QUAIL MUTTERINGS #8. The Journey of Fledglings (May 30-June 6, 2011)

by Chi Varnado

On this beautiful, sunny Memorial Day morning I’m sitting outside on the east side of our porch enjoying a cup of strong cowboy coffee with lots of half-and-half, my favorite. Earlier, my oldest daughter called from China to say hello. Jessie is teaching English at an engineering college on their northeastern seaboard. She’s coming home for a visit this summer to take the GRE’s and apply to graduate school for applied linguistics before going back for a second year there. After catching up with each other I passed the phone over to Chance, who’s graduating from high school in two weeks. It’s hard to believe. Our youngest of three is getting ready to fly the coop.

The washing machine is churning Chance’s clothes into cleanliness on the corner of the side porch. I came out here to listen to the birds, but the noise of the motor is making that difficult. I go back inside to grab the binoculars to see if I’ll be able to view a particular family of feathered friends.

I’ve been observing this massive nest in the tall eucalyptus tree across the creek since March. It sits about a hundred feet up. Every so often I’d wander over to see the growing sanctuary, sometimes joined by my daughter, Kali, and my two-and-a-half year old grandson, Ian. He begins the fifth generation of our family to inhabit the canyon, nestled in Ramona’s back country. For weeks, the pair of Red-tailed Hawks has worked tirelessly building their high-rise condo carrying sticks, weeds and grass. And then, it was quiet. For the next couple of months I’d occasionally notice one of them fly to or from the tree, but their world was pretty private over there.

Last week, the hawk calls became incessant. Their high-pitched whistles echoed through the canyon and prompted me to go find out what the racket was all about. I had already changed clothes into my dance teaching attire, but I couldn’t wait. After digging out my mini binoculars from the dresser drawer I walked over toward the tree. Standing beneath the nest was not a suitable vantage point. I ducked through the pasture fence and lifted the spy glasses to my eyes. There, in the circle created by the lenses, standing on the edges of the nest, were two juvenile Red-tailed Hawks. They were huge, filling my entire view. These raptors can be two-feet-tall and have a wingspan up to fifty-eight inches. Their world up there looked so peaceful and serene. Those tall, elegant beings simply stood there, occasionally shifting positions, but for the most part seemed strangely meditative. Living that high up in the canopy brought with it a gentle swaying of the branches when the breezes danced through.

I figured I could keep my hands more steady, for a clearer picture, if I sat down and braced my elbows on my knees. Since I was wearing clean pants I looked for something to sit on. I found a dead branch and moved it over to where I’d been standing. After performing a grand plie I sat down on the stick and it broke sending my rear end into the dirt. I brushed off the best I could. I wasn’t about to change again and dirty two pairs of pants in one day. Besides, I wanted to watch these guys as long as possible before having to leave for work. I looked up through the binoculars again to see if I’d scared the young-uns. But my awkward and clumsy antics hadn’t seemed to disturb them too much. They just turned their heads to look at me every so often.

That evening, after returning from the Dance Centre, I joined my husband, Kent, in a walk to an area behind the nest and slightly up the hill, to observe the majestic giants. God, they are awesome. I was careful to move slowly, be quiet and keep a respectful distance away.

On Saturday we had taken Chance down to Mt. Carmel High School for the CIF Track and Field Finals. He’d made it in both the mile and the two mile, but scratched out of the mile in order to focus more on his favored two mile. He’d done the same thing last year. I love watching his long brown hair flowing behind him while he runs. His graceful strides and sheer determination makes this mother proud. He runs with a fire in his heart and shows amazing endurance. My pet name for him is Runs like the Wind, much to his teenage chagrin. But like most seasoned parents, I realize my job does not always make me very popular. The Ramona boys track team placed second for Division Two. It wasn’t quite what they’d hoped for. Last year they won.

On Monday morning I looked through my binoculars and once again saw my two friends. By evening, when I looked again, they were gone! Their nest was now almost non-existent. Had they torn it apart? I felt a dark curtain come down over my happiness. Sadness crept in. I was surprised to be affected this much.

The next morning I heard the calls. Were they still here? I walked further up the canyon with my field glasses, past blooming wildflowers. Yellow clusters of Seep Monkeyflowers blooming in the creek; striking, four-foot-tall, purple Penstemon; and pink Canchalaguas pulled my steps toward the creek bed. I stopped to study the skeleton of an old burned oak tree. There, on a branch, was one of the juveniles: up close and gorgeous. The breeze ruffled his faintly colored feathery bib as he stared right at me. Periodically his eyes would appear to blink as the nictitating membrane swept across his eyes. I heard his sibling calling from the opposite canyon wall. Then this one opened its beak and answered.

