Kitchen Wisdom

We began the session with the usual wander for cougar sign. None found, as far as we could tell. We tracked eachother, the returning winter birds, the warm pools of Indian Summer sun, and the new wild radish sprouts that follow the early rain.

Back at camp, we met Matt Berry and his collection of pots made from wild-harvested clay. We were going to do the same, to have some communal kitchenware appropriate to our rustic open-fire setting. We began by digging the clay from the ground just twenty feet from our fire, and mixed it with sand (grog).



We mixed the clay by foot and by hand.



The pots were big communal affairs, with some people pinch-pot molding the pointed bottoms, some people rolling "snakes" to make coils, and some people building up the coils into pots. All were absorbed in the work, even the junior contingent. We grudgingly set asid our creations when dinnertime rolled around, to be finished at a later date.

A highlight from the next day was Matt's wild foods walk. All plant uses listed here are my off-the-top-of-my-head recollections. If you're looking to use wild plants, take one of Matt's or another experienced instructor's classes yourself, and start studying some reputable books. One not listed at that link, that might be a good starting point, is the Peterson guide to Venomous Animals and Poisonous Plants. Learn what'll kill you before (or at the same time as) learning what'll nourish you.



One of the first and most nutritious gifts of the season that we encountered were new green Stinging Nettles (Urtica dioica) sprouting by the creek. These are even edible raw if you roll the leaf so that the hairs (on the underside) face in.



Cow Parsnip (Heracleum maximum) is a common, moisture-loving native. The skin can have phytotoxins that can cause severe sunburn, but peeled stalks have been called "Indian celery."



Dock (Rumex crispus) was present as a dry stalk and seedhead, and as fresh young growth at the base of the dead stalk. The seeds are edible and are like miniature buckwheat kernels. Toasting (also known as "parching") or soaking them may utilize the seeds to best effect.



Dock leaves are rediculously high in oxalic acid, but can be boild in a change or two of water to make them more tasty. A relative, Sheep Sorrel (Rumex acetosella) makes delicious sour accents in salads. The deep, hardy, woody and yellow root is a traditional and powerful remedy for liver deficiencies and related skin problems.



Radish (Raphanus sativus) was not only springing up as new succulent sprouts. In dry places, the old woody ones still dispersed the peppery seed or stood skeletal and moldering. In some shady spots the plants were in flower (my personal favorite way to eat wild radish is to bite the flowers straight off the plant), while in others the freshly immature, spicy seed pods hung. Still other wet spots had young plants yet to flower. Radish seems to be the master of the microclimate.



Broadleaf Plantain (Plantago major) was in seed near the veggie garden. It's leaves and seeds are edible. It's also good soothing medicine for bee stings. Its cousin, Narrowleaf Plantain (P. lanceolata) is even more medicinal than edible, being very good at drawing out toxins when poulticed on a sting or insect bite.



Beaked Hazelnuts (Corylus cornuta) are not really in season now, having ripened and largely been devoured by squirrels back in mid- to late-summer. But they get a pass because they photographed so nicely.



Manzanita (Arctostaphylos spp.) berries are ending their season, but some bushes still carry the tangy, dry, powdery fruits. Crush lots of the berries in cold or hot water, strain it, and impress your friends with one of the most delicious wild ciders around.



Madrone (Arbutus menziesii) trees have started to drop their bright red berries, shown here with the big, broad, leathery leaves as well. The berries are edible and tasty raw -- I usually just nibble the flesh off the stony core. The tall trees are most noticeable from the forest floor not by their leaves or berries, but by their bark. The big ones have blocky, chunky, craggy bark on the main trunk, papery peeling wine-colored outer bark on the limbs, and sunset-gold inner bark that shines beautifully in the light. They also feel cold to the touch.

Toyons (Heteromeles arbutifolia) also have fruit lately, but I haven't seen it ripe yet. It's a shrub, represented here by it's green oblong berries and smaller toothed leaves. I've never eaten the berries, though multiple friends and teachers have said they're edible. I've heard they're good if wilted over a fire first.



