A day without a camera: the journal

11:48

An error message flashes. No memory card! And so my camera is debilitated by the absence of a plastic square weighing a gram. Instantly I mourn. Today will go unrecorded, be forgotten.

But no! I will photograph with ink instead of JPEG. I must see through my cornea instead of my camera. It is harder.

12:15

I follow the throaty din of chorus frogs, expecting to find a secluded vernal pool. Instead I stumble across a roadside ditch containing one bathtub’s worth of water. The surface is iridescent with oil. But the frogs are here, dozens. I squat. They stop. I gaze at their projecting snouts, at their smallness. At their disregard for the oily water. Then I rise, and the frogs splash.

1:15

I sit reading in a forest of trees younger than my parents. Nothing stirs in the midday sun except a Hairy Woodpecker dissecting an ash. I stare at the page. Paper. Wood. Trees. These trees around me would have been saplings when my parents were students at Wooster. Woodcock habitat. This copse was woodcock habitat half a century ago. They would have twittered and tumbled overhead at dusk.

Some of these trees are my age. Neither a sapling nor a tree.

A Lapland Longspur rattles over. Ten minutes later, a pipit. It pays to sit outside.

2:00

If you are concerned about the proliferation of trash, then by all means start an organization in your community to do something about it. But before—and while—you organize, pick up some cans and bottles yourself. Wendell Berry, “Think Little”

My campaign of the day is to improve earth by picking up bottles. With fresh eyes I find them everywhere—Budweisers emerging from the leaf litter, a massive whisky bottle jammed in a low crotch. My latest addition is a Gatorade bottle—Glacier Cherry—cast away beside the trail, a testament to some hiker’s clumsiness.

2:30

A woodpecker that could be a flag alights on a nearby snag. It is, I realize, the most beautiful thing I have seen. It is perpetually wounded, chronically bleeding crimson from the head.

2:40

Ice shatters. Startled, I prematurely abort my woodpecker musings and seek the cause. Nothing. I gaze at the reservoir. Then, a partially submerged tree—younger than me—shudders. Ice snaps from its lower branches. It is not the breeze. I watch, but all falls still. A beaver? An angry catfish the size of a beaver? I do not know.

2:52

A young man rushes by on a yellow mountain bike, his calves mud-splattered. He is younger than me, and that says a lot; I am young. I wonder why he is here. Is he lonely, wishing that a buddy or lady friend could accompany him? Or is he reveling in the solitude, escaping the chaos of high school (college?) And, as I follow his tire tread in the dirt, I wonder if he is wondering about me.

3:11

I walk briskly, trying to maintain a healthy distance from Backpack Man, a hiker behind me on the trail. I have nothing against him; I simply want to be alone. He appears to be roughly my parents’ age. He hauls a massive tan backpack, military looking. I wonder what it contains. Camping equipment? Camera gear? I try not to step on the bike tracks left in the clay-colored mud by the young man.

Fast footfalls approach. I look up to see a trail runner, older than me, but not by much. His short career has already been successful (engineer?) I decide that he has a serious girlfriend—but, she’s out of town (visiting her parents?) Otherwise, she would be here.

This forest, this trail—empty, a stage for solitude, but full, full of people and their stories.

3:21

I reach the road. A large coffee cup—McCafe, 24 ounces—lies flattened beside the pavement. I stoop to collect it (even though it isn’t a bottle). Another runner passes me. I feel guilty but immediately scold myself—come now, you don’t need to run every day. And anyway, I’m walking. Miles. But, sluggish miles punctuated by frequent writing stops—my pulse probably has not exceeded one hundred beats per minute. In the ditch I spot a sodden car mat advertising BEECHMONT FORD. It also is not a bottle, but I pick it up anyway.

3:35

My car is intact. The only other soul in the lot is a man (slightly younger than my parents, I judge) and his bedraggled dog that is at least part border collie. The man has had a hard life. I force myself to scope the lake, thinking that the heat distortion will have abated. It is worse; the ducks are just as unidentifiable as before. A large truck—an aggressive, growling truck—pulls up behind me. A voice speaks, surely addressing me, as I am the only proximate person. I turn and see two rangers. I cannot hear over the engine. I walk to the window. The younger ranger—the one in the passenger seat, asks, “That guy have his pants down earlier?” I swear those are his exact words. I hesitate; the passenger ranger laughs, realizing the absurdity of his question. The driver says nothing, shows nothing. I say what I know, which is nothing, and they thank me and leave. The man and the dog leave shortly thereafter. I notice he drives a purple Ford pickup. Perhaps the mat that is now in my trunk was once his.

