Wrap-up

[Photo is off a batch of wood (one of many) that we've been cutting, hauling, and peeling to begin drying for our cordwood house in the next year or so...]


This is the last blog I’m going to write for this project, just a few notes to wrap-up. I should probably mention the Bluebunch wolves, which we were following earlier this spring (see the June 16 entry). Unfortunately, I have nothing good to offer as an ending to this story. It is not over, and has turned into a large, political mess. We just learned that the female was shot (by Wildlife Services) on August second. We have not been able to get any other information. The seven pups were left to fend for themselves, which at that age is code for “starve”. Hackles are up and fur is being rubbed the wrong way, and politics seem to be taking a front seat in this age-old struggle with wolves and their management. It seems the story is long from over.
I hate to end the blog on a sad note. I wish I could now talk about our last week filming where we saw so much, the mountain lions, the black wolf pups, the bears…
But since I already covered all that, I will instead talk about what the future plans are for our film: what happens now that we’re done the filming part. We’ve finished logging all the footage, which I have to say was quite a lot! Specifically, about 70 hours of RED footage (the big camera), and 67 hours of HV20 footage (the camcorder). We sent all that logged footage first to Jackson, WY to get transcoded so that it is all in workable form, and then on to Belgium (yes, Belgium the country across the big water), where an acquaintance/friend of ours is going through it all as a pre-edit. Our plan is not to think about it for the summer while we re-orient ourselves to non-transient life, to get some space from the whole thing, and then pick it up again come fall and begin the long and potentially difficult editing process. How do you take 137 hours of footage and condense it down to one hour, or even two hours? We have been talking regularly to the folks at PBS Nature, who seem very interested, a mutual feeling as we’d like to work with them also. That’s about as far as the plan goes for now. For the time being, it is good to be thinking about and working on something new. Right now that consists of building our new greenhouse, visiting family, planning a farm, and generally catching up on life on the edge of town.
Most of all, I want to give a big THANKS to all of you who followed this blog. It was fun for me to write, and hopefully at least mildly interesting to read. I know it was a rough go, with long dry spells of no updates, and then bursts of entries that were probably too time-consuming to catch up on, but I can’t say you weren’t warned from the start! ☺ Enjoy the rest of the summer…
Bjornen

The Last Week

I’m writing this blog back at the yurt, on the deck in the sun. Our year of filming is officially over. Of course, it’s a bitter-sweet feeling. I am ready to be done. It was a difficult year for reasons we had not anticipated. But it was also filled with surprises of the kind that will make magical memories; it already has. And now, faced with the daunting task of editing over 150 hours of footage down to a one hour segment (hopefully with professional help!), I find myself sometimes thinking of the simple wandering life of filming. What?! Did I actually say the ‘simple’ life???? It’s amazing how memory works, truly amazing.
We managed to sneak away from watch-dogging the Blue Bunch pack for a solid week, where we headed for our starting point, full circle from when we began last June, near Stanley, Idaho. Near Stanley is a loose term. The destination is fifty miles on a very rough dirt road, deep into the wilderness (the road was grandfathered in when wilderness was created), over two mountain passes and far from the bustling metropolis of Stanley (population 106).
As always, the trip was filled with adventure, which I will try to briefly describe in highlights. We had not even made it to Stanley, when Isaac says:
“I think we have a flat…” and we both listen to the familiar floppy whirr of flaccid tire on pavement.
We pull over at a nearby pull-off, literally 10 miles from Stanley. The day was already moving into evening, and mosquitoes were out in force, as we were parked near a swampy field. We swatted, sweated, and grunted the spare onto the hub, and drove the last miles into town, to find the one gas station in town, in the process of closing. The very nice attendant said the mechanic had gone home for the night, but had just left and if we called him he just might turn around.
He did. And after a long time of soaking the tire in Windex (no dunk tank in this small town!) found no leak. Scratching his head, he, in one last attempt, hit the valve stem, which hissed loudly. Leak found, valve stem replaced, we were very nearly back on the road, except for one minor little detail. He couldn’t get the tire back on the rim. Not really his fault either. Our truck has unusual sized tires (unusual in that they don’t make them that size anymore for this very reason, they are very difficult to get back on the rim. To do it, you need a major blast of air, like from a large compressor and heavy duty air-tool. Not happening here in small town Stanley. The compressor was already over taxed, the mechanic explained, from a day of bad luck where a lady was stuck in her car, up on the lift, for over two hours…long story. He was smiling when he told us this, and I was almost wetting my pants, but you could see the strain in his eyes. It had been a rough day already. Funny enough now. Not so funny then.
Basically, we (all three of us) spent 3 hours trying to wrestle and manhandle the tire back onto the rim, with no luck. We tried every trick in the book, from rim sealer, to a rope, and then a ratchet strap, around the tire. The evening ended around 11:30 with the tire laying airless on the floor, and three greasy and tired people. The mechanic said he’d call some people and try to find a solution for the morning. Isaac and I went off in search of digs for the night (another story, too long for here).
The next morning we returned to the gas station to find our tire filled (filled, that is, with air, and also with a tube, which became another issue we had to deal with when we got home…lets just say we’re lucky neither of us cracked any teeth on the 3 hour drive home… and we’ll leave it at that). But for the time being the tire was on and we were on our way.
The next surprise was a good one. We found the 50 miles of rough dirt road, which we expected to be impassable after the torrential rains we had all spring long, passable. As it turned out, it was in the best shape we’d ever found it. Snow-free (mostly), boulder-free, nothing was blown out, and we only had to cut out 3 down trees the whole way. And to top it all off, as we rounded the last corner before the road ends and we set out on foot, we stared out the windshield gape-mouthed at a huge mountain lion sprawled in the road. I know minds can make things like predators, and fish, and distances, much bigger than they are in reality. And I’m sure that’s what was going on here, but I tell ya this sucker was huge! It slowly sat up, like a typical cat, looking at us with a look that said “what are you lookin’ at”. I swear if I had been standing there in the road, our two heads would have been at the same height. We stopped the truck, threw it in reverse, and crept backwards around the corner as quiet as we could in a large pick-up, got out the camera, and snuck back around the corner, camera rolling. The cat was gone, of course. But we spent the next hour creeping around on foot looking for it. There was a lot of sign on the road, like it had been hanging around for a while in that one spot. Isaac searched below the road on the steep mountain slope, while I searched ahead on the dirt road. I came to the last down tree, a well branched and bushy lodge pole, and just as I was clambering through the dense branches, I looked up to see not one, but two mountain lions bounding gracefully across the road not 30 feet away.
Of course, we never got them on film except for a brief, over-excited (ie: bouncy) blip on our little camcorder, but we spent many hours searching, and at least got to see them with our eyes.
The next day when we hiked down to our destination, we found that not only was the wolf pack there that we had come to see, but they had 5 pups, 4 of which were the most beautiful silver-backed black. This pack had never had black pups all the years that we’ve followed them in the springtime, so this was a truly exciting discovery. As far as we know there are no black adults in the pack, but it is very likely that we didn’t see all the adults. The black coloring in wolves seems to be a recessive trait.
The day we hiked in was pouring rain, cold, and peppered with occasional hail. I distinctly remember wondering what the heck we were doing out there. It seemed kind of like a token trip. But then we found the black pups and it made it all worthwhile. And from there on out, the weather was perfect, sun for warmth, with some overcast for filming. We have a hidden camp spot there that we return to every year, and it has become a familiar place. There is literally no flat ground in those parts, every thing is either steep up or steep down, so one year Isaac burrowed out a flatish, pine-needle, tent-shaped bed on the uphill side of a huge Doug fir tree. A tiny, clear mountain stream runs right by, which we drink straight from, and you can sit in the last light of evening and listen to warblers and the occasional night hawk.
We found morels on the trail, and picked them for dinner. We watched wolf pups play and romp and explore, and interact with adults as they came and went from their feeding duties. We saw several black bears, one of which was the most unusual brassy blonde color (all over, not just along the back) and seemed to be being chased by a larger, black bear. And the wildflowers were, surprisingly for how late in the season it was, just coming into full bloom. It was a perfect end to the year, full of good treats and surprises. And after all the hoopla around the Blue Bunch wolves, it was a nice reminder that, at least in some places in the wilderness, wolves are free to be wolves.

