This is a continuation of the previous post, so you may want to read that first. This ended up taking a lot more words than i thought it would. I think it is a promising start, though, which might turn into something with some careful revision. Read it if you please, though you won’t hurt my feelings by passing it over:
I’ve added place markers on Google Earth which will allow you to see some of the points of interest – click here to download the .kmz folder
About 10 hours later I found myself shivering under the shelter of an overhang. Andy and I had separated to do our routes and agreed to meet back up in the morning where the canyon diverged. I’d marked my calling points and called them in the dark without hearing anything but the quiet patter of rain and the sounds of water dripping off the canyon walls. It was cold out.
We’d received some “encouragement” from the park rangers to minimize our disturbance in the park. We were allowed to hike anywhere we wanted, whether that was on the trails or not. The rangers were concerned about two things – cryptobiotic soil and Anasazi ruins. A mix of bacteria and algae grows on the sandy surfaces in southern Utah and forms a sort of crust on the surface of the ground. In places it remains undisturbed enough to even change the color of the soil surface from orange/red to black. It takes a long time for this crust to get established, and anytime you (or cattle, or deer, etc) step on it, it ruins the crust. The rangers were quite concerned with the “crypto” and encouraged us to walk on bare rock when we had the option. I’d crunched through some soil on my way up to this little alcove. Everyone, including hooters, was also supposed to stay a set distance from any archaeological sites in the park. These were usually ruins and rock art left by the Indians that had lived in southern Utah for a few centuries and then suddenly disappeared around 1300 AD. The Anasazi. They’re the ones who drew the Kokopelli figure on rock walls… the same one that is a popular design all over. Well, almost the same one. The Anasazi liked to draw their Kokopelli with a very large penis. That part usually doesn’t get reproduced in modern designs. Anyway, not only had I forever destroyed a few footprints worth of cryptobiotic soil, but I also happened to be sharing my little alcove with a little Anasazi ruin.
It was a miserable night. Someone had told me that scorpions don’t travel more than ten feet or so from the cracks where they spend their days, so I had tried to find a spot a proper distance from all inviting cracks and crevices. With Dave’s glowing description of desert camping, I had neglected to bring a sleeping bag. I’d opted not to bring a rain jacket either, but for some reason I had decided that bringing the rain fly to my tent would be a good idea. Luckily for me, I also had a backpack that was pretty big. Picture this – me huddled in an alcove with an Anasazi ruin, my legs inside my backpack, and a rain fly wrapped around me, leaning against a rock wall trying to get some sleep. Not the best of nights. It was probably too cold for scorpions anyway.
In the late morning I met up with Andy. He’d also found an alcove with a ruin in it. He’d lit a small fire to help keep warm. I’m pretty sure that was illegal, too. Andy said that the night had taken too much out of him, and instead of the two of us calling that night, he was going to head straight out to Salt Creek Canyon and try to recover. His truck was about five miles down Salt Creek, so he would either meet me at the top in the morning, or he’d be down at the truck.
I was on my own that night with the work of two people in front of me. I got my side done and about half of Andy’s. It was another cold night, but at least the rain had stopped. And still no owls. Instead of trying to sleep in the cold, I walked the extra miles out to Salt Creek Canyon where Andy might be. The warm sun was just cresting the horizon when I got there. No sign of Andy. I found a little alcove along the canyon wall that would give me some shade late into the morning and went to sleep.
Salt Creek Canyon had a 4WD road up it that ended here at the top. There was a little parking area and a port-a-potty for people to use. When the sun wouldn’t let me sleep any more, I stumbled back down to the trailhead and checked to see if Andy might be there asleep somewhere. I looked under trees, around the parking area. I found a rattlesnake, but no sign of Andy. Then my eyes fell on the port-a-potty…
When I opened the door, Andy woke with a start and squinted into the sunlight. He scared the hell out of me. It didn’t smell so good. He’d used it as a sheltered place to sleep. I’m still not quite sure why. I didn’t ask. I suppose things make more sense when you’re sleep-deprived and exhausted.
And so we stumbled like zombies down Salt Creek Canyon that day to where Andy’s truck was parked. It’s amazing – when you are in the backcountry for a while and your legs feel like rubber, a truck can be a wonderful sight. It’s like coming home. We ate real food; we slept in its shade. We had one more night of work.
And this is where the story really begins.
