Bandit Springs: Forest Dude

Saturday July 11 2015

He's a Desert Dude, used to wide open spaces and few trees that monsters can hide behind (only small monsters live behind sagebrush).

Bandit Springs last weekend in Oregon was Dudley's first forest endurance adventure. He went with his pasture mate Smokey and his neighbor August. The best part, of course, was the grassy meadow we camped in. Ohhhh, that rich grass smorgasbord reaching to his kneecaps, that he loved to stuff in his mighty mouth at every opportunity!

You can see he's scarfed the tall grass in his immediate reach, and he's plotting how to reach the rest

It was Dudley's first time on a high tie, which I was a bit leery of, since we were camped in such a tasty meadow. Middle of the first night, he was pulling and yanking and squeaking and stretching that high tie so hard, he woke us all up, and Steph took the high tie down and I tied him right to the trailer.

My biggest fear for Dudley at that ride was him getting loose, and getting lost in the forest, and me never seeing him again. Horses have gotten lost before. And guess what happened the second middle of the night, right before our Saturday ride. He got loose! Suspicious noises woke Steph and Carol up (they were sleeping in the horse trailer; I was sleeping in Helen's freight liner.) He was on the other side of our trailer, devouring an entire bucket of beet pulp!

Now my second biggest fear, almost as big as the first, is Dudley getting loose from his trailer and getting into every single bucket of grain in Ridecamp. Fortunately, he was easy for Carol to catch, but who wouldn't be, after a big satisfying bucket of beet pulp, from which he was still licking the crumbs? He had pulled his entire halter off his head, but I think it was from scratching and trying to rub behind his ears, because he was very itchy there. Nevertheless, Carol put his halter on tightly, and I gave him a stern lecture, because he scared the crap out of me (and a hug because I was so glad he wasn't lost), and I went to bed praying he would have no ill effects from a bucket of beet pulp. Needless to say, every time he made any kind of noise (banging his hay net against the trailer, sloshing water while drinking, peeing, or farting) I instantly sat up, wide awake, and looked out to see if he was still tied to the trailer. I didn't get any more sleep before my alarm went off at 5 AM.


Carol and August led Steph and Smokey, me and Dudley, out onto the trails for the 50 mile ride on Saturday. We had a twenty mile loop back to camp and a vet check, then a 30 mile loop, with an out vet check. The previous day we'd gone out on the 10-mile loop for exercise and to get used to the scary forest monsters, like fallen monster trees, scary tree stumps, and a herd of over 50 elk whose bugling squeaking trumpeting calls so alarmed our horses that we all jumped off before they ejected us. The elk herd seemed to want to make our acquaintance, and I left the horses, screened behind trees, and ran out to scare steer the herd away from us. Yes, a person on foot can turn away an entire elk herd that's bearing down on you!

On ride day, our horses weren't scared o' no stinkin' tree stumps or monsters. Or elk, which was fine with all of us, because they might have still been a bit alarming. The horses know the difference between deer or antelope, which they know, and elk, which they do not!

Dudley's other favorite part of the forest ride was the two wild turkey feathers he found, that he had me stick in his bridle. (Dudley always finds things: feathers, neat rocks, deer antlers.).


And his other favorite part of the ride was the vet checks where horses had a treat of oat soup waiting for them!


The other best part of the forest ride was the cool weather and the rain. Everybody I talked to only knew Bandit Springs as hot and dusty. We got lucky this year, the 25th anniversary of Bandit Springs. It was so pleasantly cool in the morning, in the 60's to 70's, and in the afternoon, scary-looking thunderheads built above us and finally blanketed the sky with heavy dark clouds. After the vet check, a delicious rainstorm, with no lightning!, soaked us and turned the trails to slick-snot mud, as we plodded through the dark forest, the pine and fir trees beating with dripping water. My other favorite part of the ride, besides the forest trails, the Ochoco Mountains, riding a big handsome beast, and the rainstorm, was the lovely trill of the hermit thrush which serenaded us all day long.

Always mugging for the camera!

