Kinglet Conversations

We were in Bolinas again this week. We drove and met two classmates in Fairfax at 8 AM, then left the cars and made the rest of the journey by bike over Mt. Tam. I still felt charged up from last week’s class, and the trip over the mountain was much easier than before. We arrived at Commonweal Garden early so that our classmates could attend their Cultural Mentoring classes, and we two Native Eyes students had some time to chill.

While I set about putting my stuff in order, I noticed that Jon Young and some other teachers were talking on the front porch of Penny and James’s house. I also expected that at this time of day, around the other corner of the house, there would probably be Juncos feeding either on the ground or a little higher in the trellised bush among the solanum vine. I needed to get to our campsite on the other side of the house, so I would need to pass by one gatekeeper or the other. But I can stay calmer and less self-conscious around Juncos than I can around human teachers, so I chose the Junco path. Sure enough there were Juncos on the ground, but they let me pass quite close without a twitter, flutter, or so much as a suspicious look, which made me feel pretty good.

I grabbed what I wanted from our campsite, dropped off some other stuff, and realized that I’d left something else important near the front gate. I didn’t want to go back the way I had come so I decided to cross in front of the house where Jon and the others were talking. As I walked up closer, I got a little nervous and a quiet voice in my head started chattering, “What if you set off a bird alarm? What if Jon sees your nervousness? What if…?” I could feel myself holding the upper-body tension attendant to brain chatter and tried to let it go.

A few more steps toward the porch, and from the creekside willows not five feet away came a harsh staccato ratchet, doubtless from the accusatory beak of some little brown bird pointed straight in my direction. As soon as the bird gave the alarm I heard a shout from the porch.

“Hey! Why is your concentric ring so big?” Though they came with a smile, Jon’s words still stopped me in my tracks, deer-in-the-headlights style. Welcome to another week of Native Eyes!

Jon quizzed me for a bit about why the bird had alarmed at me, and asked what the bird was. I thought I had a good idea of it’s identity, but the shock of being shouted at by Jon Young had scattered any analytical thought and I was left scrambling for the scraps. “I’m not sure. I think I know the bird but I’m blanking on the name. Something like a wren, lives in thick brush, behaves sort of like a wren but it has a longer tail and a differently shaped beak. The name has wren in it.”

“Oh a Wrentit. No, I don’t think so. I think it might be a Ruby-Crowned Kinglet but I’m not sure. I’m still getting used to the little birds around here,” Jon said. “So now what you should do is sit down with that little bird for a while and see if you can see him, see what he does.” Perhaps he saw the knee-jerk rebellion rising in me against the “should” statement, and amended himself, “Or not, do what you were going to do. But watch for that little bird.”

I retrieved my items, feeling crestfallen and angry at myself, wishing that Jon could have seen the ease with which the Juncos let me pass. I sat by the Native Eyes fire circle and whittled a hearthboard for a bowdrill. Soon, I heard the same alarm from the slope behind me. Looking up, I caught a fast-twitchy birdlet in olive and yellow with pale wing bars and incomplete white spectacles around its eyes, which made it look aggressively focused. The culprit was indeed a Kinglet. I hadn’t even identified the species correctly when I was talking to Jon! As I sat whittling and thinking, feeling angry and depressed, I heard the Kinglet in the willows go off a full four more times, with no human standing near him. What was he alarming at?

Finishing the board, I decided to go walking up a trail that I hadn’t explored before. Everywhere I could hear Kinglets alarming. Ascending the ridge, I found a spot to sit and watch the sunset. The Kinglet in the tree above me started ratcheting out an alarm, then stopped, and started again at odd intervals. A flock of Juncos flew near, foliage-gleaning and twittering to each other. They seemed unconcerned about the Kinglet’s alarm, other than their extra fondness for the cover of brush. A Cal Towhee flew up near me and jumped around under the brush as well. Small birds flew in bobbing and darting flocks high overhead. As I rose to return to the fire circle, somewhat refreshed, the Kinglet went off again. As I left the thicket area, I could hear the Juncos behind me becoming more and more agitated. They rose to higher branches and gave intermittent “Chip! Chip!” calls from high in the trees, which I could hear for a long way down the path.