Andy was tired. He’d had enough. There were two routes left. One was a hiking route up a side canyon with several forks. That one would be a full night. The other was calling points along the Salt Creek Canyon Road. You could drive between these points. Andy thought we should forget the side canyon and simply do the driving route together. We could be back to the official crew campsite that night. I could sleep in a sleeping bag, eat warm food. There was even whiskey there.
Unfortunately, I grew up in New England and the Puritans left a legacy of hard work and guilt. It’s hard for people from that part of the country to leave a job unfinished. I couldn’t do it. I told Andy I’d do the side canyon and he could do the driving route. He’d come back, pick me up, and we’d drive out. In the early afternoon I walked out to get started. My legs were sore and my head was misted with a lack of sleep. To continue was an exercise in discipline.
I’ve come to believe something about surveying for spotted owls. It might be true for other species and places, too, but I can’t speak for them. You get rewarded for effort. These canyon owls don’t live in easy places to get to. They hide in side canyons and hanging canyons off of side canyons. If you give up easily, you tend to never get to where they are. Time after time I would scale rock faces that I shouldn’t have, or gone that extra mile on a long night, and in those moments of exploring the edges of what my body could do I would hear the faintest echo of a calling owl. And at that moment, it feels like the owl has been keeping track, measuring your progress, and has only called out once she knew that you had done everything you could. Call me a mystic, but yes, I think that there is power in these birds.
I stumbled up the canyon, leaving behind pieces of reflective tape to mark my route and stations. I went up two side forks. I stopped a lot. Invisible canyon wrens sung out their waterfall songs of descending whistles. The paper-tear sound of a raven’s wings hundreds of feet up echoed loudly off the silence of the canyon walls. I stubbed my toes on rocks. I trudged on. I was too tired to think.
Have you ever heard or seen something that it took your brain a few moments to register? Someone calls your name from across a street and you take a few steps before realizing what you heard… you walk past a poster and then you stop and snap your head around to double-check what you saw.
I had only one station left to mark, and a few hours before sunset. It would be precious time to rest. I was sticking reflective tape to a branch when suddenly my mind registered something. Had I heard a whistle? Female spotted give a rising whistle called a “contact call.” I considered for a moment. It was daylight, the sun was still shining strong. There was no way an owl could have called. It was probably a wren or something. I took two steps. Jays were nearby, a couple of them. They were sounding out raucous jay calls. Two more steps. They were calling like they were harassing something. I stopped. I turned toward the jays and immediately saw a pair of deep brown eyes staring at me. A spotted owl, in daylight, was perched twenty feet away from me and looking at me curiously. Several jays flitted about around her, trying to scare her away. Had she flown in? She must have.
I could describe the owl to you. You can find a photograph, I’m sure. They’re medium-sized, with dark brown backs with spots of white and heavy dark streaking on their chests. They have round heads, with little white spots scattered on the backs of their dark heads and necks. Round facial disks hold dark eyes. It is the eyes, though, that are magical. There is a depth to them that is incredible, and they are so dark that I’ve often expected to see little constellations of stars and galaxies hidden in the darkness. You feel those eyes upon you. It feels like the owl is looking deep into you. She sat there unafraid, looking at me like I was the first human she had ever seen.
When people ask me about the years of owl work, I often tell them that I didn’t find my first spotted owl – she found me. The scientist in me will tell you that some owls are less shy about moving about in daylight, that sometimes they are curious about loud sounds like a dislodged stone. I might have made a noise that made her curious enough to fly over to check me out. She had fledglings, as it turned out, so maybe she was feeling nervous about how close I was. That’s what the scientist would say – that this was a little strange, but within the parameters of normal owl behavior. The mystic in me is less sure. I think she knew I was dead tired and exploring the limits of what my body could do. I think she sensed that my whole reason for being there, for night after night of punishment, was to find her. I was young. I didn’t really know what I was doing out there, but I was doing my best. She knew that I had done enough. And so she flew in, and gave me a quiet whistle to let me know that she was right there.
I could tell you about how Andy was pissed because that meant we had to spend another night and go back in the morning. I could tell you that there was more than one pair of owls in that canyon, and that I spent the most beautiful morning of my life within touching distance of a family of spotted owls. I could even tell you the name of the canyon, but I won’t. I am out of words for now, and those stories would only lead to other stories, other owls. They’re still out there, though, waiting for you. If you think you can find them.
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What the Owl Knows 