Our horses walked the entire last 12 miles or so, because the mud was so slick. But we finished before the cut-off time, and our horses looked and felt absolutely great afterwards. The six Pickett Crick Musketeers did it again!

oops, not quite a wide-enough angle lens!

And the other best part of the ride was the 25th anniversary handmade ride award necklaces and key chains made with jasper and quartz rocks hand picked by ride manager Janelle and her son Spencer from Doyle Spring on the trail. The Raven had a hard time picking his favorite one.


And the best best part is, Dudley's not just a desert horse anymore. Now he's a Forest Dude!


More stories and pictures from the 25th anniversary of the Bandit Springs ride here!
http://www.endurance.net/international/USA/2015BanditSprings/

Oh-Dark Stupid

Saturday July 6 2013

In the darkness before dawn, the forest wakes in layers. Aside from the occasional hoot of a great horned owl or barred owl and the creaking and cracking from something… large… cruising through the brush, there is a bank of silence between the night creatures and the day creatures.

The robins and Swainson's thrushes wake first, the chirping and the spiraling twitters reaching over the hills and spinning out above the canopy. When the winter wrens start up, they jump right in, all feet and feathers first, enthusiastically, a non-stop loud chatter that drowns out everything else within earshot. Others follow in time as dawn creeps up, slowly painting the blackness discernible shades of green: varied thrushes, chickadees, and a myriad of other LBJ's (Little Brown Jobs) I don't know.

This time of darkness, this Oh-Dark Stupid, is a no-man's land-time. It's way too late to still be awake and way too early to be up.

But I'm out here, listening to the waking forest.


To get here, one dark morning I follow fresh bear tracks from the previous day; another morning I tunnel through close and claustrophobic brush; another I wade through a stream and slip and slide up the slick bank. Devil's clubs bite me when I grab wildly for something for balance. Blackberry bushes grab my legs and try to trip me. I hope I'm avoiding poison ivy but the dark ground cover looks all the same in my narrow headlamp beam piercing a tiny hole in the blackness. Moss-covered fallen trees are a slippery bridge over black holes.


On all mornings, mosquitoes, also early risers, threaten to suck me dry of blood. On all mornings, despite being half asleep, my senses are on full-blown alert, particularly in close brush, and most particularly when I hear big cracks and snaps in the darkness.


Nesting marbled murrelet by Tom Hamer
All this to search for a cryptic, chunky robin-sized bird in the forest: the endangered, mysterious marbled murrelet, who lives on the sea and nests in the forest.

They don't make it easy on themselves. Built for life on the ocean, they choose to nest inland in primarily old growth forests - up to 40 miles inland. Not every year, the female lays a single egg on a platform with a slight depression (usually, a thick moss-covered branch) in an old growth tree, up to 200 feet above the ground - not a nest; the male and female take turns sitting on, and turning the egg up to 11 times a day (no nest cup to keep it from rolling off the branch!), and once it hatches, the parents fly back and forth to the ocean, fetching the single chick a single fish each time. When and if the chick fledges at about 35 days of age, the parents stop visiting with food, and the chick eventually makes its way, under cover of darkness, to the ocean - or not.

Adults are eaten by hawks and owls; eggs and nestlings are predated by crows and Ravens, jays, and flying squirrels. Some murrelets are caught in gill-nets and drown; it is thought that murrelet food (fish) may be adversely affected by trending warmer ocean currents.

These birds don't make it easy for observers: the marbled murrelet can fly up to 100 mph with very rapid wingbeats (think: 'flying raisin'), and it may approach its nest in the forest stealthily, so if you're looking for one, and you blink at the wrong time, or if it decides not to call, your chances are not great for seeing or hearing it.

But we try.

Tree Hugger II

Saturday May 4 2013

I do love this Owyhee desert, but man I miss the mountains and forests.