Throughout the next few days, I was extra aware of the Kinglets alarming, wondering what was setting them off so frequently when other birds seemed vigilant, but not alarmed enough for vocalization. Raptors of many types, including Accipiters, have adopted this little valley, so perhaps the Kinglet alarms were related to predatory birds. Or perhaps not.

Something that felt like an answer to my Kinglet questions, though did not compute intellectually as one, came on Wednesday as I was standing in the orchard. I stood quietly by a tree, watching birds gleaning bugs, when a Kinglet flew up to my tree and began feeding and chirping softly. I looked at her, and she looked at me while jumping from branch to branch pecking for aphids. When I was satisfied that she was calmly cognizant of my presence I asked, “Why are you guys shouting so much?” I did not actually expect an answer, I was merely trying to vent some confusion. But she looked me straight in the eye after I’d said my piece, paused for a heartbeat, opened her little sharp beak, and shouted out her alarm call. Baffled, I walked away, but could hear the alarm continuing for a long time after I left.

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The Kinglets were the biggest teachers for me this class, but other things happened as well. Here’s a quick rundown:

Jon brought a hand drill set from N!gow, a bushman from (I think) Namibia, who had given it to the German Art of Mentoring people, who gave it to Jon in thanks for the metaphorical coal that he brought from the USA to light their traditional fires. We lit our RDNA fire with N!Gow’s hand drill, sung our new fire song from the Vermont Art of Mentoring, and heard the Deer Honoring song played by Jon and Evan. We brought a coal from the RDNA fire and lit the Native Eyes fire, producing a spectacular tower of flame before settling down into a calm little fire. We stayed up late discussing Native Eyes, chatting and laughing.



The next day we had a bird sit that was again saturated with Accipiter signatures, then we went on solo wandering expeditions looking for buck day beds. I took the lower field, and found Doe Land, but little buck sign and no buck beds. My classmates on the ridges had different experiences, however.

Later in the afternoon, we went out to the sewage treatment ponds to look for cougar sign. We heard some good stories from a local person about the resident female but found no definite sign.



That evening we debriefed the bird sit, finding more accipiter patterns, and Evan led more songs.



The next morning we rose before dawn, broke camp and embarked on our bicycle journey over the mountain as the sun was rising.







May the dawn find you on as bright a trail.

Redheads Are Made for Camouflage

We arrived at Commonweal Garden to news of a mystery predator in the creekbed, heralded by a low bird alarm. We couldn’t find fresh sign of any predator, but wandering the creekbed we found broad claw marks in groups of four, some very old and some fairly recent, that extend high into a trio of alders. Sign like this is a fairly rare find, and exciting (or disturbing, depending on your state of mind) so close to our campsite.




Making a fire was somewhat challenging. I started with my homemade kit, but a broken bowstring forced a stop and a quest for a new bow. Having found a new bow, I returned and began spinning a coal, only to find that my spindle was rapidly shortening into uselessness. I made new spindle and tried to fit it to the existing well in my hearthboard, only to have my board snap in two across the well. I finally spun up a coal with a new well, and transferred it to my tinder bundle, only to find that my bundle was a bit damp and too small. I added dry grass to the outside of my California mugwort, thistledown and grass bundle. The whole comedy of errors took less than an hour, and we had a fine little cookfire for our evening meal.

The next morning we had a bird sit and a debrief with Jon. We mapped out the bird activity, and found that we (RDNA, Native Eyes and Cultural Mentors together) were creating such a disturbance that we were calling in the accipiters and falcons, and then watching the resulting oppression for the duration of the sit. To see more bird language and behavior, we’ll have to step up our use of the routine of invisibility, and refrain from tempting the Cooper’s Hawk, Sharpie and Kestrel with disturbed birds.





For the afternoon we went hunting. The object was to stalk up on an animal as close as possible, photograph it, and stalk away without being noticed by either animals or people. The stalk went beautifully for my group. We utilized wind direction and terrain well, stalked quiet and slow, and finally came up within camera range of a group of four very large animals. Crouched just leeward of a clump of coyotebrush, we all seemed to realize at the same time that one of the animals was enough to take out all three of us, and here we were in easy charging range of four of them. Never mind that they’re herbivores, they’re still enormous. We took our photos and backed out slowly, spending what felt like hours frozen still, crouched, bent double, or crawling to keep from advertising our presence to the four ruminating behemoths. Finally they moved on, with a shuffle of grass and soft chip and flutter of the birds in their path the only clue to their movement. We put shoes and jackets back on and meandered back to the cars, tired and grinning.