Gift of the mountains

Isaac thinks they look like cooked slugs. He’s actually not all that far off, they don’t look all that delectable. But personally I think the presentation is a big part of it. I had only been able to scavenge three shrooms, and not very big ones either, so even on the small salad-sized pewter plate lined with a folded section of newspaper to soak up the excess oil (butter), they swam. They looked kind of listless, limp, and glossy brown: most definitely slug-like. But they also, in a weird sort of butter soaked, lightly battered way, looked really delicious. This is how it happened:
I hem and haw all day. Should I cook the morels (or at least what I thought were morels) for dinner? It was probably my last chance at the mushrooms this year, and already they were past their freshest moment. Being a mushroom picking newbie, my personal criteria to myself had been a) get a book, and b) ask at least one knowledgeable person to look at them (ie: someone who has picked these mushrooms regularly). I had the book: Mushrooms Demystified, by David Arora, a very writerly and wise sounding name, I thought. His book is good. It’s a tome, in the most basic sense of the word: full, knowledgeable, and lengthy (it’s 2 ¼ inches thick!). From reading the book I came to within 95 percent sure that the mushrooms sprouting up all over our yard were most definitely black morels. But there was still that insistent, nagging voice in my brain the kept me from actually picking them. ‘You don’t know for sure… mushrooms can make you very sick, they can actually kill you’. Yeah, yeah. But really, mushroom are no more dangerous than any wild gathering one might do, they just get an especially bad rap for some reason. Perfect example in the book: someone comes in carrying a wild onion they found ‘hey, let’s put this in the stew tonight!’ Great, no qualms. Everyone looks at the harvester with a mix of envy (why couldn’t I have been the one to bring home the wild goods) and adoration (wow, so-and-so is so enthusiastic, and quaint, how nice). And yet in reality, that “wild onion”, at least out in these parts, could just as well be a Death Camis, one of the most deadly wild plants around, and conveniently it looks very similar to the Camis Lily, whose roots are edible, but in order to distinguish between the two you must see them both in flower, which happens at different times of year, making the comparison very difficult. And yet, in that same scenario, if the person had breezed in the door brandishing some wild mushrooms, and making the same exclamation about putting them in that nights stew pot, no doubt their reception would have been much different. It would have consisted of some looks of extreme worry, some whispered, or not-so-whispered remarks about poisonous and deadly, and some politely yet firmly dealt rejections as to their intended destination.
So back to that particular day. I hemmed and hawed as I spent the morning in the yurt logging footage, and packing up to go out again the next day (Isaac was out filming at Blue Bunch all day, but intended to return for dinner that night). I thought of a billion different recipes as I checked e-mails in the office, and I stewed some more as I walked around town on errands. As I was returning to the office to get in the car to come home, I ran into a friend, who happened to be an experienced morel picker. After catching up with each others lives, I asked her about the mushrooms, and after a brief tne minute discussion, I was thoroughly convinced that these truly were morels, and should be picked and made into dinner that very night.
When I got home, I set out into the yard armed with confidence, and a basket. Ok, I hadn’t quite completely filled my personal criteria. I hadn’t physically shown the mushrooms to anyone. But I was confident enough to skip over that minor detail and pick mushrooms. I had some dissapointment coming to me when I traipsed about the yard, and found that most of the mushrooms I had been drooling over and all but singing lullabys to, were too far gone. I had waited too long. But I did find three decent specimens which I popped into my basket and took to the yurt.
That night, not as dinner, but as a scrumptious (all the more so because there were only three) appetizer, we ate morels. Dusted lightly in spelt flour, salt and pepper, and sautéed in butter, they were exquisite, even though Isaac commented about cooked slugs. Think escargot, or whelks. They certainly have an exotic quality to them.

Later: We were able to find another harvest when we went for our last week down near Stanley. The elevation is much higher where we were, and the morels quite a bit farther behind the ones here in McCall. We found enough to eat there, cooked plainly with our pasta, and even to bring home a (homemade cardboard) flat of them to cook for a main meal back at the yurt. I think we’re both hooked now… I know I am at least. The hunt is most certainly a good part of the fun, made all the better knowing what deliscouness awaits your tongue. Yummmmmm….