I went to get Kent as he finished his morning run so he could enjoy a closer look too. During the day we perused several books about raptors to learn more about them. I had no idea that they were practically full-grown when they left the nest. I noticed my mood lifting now that I knew our Buteo Jamaicensis friends were okay.

Now, this week, several times a day, I’m out there wandering the hillsides with my binoculars. My kids say I’m obsessed. It’s probably true. I’m amazed that I’m able to locate them. One afternoon the young hawks were on opposite sides of the canyon calling back and forth. The previous morning I had been awakened at 5:30 A.M. by one of them in the eucalyptus tree near the house. I was so happy to hear it there. And yes, of course, I went out to look at him. “You’re so beautiful,” I whispered. On Saturday, I watched a parent fly to a tree near the boulder where one of them was perched. The juvenile flew over to join her. Then Mom flew to a nearby power line carrying a mouse in her beak. When the young one came over she fed him the rodent and then took off circling higher and higher. All the while, from the other side of the canyon, the other one called, “Feed me! It’s my turn!” This fellow kept calling back, even though the mouse was still hanging from its beak. I don’t know how he kept from losing it.

I had been concerned that they weren’t eating and was greatly relieved to see that the parents were still helping them out. Just the day before, I had held my breath as one of them attempted to climb a tree next to a craggy rock face before flapping its wings precariously when slipping down the vertical side of the boulder. One evening they both perched on the cross-arm on a power pole and were still there the next morning.

I feel worried, yet excited, as I watch the young hawks’ development and can’t help but compare it to my own son’s. My youngest child is coming of age. He’ll be eighteen this month and heads off to Chico State University in the fall. The fledglings have come a long way, but there’s always the parent’s concern of, “Have they come far enough to be ready to spread their wings and really fly?” I sure hope so.

Chi Varnado’s memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on Amazon.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #7. Slow Meanderings – April 29, 2011

Having the stomach flue blows, both literally and figuratively. I won’t go into the literal details since we all know them so well. But because of these aspects we also don’t feel up to doing anything – routine or fun, and that is a bummer too. I spent all day yesterday inside or on the porch moving from bed, to couch, to recliner, to adirondak chair… In spite of the turmoil going on inside my body the natural world outside went on as usual.

Plopping down in the chair today on the east side of the porch the morning sun warmed my feet and legs while the roof overhang shaded my face and upper body. I looked out to a rock by the mulberry tree where there sits the top bowl section of a cement bird bath. I’d scavenged it after the Cedar Fire and it now functions as a small watering hole for the critters. A large quail, with a darkened head, stood on the rock beside it. He looked so serene there. He’d come yesterday as well.

After my friend disappeared behind the rock my eyes glazed over until movement in the nearer vicinity re-focused them. Lizards. On the old Torrey Pine tree stump, what’s left of it after the fire, a large bluish-black alligator lizard lay sprawled, soaking the sun’s warmth into its core. It must feel so good to him. Then a smaller grey lizard scrambled up from below and stopped near the top to do his morning push-ups. A tiny little one ran along the rock wall to meet up with another before disappearing into the periwinkle.

The cacophony of bird songs here, in my opinion, is unrivaled anywhere. The canyon seems to be their haven of refuge. Their voices fill the air from before dawn until nightfall, at which time the porwil and owls take over, and of course the frogs. I love listening to them all. The canyon wrens with their descending calls, the muted mutterings and fervent blasts of the quail, the hawks, ravens, and everybody else. It’s music to my ears.

Earlier this week friends of mine, Dorothy Mushet and her daughter, Cindy, and her two boys, came to visit. Dorothy had come to see the canyon with her own eyes instead of relying solely on photographs. We’re collaborating on a children’s book about my mom’s experience raising a family of orphaned baby squirrels with the assistance of my daughter, Kali, when she was about ten-years-old. I’ve written the text and Dorothy is painting the watercolor images. She is a wildlife and children’s artist. Her gallery is the Banner Queen Ranch Trading Post, and she lives in Julian.

Walking up the trail with camera in hand she’s surprised how lush and green everything is here.

“I think I’ll need to add more oak trees to the illustrations and make them a darker green,” she says. “Also more quail. There sure are a lot of them here.”

The boys are excited by all the huge boulders and climb one of them, sliding on their rear ends down the long, sloped side. They’re also intrigued by the four burnt Model-A carcasses slumping in the canyon.

Coming into the house Dorothy sits on the couch and opens her sketch pad.

Cindy says, “On the drive down here she said you might fire her after seeing what she’s done.”

