A voice in the woods

We had just started our daily flume walk when I heard baritone notes. 

He was good, whoever he was, but I couldn't identify the piece. 

It sounded like Gregorian Chant or maybe an aria.

Then I saw him through the trees, a white-haired fellow walking along the highway.

It was too early to meet an extrovert, but he saw me too.

"I just saw a big black animal cross the highway."

"Really!" says I. 

"Mighta been a bear, coulda been a dog." 

(Yeah, sure, I'm thinking -- he's going to make my day more exciting. I guess he doesn' t know the bears around here are brown.)

"I'll keep an eye out for it." (I'm still walking). 

"Yeah, about 150 yards back . . . ,"  he continues. 

"Okay, I'll be watching -- have a good one." 

We covered 6 miles that day with no sign of bears.

The next day Fred and I were the only ones on the trail. 

The wind was stirring the pines and Fred was racing back and  forth on the far side of the flume, when something suddenly crashed through a patch of dogwood and ran away from me. 

I don't know if it was brown or black, but I know it was a bear -- about 40 yards away in a thicket where I gathered gooseberries in August.

No fleeing deer snaps saplings like that, and there was no sound of bounding. 

Yesterday Fred picked up the scent like an old hound and followed his nose into the thicket. 

I'm not imagining things.

I guess the voice in the woods was right.  

High noon siesta

12:24:14 -- first photo

It was a hot August day and little past noon when gray fox entered the sandstone cave. 

12:24:31 -- 4th photo

He immediately settled in the back of the cave, stretched out on the cool sand, and schnoozed for the next 2 hrs and 20 minutes. 

12:27:10 -- 18th photo

During his siesta the camera seems to have taken a picture every time he moved, and in 53 photos produced a time motion study of his gradual movement to the front of the cave.  

14:46:51 -- 67th photo

When he woke up he seemed to notice he wasn't where he was when he started the siesta. 

14:48:44 -- 69th photo

So he went back to where he started.

14:48:48 -- 70th photo

And started over again.

15:58:53 -- 88th photo

The siesta ended an hour and 15 minutes later, and our thoroughly rested fox left the cave.  

Craig and I agree that as camera trap photos go, this siesta was no sleeper. 

Chimineas Ranch update: There is a lot more coming from our last round of camera trapping at the ranch, but it takes a lot of time to compile and analyze nearly 1000 photos. 

I'm a bit compulsive about this compilation business before drafting blog posts. 

You will see all the good stuff in due course, if not in continuous sequence, then interspersed with other posts about my usual adventures with Fred, etc. 

Fred supports camera trapping

Me: "LET GO!!

Fred: "It's mine. You can't have it."

Codgers are cheap. 

That's why I trained Fred to fetch aluminum cans and plastic bottles. 

A lot of people in this state think recycling means tossing it out the window. 

I redeem them for cash at the recycling center.

A little hunting and gathering can bag enough cans to buy a camera trap part now and then.

Yesterday Fred happened upon a 16 ounce can. 

 It's not just Bud drinkers who trash the woods

I had been eyeing that can across the flume for three weeks, but it wasn't on Fred's normal beat. 

"Fred!  Fetch the can!  CAN . . . FETCH!" 

It was only 6 feet away, but he could only see it with his nose.

He grabbed it, made crunchy can music, and started running. 

Now I had to get him to cross the flume with the can.

"FRED!!! Come Come! Bring the can!

He ran down a bend in the flume, dropped the can at the water's edge, jumped in and swam across. 

This happens with fetch sticks all the time. He thinks there's an endless supply, and I have to find a replacement.

"Where's the can?" I pleaded with palms up. 

"Get the can! Get the can!"

Fred knows that gesture and tone of voice, looked around as if trying to remember, and jumped back in the flume. 

His calculus wasn't good. The current carried him away.

He turned in the current and tried to paddle up an eddy but it was a losing battle. 

He hauled out.

I coaxed him to try two more times with the same result.

So I ran upstream and tried again. 

This time the current carried him right to the can. 

He fetched it and hauled out.  

A little praise, a few stern "let go" commands, and he dropped it. 

A thousand more cans and I can buy parts for a few more camera traps. 

Fred with an average catch

A remote spring on the Yuba

A spring feeding the North Yuba River, Sierra County, CA

Red fir logs had blocked the spring and created pools in several places. 

I chose this one, about 75 yards below the source to set a camera because it seemed most accessible to wildlife. 

Ferns, Delphinium, various unidentified herbaceous plants, and a few small mountain alders blanketed the stream for much of its length. 

The rest of the area was practically devoid of ground cover, which I understand is typical of red fir forests.

A few species of birds visited the pool -- and you birders out there, don't hesitate to correct my identifications.

Hermit thrush

Townsend's solitaire

Saw whet owl

Robin and unidentified fledgling assumed to be a robin

I expected the usual rodents -- red and gray squirrels, golden-mantled ground squirrels, shadow chipmunks, and perhaps a wood rat. 

 

Aplodon crosses the rotten log forming the pool.

But here where I found no signs of aplodon -- burrows or plant cuttings -- one showed up on two consecutive nights. 

Aplodon wades through the water on its way to who-knows-where.

 

I thought I was starting to know where to predict their occurrence, but I guess I am still climbing the learning curve.

