Talking quietly to her, I carefully knelt down and retrieved the plastic egg from about two feet in front of her, keeping one wary eye out for trouble from her direction. I replaced the phony egg with the real one, then slipped back inside to stand next to Jim at the window and watch.

As soon as I was gone, she approached the egg and sniffed it over. She maneuvered it into position and hiked it.

Thump!

It didn't break. Blame that on those thick-shelled, free-range eggs. Skunk got set again and...

Thump!

It still remained in one piece.

Again she pattered to it and tried, but without success.

Oh for heaven's sake. I eased out the door again and, as she retreated a couple of feet, I took the egg and tapped it twice on the wooden floor to crack it slightly. I again stood up but, instead of returning inside, I remained on the porch, backing up a bit to give her room.

Skunk contemplated me. Then she approached the egg, turned her back to the wall and gave a mighty heave once more. This time the shell broke. Skunk happily began lapping up its contents. I stood awhile, watching her enjoy the fruits of her hard labor, and then returned inside to stand at the window beside Jim.

#

### Storm Walk

December 28, 2006: This morning's walk was such an exhilarating experience, that I had to sit down and write about it.

It started out ordinarily enough. Like every other day, I stepped out the back door with my German shepherd, Sage, to hike up the logging road and onto the mountain behind our house. Around us the morning was quiet, almost balmy, but looking up I saw gray clouds tumbling across the sky and, high on the flanks of the mountain, trees moved restlessly in the wind. There was a storm forecast and it looked like the leading edge of it had arrived.

We took our usual route, hiking for nearly a mile. When we reached the spot where we normally turn around, I could hear the voice of the wind higher above us. I enjoy storms and today I decided to keep going, taking a disused logging road that continued up the mountain. The grade was steeper, the climb harder, and my breathing came faster. Now, strong gusts of wind slammed into me through gaps in the trees, forcing me to lean hard into them.

We pushed on. And then we were inside the storm. All around us were the rush of wind, the clatter of branches, the crack and crash of a heavy limb or a tree brought down somewhere in the woods.

We came to where the forest had been severely thinned a few years before. The remaining few Douglas firs, without the crowded protection of their sisters, groaned and bent over so far with each heavy gust that I thought they would surely break or uproot from the soggy soil. But each time they slowly straightened, as if with effort.

After a quarter mile or so, the road became a trail that entered heavy timber. I wasn't ready to turn around just yet. Sage agreed, always ready for adventure. So we took the trail and climbed yet higher—I was exhilarated, laughing, felt like I could go on forever. The wind moaned over our heads and branches thrashed.

We passed a dead fir, newly blown over beside the trail, its decayed roots broken and pulled from the wet soil. Some yards beyond, the trail ended. It was time to turn around and head back.

When we emerged from the thick woods and into the open again on the old logging road, it hardly seemed possible but the storm had grown in strength. The gale screamed like a great jet engine overhead. I squinted my eyes against the maelstrom of leaves and branches whirling around us and high against the gray clouds. Everywhere, forest trash hit the ground, scudded across it—Mother Nature was pruning.

Turning into the storm, I braced myself against the push of each powerful gust, my hair whipping wildly across my face. I gave myself over completely to the wind and the roar, keeping an eye out for flying branches or falling trees. Sage, eyes dancing, chased the bounty of sticks falling every which way.

Finally, reluctantly, I broke the spell. We started down again, pushing past a pine tree lying across the road, its branches broken and scattered from the impact. It had not been there when we came up. The force of the wind had sheared it off twenty feet up its trunk.

The road took us down and around to the lee of the mountain, where the worst of the storm was finally blocked. Hearing a croak above me, I looked up to see two ravens high overhead. They toyed with the winds, half-folding wings to swoop down then flaring them open again to catch the crest of the next gust and ride it up, up, up until they were black specks against the pewter sky. I envied them their freedom, their grace in the air.

At last we arrived home. I was itching to write about my adventure—only to find the house dark and without power. A result of the storm, it would seem. Since I could not use my computer, I wrote this out in longhand, by flashlight. To the tune, once again, of rushing wind and clattering branches. The storm had followed me home.

# About the Author

Bobcats in the backyard, bears on the front porch and skunks under the floor are regular occurrences for Sherry Chadwell and her artist husband, Jim Bowlin, at their home in the woods of Southwestern Oregon. As Sherry comments, "Or lives are enriched by our constant contact with Nature. Every day holds the promise of a new adventure."

They have surrounded themselves with animals, including wild foundlings they have raised and released, and have embraced the lessons these temporary members of the family have taught.

Sherry is a wildlife artist, working primarily in pencil and watercolor. She and Jim are happiest when they are outdoors hiking, fishing, canoeing, or otherwise enjoying the wilderness. Sherry also spends time "running across fields, swamps, hills and gullies," training her tracking German shepherd, Sage.

### Thank you

I hope you enjoyed these stories. If you'd like, I'd appreciate your leaving a review. Thanks!

### Connect with the Author

You can also drop me a line at:

14nn@earthlink.net