Getting Complicated: The Blue Bunch Story

[I’ll get a pup picture in here eventually, but it has to come from the big camera, here’s a filler: it’s a horizontal rainbow we saw on that ridge one of the first days we were up there. The other picture is Isaac, filming, and yes, that white stuff on the ground is in fact, snow…just a dusting, but snow. And yes, it really is late June]

We’ve managed to get sidetracked. This is our self-proclaimed final month for filming this project (we knew we’d have to put an end date on it or else we might go on filming forever… there’s always a little more to get, a little that we missed, a little that we could get better, and a lot that we never even saw). So in our minds we are getting a little antsy to get back out there one final time, to go back to the area where we began this whole adventure last year, and to check on the wolves there.
But while spending some time in town, we got wind of something that is going on right in our backyard, that has captured our attention. We feel this is too good of a story to let slide, simply to get back into the wilderness. This is something that we feel people should be aware of. I don’t want to get mired in politics in this blog, so here’s the short and skinny version:
There was a pack of wolves that lived on a nearby ridge, Blue Bunch Ridge. They happened to roam an area that is public land, and because this is Idaho, that means that land is also used to graze sheep and cattle. Occasionally, these wolves stray from their normal wild diet, and take down a sheep/lamb or cow/calf. How often this happens is another subject up for debate, which I am not going to get into here, but seems like perhaps the wolves get blamed for more depredations than they are actually responsible for… but that is all speculation. Our experience, from many years of watching wolves, is that they strongly favor wild food, even when domestic game is available. But again, those are simply my observations/opinions.
Anyway, so last fall these wolves apparently made a depredation (I don’t know the details, sheep, cow, one or multiple). Being that the area is heavy with non-wild grazers, Wildlife Services decided it was time to step in and take out the pack, probably with some pressure from the people who own those grazers. This is all fair and square, they are allowed to go in and kill offending wolves for up to 60 days after a depredation (they made the rules). Ok, now I’m feeling badly because I really don’t know the exact details, and I should have looked them up before trying to write this, but I’m hoping no one is reading this for the hard facts… I think Wildlife Services went in and shot some of the adult wolves in the pack at that time, but not all of them. Time passed and for whatever reason they didn’t get back to it until this spring. Yes, by now we are way beyond the 60-day rule. But they have made a promise to the grazers that they would get rid of the problem (the wolves), so they come out again sometime in April and shot the rest of the pack, except for the radio-collared alpha female. They figured that if any other wolves were in the area, they will join up with her, and then they can shoot more wolves by finding her. Trouble is, we’re now way beyond wolf breeding season, and yes, she is pregnant, and soon enough she goes to den and delivers seven pups.
Now Wildlife Services is in a real pickle, because not only have they made a promise they didn’t keep, and not only did they already have several chances to finish off the pack, which they didn’t take, and not only are they way way way beyond their own 60-day limit, and not only is it quite possible that this particular wolf never did any depredating herself, but now Isaac and I are up there on Blue Bunch Ridge watching and filming this female wolf who is working her tail off to feed seven hungry and boisterous little fluff ball pups, all on her own with no pack to help her hunt and feed. It seems an almost impossible feat. For us, it’s an ideal filming opportunity. It’s a good story: single female, seven pups, against all odds, being hunted by humans as well. And, she is away a lot, searching for food, so we have plenty of opportunities to film the playful pups without being found out by an adult.
Long story shorter: She is succeeding. She is somehow able to feed herself and her seven pups, which are doing extremely well and growing up healthy. But Wildlife Services is still after her, and now the pups too. One day we hear a low flying airplane, and see (and film) the plane circling and circling around the den area where the pups and female are currently. Luckily they all stay under trees, and therefore not visible to the plane, and therefore are not shot. But now we too, are in a pickle, because soon we get wind that Wildlife Services (soon after that day with the plane) where told by the big guys in D.C., not to go anywhere near the wolves while there are cameras (us) out there. Bad PR for them.
We hadn’t intended to be watch-dogs. We hadn’t intended to ‘save’ these wolves. And we’re not trying to kid ourselves that it will do any good anyhow, except maybe for these particular wolves, for a little while. In all reality, and as cruel as it sounds, it would be better if they did get shot (and we were able to film it, or enough to get the point across anyhow), so that the public could become aware of what was going on. Shooting a single female and seven very cute, very young pups would certainly look bad to the public, especially to those people in Kansas or New York who don’t have any ties to the land like the grazers do. This particular land belong to those people in New York City just as much as it does to the people who graze animals on it. My personal opinion is that if you choose to graze animals on public land (which by the way, is fairly destructive to the land) than you should have to face the facts that you are sharing that land with natural predators, like wolves, like bears, like mountain lions, and that depredations will happen on occasion, and that that is part of the risk of grazing on public land.
So for now the story sits. We film the wolves whenever we see them, which isn’t much these days because we are being really careful to not bother them, as we feel the female has enough work cut out for her simply with feeding the pups, and we don’t want her to find us, and then have to move the pups again and again. And Wildlife Services isn’t hunting for them, as long as we are filming. So for the moment they are ‘safe’. But that doesn’t do whole lot of good for the rest of wolves, for trying to keep people honest, and for the importance of rules. Because what good are rules if no one follows them?
Anyway, that was a rather poor telling of a situation much more complicated than I made it seem. Like I said, I don’t know all the details/facts, and I don’t intend to get political here. My apologies to those who know more, for all that I botched. This is just my skewed perception from my little corner.

The arc

[Those are my feet, getting ready for a little more hiking…]

This is an old entry, but I'm trying to get back up-to-date so I have to upload these in order... these are the final entries!

We’re preparing to go out for one final push to wind up this year-long (has it really been a year already?) project. I’m going to keep it a secret when we are planning to leave, because it seems when ever we pick a day to leave, it always happens a day (or a few) later… but soon!
The hardest task at the moment is to dry out all the gear that Isaac has been using recently (he’s been going out and filming at nearby areas), because McCall seems to have become the location of the next arc. Noah must be just nailing the last few boards on his big boat, somewhere high in the mountains not too far away, and pretty soon we are going to be shocked by the influx of pairs of exotic animals migrating from far and wide, as well as the rising flood waters… Maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but hardly. It has been raining for, I don’t know, a month? I don’t remember when it started, but it’s been pretty solid for weeks now. We’ve seen a few (as in minutes, or hours) glimpses of sun in all that time, but no more. Now it just rains all day, and occasionally we get a break and have a cloudy day with little wetness, but no sun. It’s just the weather, I know, and we can’t change that (thank goodness), but ok, ok, ok! Ready for some true springtime sun and warmth!
So anyway, drying out the gear has been pretty difficult. It consists of waiting for a moment when the downpours subside, staring at the sky for a while to try to decipher its language, then bolting out to the truck, ripping out all the damp and condensing gear, hanging it all over the cloths line, and then hopping around the deck doing all the sun dances we can think of to ward off the dark grey clouds which by then are looming heavy and close over the trees. Soon after, the drops start falling, and we pull it all down again and pile it back into the truck to wait for the next little break. Fun.
Maybe dry gear is over-rated, as its all going to get wet again the moment we get out there and set it up again. But beginning a trip with damp gear is always a little disheartening…

Update

[This is where Isaac has been basing out of for the past week or so... pretty nice stars, huh?]

