Wildlife biologists work Monday through Saturday, so this morning Geoff left for his "weekend" and I was left to fend for myself. He wanted me to hike down to mid-Hopper Canyon, which, as you may recall, was the big hike I did my first day. Trouble was, I am not yet ATV-certified, so I had to rely on my own two feet to carry me down the perilously steep hills just to get to the trailhead. Lucky me. All I could think as I descended further and further was the way back. Oh this was going to be a fun day, I thought. Little did I know.
Starting down the actual path, I couldn't find any of the fluorescent orange flagging tape that is supposed to mark the trail. Was I going the right way? Was I going to get lost? I wandered. I went down one way, then back up, then over there, then back to the first route. Really, this was unnecessary, since as long as you keep hiking down, eventually you'll probably get to the OP at the bottom of the ridge, since any other path basically puts you off the ridge and onto a sharp incline leading straight into the canyon. But my panicked brain, desperately wanting to avoid the humiliation of getting lost during my first solo mission, inserted doubts where none should have been. As it turned out, I was always going the right way, and that first flash of orange my eye caught--oh what sweet relief! Let this be a lesson to you, Angela. Chances are, if you think you're lost, you probably aren't.
Oh, but then. Then, my confidence restored, I began to hike faster, impatient--now that I was sure of the way--to get to the bottom. And then I promptly almost stepped on a rattlesnake. No, really, I caught my foot in mid-air a good six inches from its gaping mouth. And it was no small thing: big, a solid coiled mass of armor-like scales. There was the rattle, furiously shivering. There were the fangs that could easily pierce my boot. I fell backward, yelped in an extremely undignified way, scrambled up the trail the way I'd just come, and then immediately wished I'd gotten a picture. I could hear it rattling, an angry noise that admonished me. I felt like I had when I was little, at a museum with my mom. I knew to respect the artwork, knew not to touch the shiny, breakable things. And the security guard scolded me anyways--"Make sure she doesn't touch anything!" he'd barked. I had cried then for the injustice of it all.
I wanted to cry a little bit now out of sheer relief. But mostly I wanted to apologize. I did apologize, I think. "Sorry, rattlesnake! I didn't see you there! Apologies for ruining your morning." It was the honest truth: I hadn't seen it there. It was resting on the path just on the other side of a downed branch that itself looked like a snake.
Once my racing heart had slowed and I was sure the snake was off the trail, I hiked the rest of the way down to the OP, albeit walking loudly and carrying a big stick.
I hung out at the OP for a while, taking signals and scanning the ridge opposite for anything remotely condor-shaped. It was unsettling coming to terms with the fact that I was totally alone out there. Like, I could have been naked and no one but me and the condors would know it. At 2:30 I turned around and went straight back up the ridge. I was nearly dead by the end, but what a relief to see the car, to set down my rucksack. Job well done, Angela.
Back at the ranch, Vince and I hung around outside until it got dark, talking about animals and fire safety and ATVs. When he's up at Hopper, he sleeps in his camper, but he was over after dinner to fill out data sheets. Now, however, I am alone in the house, and will be for the next two days. The new intern arrives Monday night.
Ahoy condors! I search for big black birds through my spotting scope.
The view. At a certain point, every shadowed nook and cranny looks like a condor.
Taking a compass reading.