I look down at the pages as she turns them explaining her presentation on each one and fight back tears.

“Yeah, right. Fire you? Maybe I should be fired. These are absolutely beautiful. They’re perfect,” I say.

“So I’m on the right track?” she asks.

“Yes. Most definitely. These are fabulous.”

I feel grateful for choosing her for the illustrations. I felt from the get-go of starting to write this book that she was the one. When I’d called to ask her about it she confessed that my mom had asked her to paint two pictures: one of a ground squirrel and the other a wolf. She hadn’t gotten to them before my mom’s passing and had felt a little guilty. Perhaps this was meant to be, a collaborative effort for all our sakes. Personal things had transpired for both Dorothy and me making it clear to us we were on the right path. Hokey or not as all this may sound, sometimes it’s what gets the job done.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #6. A Special Hawk – April 3, 2011

            Our three Nubian baby goats are a year old now. Lily is so named for her long, beautiful white ears which hang down framing her cute little brown face. Lap Goat is a solid brown doe, with black highlights, who would constantly climb into my lap whenever I’d sit down in their pen. And Buddy is the dark brown little runt who’s lucky to be alive. He’s positively adorable. He somehow injured his frail little back, early on, and I had to give him injections of Prednisone after visiting the veterinarian. We almost lost him, but those shots everyday, then every other day, and then twice a week and so on, saved him. Of course, we’d have to spend the most time and money on the one we weren’t even planning to keep.

When the kid goats were about a month old our friends, Mark and Helen, came over to see them. When we headed over to the animals we noticed a very large bird perched in a tree up on our south mountain. That thing was huge and not colored like a raven, buzzard or hawk so we thought it might be an eagle. Mark went to his car to get his monocular so we could study it up close. The device is small and he keeps it handy for such occasions.

This avian was massive. Its whole breast area was white which was probably why we noticed it in the first place, sitting way up on top of an oak tree. We passed the monocular around quickly so that we each would get a chance to see it, but we needn’t have worried. It stayed there a long time. We even stopped looking after a while to play with the baby goats. When someone looked up again, it was gone. Kent researched it later and decided that it was a Ferruginous hawk. They’re much bigger than other hawks, have the white breast, like to perch up high in the tops of trees, and stay there a while looking out over their domain. It met all these criteria so I guess that’s what it was and they do live in this area.

In December, the day of the Dance Centre’s Ramona performance of The Nutcracker, I saw it again. It was a nice sunny, warm day and I took my lunch out on the porch to enjoy some time outside. The last few weeks had been hectic directing rehearsals and getting costumes and props ready for the concerts. I was about to take a bite of my feta and sorrel quesadilla when I noticed the large bird on top of an oak tree on the north ridge. I went inside to fetch my binoculars. It was the highlight of my day – sharing time and space with that beautiful, majestic creature. And once again, he stayed a while. For the whole time I ate my lunch.

The Nutcracker performances went well that season. Everyone seemed to enjoy participating and/or spectating. We also performed the ballet in Julian. That day was much warmer than when we had taken the troupe up there two years before and the cold wind whipped ice and sleet through town.

A couple months ago, during my morning run, I glanced up the north hill and saw that Ferruginous hawk again. I stopped for a minute to admire him. This time his oak perch was at the Tree Cave on the south slope of the north mountain. We call it the Tree Cave simply because there is a large live oak growing up through the center of the cave. When you walk through the natural shelter you sink to your knees in loose leaves. At least I did as a kid, back when I spent more time in there. Anyway, my large hawk friend stayed put during most of my laps so I got to see him several times.

There are a string of seven caves on that mountainside, not counting the Tree Cave. I discovered them one day as a kid when I was hiking around. They start with the Bat Cave. Yes, so named because bats live in there. From that cave you climb upward heading northeast, sometimes crawling through small openings between rocks or bushwhacking through the dense buckwheat, sumac, lilac and chemise which make up our Ramona chaparral.

As a teenager, I found a cave up above the Saddle which was stacked full of clay. The local Indians must have wanted to store some of the precious red mud out of the weather. The clay pit is nearby. It is rimmed with large quartz rocks and is a very special place. The area is littered with pottery shards. My mom had worked some of this clay, carefully preparing it by sifting and rinsing. She sculpted a woman’s bust from this rustic, red powder and fired it at cone ten, which is stoneware. Not all clay can be fired that hot and be preserved this well. Mom gave her work of art to my dad as a gift, a long time ago. Years later, she used the foundry at Palomar College to pour bronze replicas of her sculpture. I now have the original clay bust. Dad had given it to me after Mom’s passing and I’ll cherish it always.