Went on a Dairy Run with Darin today. Needless to say, there are no accompanying pictures.

Written earlier:

Bitter Creek was completely socked in when I woke up. It reminded me of that Looney Toons cartoon with Daffy Duck where a giant animator’s hand enters the frame and erases the background, and eventually Daffy himself. 

I'm currently sitting in the flight pen blind once more. It's 10 am and the birds are finally waking up, the layabouts. I can't really blame them though. It is cold and pea soupy. I didn't want to get up either. All at once, they began to flap their wings, presumably to generate heat since there's no sun to be had.

My eyeballs are fogging up the lenses of my binoculars.

Aw, poor 487. Despite the fact that she is no more or less exposed to the elements than her captive bretheren and sisteren, she looks so sad sitting out on this limb of a snag tree outside the flight pen, stoically getting rained on.

  

I at last left the flight pen when I couldn’t see the birds 10 feet in front of me. Taking signals in the evening, the clouds—which had lifted around 3—began to descend on me with alarming rapidity. Just when I practically couldn’t see my own hand (curse you, giant animator!), a coyote called off in the distance, and then again, closer. I wasn’t particularly concerned but it was, admittedly, a little eerie. I figured I could fight it off with my Yagi if it came to that.

9 am

So this is a little ridiculous. I’m currently laying on my side in the grass, trying futilely to hide behind what is nothing more than a patch of weeds. You see, there isn’t a blind for Pit Trap, so I have to make do. I’m pretty sure the birds can see me.

It’s already the weekend. Hard to believe I haven’t seen another human being for over 3 days. That’s definitely a new record for me. At least I have freakin’ adorable bunnies to keep me company.

I wonder why 526 isn’t eating at the calf I put down last night. Is it still too frozen? Even though I put it out to thaw three days ago, it’s been pretty cold here. The thermometer on the dashboard of the truck said 38˚ F. Ugh.

There’s a rock digging into my left thigh.

Later:

The morning spent in the grass at Pit Trap was mostly condor-free and thoroughly uninteresting as a result. Of course, just after I had left, all the birds showed up.

Already the beginning of this week seems so distant. Time passes differently out here—slowly, slowly, then all of a sudden it’s dark outside and you have to lug a bag full of bunnies out to the flight pen.

6 rabbits was the special du jour, but when I got to the flight pen and broke up the solid frozen mass, it turned out that two of the rabbits I’d counted turned out to be one giant, dual-toned rabbit. Don't you just hate it when that happens?

I was in the flight pen blind early, still reassuring myself of the birds’ presence there. They are so great. Sometimes it hits me all at once: I’m watching condors. Condors! The young ones in particular are so playful, always in some kind of a tussle, playing tug-of-war with entrails or the like. I can’t help but doubt the efficacy of this one-way glass—sometimes I feel like the condors are staring straight at me, musing at my confinement in this tiny box.

Later: I stepped outside the house this afternoon and there was this tiny round baby bunny sitting by the door. I don’t know that I’ve ever had such an embarrassing reaction to something based purely on its cuteness. It’s a good thing no one was around to see me, because I couldn’t even properly form sentences (at least not coherent ones).

Shortly after sunset, I drove out to Pit Trap Feeding Site down the dark dirt road with a dead cow and an axe in the back of the truck, while the radio DJs were trying to get me pumped up for a “Wild Friday Night!” They have no idea how wild.

This evening excursion went as smoothly as the last one hadn’t. I cut the space between the Achilles tendon and the bone with ease, and strung the chain—staked into the ground—through the incision, wrapping it around the leg to secure the carcass in place and prevent its being dragged off by any number of carnivores, the condors included. Funny how quickly you can become accustomed to something as unnatural (for me) and brutal as jabbing a knife into something that was once alive. I suppose it’s no different than preparing beef for the dinner table.

Call me Angela, Condor Chef. 

I got back in time for what was promised to be an intense and game-changing episode of “Fringe” but then Geoff called right in the middle and made me miss all the good bits. Alas, data sheets come first.

Oh alright, just one more:

Cute Bunny, or Cutest Bunny?

This funny little starling put on quite a delightful show for me--unbeknownst to him--through the one-way glass.

I started my day in the North Rim blind again, better prepared for the cold this time but no less miserably popsicle-esque by the end of obs. I kept scoping out the flight pen from a distance to make sure I could still see black shapes perched on twisted branches (miraculously, I could). Afterwards, a brief respite of hot chocolate and an episode of “Arrested Development” warmed my hands (and soul).  