I miss grabbing onto a monster old growth Jeffrey pine in a forest, putting my nose to the cracks in the bark, smelling the scent of vanilla, feeling the tree's sentience, its roughness, the oldness, feeling the decades (or centuries, if the tree is a lucky one) of seed and sun and snows and storms, feeling the secret forest life its branches have held.

yes, it's a spotted owl

I try to find the time to hug trees, real forest trees, at least once a year. Soon, it will have to be more than once a year, but for now, this mountain and this giant forest pine will suffice for a while.

Keeper of Souls

Tuesday February 26 2013

The white floor of the narrow valley glows ghostly white from the full moon hidden behind the clouds. Snow sifts lightly to the earth, powdering the pines needles, dusting my feet like the forest floor, caressing my hair, brushing my upturned face gently before leaving its cold kiss. The snowflakes are as a mist on the distant luminescent hills.

I sharpen my ears and summon an archaic language and call into the night. The sound reflects off the side mountain, echoes down the valley, rolling through the peculiar muffled silence of falling snow. And in the fold of forest between the hills, a barred owl answers, first distant, then closer:

Who who who-who who-who-who whoooooo.

We converse a while, he and I, his eerie sonorous articulations bearing the gift of contact with another world we seldom get to share.

He is a seer of souls: perhaps he is guarding the spirits of the dead who have tramped these forests and mountains. Perhaps he is hinting at the sacred knowledge he keeps.

Perhaps we are sharing consciousness, an unenlightened, unworldly human and an otherworldly, wise owl, ruler of the night.

Tree Hugger!

Thursday April 21 2011

"Tree Hugger" isn't always a friendly moniker. To those who use it derogatorily, I challenge you: have you ever tried it?

Get out into the forest, put your arms around a big old tree (if you can still find one), and give it a hug. Put your nose against its bark and inhale its scent. Feel the tree and its place in the forest, feel its life and all it has seen. Think what the world would be like if all these big old keepers of the forest were gone.

Go on, hug a tree. I dare ya.

Save a Logger, Eat an Owl

Tuesday February 15 2011

Outside, the 3/4 moon is bright, reflecting off the snow burying the meadow. The surrounding woods are darker than black, hiding whatever wishes to be hidden. It's so still I can hear the horses munching on hay 50 yards away on the other side of the barn. Not a hint of a breeze moves the pine needles. I've got the three little dogs outside (one on a long leash). We are looking, listening to the sounds of the mountain forest at night.

And then from far down the canyon I realize there is a rhythm to the soft sounds I'm hearing. It's an owl - a barred owl!

I always think of spotted owls when I'm in the forest. Years ago I did spotted owl surveys, tromping around in the Pacific Northwest forests at night, searching for them, recording their steadily declining numbers. Out of habit (and hope, always hope) I look for them in every forest I'm in; I look for them here in this corner of Montana, even though the habitat doesn't suit the spotted owl. Around here, this is a logged forest, second- and third-growth trees where trees are still standing. No old growth forest that the spotted owl needs.

That barred owls would be here never occured to me only because it's been so long that I've heard one.

In 1990 the Northern subspecies of the spotted owl - which lives in old growth forests in the Northwest, from British Columbia to northern California - was listed as an endangered species. Because of that, logging in the Pacific Northwest on federal lands was all but stopped and was reduced by almost 90% by 2000. Jobs were lost, though the logging industry had already been in decline since World War II. Automation of the industry had already been stealing jobs for decades. Machines replaced the men that used the shovels and pulaskis to build roads, the men that used the saws and axes to cut and fall and load trees, and the men that drove horses to transport the logs. Machines replaced people in the sawmills. Society, and corporations, hail automation as progress. In the logging industry (as in any industry), it meant job losses. Perhaps the spotted owl was to blame solely for logging woes; perhaps it was a scapegoat.

Spotted owls were allegedly eaten at barbeques. You can still come across the "Save a Logger, Eat an Owl" bumper stickers on old vehicles. You still don't walk into a bar in one of those old Northwest logging towns and start chirping away about the environmental benefits of conserving the cute fluffy, endangered spotted owls you have left in your neck of the woods.

