Full Moon Menagerie
Near the end of an unusually long day, about six, seven years ago, I was struck by the number of encounters I'd had with a variety of animals. And then I was struck in turn by what a gift it was, this place I'd found, where something as simple as a multiplicity of meetings with mammals could just happen like the way I'm about to tell you it did.
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I was living back then in a pretty rural area of northern California. (You could stick a comma in there and just as easily say it was a "pretty, rural" place, too.) It was so rural, there weren't but one more county north before you found yourself on Oregon's doorstep. So this was really northern California, not north Cali like City by the Bay north. Folks call San Francisco "northern" Cali just because the other two big cities in the Golden State, LA and San Diego, are hours and hours away to the south. But going north along the coast after SF, first it's Marin, then Sonoma (with Napa due east), then Mendocino, then Humboldt, then Del Norte - where the white folk can't be bothered with the time it'd take to say Nor-tay - to them and to folks in Humboldt, too, it's just plain old Dell Nort, lol - and then Oregon. Gosh it's pretty, what with the Pacific ocean right there, and all those giant redwood trees.
Last time I drove up that way, late September, I was still in Humboldt county when I noticed traffic in both directions was comin' to a standstill, and I'm thinkin' a city-slicker like you won't never guess the reason; a gang of a couple dozen Roosevelt elk were just standing around, hanging out it seemed, along the side of the road, right there in "downtown" Orick, population: 357.
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I'd spent a big chunk of the day in question at the community radio station in town, where I did a twice-monthly music show, and a number of people had dropped in at different times with their canine companions, 5 or 6 in all. They were all friendly and generally well-behaved, and (I'm happy to report), their dogs were, too. I won't bore you with any lengthy anecdotes about my interactions with the pooches. (Allow this last digression, I swear it, for me to say that one of the things I most cherish about living in Austin is how dog-friendly it has so far seemed. I dropped in to Yard Dog recently for a beer on a hot day, and yeah I admit, it felt a little weird, even for me, to go sans canine to a place where folks take their dogs for a romp. But that's one of the advantages of getting older: giving less of a fuck about what folks think, at least of things like a dogless Douglas at a glorified dog park.)
The drive from the radio station home took an hour (the last four miles on dirt road), and my next encounter with an animal that day was a young deer who'd wandered nearly onto the narrow, two-lane road, and who really didn't seem to mind sharing it with me: it didn't dash off into the brush as they sometimes do, but just stood off to one side, giving me the eye as I slowly rolled pass.
The second critter a couple miles further on was even less cautious: a possum slowly (and clearly obliviously) shuffled his way across the road in front of me, by which time I'd fortunately already down-shifted into second; the road there is curvy and slightly downhill, and huge Doug fir trees closely line both sides. Then: Oh God, no. Another pickup approaches from the opposite direction! I worry briefly I am about to witness something horrific. By then I'd come to a complete stop, and this weird little furry gray creature - who'd obviously re-considered any benefit to be had in crossing the road - turned around and retreated to the safety of our side of the road until the other vehicle passed. Only then did it run back across the road in front of me, before scampering off into the darkness. I rolled down my window and shouted: "Oi! Watch it on this road! It's friggin' dangerous!" and drove on.
Finally, all that remained before head hit pillow was the walk from where I'd parked my truck to the little cabin I then called home. Little rustling and snuffling noises in the inky darkness had initially made me picture two or three deer, but instead, a sounder of boar was afoot, anyone's guess how many. (And anyway, deer don't really snuffle, do they. I may have had a beer or three on the drive up the mountain.) I made it safely up onto the porch, when a mom or a dad gave a single grunt, a signal the little ones acted on with alacrity.
I imagined them kicking up little dust-storms in the night as they high-tailed it elsewhere, someplace safer, and still further away.
---
I was living back then in a pretty rural area of northern California. (You could stick a comma in there and just as easily say it was a "pretty, rural" place, too.) It was so rural, there weren't but one more county north before you found yourself on Oregon's doorstep. So this was really northern California, not north Cali like City by the Bay north. Folks call San Francisco "northern" Cali just because the other two big cities in the Golden State, LA and San Diego, are hours and hours away to the south. But going north along the coast after SF, first it's Marin, then Sonoma (with Napa due east), then Mendocino, then Humboldt, then Del Norte - where the white folk can't be bothered with the time it'd take to say Nor-tay - to them and to folks in Humboldt, too, it's just plain old Dell Nort, lol - and then Oregon. Gosh it's pretty, what with the Pacific ocean right there, and all those giant redwood trees.
Last time I drove up that way, late September, I was still in Humboldt county when I noticed traffic in both directions was comin' to a standstill, and I'm thinkin' a city-slicker like you won't never guess the reason; a gang of a couple dozen Roosevelt elk were just standing around, hanging out it seemed, along the side of the road, right there in "downtown" Orick, population: 357.
---
I'd spent a big chunk of the day in question at the community radio station in town, where I did a twice-monthly music show, and a number of people had dropped in at different times with their canine companions, 5 or 6 in all. They were all friendly and generally well-behaved, and (I'm happy to report), their dogs were, too. I won't bore you with any lengthy anecdotes about my interactions with the pooches. (Allow this last digression, I swear it, for me to say that one of the things I most cherish about living in Austin is how dog-friendly it has so far seemed. I dropped in to Yard Dog recently for a beer on a hot day, and yeah I admit, it felt a little weird, even for me, to go sans canine to a place where folks take their dogs for a romp. But that's one of the advantages of getting older: giving less of a fuck about what folks think, at least of things like a dogless Douglas at a glorified dog park.)
The drive from the radio station home took an hour (the last four miles on dirt road), and my next encounter with an animal that day was a young deer who'd wandered nearly onto the narrow, two-lane road, and who really didn't seem to mind sharing it with me: it didn't dash off into the brush as they sometimes do, but just stood off to one side, giving me the eye as I slowly rolled pass.
The second critter a couple miles further on was even less cautious: a possum slowly (and clearly obliviously) shuffled his way across the road in front of me, by which time I'd fortunately already down-shifted into second; the road there is curvy and slightly downhill, and huge Doug fir trees closely line both sides. Then: Oh God, no. Another pickup approaches from the opposite direction! I worry briefly I am about to witness something horrific. By then I'd come to a complete stop, and this weird little furry gray creature - who'd obviously re-considered any benefit to be had in crossing the road - turned around and retreated to the safety of our side of the road until the other vehicle passed. Only then did it run back across the road in front of me, before scampering off into the darkness. I rolled down my window and shouted: "Oi! Watch it on this road! It's friggin' dangerous!" and drove on.
Finally, all that remained before head hit pillow was the walk from where I'd parked my truck to the little cabin I then called home. Little rustling and snuffling noises in the inky darkness had initially made me picture two or three deer, but instead, a sounder of boar was afoot, anyone's guess how many. (And anyway, deer don't really snuffle, do they. I may have had a beer or three on the drive up the mountain.) I made it safely up onto the porch, when a mom or a dad gave a single grunt, a signal the little ones acted on with alacrity.
I imagined them kicking up little dust-storms in the night as they high-tailed it elsewhere, someplace safer, and still further away.
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