There was a feeding scheduled for tonight, but I made the executive decision to move it to Friday, on account of the too-recent feeding at North Rim. All settled in for the night, I had made a hearty meal and sat down to watch my Thursday night comedy lineup on NBC . . .

Except NBC wasn’t working. Every channel except NBC was working just fine. I stared at the TV for a while incredulously. Really? REALLY?? There was nothing else on any channel, save some show on ABC where people get hit in the face with giant balls, and one of those exploitive weight loss competitions. I was almost desperate enough to consider watching an episode of the “Vampire Diaries.” Hey, I said *almost*.

And you thought I was joking...

At nearly 10, NBC came back on, so I was at least able to watch “30 Rock.”

Would you like some cheese with that whine?

After saying farewell to James for the week, I hopped on my ATV to ride to the North Rim blind. My hours in the blind were not the most pleasant ever. It was cramped and cold; there weren’t enough hooks on which to hang things, and the floor was viscous mud that seemed intent to drag me feet-first into its depths; the chair sat too low relative to the scope, so I had to remain perched on the edge, back arched, to view the proceedings of the day. Unlike the blind at Hopper, this one was not insulated against the wind or the rain. By the time I left, my toes felt like a block of ice and I couldn’t move my fingers. I had to push on the ATV’s accelerator with my wrist because I couldn’t make my thumb work.

When I miraculously made it back to the house, I had such a cup of hot chocolate.

I left the house once more just after it had started raining to check in with the flight pen birds. I spent the rest of that afternoon slightly less cold in the blind there.

Later:

I started a crappy movie that was left at the house. I was just finishing dinner when Geoff called and told me I should go change the water in the flight pen. Ok. I’ve done this. Granted, I haven’t done this alone, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

This task couldn’t have gone worse unless the birds had actually escaped.

Let’s see: I couldn’t get the tap on the Water Buffalo to turn on, I couldn’t get the bolt on the flight pen door to budge for a good five minutes, I forgot to collect the old carcasses littering the bottom of the enclosure, and then, horror of horrors, I couldn’t get the door to close again. That was the worst, not only because I COULDN’T GET THE DOOR TO CLOSE but there was a powerfully gusty wind blowing and I had visions of showing up in the morning to an empty flight pen, the door open and swinging in the breeze; visions of tendering my resignation—dismissed, rejected, publicly humiliated. It was more than I could bear, and at one point I totally lost my cool (what cool I ever had to begin with). I scraped my finger, popped the bones in my thumb, pulled a muscle in my side trying anything to get that goddamn bolt into its socket. When I finally decided it was good enough, it was a good fifteen minutes later, and I’d worked up a sweat in spite of the cool and blustery night air. I went to bed that night, still unsure what I would (or wouldn’t) find in the morning.

*

That night, riding the four-wheeler through the dark on my way to the flight pen, I caught a ghostly flash of the downy white underbelly and wings of a barn owl. David Bowie, is that you?

Pocahontas, Gender Politics, and Bad Weather

James and I have been busy little worker bees today. I had figured that he’d want to split up our responsibilities for the day so it was a pleasant surprise when he suggested we team up, first for a.m. signals on Hilltop, then for loading carcasses into the truck to take to the thaw box. We ATV’d after to the trailhead of White Rabbit Draw, to hike down to collect memory cards and change the batteries on the motion sensor cameras.  I felt a little lame hiking back up the steep trail since James is a speedy hiker and I’m well…not.

However, on the way back to the house, we had this amazing Pocahontas moment: turning the corner on our ATVs, we startled a group of deer who darted off the trail and took up running alongside us. It made me want to burst into song. When I tried to explain to James what a magical thing had just happened, he looked confused. “You mean, the live action Pocahontas?” Beg your pardon. What live-action Pocahontas?* And how could my reference pertain to anything other than a Disney movie?? Live-action Pocahontas.... *shakes head disparagingly*

The weather this week has necessitated the use of ATVs—the roads here turn to mud with little provocation. We were feeding tonight: one calf at the flight pen and two calves, four rabbits at North Rim. I was worried about looking like too much of a girl if I let James take the two calves, and worried about handling the two calves if I let my pride get the better of me. Two calves isn’t bad if you’re driving the truck with the lift gate in the back, but if I had to dead lift (no pun intended) a calf up to the height of the ATV my back might just give out. Turns out, I needn’t have worried. We figured that the roads were probably driveable if we took the long way around, and together we climbed in the truck. I was relieved.