And here we have Bay (Umbellularia californica) nuts, the second biggest mast crop of the season. They're shown here both fresh and roasted. They're inedible raw, and must be roasted to volatilize off some of the more noxious bay oils. Even roasted, they're strong stuff. The nuts have a chocolate-like flavor, are very high in fat, and can be ground up in a mortar and mixed with sugar for a very chocolate-like effect. But this stuff is far more of a digestive and vascular stimulant than is chocolate. Overconsumption has been known to cause effects as diversely unpleasant as trembling muscles, migraine headaches or explosive diarrhea. I've also accidentally absorbed the stimulant through my skin while cooking with the ground-up nuts, giving myself a much higher dose than I'd planned and getting none of the lovely bay flavor to justify my jitters. Though delicious, bay commands respect, patience, and careful self-observation in it's use.





The biggest and most important wild crop is of course acorns. Lots of the oaks near me have already passed their buggy first drop and are in full swing of their mind-bogglingly plentiful second drop. Acorns everywhere! I wish I had more oven racks to dry more acorns on. These here are Valley Oak (Quercus lobata), a low-tannic-acid starchy acorn in the white oak lineage. The jar in the background holds Black Oak (Quercus kelloggii), a high-tannic-acid oily acorn in the red oak lineage. One must of course wash out the tannic acid before eating acorns, as tannin can be toxic in high doses.



Finally, an early crop of Miner's Lettuce (Claytonia perfoliata)! The young leaves look much more like grass blades or chickweed (Stellaria media) leaves (and taste a lot like chickweed, too) than like the commonly recognized round leaves of the mature plant. Yum!

Youth Nature Awareness

Native Eyes was off this week, so I'm updating with a Story of the Day from the Riekes Center Nature Awareness group of youth that I lead every Friday in Huddart Park. No photos for this one.

We began the day by each randomly choosing one of eight Guardian roles and making a statement to the group about how we'd fulfill those roles: Our Hydration Guardian would ask people if they'd drunk water at lunchtime, the Poison Oak Guardian would point out poison oak when she noticed it, the Ranger Watch Guardian would announce when she heard a ranger's truck, etc. Our Bird Language Guardian committed to watching and listening for junco alarm calls throughout the day.

We started off on a wander to find friction fire materials and tan oak acorns. Everyone was loud and boisterous, and speaking at eachother in city-volume voices. We played some rowdy games to burn off energy. Then we settled down for a snack and I told a story of one of my first bird language experiences, in which birds told me that a predator was near but I didn't listen, and then I scared a fawn into the waiting jaws of a bobcat (the predator that the birds had been shouting about) because I forgot to be attentive, quiet and respectful in the woods.

As we finished the story, all the juncos that had been feeding to the west of us started chipping excitedly, and moved in a wave overhead toward the east. They disappeared into the woods and were silent. Our Bird Language Guardian excitedly pointed out the junco's activities to the rest of the group. A minute or two later, the NEWTS appeared from the west. After the NEWTS moved through, the juncos returned. The whole group, with huge grins on all faces, discussed this newly-noticed pattern that the birds had shown us and speculated about how we might use it to sneak up on the NEWTS in the future.

We continued on our wander, finding few fire materials and no acorns anywhere we went. We did go through some tall and healthy manzanita bushes, though, and picked a good supply of the berries to make cider.

We wandered around back toward the parking lot making sure to take a different way, and on the way found a very fresh trail of coyote tracks, along with a fresh addition to the coyote's latrine where the trail joined the road. The scats were of many different ages, and we realized that we could read a little of the shifting life of the coyote in their differences. We decided to check back often for more coyote news.