Then there's the barred owl. A little larger than the spotted owl, more aggressive, and not needing strictly old growth forest to live in, it's another reason the spotted owl is in trouble. They are cousins in the bird world; both are of the same genus, Strix, and rarely, they interbreed, resulting in a sparred owl. (I located one of these once on my owl job.) Barred owls moved from the eastern US to the west over the 20th century. In many historic spotted owl nesting sites in the Pacific Northwest, the barred owl has taken over.

Now, this night I hear a female barred owl down the canyon. I answer its call. In five minutes, she has flown further up-canyon in my direction. I am thrilled to hear her. She continues to hoot her 8-note call, and in another five minutes, she is closer, hooting from only a quarter mile away.

I am mesmerized by the call, by the fact she is answering my call. She's probably looking for a mate; it's that time of season. I have heard many barred owls, but I have never actually seen one, even though they have been close enough I could have hit them with a rock. I've jumped out of my skin and nearly had a heart attack before, when one has flown in silently in the dark and suddenly screeched an unearthly howl right above me. But I've never laid eyes on one.

I call once more, and suddenly, zeroing straight in on my call, she flies directly at me, 30 feet above me into the nearest tree. Oh my God!

It's so startling, she scares the leashed dog, who starts barking; and the second little dog takes off barking directly at her! Oh, crap!

I come to my senses and quickly reel the leashed dog in and grab her and throw her in the house. (I've already thrown the littlest dog-morsel inside.) Meanwhile the barred owl now starts hooting her territorial call in the tree above, loudly, insistently.

I'm hissing at the remaining barking little dog to get back here before the owl takes her, but oh, no, she's going to get that owl. I don't want the owl to get scared away, but I don't want to provide her a meal, either. It's chaos in the once-quiet forest: thundering hoots, piercing yips, and angry hissing human voice.

The owl is agitated by the noisy brazen barking meal-on-legs, and flies 15 yards away to another tree. Fierce Little Dog takes off after her, completely ignoring me. AHHH!

I run in the house and grab dog food in a can and run back outside and shake it. Thank goodness Fierce Little Dog is also a Fierce Little Hog, because she comes running back for food, and I grab her and chuck her in the house.

I run back outside and listen to this barred owl who continues her territorial call. For half an hour, I stand motionless and silent in the snow under the moonlight, listening to this booming melodic call of this beautiful wild creature as it echoes around the meadow and back down the canyon. I apologize for disturbing her... but forgive me - I'm selfishly glad I did.

And since there probably isn't a spotted owl for miles around anyway due to lack of habitat - I am thrilled with the encounter.

Cat!

Saturday February 12 2011

I wander up a hill in this Montana forest, savoring the winter snow.


The snow is heavy and wet, dragging at my feet. Deer tracks litter the snow, telling the story of a busy forest over a highway that's hidden in the summer. Without snow, the forest always looks empty. It's not.

I clumsily slop and slosh and half slide along deer highways and down a snow covered logging road - until I stop dead in my own tracks.

Cat tracks!


Small, but unmistakably (I'm hoping - I'm pretty sure) cat tracks.

Has to be a bobcat. The tracks cross this logging road and go straight up the hill.


The cat is long gone, but of course I have to follow. Up I scramble, slipping, falling, slithering, panting, grabbing onto roots and brush to keep from sliding back down; ridiculously, maddeningly graceless as I follow pawprints of an undoubtedly graceful, efficient, effortless cat.



I can't read snow as well as dirt, but with the softened, sunken print in this softened, gently melting snow, I'd say the tracks came from the night before. The cat was on a mission, tracks undeviating, heading straight up the mountainside. On a southern facing slope with sparse trees, the snow disappears, and with it, the tracks and any hint that anything passed this way.


I slide back down the hill (actually sit on my coat and slide down) and follow the tracks where they came from. Still a straight line - across the road back into the forest, over the snow-covered little creek (water flowing beneath, snow thick enough that I don't fall in), until the tracks finally fade in ice.


The snow will melt, the tracks will disappear.

But the cat will still be here... somewhere.