I said I would keep updating the blog, even though I’m in town for now, so I guess I’d better do an update! I’m not really sure what to write, I’ve been spending my time going in for holistic allergy treatments almost daily, drawing architectural plans (ahem, that might be a stretch, the architectural part anyhow) for our new piece of land south of town where we have giant sized dreams to grow an abundance of food to feed ourselves and the rest of town (yes, a large greenhouse is involved), going for walks (and sometimes gentle runs!), and basically enjoying the heck out of the spring weather that has just begun to saturate the valley. Just begun, mind you. We still have large areas of snow at the yurt, in the shade and in drifted areas. But in town it is mostly green, and biking around yesterday I saw glimpses of tender purpley-blue poking up through peoples yards which, on closer inspection, turned out to be grape hyacinth and chinodoxa flowers (sp?).
I got an update from Isaac (yes, he has a borrowed satellite phone with him, which neither one of us believes in having while out experiencing the wilderness, but in this circumstance, when we didn’t know if I would go in or he would come out, or when for that matter… its complicated… and yes, those are all just excuses, can ya tell I’m embarrassed??). ANYway, so I got an update from him just this morning, and here is how he’s been spending his time: hiking all over the place in search of spring that has not fully sprung, even there at lower elevation, not finding much wolf activity until just yesterday when he ran into a single wolf up high on Horse Mountain, and then the whole pack hunting elk when he woke up this morning (!), seeing one rattlesnake which seemed very slow and still fairly cold and unactive, and deciding his pack was too heavy (110 lbs.) to hike the 17 miles to where he thinks the Monumental densite might be… smart decision!
He’ll probably head out here to the front country tomorrow (there’s a flight going in to Taylor Ranch, which he’ll jump on to get back out), and from there we’ll make a decision of where to go next. So much for two-legged wilderness travel. I am very disappointed that I am not able to do that right now (with weight anyhow), but in order to make it possible in the future, I need to take care of myself now.

April...showers?

I’d gotten used to seeing the signs of spring, even the tiniest ones. I liked the barely-there shoots of green grass poking up beside the clumps of winter worn vegetation, sprouting like new teeth before the old ones have come out yet. I was used to the miniscule buttercups blooming gold in any warmer pockets: a shallow dip in a meadow, or near the base of a dark colored rock. I was ready for the days when you could walk around without a jacket, or hat, or gloves, and not regret your choice.
We’re in McCall now, and it’s a reality check. There is still a good three feet of snow on the ground. Icicles have sprouted like glass roots under our porch. The other night the temperature dropped to five degrees. And more often than not, the precipitation that falls from the gathering clouds is white rather than clear.
But, it’s not all bad. Actually, none of it is bad, I had just forgotten quite what spring meant in McCall, and not realized it was so wildly different from where we just spent the winter. The snow is really trying to melt, and maybe we’ll be out from under it in another month or so. We’re getting to see friends, and wander around the produce section of the grocery store drooling, and catch up on life in the yurt. I am feeling better by the day, quite literally, and truly hope to get back out there before spring is over in the mountains.
It’s a funny feeling to sit back in a yurt, on the outskirts of a rather tiny town, and miss the solitude of the wilderness. I wouldn’t want to live there forever, and I do enjoy the feeling of community that a small town offers, but I must say, the wilderness has been a good host. I want to go back, and I’m pretty sure that’s a sign of a good visit.

Wandering Star

Isaac spent April Fools Day clopping down the trail, riding Star, followed by three long-eared girls carrying our gear (Bird, Bat, and Penny), all the while singing “Wandering Star”. Needless to say I was jealous, but he was the packer of the day, as right now its not that comfortable to ride long distances, and I can’t keep up with them for too long on foot (though I tried!).
They made the round trip to Cabin Creek and back, through a stormy day of minor snow squalls that wafted down the canyon. From what I heard, all went smoothly, just a few break-away’s broken, and one new candidate for slowed-down, backcountry living.
Thanks to the mules, we are basically moved, except for a few last things we can carry on our own backs. We plan to fly out on the next available plane with some room to carry us, thought the weather has been a bit unpredictable lately. It will be sad to go, but it has been a good winter, and hopefully we will be back soon enough.

And just because I’m in a contemplative mood, here’s a few thoughts for the day:

“This is our place. Let us tend it.”
-Woody Tasch

"There's no use trying," Alice said. "One can't believe impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
-Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

“Forgiveness is understanding that a person did the very best they could in that moment; otherwise they would have done it differently. It is making that true for yourself as well.”
-Deena Spear

A fork in the Trail

We are nearing the end of March, spring is slowly being painted onto the hills, and we’re thinking about where to go next. Very soon, our digs here at Taylor Ranch will be needed for the University. That means becoming somewhat vagrant again, and the thought is bittersweet. We look forward to getting back to a more “in touch” existence, quite literally, without the conveniences of the cabin, internet, and running water (“running” being a loose term, mostly meaning running in the creek fifty feet away, but just recently, actually running through the thawed pipes and out of our faucets in the cabin-whoa!). We also look forward to being “out” all the time, and not struggling with the temptation to stay in the cozy cabin next to the woodstove on a snotty day. But on the other hand, basing out of Taylor Ranch has allowed us to be out here throughout the winter. For a couple reasons, mainly our electrical power needs, and my current health difficulties, we wouldn’t have been able to be out here all winter otherwise.
We are thinking that we will move our gear up river to Cabin Creek, a wide open bowl-type area with a look almost more like Yellowstone. It would be a great place to watch spring green-up, maybe see some wolf activity, and just have new scenery as spring sets in for real. However, the flip side of the coin is that I need to get out to the front country for a while and do some more work to try and sort out my Rheumatoid Arthritis. I have long been off conventional medication for it (it didn’t feel right, and wasn’t helping enough anyhow), and while it has been a long and very bumpy road, I know I am going in the right direction. I truly think I am turning a corner and making (very slow, but) steady progress. There are a lot of amazing things you can learn about your body just by truly paying attention.
So it looks like we may move our base up to Cabin Creek, then take a little time off so I can work some kinks out. After that who knows. I really hope we will be able to get back to the wilderness before the spring is up. Maybe Isaac will come out on his own for a couple weeks. At this point we don’t know and it is just going to have to be taken day by day. I will keep the blog updated from the front country, in hopes that we can come back and finish out our last couple months strong. This is frustrating timing for me, but sometimes you just have to give up how you thought things were going to be, and accept how they are.
Thanks for being patient with this blog. It has definitely had its ups and downs…

