QUAIL MUTTERINGS #5. Squirrel Paradox – April 2, 2011

My mom was a total do-it-yourselfer, back to the land kind of person. She knew how to build anything and her can-do attitude served her well, saving her quite a bit of money in the long run. For projects around the farm, which most people would hire a plumber or a handyman, she’d just take the task on herself, usually doing the job better than they would have. She was thorough and conscientious, always.

About twelve years ago, when all three of my children were still young and living at home, my mom accidentally disturbed a nest of baby ground squirrels. In order to soften the dirt for digging she first poked the ground with a metal rod attached to a hose which squirted pressurized water out the bottom. When she and my daughter, Kali, began digging she turned up a shovel full of dirt with three wriggling baby squirrels. They were so young that they didn’t even have their eyes open yet and their skin was translucent. Kali helped her grandmother, Gramaset, carefully brush the dirt off each one of them before taking the newborns inside. Gramaset found an old shoe box and some rags and created a makeshift nest for them next to the warm wood burning stove. One of the wee ones had a broken tail, kinked near the end, where the shovel had most likely nicked it.

Kali ran home and excitedly explained to me what had happened and said, “We need some goat milk for the babies.”

I poured a little into a small glass jar and we quickly walked the quarter mile up the dirt road to my mom’s place. She’d found an eye-dropper to feed them from and some baby cereal to mix with the goat milk. Mom was very talented with animal husbandry. She currently was taking care of four geriatric horses which kept her from leaving the property for any extended period of time. When I was a kid we had a goat that we staked up on the mountain to clear brush. One day a dog came through and severely mauled it. It had left it for dead with a huge, gaping hole in its side where the innards were spilling out. That night, in the dark, my mom and dad carried the goat from the mountainside to the house on a homemade stretcher, with my sister and me holding flashlights for them. Mom stayed up all night carefully stitching that goat back together saving her life.

Now with the baby squirrels, she got up four times a night, just like a mother with a newborn baby would do, and fed them from the eye-dropper and made sure they were warm enough. Kali went up each day to help. They named the one with the kinked tail, Broken Tail. He became the tamest of the bunch. When the younguns got old enough to start getting around on their own they moved from the shoe box to a small cage and began eating dry cat food. From this they graduated to a larger cage outside where they could see other wildlife.

By mid summer, Gramaset and Kali had built an even bigger pen on the ground so that when their little friends were ready they could dig out and be on their own. One day, when Kali was carrying the pie tin with cat food out to them, she noticed that Broken Tail was gone. She was relieved to see him running back to the cage and ducking through the tunnel he’d made. They were all very tame by now and Kali had to be careful not to feed them by hand and get her fingers bitten.

There came a time when the young family dug out for good. Although they still hung around the area and were much tamer than the wild squirrels. In fact, one of them was a little too tame for my taste. In the mornings I’d run loops up to Mom’s end of the canyon. Sometimes, one of those little buggers would stand guard up on a boulder and wait for me. When I’d pass by he’d run out at me threateningly. I yelled and waved my arms at him menacingly, but he kept doing it. It was a game to him. Finally, I threatened him with a shovel and then he quit doing it. But it took me a while to stop looking for him, worried that the little demon would run out and bite me.

Since the Cedar Fire there seems to be an over abundance of squirrels here in the canyon. We’ve had to completely fence in the garden areas, including under the ground as well as the roof. Otherwise we’d have no harvest left for ourselves, thanks to Mom’s little friends. I borrowed a squirrel trap, one that can catch up to a dozen at a time. But I couldn’t bring myself to use it. For some reason, unclear to me, I’m not supposed to hurt them. I’ve gone out and sat on the rocks behind the house and set my intentions on making deals with the enemy such as, “If you leave my garden alone I’ll let you live.” Ha. The neighbors shoot them so they all come here to live.

The squirrels started coming to me. Most of these encounters take place when I’m standing at my bedroom window looking out at the ledge above the brick wall and the rocks behind the house, literally a yard away. One time, a squirrel was there looking at me. It vomited and then laid down on the wall for a two hour nap. Another time, one looked in at me, dug a hole, relieved itself, covered it back up and walked away. Last spring, a mother squirrel raised her new family on those rocks below the cistern encouraging the babies to come visit me. They were quite entertaining. Other times, they have come and stood on their hind legs and gawked in at me as if trying to tell me something. “What? I don’t understand!” I guess I’m too dense to comprehend their message.