We need a carcass-delivery soundtrack. Now taking suggestions.

In other news, my axe-handling skills are much improved.

*Oh right, there was that terrible (or so I heard) movie with Colin Farrell 

How Apropos

Baby barn owls! In a barn!!!

A Case of the Mondays

Monday at the Ventura Office was, as usual, a lot of waiting around, unsure what to do with myself. Although, right when I got there I was pulled out into the back alley for fire extinguisher training. The guy giving the lesson (which everyone but me had had) tossed a match on a barbecue and it blazed up.  “Do I have any volunteers?” he asked. Everyone pointed at me.  “She’s never done it,” they said. Pull the pin out. Aim at the base of the flame. All in all it was a little intimidating, all those people watching me. I put the fire out, though, so that's good.

At the Monday meeting, I complimented Molly on her cool hatpin. “It’s a loggerhead shrike,” she said. "Do you want one?” Free animal-themed jewelry? Molly just shot to the top of my favorite people list.

We went out for sushi when the meeting was over.

By the time I hit the road, it was nearly 3 and while they had reopened the 5, the intermittent rain and melting snow on the highway made it a slow drive. It was almost 7 by the time I reached Bitter Creek.

I was rewarded with this stunning view, however.

Hitch 4

Hitch 4 begins!

Not Condors

I know this is unrelated to condors, but.....I have chickens now! By which I mean, my dad got chickens, but my sister and I got to pick them out! Also, I pretty much railroaded the name-discussion, since sister wanted Beyoncé (which was acceptable, but not quite chicken-y enough) and father wanted Bella (which was unacceptable on the grounds of the Twilight franchise's existence). I'm sorry, but old-fashioned secretary names were the only way to go.

This is Gladys.

Florence is kind of the boss.

Edna wears the pants.

Drove back down to Ventura today. With AC/DC blasting on the radio, I proceeded to pretend I was in a car commercial.

These are not the birds you're looking for.

The redtails wheeling above me are taunting me with their Hollywood cries. "We're large raptors too!" they seem to say. Sorry, I reply. You're not the birds I'm looking for. Their shadows pass over me, race along the ground in front of me. Theirs or the turkey vultures'. I've been scanning the canyon below me for hours, with nothing but signals taken with my 6" antenna to go on, confirming at the very least that the birds I am looking for are here. Now I don't even have that. You'd think that for a bird that big and black it would be hard for them to do anything inconspicuously. However, in the harsh glare of the sun on the pitted rocks opposite, everything is transformed into a condor. Your best bet is to wait for the light to change, to reveal the birds for what they really are, like flipping the light switch in a monster-filled room.

I wonder (hope) my not seeing the pair is an indication that they've finally settled down, chosen a nest, laid an egg. I've never had this much trouble finding this pair before, which could have been pure dumb luck. But I'd like to think not.

Even the black flies buzzing just in my periphery make me whip my head in the direction of the horizon, seeking out other black shapes against the hazy blue.

It's hot out here. I can't even imagine how uncomfortable summer's going to be, sitting out here in the sun for hours, baking, burning, and all the while with the threat of forest fires hanging over our heads. Those famous SoCal fires. Everything here is buzzing. The flies. The planes overhead. The grasshoppers when they glide from stalk of grass to stalk. The oil machinery on the pads perched on the surrounding mountains. The metallic trills of birds.

* * *

My walkie is beeping at me. Low battery. Low battery. Geez. I got the memo. And oh, no, it isn't like I just put in a new, freshly charged battery in you this morning. Not at all.

Western side-blotched lizard (Uta stansburiana elegans)

Spot the spider!

Oh Reginald!

In response to a facebook status I'd posted to the effect of "Angela is watching condor soap operas unfold", my good friend Tessa of I Wanna Be Your Blog fame said:

"Whatever happens, Reginald, I know that somehow...we'll carrion."

Tessa is basically the best.

CondoRealty

Location! Location! Location! Check out that sweet archway! And the lovely front porch! The inhabitants of this nest cave sure have it made.

Out of the Loop

So returning to civilization (or, well, Fillmore) after three days of non-contact with the digital world was ... strange, to say the least. Checking in with my parents from the parking lot of the Vons in town there, I was inundated with the news I'd missed. And apparently, it was big. Like, tsunami in Japan big. Like United States sort of in a war with Libya big.

