Last week I spent seven nights on the bank of a classic California mountain stream, where big brown trout reputedly lurk (wild, meaning they're impossible to catch) in a deep smooth channel filled with snowmelt. The long, broad meadow bisected by this creek was too soggy and spongy and soaked to walk across, but on the far side was a so-called spring reputed to have been and be sacred to Mountain Maidu people. So I went there, the roundabout way, through warming pine groves redolent with scent and over a fence that keeps out the few remaining cattle in the valley. Found a bog, waded through grasses growing out of water, paid due respect. Elsewhere, praised the goddess at springs bubbling up through red mineral rock and soil, drank sparkly pure water. Heard the one (reputedly) Willow Flycatcher on territory in the valley since cattle were removed from most of the land in 2000. Fitz-bew to you, little guy. Thank you, powers that be, for admitting me to this heavenly setting. Earth: what a beauty!
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Day after thanksgiving (yesterday) at Abbotts Lagoon: Changing weather energy spawned a forceful squall that flung icy rain against our backs. As it raced away inland, the disturbance shone a fine bright rainbow in its wake. Both feet of the little arch (clearly doubled) were planted clearly IN the water of upper Abbotts Lagoon and, glimmering on the water's surface there, visible.   As promised on today's West Coast Live radio show (host=Sedge Thomson; website=wcl.org), here's an occasional record of encounters with nature-laughter.
On the subject of Surf Scoters, those natty black-and-white sea ducks that frequent our bays and beaches, the ones you see riding foamy turbulence in the shallows at sand beaches, or calmly swim-flying" right through breaking waves: It turns out they can come ashore to forage, as witnessed five days ago at the Fish Docks area of outer Point Reyes. Normally scoters dive in water up to 20 feet deep and haul in mussels (ripping them right off of substrates), herring roe (ditto), and crustaceans (furrowing them out of the sand). On the day in question, evidently the tide was just right for mole crabs, Surf Scoters' favored tidbit inside Drakes Bay, to concentrate at the water's edge. Two adult male ducks, bright black with white headgear and outrageous bills, came waddling into web-deep water and higher. Occasionally, one would slurp its entire face into the saturated sand. Or sink down on his belly an inch or so deep, lean forward, and immerse his head in the mole-crab bisque. The little prey items may have the last laugh, but that's another story. Bon appetit, everyone. |