As we approached the parking lot, motion caught my eye off the road -- a grey squirrel. But he had something in his mouth. We all stopped to watch, wondering what the oblong white object was. We watched him sit there, looking at us, gnawing on his white object like it was a corncob. When he was done he sidled a little ways off, turned his back to us, dug a shallow hole in the duff, and buried the object. When he was well up his tree we clambered up the hill to find out what the object was. A bone! It was aged and dry, and covered with short grooves gnawed into the surface by the squirrel. We wondered where it came from, and why the squirrel wanted to chew on it. We put the bone back and thanked the squirrel for sharing his secrets with us.

Back at our fort in the woods, we took some time to go to our sit spots. After everyone had gone to sit I rustled through my bag for a snack, crackling wrappers and muttering to myself until I realized that I was the only one making any noise. Everyone else was completely silent at their spot. In place of the usual sounds of fidgety people and quiet chit-chat between neighbors, all I heard was the wind in the treetops and the soft calls of feeding juncos. I sat very still and listened.

When we gathered again, I found out that some of the youth, in particular our Bird Language Guardian, had been surrounded by feeding juncos at their sit spots. They wanted to stay quiet and still out of respect for the birds. Others had been sitting still, making cordage and listening to the quiet sounds of the birds feeding by their classmates. None of them wanted to come back in when I called.

In the past, I've tried to get groups to pay attention to junco alarms by calling the birds Ninja Birds, doing skits about them, and otherwise building up their roles as the stealthy guardians of the forest. But never have I seen such successful bird language awareness in a whole youth group as today, when just one person in the group was asked to pay attention to just one kind of call from just one kind of common bird. The whole group ended the day with new respect and understanding of the role of birds as the communication network of the woods.

Some Stalking Conduct, and What Not To Do While Stalking

This week we began with a hunt. We were to stalk a large mammal close enough to get a full-frame photo (preferably without the use of zoom) and then stalk away, all without being seen.

We partnered up, and began by making offerings to the land. We asked permission to bother the animals for the sake of building connections and understanding, and waited for an answer. Everyone seemed to feel good about the reply they received, so each pair began moving out.



My partner and I decided to use "body radar" to find a large mammal. We started with a sense meditation and then, closing our eyes, we each pointed in the direction we felt drawn toward. Opening our eyes, we found ourselves both pointing dead East. We followed our pointing fingers.

On the way, we decided to take Gilbert Walking Bull's advice on how to move on the land, walking well apart and abreast of each other. Each kept the other in our peripheral vision, so that if one stopped, ducked, or hid, the other would know to do so without either of us having to vocalize. If we had to, we could catch each other's attention with bird calls, and communicate with hand signals.



We walked using Akamba tracker form. To begin, we Fox-walked a few steps while looking ahead and using Owl Eyes. To Fox-walk, relax and walk evenly, keeping your feet light on the earth, keeping your weight back until your foot is placed, then rolling forward. To practice Owl Eyes, blur your eyes or look at the distant horizon, and pay attention to the edges of your vision without moving your eyes in their sockets. We Fox-walked some steps forward, then when our Owl Eyes revealed something of interest we stopped, and only then would we turn our heads to look left, right, behind, above, and finally down at any tracks. Then we would resume Owl Eyes and continue walking on our path.



We kept a special watch out for birds on the way. Song sparrows, wrentits, and white crowned sparrows occupied every bush lupine and coyotebrush. We were careful to see them before they became alarmed, and to walk around their personal space. Most of them simply eyed us and went about their business. At one point, a sparrow seemed to scream, his high thin seet-seet-seet! streaking across the sky as he dove for cover in brushy shadows. The nearby wrentits stopped calling and dove into their bushes too. All the little brown birds were gone from their bushtop perches. I looked up in the silence that followed, and a falcon's silhouette swooped over the ridgetop and past the face of the sun. (This image is my artist's rendition of the event, using cobbled-together images from Wikimedia. I'm not that fast with the camera.)

As we travelled, we became acutely aware that this land belonged to the large mammals we stalked. Their tracks, scat, and scent were everywhere. We hoped that by moving in these ways we could find them before they knew about us, despite their superior senses and knowledge of the land. We hoped that we could show our respect to these animals by finding them without disturbing them.



