Having been thwarted by the benches on Rainbow Terrace Rd, I returned to Ten Mile Rd; it was shadow-lengthening time.
The other road, Duma Point, aka BLM 337, is better, obviously meant for larger vehicles. Still slow-going, the slickrock has been ground down to make it more easily navigable or, maybe, so you can tell where the road is.
As I write in the video's description:
I like snakes; they keep the rodents down and give the cats something to think about. Thus, I automatically swerved to avoid squashing this person. After getting no response to my admōnishunz about sun-bathing in the road, I twiddled its tail. THAT got it going. Cats and snakes..."Don' touch my TAIL!"
I chortled at its blowing out its cheeks to look like Louis Armstrong and/or a rattler but was pleased that it saw fit to get outta the road. Sheesh!
We arrived at the top of the hill, still miles from Dubinky, in time for the evening show.
Most animals, when not fleeing in terror, behave as if they're curious. The few snakes I've met lying in the road had proprietary airs. This one was eminently polite in that it was, as I became aware of it, moving away.
It raised its head to ensure a clear view of the triangular shape and it gave forth with one, little "click" of its tail, lest there be any doubt. But the impression was of benign consideration...more, perhaps for my bumbling and its potential for injury than any concern for *my* welfare, but no hint, at least as far as I could tell, of aggression.
Anthropomorphizing has been looked down upon by the western mind of Greek origin, but of late, as occurred with olde-timey religions, people are drifting away from that sterile, emotionless world and appreciating that we, as members of the animal kingdom (and perhaps even innanimate things too) have similar emotions as the rest of the menangerie prompting me to surmise that, at least for some, their fear has been engendered by our self-centered disregard...rather than anything innate.
My call to the camerawoman was urgent and seemingly sensing the shift, it began assuming a defensive curl in amongst the sage. I felt bad for inspiring any sense of trepidation as my enthusiasm around this shy creature was fueled by the rarity of encounters with wildlife. But I empathised: the evening before, a couple (of humans) had come barging into camp without even a hint of concern for their affect. And while pleasant on a superficial level, the lingering "feel" after they'd gone was of their self-centered and blatant disregard.
I did not want to leave this person with that feeling.
Leaving camp on a smooth road that goes to an active mine, I stood Phoebe on her nose coming to a stop in front of this baby rattlesnake.
Familiar, and appreciative, of their stubborness, I nevertheless brought out my "incensed parent" voice. (My daughter will be 53 in July)
Coiling and assuming the posture, head raised, cocked & loaded, it wiggled its tail in the way they do. In hope of gaining some advantage, I pointed out its youth. Having no observable effect, I switched to expressing appreciation of the warning. This seemed to mollify it somewhat and, backing away I was pleased to see it slooooowly moving off the road.
An hour earlier a large truck had gone by. It would've been a real challenge to stop such a large vehicle or manuever past. "What then?!" asked Grandfather, after telling Peter how wolves roamed the forest.
Coming back from Marietta, Nevada, they scampered into the road then waited at the side. I parked and proffered a mangy head of lettuce & some high-grade apple from Chelan, Washington. They were curious about the car; it was off.
Somehow, things got serious. Part of it was not feeling the ground as I walked to the library...I was sloating: sliding & floating. Bizarre (it wasn't an LSD day).
Then, there was a gorgeous Black woman, a bit older (within my age range, but in beautiful condition) at the park. She was washing some clothes at the spigot when I came up. We said hello and I went back for the other jugs. When she finished she went to her car, opened the doors, put on some music and started dancing. She was wearing tight, turquoise short shorts and a white top with spaghetti straps that came just below her breasts. One of the straps languished on a bicep.
I can only heft one jug at a time so was making several trips. On one of my runs she turned her back toward me and moved her derrière in a most pleasing manner. I've hired help in the past so knew I couldn't afford her; it was enough to make an old man cry.
Youngsters keeping a safe distsnce
After being involved with Western Watersheds Project it's impossible not to notice the (lack of) available forage. There's so little I began composing my letter to BLM and everyone else. In it I thought how I'd mention all the other animals we could have if we got rid of the cows: antelope, bison, badgers, prairie dogs, snakes, hawks, innumerable rodents, owls.
This morning when I sat up to look at the light there was a "herd," seven or eight, nearby. They're known for being curious and over the next half hour they all, except two youngsters, kept moving closer. I lapsed into mythos and imagined they came to let me know that even though I'm too poor to hire help, they're here.
It heard the click of the camera as I turned the video on and off.
I discovered a vestigial trail down to the stream I've been camping next to. I carry a take-down bowsaw and clippers just for such occasions. I wish I'd thought to take a "b4" picture.
Besides water, there's BOUND to be gold in there. Now where'd I put that avarice?
Once I'd cleared some room I noticed the nearby "diggings." My tactic in bear country is to cough. It could be a pretzel allergy, but this afternoon my throat kept itching something awful.
I support Western Watersheds Project and Advocates for the West. Both organizations work to remove livestock from public lands in an effort to restore habitat and reestablish a vestige of the ecosystem that was here prior to the Euro incursion.
Western Watersheds Project is partnering with Predator Defense to increase awareness.
My own experience with wolves was in the Yukon in 2010. Camped on a bluff above the Takhini River (link is to a Youtube video) a few miles from Mendenhall Landing, for three nights running I was visited by a small pack. It was July and at that latitude the sun is only down from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m.
The first night, right at 2:00 a.m. I heard the very different -- from coyotes -- howling. I was in a tent so couldn't see them, but they sounded close. The hair on the back of my neck came up and I experienced a primal (irrational) sense of fear. After a few minutes they apparently left as it once again was quiet.