Before returning to camp, we stopped at a vole meadow to watch the Harrier and Barn Owl switchover. When we arrived a coyote was there to greet us. The coyotes serenaded the sunset as we watched harriers return to their roosts and barn owls emerge from the wooded edge, silent except for the “SHHHH!” calls punctuating their flight.

Another student and I spent the night at the house of a classmate, with the idea of investigating his mystery critter. This animal spends much time in a storage shed, rearranging objects in patterns and lines over the floor. It never leaves scat or fur or any other sign, and has never before left prints. This night, we scattered flour on the floor in hopes of gaining some clues about the poultergeist’s identity. When we returned, we indeed had tracks.





We caught a ride back to San Francisco with our classmate, and on the way found a beautiful grey fox, freshly and cleanly roadkilled. We picked her up with the intention of skinning her and tanning the hide. I even thought about eating the meat.





Foxes are an important animal for me. I tracked a grey fox at my sit spot in the hills every week last winter, and became familiar with his habits. I watched him sitting in a sunbeam, fur haloed in the slanted winter light, just being a fox, and was brought to tears by his beauty. I learned so much from that fox, about the birds and the land and about being quiet and invisible. Having had those experiences with a living fox who shared his space with me in the hills, it felt odd to skin this healthy young female. I now have much more intimate knowledge of foxes, their smell and the ways they can move, their textures and size and heft.

Throughout the whole process, though, I felt distinct grief that her life was cut short, mourning her departure as I admired her beauty and learned about her from the remains she had left. I had initially intended to eat the meat as well as tan the hide, and I have her skin and carcass still in my freezer. I had strange dreams that night though, and woke up with the thought that I really didn’t want to eat her meat. I’ll return at least part of the carcass to the woods where I found her.

Feast of the Ancestors

For this class we journeyed down south to Tunitas Creek Ranch. I was sick with a cold, gummed up sinuses and the sore throat from Hell, but I came along anyway – this would be our celebration of the Feast of the Ancestors (an Odawa or Ottawa tradition whose real name I can’t pronounce, much less spell, brought to us by Peacemaker Paul Raphael from the Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa and Chippewa Indians), and I didn’t want to miss it. The Feast of the Ancestors had never really been explained, just mentioned briefly, along with the phrase “I ate soooooo much” and similar comments. We arrived, as always, in the evening, just ahead of the oncoming fog.

We lit a sacred fire, made and tended by the men only, and made a circle for the celebrants around it. The Cultural Mentors had set a special section for “moon women,” women who are menstruating, to stay out of the circle but still participate. I’ve heard that the theory behind such separation in other ceremonies is that menstruating women’s energy is too powerful, and will drive away the spirits that the ceremony is intended to propitiate. I don’t know the significance of separation here, but I suspect it has to do, at the very least, with respect for the Odawa origins of the ceremony and their traditions. Men tend the sacred fire for a similar reason.

Tonight it was the staff’s turn to feast us, the students. They had all come with their ancestor’s favorite foods, and greeted us and feasted us like family. As the tradition goes, any one of the guests may truly be the host’s ancestor, returned to feast with the family for the night, so all who come are welcomed as relatives. By the end of the night everyone’s sides were aching with laughter. Coyote yips and wails echoed the human revelry longer into the night – they probably smelled all our good food. Or perhaps our teachers really are part Coyote, and their ancestors had returned to join the feasting.

The next morning, we rose before the sun for a bird sit. As we found our spots, Robins and Flickers called continuously in mild alarm, high in the trees and mostly toward the North and East. Flocks of small birds moved West, or South, but never toward the Flickers and Robins. Lone birds also moved in a general Southwesterly migration. The birds sang very little – only Black Phoebes, the most agile flyers, and Bushtits, well hidden in their thickets, sang unheeding of the “Tseep!” and “Clear!” of the Robins and Flickers to the Northeast. Partway through the sit, Robins and some Flickers moved further up slope, south, toward us and continued their alarming. In the thicket behind me, Juncos, Golden Crowned Sparrows, Bewick’s Wrens, and Wrentits started up an alarm as well, perhaps 10 or 12 feet high in general, and continued for at least 15 minutes. Then the Robins and Flickers moved on a little ways South, and the smaller birds quieted, giving companion calls or feeding.