The Ahhhhh factor

[I realize this photo hardly says "spring", but due to some unfortunate circumstances involving our still camera, Isaac, a soldering iron, 8 feet of 2-conductor lamp cord, and a 7.2 volt nickel metal hydride batterie, our still camera is currently at the Canon factory service center in LA. So I have limited older photos to choose from... at least it gives the idea of a flower...]

It’s here, big time. Spring, that is. And with spring comes this thing I call ‘the ahhhhhh factor’. It’s still getting down into the 20’s at night, sometimes lower; it can still be cold in the shade; and for sure you can feel cold fingers sliding down your neck if the wind is up and your collar is off guard. But step into a patch of sun, find a cozy spot in the nook of a rock or up against the grassy swell of a hill, and you can’t help but close your eyes, smile and say “ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh….”

Green-up is just starting to happen all over the hills. It’s not even yet visible as a whole really, from far away, but if you are walking through the dry grass from winter and look down, you can see green shoots underneath. The grazers know it too. Elk and deer have returned to the lower hills, and of course the bighorns that never left.

Fabulously Great Old Broads

I did mention earlier that we were at Thomas Creek, among other reasons, to meet “The Great Old Broads for Wilderness” who were staying there at the Lodge and gallivanting about the wilderness during the days. They were out to protest the helicopter dart-collaring of wolves during the annual sheep counts, which was supposed to be happening around that time, demonstrating that there were in fact people out in the wilderness at that time of year, whose experience could be affected by a helicopter buzzing about and chasing critters.
What we found, were three fabulous women (one of whom was one of the founding “broads”, and about to celebrate her 80th birthday) scrambling around the mountains, enjoying the heck out of the experience, hot springs included, and passionate (and feisty) about what they were doing and what they stand for. It was refreshing to talk to people who really wanted to share their story, who welcomed the opportunity to talk to us, after a year of people wary of the lens, and sometimes less than willing to share their perspective (I’m only talking of some, we’ve also run into plenty of people glad to share). But this was especially nice simply because they were such a fun and spunky group anyways. “No one expects older women to be trouble makers!” they say, smiling innocently and slyly at the same time.
I am greatly honored to have met them, and aspire to Great Old Broad-hood some day.

The "other" Hot Springs

[In case you were wondering, this is the hot pool I'm talking about in this entry, but obviously that's not me... didn't have the right picture, but Isaac managed to take one of himself the day before...so enjoy!]

Middle Fork Lodge aside, there are a couple of truly natural hot springs around Thomas Creek where we spent the last week. Not that the Lodge’s hot springs aren’t natural, because they sure are. They just have been fed into man-made pools (and into the buildings for heat, etc. Interesting fact: there aren’t any woodstoves at the lodge, and only one fireplace, mainly for aesthetics. They entire place is run off the heat of the natural hot springs…at least as far as I know, don’t quote me).
One of those other hot springs was just a mile or so down stream from where Isaac and I were camped, and Isaac partook in them one morning returning from a filming trek, so I decided it was my turn to check them out the next day. It was a warm (all relative, probably right around 35), sunny day. I took the sound equipment and trekked downstream, stopping occasionally to take some ambient sound in different locations. The hot springs are located in a wide open flat, just off the river. It is also a mineral lick heavily used by the hoofed creatures of the area. As I walked out into the flat, the smell of elk was strong in the air. At this time of year, it is brown and barren, dressed only in the stalky and trampled remains of the wild sunflowers that give the hot springs their name. A few graceful willows spread their brilliant orange branches into the blazing blue of the sky, but other than that surprising display of color, the area is not all that attractive. I walked for a ways across the flats, squelching across a few wet seeps, flowing brown and muddy from churning hooves up above. I tested every one of them by sticking my fingers into the trickle, and they were cold, so I continued. I was beginning to wonder where the springs were, when I came across the last tiny trickle. To the casual eye, this little stream looked like any little stream you would come across in a flat like this. But unlike the others, it ran clear, meandering across the flat, following gravity to the big river 500 yards away. Oddly though, this little stream was subtly, and delicately edged in brilliant green plants the color of emerald. Not a color you’d expect to come across this time of year. Odd also, that if you stared harder at the tiny stream, you noticed little wisps of steam rising from its surface, almost like it was breathing. So subtle that you’d think you were imagining it, and yet as I walked close, my smile widened. I had found the source. I got to the bank and took off my heavy winter boots and wool socks. Testing with a toe first, I waded out into the water, which barely licked at my ankles. The soft sand cradled my feet and the feeling was sensational. Hot water, soft sand, gentle steam, sun. What more could you want?
The only thing more I could think of to want, was my whole body in this stream, so I followed it a few dozen yards down to where a little pool had been built up with logs and rocks. It looked silty and shallow, but it was good enough for me. I stripped off the rest of my cloths and stepped in, sinking a few inches into fine black silt. Settling my body into the water, the silt came to rest all over my belly and legs, and I just grinned down at it without a care in the world. I can’t even begin to explain the feeling. It’s February. We’re in the middle of the largest wilderness in the lower forty-eight, and I’m laying naked in a pool of water that must be around 105 degrees, grinning up at a pure blue sky, rimmed with gorgeous snowy peaks, watching elk and bighorn sheep graze across a slope to the west, feeling the sun on my face…pure bliss.
After about an hour, I discovered the next best feeling to actually laying in the pool. That is, standing on the sun warmed rocks just outside the pool to dry off. Body now a brilliant pink from the heat, core warmed to the point that standing for twenty minutes completely naked in the sunshine of that February day in the mountains feels exceptional…