It was a little like Austin Powers watching 30 years' worth of historical events after emerging from cryogenesis. A little.

A tiny mouse just came careening out of my bedroom, probably feeling guilty for leaving tiny mouse poops on my sleeping bag. Now that I know they can get up here, I'm terrified of them crawling on my face while I sleep. Yuck. Also of Hanta virus.

I'm back at Hopper now. After another sunrise hike up to the Agua Blanca OP, I met Geoff back at camp around noon to hike back to the car. 8 (or was it 9) river crossings later, we were on our way back to Fillmore. Of course, at the very end of my hike down from the OP (literally, the last five feet of the trail) I slipped and fell hard on a rock. Like, cartoon-style where you hang, mid-air, for a moment before crashing down to the ground. The back of my right thigh is a study in muted blues and vibrant purples already. Geoff and I stopped for Starbucks back in Fillmore (free red velvet whoopie pie? Why, don't mind if I do!) then he headed on to the Ventura Office, while I made a pit stop at the grocery store for banana bread ingredients.

I brought the entire forest back in my hair.

Back at the Ranch House, I took a long, long-awaited shower. After, mid-baking banana bread, I was shocked to hear the front door opening (I thought I was going to be alone). However, rather than the axe-murdering bear zombie my overactive imagination helpfully supplied, it was Jan, one of the volunteers. Turns out, she's been with the program since 1976 and knows basically everything there is to know about the condor and its controversial history. I spent the evening listening to her stories. Looking forward to learning more from her.

Tomorrow, headed out to Big Meadows to look for a new nest cave.

Apparently, it's also Daylight Savings?

Well, I *somehow* managed to survive today. (Way to be overdramatic, Angela). Hey, some of my worries were not completely unwarranted. I did sort of lose my way through the river early in the morning. I didn't actually get there by sunrise: I kept glancing behind me at the rock wall opposite with apprehension as the golden glow of sunlight painted an ever-advancing swath down the mountain. Only halfway up to the OP, I could see the line was nearly at the smiley face caves, in whose mouth this particular condor pair had nested. By the time I reached my clandestine bush, it had ten minutes since illuminated the cavernous grin.

Smile for the camera!

Not only was the hike itself a beast but I don't think I got more than 45 minutes of uninterrupted sleep last night. It may have been nerves--knowing I had to get up at 5 am and not knowing if either of my two alarms would work--it may have been the hourly beeping of my watch, or it may have been the unfamiliar sounds of animals scurrying around in the surrounding leaf litter, and the fear that each one may be the approaching footsteps of a bear, come to investigate my cucumber-scented toiletries.

Let's hope tomorrow morning proves to be more successful.

Once I was up at the OP, I traded one set of stresses for another. It may not seem hard but trying to accurately capture the condors' behavior to the second, your eye glued to a scope, is not the easiest thing. My notes from today are, correspondingly, a disaster. Again: better luck tomorrow.

I was joined midway through the day by Santa Barbara Zoo girls Molly and Ria. They proved to be excellent company. Ria proceeded to tell us riddles and stories throughout the afternoon, one of whose punchlines ("Better Nate than Lever") still makes me giggle just thinking about it. They were up there to observe Joseph's nest entry, which was terrifying to watch. But seeing him up there, a giant in the tiny cave, while the male eyed him threateningly from a few feet away, I have to admit I was a little envious of his vantage point.

Towards the end of the afternoon, once Molly and Ria had left, my brain started to go just a little crazy, what with all the eye-to-scoping. The male condor, for example, started to look like he was wearing sunglasses. Yeah. I was tired. Luckily, Geoff came up to relieve me, and I hiked back down to camp.

Joe Condor

Now it's like 8 pm and I'm tucking into bed, for lack of anything better to do. Sweet dreams to me ...

... Please!

Gone Campin'

Some of those old fears have settled in. That afraid of the dark fear. That unidentifiable noises fear. That unseen things crawling on my body fear. That red eyes glowing at the window fear (at least that one I can chalk up to the radio towers across from my house growing up). That I can't do this fear.

I am in a tent. I am in a sleeping bag that smells like someone else. I am in Agua Blanca, near Lake Piru, out of radio contact. Outside it is frog-loud and I can hear rustlings around me. Beneath the frog chorus is the sound of the river that cuts up through this canyon. Geoff's tent is nearby. I have a can of bear spray next to my head. Tomorrow I have to hike in darkness up to the OP, which is perched precariously in a bush atop a nearly sheer rock face, up which I will have to scramble. I did it once today and it nearly killed me.