What we found, we had no trouble leaving in peace. It rested the way it had died. An elk carcass, whole, a drum of hide stretched over bones. Nothing had disturbed it, even though coyotes, bobcats, weasels, skunks, ravens, vultures, and other carnivores were well-known to live here. Why had the coyotes left it whole?



We continued on, and cresting the ridge we found an entire herd of elk in the distance. Closer, unseen until now, were a group of mothers and calves feeding in a sheltered valley. The elk were everywhere.



Further down the hill we finally spied our targets. I stalked our quarry, hunched double and fox walking in fits and starts, resting behind brush and tall grass, freezing midstep and moving only with the wind. I remembered a heron stalking gophers in a field, and felt the focus of that hunting bird. Through it all my quarry lay in the sun, relaxed and oblivious. I stalked closer and closer, only to break my internal silence with a glance at my watch. We had 15 minutes left to get back to the cars. As soon as I remembered the time, my quarry raised his head and looked straight at me. I retreated, no photo to show for my hours-long stalk.

Tending the Village Fires

This Tuesday we went questing up the Candelabra Trail in Butano Park for mountain lion sign. We found it, and much more stuff besides. The Candelabra tree is a destination worthy of anyone who's ever dreamed of living in a treehouse. The scrapes we found were of varrying ages, with one quite recently-refreshed mound.




We also collected huge amounts of tinder materials of all sorts, as well as lots of bow drill materials, mostly from the buckeye trees. As if to help, the buckeyes shone out from the greens and browns of the woods with their bright silver bark.



Back at camp, over our cookfire, we considered our conduct on the land. What does it mean to be scouts? What is the conduct of the scout? What conduct do we owe the animal and plant residents of the environments we explore? What ways of being on the land, what mindsets and behaviors, will best form strong ropes to the land and to our human communities?

The next day, we stayed at Venture for an exploration of our firemaking abilities. The whole village, Essentials, Cultural Mentors, and Native Eyes, gathered at the Native Eyes fire circle for the intro. Then we all picked up our materials and started practicing.



Native eyes had a special challenge: to help those among us and the larger group who were inexperienced in friction fire, and to push our own edges. We were challenged to make fire using natural cordage from the land, and to do so without using knives or sharp rocks.



We started by binding two fairly thick (inch and a half wide) alder sticks together for the hearthboard, and made a spindle of a similar stick. The idea was that mounds of char dust would settle on either side of the spindle, between the two sticks of the hearthborard, and be heated sufficiently to form two coals. It did not work as advertised. Quite a few of us worked up a good sweat, and nearly drilled through the board, with only smoke and black dust to show for it.



Then something told me to try my blue elderberry hand drill spindle. With the help of another Native Eyes person, we spun the spindle until piles of dust formed and smoke billowed. Still no coal that we could see. I picked up the spindle to inspect the hole it had made. The end of the spindle continued to smoke -- and glow. We had a coal.



One of the more experienced firemakers made a bow using a fresh pine root string. Inspired, we raced down to the creek. We found a huge Monterey pine standing at the top of the bank, more than fifteen feet above the creek level. It's roots had been exposed by the creek and dangled above our heads. Asking for one of the trees roots, offering a pinch of tobacco, we clambered up and dug out a living root from the creekbank. The root in the photo is already frayed.



Back at the fire circle, we rubbed the rootbark off and worked the root to loosen it's fibers. Then we looped it twice around a buckeye spindle in a buckeye board, and tried out a bowless bow drill.

I held the handhold, stepped on the board and pressed the spindle down. My companion held the ends of the pine root and pulled back and forth, back and forth, until, as sweat began dripping down his forhead, a small red coal sat smoking in the notch. The pine root held together for two coals, before it had frayed beyond usefulness.



Many people got coals that day, and many people experienced the frustration of friction fire. I think everyone experienced renewed respect for our ancestors, who used these methods every day to live.