The sierra got its first snow this past weekend and soon the roads will be closed, but next spring I'm going back to this ravine and I am going to look for burrows and other sign very carefully.

I am also going to camera trap the length of the spring to see if there is a resident population. 

More plans, more work, more fun. 

Aplodon done gone away

It's always a thrill to get a weasel,

but I was looking for Aplodon (= mountain beaver).

West branch of the Yuba River, Sierra County, California

This wasn't the lush alder thicket I had worked back in early summer. 

The undergrowth was trampled and dry.

Deer had broken the dense clumps of Delphinium, and only a bear could have demolished the red fir log I had used a few months ago as a walkway into the thicket.

But I found the camera trap right away, and expecting an assortment of birds and small mammals I opened it to see if the camera still had power.   

Damned if the batteries didn't work! 

The next move in the ritual is NOT to start viewing the pictures. 

First I check the number of photos to find out if the catch was good or bad. 

What!  Only 4 photos?

That explained why the batteries still had power.

Yes, I was pleased to get the long-tailed weasel.

It is evidence that they forage in mountain beaver burrows, and you have to marvel at a predator that takes down prey 2-3 times larger than itself.

But how could this runway and burrow yield so few photos in a period of 2 months?

Last year the burrows were teeming with activity.

There's always something to learn  from this game and here are my thoughts.

First, I don't think the weasel cleaned out the colony.  

After giving it some thought, I remembered camera trapping  in Point Reyes National Seashore  a couple years ago.

Aplodon burrows that were active in early summer seemed abandoned in late summer. 

In both areas the active burrows were damp and the inactive ones were dry and dusty.

When the soil dries up mountain beavers seem to move to areas where the soil is moist. 

In winter and spring when soil moisture is more uniform they move back into the old burrow systems.  

That's my working hypothesis. 

 

An otter thrill

Fred went a little retro while we were back East. 

He stayed with my daughter's family. 

They like him a lot, but giggling and squealing little girls summon all of his playful instincts, especially catch-me-if you-can with shoes, socks, and other articles of clothing.

After a while it gets old with the parents.   

What Fred needed was vigorous exercise, without restraint of the gentle leader.

 So yesterday -- our first day home -- we got in the pickup and headed for the flume.

On the way he yodeled with eager anticipation.  

The cool morning air and colder water had no effect on his usual routine.

He belly flopped into the current, fetched sticks, and raced back and forth on the banks.

He slowed down a bit after 5 or 6 miles of running and maybe a mile of swimming.

That's when I saw him fixating on something across the flume.

It wasn't his usual response to strange dogs or strange people.

He was growling.

As I came into view four otters dropped into the water.

The family had been sunning on the far bank. 

The mother periscoped us as she swam downstream.  

Two youngsters followed underwater with the largest animal in rear guard. 

Thirty feet downstream they turned into a tangle of Indian rhubarb and were gone. 

Normally I would have had a point and shoot camera with me, but it didn't matter.

I'll be studying the banks and poking around the roots and Indian rhubarb. 

I have a feeling we'll meet the otters again. 

 

A day with Terrierman

Terrierman and Mountain Girl

The redhead and I  were in northern Virginia last week with our younger daughter and family.

We did the grandparent thing -- great fun. 

We also reconnected with a few old friends, and it was a matter of good fortune that I joined Terrierman himself for Sunday service at the First Church of Field and Stream. 

Not often does one meet a blogger with the following of Patrick Burns.

I'm addicted to Terrierman's Daily Dose  -- "working terriers, conservation, wildlife, hunting, fishing, public policy, population dynamics, and health care".

It's meaty.

He's also the one who awakened me to the void in my life called canine companionship.

But I couldn't pass an online test for prospective Jack Russell Terrier owners.

Working against me were the presence of small children and the absence of  ground hogs and fenced yard. 

The upshot was that Fred came into my life. 

So early Sunday morning I found Patrick in his driveway loading his kit, and met Mountain Girl and Pearl.

Under a cloudy sky we drove to the hedgerows of Maryland and loosed the dogs.

They disdained the obvious burrows and disappeared into the largest briar patch in the county.

Bung-first emergence (when the tunnel is too tight)

Mountain Girl seemed lost in the underworld, finally came up for air, and again submerged.

Mug-first emergence (when there's turnaround space in the tunnel)

    

That's all Terrierman needed to know. 

With flashing machete and undaunted by sticker and thorn, he plowed into the thicket with the effect of a bush-hog.

A half hour later he coaxed the panting dog above ground and tethered her.

Then Pearl the subordinate had a go at it, and soon we heard her muffled soprano barks and growls. 

"She's face to face with it."

I confess that Patrick did most of the work, but it took the two of us to exhume a rock the size of a (small) rune stone. 

 

The next move was to zero in on the dog's transmitter with a receiver that rattled when directly above the dog. 

The digging had been off course. 

In other words, we didn't have to move the rune stone.

With the determination of St George Terrierman resumed spudding and digging in the new location. 

Then we discovered two larger rocks barring us from the quarry. (Yes at this point I was actually helping.)

The stones were side by side with a narrow gap that opened into the rodent's tunnel.

So close -- 4 feet at most, and yet so far, energetically speaking.

The service was over.

That whistle pig had earned its keep. 

Thanks for a great day, Terrierman.