After breakfasting and bird-mapping, we set off to do some Cybertracking along the creek. We had no particular objective, but we knew that cougar sign had recently been found in the creek, and were excited to search for more. The first thing we came upon was an unmistakable cat sign – a scratching post. However, it was tiny for cougar, so our major suspects were bobcat or housecat. The slivers of the outer claw sheath that I found embedded in the shredded bark could have been the right size for either. The urine spot near the scratches was equally inconclusive.






Our next find was on a log stretched across the creekbed. It had been scoured clean of bark by the passage of water and animals, and on it’s smooth face, though there was no visible mark to show it, was a smudge of odoriferous deer musk. Apparently Blacktail and Mule bucks have scent glands on the insides of their hind legs that exude musk when the deer is in rut, and at this time of year the smell gets on everything the buck passes. A good sign to look – or scent – for.

We also came upon a very old carcass of a deer, mostly melted away into the creek bank. The skull was gone and the limbs twisted and haphazard, and no hide remained to show the method of the kill or the scavenging. One sign that was still present, though, was the ribcage with one side sheared clean off, like with a giant pair of scissors. Perhaps our cougar sign?

Under an overhanging clay embankment, we also found some unidentified rodent tracks. We discussed the gait, and length of the toes, the straddle and size, and the placement in the landscape. It was a toss-up between Norway rat (for the splay and shape of the toes and footpads) and chipmunk (for the size of the print and straddle, and the gait) What do you think? (Apologies for the blurry photos, it was an awkward spot.)

We continued up the mostly dry creek, until we came to a flock of Juncos fluttering and bathing in a still pool, and decided that instead of disturbing their afternoon bath we would stop for lunch and let the Juncos finish. As I ate, I watched a male dunk himself up to his neck in water and flutter wildly, spraying his flockmates and everything else in a two-foot radius, then hop out, his spiked feathers the envy of punkrockers everywhere, and with rapid wingbeats rise to the canopy to sun himself.

After the Juncos had all gone up to dry their feathers in the sun, and we had finished our lunches, we continued walking up the creek. Our next find was a small diameter tree covered with fairly fresh, long scratches, some on one side more vertical and some on the other side tending toward the horizontal, in sets of four or five that were about two and a half inches wide. Conversation ensued about whether the animal was climbing up or lowering itself down, and why such a large critter had gone up into such a small tree in the first place.

We came to a culvert, and climbed out of the creekbed. We headed upslope, to find the area where the coyotes had been calling the previous night, but got waylaid on the path discussing a track. Some thought it was more likely a cat (with somewhat long toes) some said it was the track of a “long-toed coyote” and others had other ideas. Eventually we found another track in the set, a far more obscure, but obviously five-fingered, left front track exactly next to the right hind track that we’d been discussing. The feint heel impression in the right hind track became clear, showing a five-toed plantigrade print with long fingers and short sharp nails. We also recognized this animal’s signature 2x2 gait, with right-hind foot placed next to left-front foot and left-hind foot placed next to right-front foot, and we had to revise our suspect list. With most of our group convinced finally of the animal’s identity, one still has to wonder… was it actually a long-toed coyote?



Jon was at the fire circle when we returned, ready to debrief our bird sit from that morning.
We discussed the patterns and various predator signatures. From now on, when we hear intense bird language like the junco-sparrow-wren cluster in the thicket that morning, we’ll get to go into thicket and find the creature that the birds were talking about.

Wednesday night was the second night of the Feast of the Ancestors. Each RDNA clan had a separate fire, where they were serving the favorite foods of the ancestors to all visitors. We were invited to join the instructor’s group walking from fire to fire, and were greeted and feasted, again, as family. The food provided was delicious, made most nourishing and flavorful by the family stories that seasoned each dish. By the end I couldn’t eat anything more, but I still went to the last fire to hear my classmates share their roots.