Of all the things that scare me though--bears and rattlesnake bites and mountain lions and falling down and falling in rivers and twisted ankles and Lyme disease--I think I am most afraid of being incompetent. Of doing this all wrong. I am supposed to be at the OP for sunrise. What if my alarm doesn't go off? What if I take too long? What if I don't take the right notes? What if I do it all wrong?

Oh, go to bed Angela.

River Crossing 101

To get to the campsite at Agua Blanca requires more than one river crossing (try eleven). Most are through relatively shallow waters with some conveniently-placed stepping stones. However, two river crossings proved more perilous, the water fast and waist-deep. When crossing alone, Geoff explained, it was best to err on the side of caution. Walking sticks are a plus. Always unhook your backpack from your person.

When crossing with two people, you can do a kind of awkward two-step to ensure that neither of you are swept away. Begin by placing both of your hands on the other person's shoulders; the other person does likewise. Wade into the river. Only one person moves at a time, while the other acts as the anchor. The moving person shuffles in a semi-circle from one side of the anchor to the other. They then become the anchor while the previous anchor begins the semi-circle to the other side of the anchor. In this fashion, you may both reach the other side safely. 

(Angela's note: avoid wearing flip-flops when crossing rivers. One of them will get sucked into the current and you will never see it again.)

Pucker up!

Western toad (Bufo boreas) that Geoff found in the road

E is for . . .

Ethogram (n.)

An established set of animal behaviors, designed to standardize description by multiple observers. For example, our condor ethogram includes such behaviors as IN for incubation, ER for egg roll, and MN for mandibulate.

A glint of blue caught my eye, in a tree further up the hill. An unnatural blue, one unlikely to be found in a landscape whose only true blue is the sky above it. Turns out, it was someone's lost ballon, from a birthday party, perhaps. Who knows how far it had traveled before tangling up in this, its final resting place.  

A Day in the Life

Hiked down to Mid-Hopper Canyon again--my old nemesis. Spent the day looking for birds that never appeared. Funny how every nook, cranny, crevice, crow, fly, and burnt tree stump looks like a condor out of the corner of one's eye. Listened in on the action over on the other side of the ridge in the manner of an old-timey radio drama, as my boss, currently rappelling into a nest, communicated with the observers across-canyon from him.

Carcass drop that night. Gutted some rabbits. Then, bed.

Nest Watch 2011

I'm back at Hopper this hitch. Today was Nest Observer Training, an information session detailing all the observation protocols for us nest observers--Intern James, me, the Santa Barbara Zoo nest technician Molly and the new Santa Barbara Zoo liaison Ria. The prospect of nest obs is daunting: seven-hour blocks of time--beginning at sunrise or ending at sunset--staring into a spotting scope, recording the attending parent's (and eventually chick's) every move.

Spent the early part of the evening exploring the grounds of the Hopper Ranch House in the twilight, a chorus of bird calls and frog song to accompany the distant chords of James's guitar. That night, we all gathered around the living room coffee table for a game of Risk. I'd never played, so as beginner's luck would have it, I quietly took over the world while everyone else was squabbling over South America.

Suckers.

Frog calls at dusk. 

It's Official

As of February 28, Nesting Season has officially begun!

C is for Carcass Run

(n.) also known euphemistically as a "Dairy Run"

We supplement the condors' diets with the carcasses of still-born calves from local dairies in the Bakersfield area. Think of it as recycling. If the condors are eating calves, they aren't eating game filled with lead shot (although, unfortunately, they still do that too). It aids us in catching the birds as well, familiarizing them with carcasses chained inside traps.

There are some 25 or 30 dairies we drive to. The calves are waiting there in a pile. The smell is overwhelming. Only calves with gel pads still on their hooves are eligible (the gel pads are there to protect the mother cow from injury during birth). These pads mean the calf has never stood, never eaten anything laced with hormones or antibiotics. Back at our house, we wash the calves, which in my mind at least feels like a small kindness for creatures who never knew anything but filth and muck. Sentimental, I know. Then it's into the freezer with them, until condor dinner-time anyway.

Day 9: Extreme Danger for Dogs and Children

A sign.

Today I hiked down this trail with one of the wildlife biologists and Intern Darin. There was much slipping and sliding to be had by all, given that snow still covered parts of the path, and where the snow had melted the ground had turned to thick mud. Amazingly, none of us fell. Go team!