I’m now working on a children’s book about the squirrels. I wrote the text and gathered some pictures of my mom and Kali to give to the wildlife artist who’s doing the illustrations for it. She wanted some photos of ground squirrels too. I went outside with my little 35 mm camera and noticed one of my small friends up the hill. I explained to him that this was for The Squirrel Book and asked if he would cooperate. I swear, that little bugger let me follow him around and he kept posing for me: standing up on his back legs on a stump, eating a blade of grass, scratching himself on a rock… Go figure.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #4. Birds of a Feather – March 30, 2010

I opened my bedroom window the other morning and heard a quail calling from up the hill. Looking out the sliding glass door I could see a whole covey of them scuttling over the rocks, one at a time. As soon as one would disappear into the bush another would cross the rock. There must have been a dozen of them. Even after they all seemed to have passed by I could still hear their muted mutterings as they scurried through the underbrush on their way to wherever they were going.

The scene inspired a memory about a similar experience that I shared with my father shortly after the Cedar Fire.

“Come on, Chi,” my dad encouraged. “Get on the back here and let’s go for a ride.”

More for him than for me, I climbed onto the back of his quad and we putted down the dirt lane. Usually I’d much rather walk than drive a noisy, smelly, gas-guzzling machine, but that wasn’t an option for him at eighty-three years of age. We toodled on down the dirt road going five miles-per-hour turning northward at the T, halfway to Mussey Grade. At the top of the hill we stopped and shut off the engine. Dad pointed out landmarks in the adjacent valley which used to be the nudist camp, Samagatuma. Now it was a sea of trailers, mobile homes and vehicles known as MG Village.

Dad straddled the seat on the quad while I leaned against the rack on the back enjoying the warm spring evening. Suddenly, a male quail, with his beautiful top feather, walked over the small boulder we were parked beside and jumped off the edge into the bushes. A plump, gray female followed, over the rock and then jumped into the brush. And then a baby quail, with its quick little running steps, ran across the granite. Dad and I both held our breath wondering what might happen when it got to the edge. It jumped off the end! Then it scurried through the leaves below, catching up with the parents. We smiled at each other as another wee one appeared on the rock and did just what the first had done. And then another and another and another. My dad and I kept very still, breathing lightly, so as not to disturb the family’s journey. I felt lucky to be there, so close to them.

There is a tall eucalyptus tree over near where my grandmother’s house used to be. This tall warrior survived the Cedar Fire as did many other eucalyptus trees in the Ramona area. I can remember, as a kid, before this tree existed. Then later, as a teenager, I could see this emerging giant from my bedroom window, looking down toward the opening of the canyon. It steadily grew into my line of sight. A few years ago we heard massive branches breaking and crashing down from it, but the main trunk survived and sent out new growth. I’ve always had a kind of affinity with this tree. I somehow felt a sense of peace whenever I looked at it.

For a while now, there has been a large, dark-looking blob high up in the top branches. I hadn’t taken the time to go look at it up close and assumed it was either parts of branches that didn’t fall all the way down or an old nest that was coming apart. This morning while sitting outside looking across the creek at the tree, I saw a large Red tail Hawk fly over to it. A minute later it flew away. Wow, it is a nest. I’ll have to go check it out, I thought.

Later, about dusk, I grabbed my binoculars and headed across the creek. My husband, daughter, and two-and-a-half year old grandson joined me. Once we got over there it was difficult to make out any details of the massive nest, even though we were much closer. That eucalyptus tree is so tall and looking upward from down below wasn’t making it much easier to assess. We trekked over some poison oak on our way to the uphill side of it. This provided a slightly better vantage point, but we could still only gaze upward toward the bottom of the nest.

A few acorn woodpeckers flew amongst the branches flashing their single white splotches on each wing. Their distinctive, raspy chatter is unmistakable. It’s fun to watch these pranksters. They’re the birds that gather acorns and rat-hole them into indentations they’ve pecked into power poles and large trees.