Pinching Myself (alternate title: I never Claimed to be Hard Core)

I don’t know that I have ever experienced such polar opposites within a shorter timeframe. Within a couple hours, we went from one extreme to another, and found ourselves somewhere I don’t think we ever expected to be during our year-long wilderness experience.
Situation 1: We wake in our teepee tent, to a hard-edged cold that could crack glass. We haven’t experienced these temperatures since way back in December when the cold snap hit and I wanted to move to Hawaii. And this was our first time camping in our hand-made tent. “Sure picked steller weather!” is all I could think at the time, not amused by the thickness of the frost on the inside of the tent in the morning, or the fact that our -20 degree sleeping bags had only barely been sufficient. Lets just say that we certainly were not “overly warm” that night. That, coupled with the fact that I woke in the middle of the night with a yoke of pain heavy around my collarbones and shoulders that had me fairly immobilized, and panicked. But Isaac dutifully crawled from his sleeping bag to help me prop my body up and get more comfortable. The rest of the night was spent staring at the crystallized tent roof in the cold glow of a waxing moon, concentrating hard on yoga breathing to ward off the just-under-the-surface panic that was never far away.
Situation 2: Isaac and I sit naked and immersed up to our necks in the 105 degree, mineral-laden water of a hot pool built of elegant grey stone, loopy grins laced from cheek to cheek (I think I was actually audibly giggling), while gazing out at the rushing expanse of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River dotted with glittering ice that had formed overnight, bellies happily filled with a gifted lunch from the owners of the Middle Fork Lodge.
[Does this bring up all sorts of raging contradictions in your minds, of wilderness values and uses? Well, it did for us, and yet at the same time we were (and are) extremely grateful for the incredible experience, happy to have met a slew of very kind people, and at least speaking for myself, so confused about what exactly this thing called wilderness is anymore, in my own mind, that I’m not even sure I can find any good reasons why a place like that shouldn’t be in the wilderness anyway. I mean, they are doing an awful lot of things to bolster appreciation of wilderness for some people who perhaps otherwise would not come to wilderness at all, that it is perhaps hard to prove they are having anything but a positive impact?]
How we got there: The polar opposite experiences of situation 1 and 2 hardly need any explanation of how we got from one to the other. It’s almost more interesting that way. But in brief, this is how it happened. Isaac was up on a ridge filming on our first morning there, and who should come hiking by but the owners of Middle Fork Lodge, with three “Great Old Broads” in tow. They immediately invited Isaac and I to lunch and a soak, that very day, which we gladly accepted. So all we had to do then, was hike the short mile up the dirt lane from the airstrip, across the bridge to the Lodge, and slip off our cloths and trip into the hot pools. Not too bad, really.

Flying solo

Wow, what a trip! I’m not sure what else I can say about six days spent in a new place, with hundreds of elk, wolves making regular appearances, three fabulously great Old Broads, a group of wonderfully gung-ho “protesters” (or should I simply say wilderness enjoyers) and hot springs in abundance… Ok, that’s a lie, I’m pretty sure I can find a lot to say about all of those things, so much that I may have to break it up into a few blogs.
Here’s a start: it went so well that Isaac is still there.
I returned on the 25th to finish out our caretaking stint back at Taylor Ranch, and for various reasons, Isaac stayed (reason #1: Ray, the pilot, was worried about too much weight for take-off as the airstrip there at Thomas Creek was extremely muddy after a last few days of warm daytime temps, reason #2: several wolves were lounging about on a high ridge just above our camp, after having gorged on a kill they made the night before at the edge of the river just downstream, so he wasn’t all that excited to leave such a good filming opportunity). So I’m here alone (well, alone with 4 mules, 2 horses, and a dog) and Isaac will return whenever Ray finds a moment to fly by and shuttle him back, probably tomorrow.
We arrived Saturday mid-day, flying in to a landscape that resembled Yellowstone in its grandeur, wide open rolling hillsides, literally littered with elk, deer and bighorn. After Ray (the pilot) dropped us at the end of the airstrip, we spent the next few hours wandering around in amazement, watching eagles hunting in cliffs just above our heads, basking in the brilliant sunshine, and exploring the flats where some of the hot springs are located. Finally, we decided on a campsite underneath a huge ponderosa pine, at the edge of a high bluff overlooking the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. Although the temptation was strong to immediately run around with the camera, we first set up our teepee tent, and erected the titanium stove in it. This would be a trial run for both home-made items. And as it turned out they got a full-on test, as the first few nights bottomed out at sub-zero temperatures…
As soon as the sun sank below the far ridge, the chill crept over the landscape, and very soon we were extremely glad to have the tiny backpacking stove which we had considered not even bringing with us, as we were not expecting cold temperatures… Finding wood to feed the thing was a different matter, and that first night we fed it a sparse diet of pinecones and small sage branches, all that we could scrounge up in the falling light. Though it took continual feeding, it kept us happy until bedtime when we could crawl into our huge winter bags and stop fighting the heavy frost that had been creeping up the insides of the tent all evening, and had not been deterred by the warmth of the stove.
We woke the next morning with frost heavy around the tightly cinched peep-holes in our sleeping bags, and the insides of the teepee tent turned to blue crystal. Isaac braved the single digits to begin prowling with the camera, while I stayed put in my bag a while longer, as mornings bring a slew of discomforts (because of my Rheumatoid Arthritis) that are magnified by cold, sleeping on the hard ground, and just morning-time in general. But even though the night had been frigid, the day brought sunshine again which chased the teeth off the cold.

