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.