3:51

I sit on the cool concrete in the shadow of my car, writing about the rangers and the man with his pants possibly down. A Ford Focus pulls up next to me, driven by a young woman in a baseball cap and aviators. Not looking up, I hear her exit the car and walk away. Perhaps the mat that is now in my trunk was once hers. I imagine running up to her with the mat and asking, “Excuse me, did you lose this?” I imagine becoming her friend and falling in love. I see hikes in the woods, long coffee dates on rainy days.

4:04

People drive slowly, windows down, listening to frogs. At least I hope so.

4:07

Vultures and crows overhead

both black birds

but neither blackbirds.

4:15

I am on a new trail, the Cedar Pond trail, and I have reached what is presumably Cedar Pond, a small, murky pond without frogs. The trail is neglected, overgrown. I sit in the damp leaves and admire the stunted canopy of Lycopodium. Without thinking, I begin pishing and am surprised to realize that it is the first pishing incident of the day. Two chickadees—seeking real estate, I speculate—wander over, scold half-heartedly, and then resume their house hunt.

4:20

A butterfly erupts from the trail. I see a flash of orange. An anglewing! It alights on a wizened stump, and, as it fans its wings, I glimpse the silver crescent on its underwing. Not a Question Mark. But there are multiple commas. I wished for my camera. I wished I could memorize the markings and sketch them like a laser printer. I knew I could not, so instead I admired the terra cotta wings splotched with molasses. I tried to accept not learning its first name. Comma sp. it remains.

4:40

I sit in my car, contemplating my next move, staring out at the young forest, maple dominated. Probably Reds, judging by the low ground. I try to imagine my parents as trees. And how trees would be as parents. If John and Carol Gilbert were trees, I suppose I would be as well. What sort of tree would I like to be? Perhaps a sycamore—a slim, stately sycamore guarding the lip of a ravine, roots penetrating ancient shale. Yellow-throated Warblers will sing from my crown. As I age and hollow out, raccoons and Barred Owls will make their homes in my heart.

5:12

Sit in the forest long enough, quietly enough, and you will hear the leaf litter breathe. I am not joking. That carpet of decomposition is alive. Fallen leaves rustle without the lightest breeze. Wolf spiders dashing after prey, perhaps. Or salamanders or sowbugs or Wood Frogs shifting in their hiding spots. Or—perhaps it is the sound of plants growing, of shoots pushing through last year’s death. Or maybe it is causeless…

Peaking

It is humiliating, but I must admit it: birding can get in the way of other activies. Like hiking. So, to remedy this chronic problem, I left my binoculars and big camera in the car this morning while I climbed San Jacinto Peak. It's a decent hike--sixteen miles roundtrip with abundant elevation gain to reach the powerful peak at 10,834 feet. I've dreamed of doing the hike for years, but it was only until this summer that I overcame the mental barriers and kicked the mountain's backside.

Here is the story of my ascent.

5:44--I slam the car door, boldly grip my staff, and head up the trail.
5:44:15--I realize I forgot my hat.
5:45--I start up the trail, for real this time...
6:15--The annoying little pain in my left heel (a pebble? a pine needle?) becomes so unbearable that I take off my shoe to rectify the situation. I am horrified to find a blister forming.
6:33--I come around a bend and flush a covey of Mountain Quail out of the trail.
6:45--I reach Saddle Junction, the top of the Devil's Slide Trail, 2.5 miles into the hike.
7:25--A flash of black and white through the trees--my first Clark's Nutsacker of the hike.
8:00--I reach Wellman Divide, 5.5 miles into the climb. I celebrate by devouring a Clif bar.
9:15--THE PEAK! It's windy, rugged, and viciously gorgeous.



10:00--After puttering around the peak for forty-five minutes (few birds--Rock Wren, Mountain Chickadee, Dark-eyed Junco, Anna's Hummingbird), I begin the descent.
11:15--The sharp pain in my left heel with every step becomes more and more excruciating. Investigation reveals that the blister is half-dollar sized. And, to top it off, one is forming on my right heel. At least I'm symmetrical.
11:38--Birds are much less obvious in the heat of midday, but I score my first Red-breasted Nuthatch of the hike.
11:45--I return to Saddle Junction, right on schedule.
12:35--The parking lot. Shoes OFF.

Canyonland Musings

Note: My incredibly busy schedule of late has forced me to do something I loathe to do--recycle essays! I wrote this piece for my AP English class. It's not specifically about birds, though it's awfully tough for me to write anything without mentioning birds...

I yawn. The car’s clock claims it is four-thirty. Early, very early. The headlights illuminate a couple dozen feet of the rough, steep road in sickly yellowish light. Otherwise, all is dark. The engine of my mom’s old Ford Windstar complains about the steepness of the grade. Swinging around a sharp curve, I swerve to the right to avoid scraping the encroaching chaparral. If you watch the news, you’ve seen chaparral. It’s the low, dense brush that cloaks California’s hills and mountains—and it catches fire very easily. The hood noses up sharply over a small rise, then down again. Stream crossing. I slow and savor the sound of the tires slicing through the shallow stream. Farther up, a large animal darts into the road just beyond the realm of the headlights. I hit the brights—a Bobcat! It quickly melts into the brush.