travel and mystery

We’re headed for the middle fork today, to explore a new area, film, (soak in the hot springs), and to visit with The Great Old Broads for Wilderness. Yes, you read that correctly. Darn good name, huh? We couldn’t pass up the chance to go meet them when we heard they were going to be out for a few days as a part of the protest going on against the helicopter capture/collaring of wolves in the wilderness. Yes, you read that right too, there is a protest about to happen in the wilderness. Not something I would have expected to run across out here.
It’s long and complicated, and I don’t want to get into politics on this blog, but in short, Fish and Game want to be able to dart and collar wolves if and when they see them, while they are out in the wilderness flying around for their annual elk counts that they do every year around this time. That’s all I’m going to say. Period.
So we will be away for 4-5 days and when we get back I’m sure there will be stories. I know there has been a lull in blogs lately. Its been a lull in winter. Things are melting rapidly. It seems spring is approaching at a breakneck speed, weeks earlier than it usually arrives. I half expecting to begin to see green-up on the hills, and hear songbirds returning to the brush along the river.
Yesterday, I heard a sound I couldn’t put an animal to. I was standing on the edge of a grassy flat, enjoying the day and watching Isaac disappear over the next ridge with the remote camera. The first time I heard it I wasn’t even sure if my ears were hearing correctly. It was eerie. Like a low, far-off, yowl of pain? Anger? I had no idea. I didn’t hear anything more for twenty minutes or so, and nearly gave up, thinking it must have been my imagination. But As I was walking around I heard it again. This time louder, and fiercer. I cupped my hands behind my ears to focus the sound better, and it echoed around the canyon, sounding like a monster on the prowl. After going through the possibilities of a bear come out of hibernation early, and a mountain lion in distress, I settled on the idea of Bigfoot. I began to scour the steep face of the mountainside across the river from where I stood, and found nothing, and only heard the sound once more, before giving up and heading back to the cabin, with the hairs on the back of my neck tingling.
When Isaac returned from setting up the remote camera, he rushed in the door and said, “Something’s happening out there!” as he b-lined for the big camera and batteries.
“Something that growls low and loud?” I asked, jumping to my feet.
He stopped and looked at me, “You heard it too?”
I half expected to look out the window and see Sasquatch barreling down the canyon, ripping trees out by their roots and bellowing as he went.
“I saw two bobcats on the river ice, I think they’re mating”.
So we grabbed cameras and lenses and batteries and sound gear, and raced back to the point above the river where Isaac had seen the cats, and watched…and watched…and watched. We waited patiently for a few hours and never saw them again. But I will never forget that sound, and I still can’t quite believe that all that sound could come out of a Bobcat.

The unexpected

For the past few days we have watched a bighorn ram at the end of his life.  Isaac first noticed him a couple miles upstream when he was returning from a camera walk.  He noted the strangeness of finding a sheep down in the brushy riparian area of the river bottom, and as he watched, noticed that the ram did not seem well.  He was thin and somewhat weak looking, and had a bit of a runny nose and a cough that racked his sides.  The ram was searching out mineral licks, and Isaac filmed from only a couple dozen feet away as he licked the dirt, craving something his body badly needed.

Two days age we again spotted him, this time just across the river from Taylor Ranch.  He was walking slowly down river, and ended up bedding right on the trail just fifty yards downstream from the Taylor Ranch bridge.  We kept an eye on him all day, skirting wide around him when we went hiking down the trail. Sometime in the evening, the ram moved off the trail, picking his way even closer to the river on the steep and high riverbank that carves its way around the corner.  He was within twenty yards of the bridge, just standing, when we noticed the length of his hooves.  All four feet where extremely overgrown, and there was some thickening to his right front leg, and he looked more emaciated even than he had only days before.  But although he bedded frequently, and coughed with a vengence, he surprised us by mustering the strength to climb the steep bank again just before dark.  He bedded at the top, and we weren’t sure we would find him in the morning.

Morning light had us walking up and down stream, searching the riverbanks and the hills beyond, listening for birds and watching tracks.  Coyotes had been around, their prints leading both directions on the trail, and milling around the spot where he had been bedded the night before.  Just about the time we were thinking we wouldn’t find him, and that he had most likely moved off downriver and probably had days or even weeks still ahead of him, we found him.   He was only feet from the end of the bridge, and we had walked right by his camouflaged body.  The pair of coyotes had gotten him at some point during the night, and he had fallen back down the bank he had climbed only the night before, to wedge behind the bare fingers of a large willow bush.  We were surprised at how little was left, and figured the coyotes must be curled up somewhere, with distended bellies and well fed dreams.  All the better for the ram, who had been uncomfortably hard to watch even the day before.  In a way it was surprising he had lasted so long, in a place filled with hungry predators that seemed always looking for a weakened animal, an easier catch.  How had this animal made it so long in his state?  Clearly, this had been going on for a long time, judging by the length of his hooves and the shape of his body.  It’s a funny world, and just when you think something must be one way, it goes the other.  I guess there are no musts or definites or for sures… no iron rule that permits things to happen in only one way. 

 

Our wilderness...(?)

Why are humans so darn possessive?  Isaac and I have both noticed this feeling gradually creeping into our wilderness perspective.  About a week ago we heard a small plane come buzzing up the canyon, low and slow as if either looking for something or preparing to land. We immediately speculated that it was headed for Cabin creek, and potentially contained cat hunters. 

The feeling crept into both of our minds, gripping our consciences with persistent fingers.  What were they doing here?  Why were these people flying into our canyon?  Our canyon.  It’s fairly laughable.

Talking about it with Jim and Holly later, they wore knowing smiles and we all mused at how quickly it can happen.  It doesn’t take long for the mind to begin thinking along the lines of this is our place, why are you coming in now?  We don't want to share our canyon during these special quiet months of winter.  Not with anyone else, at least anyone else of the bi-pedal variety.  Jim and Holly knew exactly what we were talking about, and we tried to imagine to what degree they felt that same thing, having spent nearly 25 years in this place, watching people come and go.  Spending mostly quiet winters watching the flux of hunters ebb and flow.  

To film or not to film...

      I’ve been having this dilemma for some time now, maybe even since the beginning of this project.  But recently, some events seem to have brought it into sharp focus, and it’s on my mind so I thought I’d write it out a little bit.

Most recently it happened with the mountain lion that I saw (and we were not able to film) and even more recently with the wolf kill that we watched (and were able to film).  Both of these things were events that we only dreamed of actually getting to watch while out here in the wilderness.  Yes, they go on all the time.  Mountain lions abound, and wolves eat regularly.  And while we see tracks of big cats, and the remains of wolf meals (they are very thorough, so all that remains is usually a pelt and a stain, and maybe a hoof or two), we had yet to see the actual animal, or event respectively. 