The second night, at exactly the same time, they chorused again. This time I was intrigued. I'd thought about the previous night and was excited they'd returned. As before, they howled for a few minutes, then, once again, all was quiet.
I found it hard to sleep while it was light and on the THIRD night was just drifting off when they burst into song. Although flattered to be the recipient of what now appeared as premeditated attention, I WANTED TO SLEEP, DAMNIT!
They never came again.
Perhaps I'm anthropomorphising, but it felt as if they were enjoying a prank. No growls, no attack, just howling. And BEAUTIFUL howling at that. Having had their fun, especially the first night, I surmised they grew bored.
From reading I gather wolves are as individual as people. Thus, I wouldn't expect ALL wolves to be as benign. But given that the folks here for thousands of years before we -- us whites -- got here were able to cohabitate at least SOMEWHAT peaceably, it seems as if the least we can do is get a vasectomy (thereby assuring space) and get the livestock off the places where there's a chance of having a large-scale zoo.
Destination by whim. For the last ten years or so I've been trying to get The Michellles (three els when referred to collectively) to move and had, somehow, gotten the notion that Tuscon would be good for wintering. It was time to go see. By the time I got to Socorro (to the tune of that Glen Campbell song) it was already too hot. I camped at my spot on Caballo Lake where the braying of sandhill cranes competes with coyote howls. But if it was this hot here, it was gonna be WAY too hot in Tuscon. So I went to Silver City and took highway 180 north. The Fall colors were hard at it and in Alma we took the road to Cooney's Tomb where, just beyond the "residential area," we crossed the creek (4WD!!!) and found a nice hidey-hole next to a tidy, well-built corral. We, Smith and I, strolled back down to the creek where she clambered aboard a huge cottonwood and stroad its decks, practicing her Captain stances and yelling "Avast!" and "Ha'd tuh sta'bd matey!" After a while I started back, calling every 100 feet. I could see her moving between the crotches, ignoring my encouragements. (Whaddya expect? She IS a cat.) After waiting a bit, I returned and stood peering up into the mass and calling. It was so big I had to crane back and it wasn't until I paused to rest a moment that I noticed a cat, the very one I was interested in, nonchalantly sniffing an old limb lying on the ground a few feet in front of me. Cats!!! I picked her up and carried her toward camp until, after about 300 feet, she started squirming and (silently) yelling, "Put me down! Put me down!" Assured she wasn't gonna go back to the tree, I wandered back to camp and she, enjoyed summiting the ones along the way.
Near on tuh dusk I heard a truck stop on the road and a door close. I waited at the trail and, sure enough, 'bout five minutes later a bean pole of a guy showed up. He said he'd heard there was a corral and he'd come to look at it. I was skeptical and thinking him a rancher investigating his new "neighbor" asked how long he'd lived here. Turned out he'd moved down from Aragon a couple of months ago. He was into photography and really had come to see the corral. I invited him up and led him through camp. Somehow the conversation drifted to some pictures he'd gotten of a mountain lion a few days earlier. He'd managed, with his little Cybershotesque happysnapper, to catch the lion in mid-stride as it, nearly 1,000 feet away, leaped for safety after it heard the click of his first "shot." I gave him my email but he doesn't use a computer so we'll only get to see it if his son follows through. But it's nice to know they haven't killed 'em all. And this one was a fine specimen! Photos arrived (11/18/16)!! As original...... The lion is almost dead center.
A bit left of and below center. Cropt.... ...the upper image. One could mistake it for a bobcat. Its tail is hidden by the rock.
It's right rear leg is forward and its tail is above and parallel to the left rear leg. The white area is at the base of its tail. It moved approximately 200 feet between the time it heard the click of his first shot. (Youse might wanna consider carryin' some catnip when yer out hiking in the Alma area.)
Not having seen the sequoias in the Fall, I headed west. Somewhere east of Barstow this rabbit showed itself. Bunny behind Barrel (cactus).
Cactus growing out of rock!!!
And that fine, crafted-with-enthusiasm and attention-to-detail roofrack tonied out our "overlander" look, don'tchewtink?
I joined Suzan for a couple of days of camping as we commuted into Yuma, Arizona for provisions and such. Here she is with her new Christmas stove and foldout table.
We camped next to a wash about 5 miles north of Interstate 8 on S34, also known as Ogilby Rd. The lack of "forage" for cattle means there are few flies.
That wee yellow sign in the center of the image above marks the entrance to the ghost town of Tumco. Below is looking West.
We camped close enough that Fort Trevor was able to regale Eggbert with tales of his travels. One night while cooking a fox visited. It was the first wildlife, other than a few birds and deer, I've seen in years. We negotiated for one-time rights, but in the end I had to borrow from the web.
I was descending from my top-o'-the-bajada camp outside Blythe when I met this gentleman highstepping across the road.
Males have larger (I forget the technical name) "things" sticking out under their necks. Dora, at the Mojave Preserve office, said based on his size he was a real oldster.
He was in full stride with head and legs fulled extended when I came around the corner. I was so overwhelmed by his natty bowler, cane and spats it took me a bit to remember the camera. By then he'd discerned my intentions and, quickly changing to his Chairman Mao gray's, he pulled in and "parked."
I put out a bit of apple as enticement with the bottle for scale. But he was having none of it. After a bit, I decided it best to leave. But if you'd seen him before he was overcome with shyness, I think you'd agree he'd have done great alongside Gene Kelly.