Little Ian decided it was dinner time so he and his mom went back. Kent and I took turns with the binoculars, staring up into the towering canopy, getting a sneak peek into that active environment. Meandering back down the trail, we stopped to look at the place where my grandmother’s cabin used to be. You’d never know, now, that there was ever a house there. The old burned Ingleman oaks have fallen down on top of the remaining foundation and sumac bushes push up between them. Perhaps someday we’ll rebuild. But I wonder.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #3. The Meadow – March 17, 2011

            The canyon sides are highlighted in blues, purples and violets: the colors of native lilacs blooming. Ramona and Lakeside lilacs and other Ceanothus are indigenous to this area. There are literally hundreds of them in full bloom right here in this valley. When I go outside first thing in the morning or just before dark in the evening, the air is pungent with their sweet aroma. It’s fabulously intoxicating.

Last week I picked up my friend’s twelve-year-old son from school and brought him home with me. She was away for the day and it gave us a chance to hang out together. For longer than I care to admit, he’d wanted to try his hand at milking a goat. After enticing the better behaved goat up onto the milking stanchion I demonstrated how it was done: gently encircling my thumb and index finger above the teat and then lightly squeezing down through the nipple, one finger at a time, descending against the palm of my hand just below the base of my thumb. This is performed slowly and rhythmically, alternating hands, one on each side of the udder. Christian got the hang of it quickly, squirting streams of white nectar into the stainless steel bowl.

Now it was time for a hike. My daughter, Kali, and two-and-a-half-year-old grandson, Ian, joined us for the trek up the mountain. On the way up we pass the caged gardens. Even the tops are fenced to keep out the four-legged, chirping, bushy-tailed vegetable robbers. The fruit trees are beginning to bloom and are waking up to the spring.

Half-way up the slope I point out a boulder that’s shaped like a giant bird looking over its domain with wings tucked in. I tell Christian that in the late 1970’s the other half of this huge boulder split off and rolled down the mountainside crushing trees and bouncing off other rocks before finding its final resting place below, shoving massive mounds of dirt around it. My grandparents happened to be home at the time and heard the mighty crashing.

On practically every step we take there is a blue lilac blossom at nose level. We revel in the experience. The path is richly green with the new growth coming forth with powerful determination. This trail may need some clearing soon.

Up on top of the south mountain is a marshy meadow which sits in line between Iron Mountain and Cuyamaca. Biologists in the area have deemed this a very unique, unusual site sitting on top of a mountain. The lush, diverse grasses sprouting in the meadow are typically found only in low-lying, wetland areas. But here we have it, this paradise for the deer and other animals to enjoy along with us.

An outcropping of large, flat boulders lay just beyond. We walk gently across the marshy meadow to the view points on the rocks. From there we can see San Vicente Lake and Kimball Valley straight ahead; Iron Mountain and Mt. Woodson to the west; and Cuyamaca to the east. We usually come up here at least once a month and almost always on Christmas afternoons. Three members of our extended family have been married on the property, two of them on the meadow. Kent and I had our ceremony with our friends and relatives standing in a circle holding carnations.

Using Christian’s phone I take pictures of him standing on top of these massive flat boulders with the blue mountain ranges beyond as the backdrop. He sends them to his mom since, amazingly, there is cell reception up here on top of the world. We know she’ll appreciate this.

On the hike back down we notice the oaks are blooming. The yellowish-orange, caterpillar-like blossoms hang dutifully from the dark green branches of the Live Oaks. They won’t stay long before drying-up and crumbling to the ground below. But right now they’re soft and feely to the touch. Grandson, Ian, likes them. Each tree looks like it’s wearing thousands of dangly, golden ear rings.

Coming around a turn in the trail a whirring in the brush startles us. We’ve surprised a covey of quail, dozens of them, flying down the mountainside for cover. It seems there are a record number residing in the canyon this year. I often hear them when I walk outside: their sharp, trill “aah chews” muttering in the bushes. I’ll wait and watch the families parade over the rocks, the male sprouting his head feather on top and the females hovering close. I’ll listen to the loud, incessant calls to others before the group takes off in flight announced by the loud whirring of quail wings flapping.

It’s nice to have company to share this with. Hopefully, the children in particular, take something important from these hikes which can instill a life-long stewardship of our natural world. And, perhaps, through watching their innocent curiosity, we adults can pick-up on this enough to slow down and be there with them. So why not take the opportunity to borrow a friend’s son or daughter, or your own kid or grandchild for that matter, and meander into our own Valley of the Sun’s backcountry.