I saw the mountain lion almost three weeks ago now.  And although I feel somewhat selfish saying this, I’m glad I had no camera with me.  It was one of those moments that whizzes by in a flash of heart pounding, jaw-on-the-ground, disbelief, and when its over you feel like an ecstatic Gumby, able to do multiple flips and contortions, and in my case, fly back down the mountain without your feet ever touching the ground, because you are so excited.  And where was I running?  None other than straight back to get Isaac and the camera, to film.  Because that’s what we’re out here to do.  We’re trying to film everything we see, hear, and experience.  We’re trying to end up with something to show that perhaps people may not otherwise get to experience themselves, in person.  We feel like this area, this wilderness, is something special enough that it deserves some extra attention and awareness.  We’re…. we’re… yes, I am struggling for words to complete that sentence, the sentence that explains what we are actually doing.  But we feel there is something worth sharing, and although we may not quite be able to put our finger on it in a sentence or two, perhaps in a film, in a year of experiences, we can relay a feeling, even the slightest wisp of a flavor of the place, and that would be enough.

But in that moment when I rounded the corner with the dog trotting in happy zig-zags by my side, and saw that tawny body leap off the bighorn ewe carcass, in that moment when adrenaline swept through me and I grabbed Kea around the chest and we both sank to our knees and watched as the mountain lion picked its graceful way up the scree slope, in that moment a camera was the last thing on my mind.  And even if I had one with me, I just don’t know how you would begin to capture that feeling of complete awe, respect, and magic that has allowed you even the tiniest glimpse of a rare sight.  And (again, selfishly) I feel like it should be a rare sight, and not one that gets shown on a screen.

Ok, so do I sound confused?  Well than good, I am confused.  I’m just trying to explain how I am feeling about the whole thing.  And while I can see both sides, and can argue and convince myself of either side at different times, it is a constant struggle to figure out what I really believe as to what to film and what not to film.  In all honesty, what it really comes down to is that we film whatever we have the chance to, and that if I had had a camera with me that day, you can be sure I would have been scrambling to film the mountain lion.  That’s the reality.  This mental battle is an indulgence allowed only after the fact.

Just over a week ago we watched a wolf kill, something else that we never really believed we’d actually see while out here.  Actually, Isaac and the camera saw it, while I again sat clutching the dog who had only moments before tried to get herself eaten by chasing a wolf we bumped into on the trail while walking home.  But Isaac was in just the right spot at the right time, and watched eight wolves pull a deer out of the icy river (which presumably they had chased into the river in the first place) and devour the entire thing in thirty-five minutes.  I am honestly glad he had the camera with him, and was in the right spot to catch the whole thing as it happened.  So what’s the difference?  I have no idea, and I guess I don’t hope to figure it out.  But that is all part of what keeps us on our toes, what keeps us thinking about what we are doing out here, and what keeps it all interesting and exciting.

visitors!

This is my first blog at the new site.  I hope it works better for everyone, it certainly is easier on my end.  It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t upload anything, and the blog was gone, vanished into cyberspace, to some obscure galaxy where no one could retrieve it.  It was time to make a change. 

 

            For the last week or so we have had the most wonderful company out here in the wilderness!  Isaac’s mom, my mom, and my youngest sister were all out here visiting.  I know I had a blast, and hope everyone else did as well.  The week included some interesting (and quite adventurous) flying to get out here.  I commend all participants for being of strong spirit…  The weather was a little prickly for both flying days, the coming and the going.  Everyone showed up with a smile, and looks of sheer exhiliration, although perhaps slightly wobbly legs. 

            The time was spend hiking in all directions. Seeking views when the days brought clear weather, and staying in the river canyon when it didn’t.  We persuaded the horses and mules to take us riding up and down river.  We listened to the wolves serenade us from just across the river one night, and found their fresh-caught dinner the next day while hiking (a mule deer).  We sauntered past a large herd of Bighorn sheep up high on the benches, and quickened our saunter when one large ram began to follow us with a particularly determined look in his eye.  We clambered high onto the ridge to catch an incredible view (and I scared the bejeezus out of myself, remembering just how steep it gets up there, and wondered how we were ever going to get back down, but I’m pretty sure my guests did better than I did).  We spent relaxed and lazy mornings in the warm cabin, knitting and visiting and talking about wilderness.

Basically, Isaac and I got to remember what an amazing place this is, just by watching people see it with new eyes.  It really was refreshing and a wonderful visit.  Thank you all!  

Big cat

Well, we can call the whole project off now: I saw the one thing I really really wanted to see while out here in the wilderness!  Just kidding…about calling it off anyhow.

I really badly wanted to see a mountain lion.  They just seem so wild, and wily, and mysterious, and regal, and independent, and beautiful, and strong, and…and so darn reclusive.  We have seen many cat tracks out here, and followed them along trails in the dust, and in the snow.  We have heard stories, and seen places that look so, well, cat-like that you just have to imagine a big cat must be watching from somewhere just over the ledge where you can’t see it, but it can certainly see you.  But we had not yet seen hide or hair of the real thing.

It was just a few  days ago, that I set out with Kea (the golden retriever we are companioning while caretaking at Taylor Ranch) for a good old energy-burning hike up the steep benches to our north.  We had lofty goals of reaching the high ridge beyond in quick time, and gazing out over the wide view you have from way up there, while burning a few extra amps of energy on the steep miles to get there.  We set out full of conviction and scampered along the trail (or more realistically: scampered, huffed-and-puffed, wheezed, scampered some more, played rounds of tag and keep-away, panted…) until we got just beyond the first bench.  We were rounding the corner to the steep gully into the second bench when motion caught both our eyes.  A bald eagle flapped close and large out of the gully, and we were both distracted by the graceful flight of the huge bird as it flew by on our level, about 20 yards away, before noticing a second flash of movement.  This time it was the tawny and sinuous body of a mountain lion as it leap off of something in the grass about 100 yards away and bounded towards a scree slope.  Not quite grasping what I was seeing, I grabbed Kea with a firm arm around her chest and we both sank to our haunches to watch.  I breathed “cougar!” and could hardly believe my eyes as the cat reappeared from behind a clump of trees, picking its graceful way up the scree with the dignity and agility only a cat could possess.  

We watched until it was out of sight, and then wheeled around and churned back down the trail, leaping over rocks and running pellmell all the way back to the cabin where we grabbed Isaac and he grabbed the camera, and we all (more quietly now, and without Kea) retraced our steps back up the mountain where we staked out our blind and watched and waited to see if the cat would return.  It turns out it had a freshly caught bighorn ewe it had been eating, and though it never did return for the rest of the feast, we were able to film several coyotes, some eagles, and many entertaining ravens and magpies.  We spent the rest of that afternoon into evening, and the next morning watching, and waiting.