Orange County, best known for its beaches, bikinis, and surfboards, is a jungle of jammed freeways, high-rise office buildings, and sprawling housing developments. Precious few wild areas remain. One of these is Upper Silverado Canyon in the Santa Ana Mountains.

Dawn emerges slowly. Silverado Canyon seldom enjoys dramatic sunrises thanks to its steep slopes and frequent fog. Several Bigcone Douglas-firs—tall, shaggy conifers with dark, deeply furrowed bark—loom out of the gray mist. The Santa Ana Mountains are too low to harbor extensive conifer woodlands like some of California’s other mountain ranges—but nestled in the deep, moist canyons are a few stands of Douglas-firs and Coulter Pines. I coax the grudging minivan farther up the road, wincing as the car rumbles over washboards and jolts over loose rocks. Bigcone Springs is my destination.

Bigcone Springs lies three thousand feet above sea level, miles from the nearest town. Towering Douglas-firs shade the lithe young Bigleaf Maple saplings and Coast Live Oaks. Even on the driest, hottest July afternoons, water from the spring trickles down through the road, etching a labyrinth of dark paths through the dust. I pull the car to the side of the road and eagerly step out from the driver’s seat. The air is chilly and calm. I take a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant, clean aroma of pine needles and dust. The dust does not have the chokingly hot, dry smell of most dust. It smells cool and sweet, like a pantry.

The tall, sinister trees bustle with life. A cacophony of bird songs fills my ears—the spiraling whistle of a Purple Finch, the clownish laughing of a family of Acorn Woodpeckers, the muffled yelp of a Mountain Quail deep in the canyon. Grunting with approval, I fish the Cougar Stick out of the van’s backseat. A sturdy, six-foot wooden staff, the Cougar Stick gives me security when I hike in lonely places. The lucky adventurer may run into a Mountain Lion anywhere in Orange County’s foothills and mountains, though these great cats are notoriously elusive. When I encounter one for the first time, however, I don’t want to be unarmed.

My trusty Cougar Stick in hand, I boldly stride down a nearby path. It is not a long hike; only one or two minutes of walking bring me to a dead end. From here you can look down into the steep canyon or beyond to the flat, developed lowlands. On a smog-free day, the mighty San Gabriel Mountains jut up many miles to the north. There is no smog, so the angular blue ridges of the San Gabriels tower out of the low, dense layer of clouds that envelops the lowlands. Ironically, though the distant mountains are visible, the canyon itself is difficult to discern. Thick fog banks roll by, one moment allowing a glimpse of the chaparral-clad hillside opposite and the next concealing everything more than thirty feet distant.

Returning to the road, I opt to hike rather than drive farther up the canyon. The sun finally crawls over the dominating ridge that has been keeping the canyon in shadow for so long. A few stubborn fog banks persist, but as the sun climbs higher, they melt away as quickly as ice cubes placed on a sidewalk on a summer afternoon. I break free from the lush shade of Bigcone Springs to the hot, monotonous chaparral. No more tall trees, but the dusty road is lined with an abundant variety of wildflowers, much to the delight of the Anna’s Hummingbirds. They zip across the road in fierce chattering fights, squabbling over rights to the blooms.

Another mile or two of hiking brings me to a large stand of Coulter Pines. Big, muscular pines with husky trunks, broad limbs, and massive cones weighing up to eight pounds, Coulter Pines are truly spectacular. Sadly, many of the trees died in a recent fire. Only charred skeletons and the occasional clump of toasted needles remain of their former glory. In the wilderness, however, fire is rarely a bad thing. Several Hairy Woodpeckers gleefully tap the dead wood, occasionally giving sharp peak calls that echo through the canyon. A male Lazuli Bunting delivers his beautiful slurred song from a black snag, his brilliant blue, orange, and white feathers shining from the grim grove of pines. The ground beneath is carpeted with verdant young wildflowers and shrubs.

With a start I realize that I am too warm in my hooded sweatshirt. It is only eight-thirty—still early by most people’s standards—yet life in the canyon is winding down for the day. Fewer birds are singing. Even the air seems different—stiflingly dry, no longer possessing the dawn’s cool dampness. Wilderness runs on a different schedule from man. I turn and begin plodding back down the road to the car.

The car is in sight when I finally encounter another person. A mountain biker. His face red, his calves bulging from the strain, his bike inching up the steep dirt road—I can’t help but respect him. “You are a better man than I,” I exclaim, throwing him a salute. He grins and wheezes out a greeting. Back at Bigcone Springs, it is cooler, the dust still smells good, and a few birds are still singing. But it is not the same. My solitude has been shattered.