In my last blog-a-book post from my outdoor adventure book, It’s 4 AM and a Bear Is Standing on Top of Me, I wrote about the Pond, which was a major influence in my childhood leading me to a lifelong love of the outdoors and wilderness. Today, I will introduce another one, the Woods.
The Woods also earned a capital letter. To get there you walked out the back door, down the alley past the Graveyard and through a pasture Jimmy Pagonni rented for his cattle. Tackling the pasture involved crawling through a rusty barbed wire fence, avoiding fresh cow pies, climbing a hill and jumping an irrigation ditch. The journey was fraught with danger. Hungry barbed wire consumed several of my shirts and occasionally went for my back.
Torn clothing and bleeding scratches were a minor irritation in comparison to stepping in fresh cow poop though. A thousand-pound, grass-eating machine produces acres of the stuff. Deep piles sneak up your foot and slosh over into your shoes. Toes hate this. Even more treacherous are the little piles that hide out in the grass. A well-placed patty can send you sliding faster than black ice. The real danger here is ending up with your butt in the pile. I did that, once. Happily, no one was around to witness my misfortune, or hear my language, except Tickle the dog. I swore him to secrecy.
For all of its hazards, the total hike to the Woods took about 15 minutes. Digger pines with drunken windmill limbs guarded the borders while gnarly manzanita and spiked chaparral dared the casual visitor to venture off the trail. Poison oak proved more subtle but effective in discouraging exploration.
I could count on raucous California jays to announce my presence, especially if I was stalking a band of notorious outlaws. Ground squirrels were also quick to whistle their displeasure. Less talkative jackrabbits merely ambled off upon spotting me, put on a little speed for a hyper Cocker, and became bounding blurs in the presence of a hungry greyhound. Flickers, California quail and acorn woodpeckers held discussions in distinctive voices I soon learned to recognize.
From the beginning, I felt at home in the Woods, like I belonged. I quickly learned that its hidden recesses contained a multitude of secrets. I was eager to learn what they had to teach me, but the process seemed glacial. It required patience and I hardly knew how to spell the word. I did know how to sit quietly, however. This was a skill I had picked up from the hours I spent with my nose buried in books. The woodland creatures prefer their people noisy. A Curt stomping down the trail, snapping dead twigs, and talking to himself was easy to avoid while a Curt being quiet might surprise them.
One gray squirrel was particularly loud in his objections. He lived in the top branches of a digger pine beside the trail and maintained an observation post on an overhanging limb. When he heard me coming, he would adopt his ‘you can’t see me gray squirrel playing statue pose.’ But I knew where to look. I would find a comfortable seat and stare at him. It drove him crazy. Soon he would start to thump the limb madly with his foot and chirr loudly. He had pine nuts to gather, a stick home to remodel, and a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed lady to woo. I was blocking progress. Eventually, if I didn’t move, his irritation would bring him scrambling down the trunk for a much more up-close and personal scolding.
After about 15 minutes of continuous haranguing, he’d decide I was a harmless, if obnoxious aberration and go about his business. That’s when I begin to learn valuable secrets, like where he hid his pine nuts. It was also a sign for the rest of the wildlife to come out of hiding. A western fence lizard might work its way to the top of the dead log next to me and start doing push-ups. Why, I couldn’t imagine. Or perhaps a thrush would begin to scratch up the leaves under the manzanita in search of creepy tidbits. The first time I heard one, it sounded like a very large animal interested in little boy flesh. Occasionally there were special treats: A band of teenage gray squirrels playing tag and demonstrating their incredible acrobatics; a doe leading its shy, speckled fawn out to drink in the small stream that graced the Wood’s meadow; and a coyote sneaking up on a ground squirrel hole with an intensity I could almost feel.
I also began to play at stalking animals. Sometime during the time period between childhood and becoming a teenager, I read James Fennimore Cooper and began to think I was a reincarnation of Natty Bumppo. Looking back, I can’t say I was particularly skilled, but no one could have told me so at the time. At least I learned to avoid dry twigs, walk slowly, and stop frequently. Occasionally, I even managed to sneak up on some unsuspecting woodland creature.
If the birds and the animals weren’t present, they left signs for me. There was always the helter-skelter pack rat nest to explore. Tickle liked to tear them apart, quickly sending twigs flying in all directions. There were also numerous tracks to figure out. Was it a dog or coyote that had stopped for a drink out of the stream the night before? Tickle knew instantly, but I had to piece it together. A sinuous trail left by a slithery serpent was guaranteed to catch my attention. This was rattlesnake country. Who’d been eating whom or what was another question? The dismantled pinecone was easy to figure out but who considered the bark on a young white fir a delicacy? And what about the quail feathers scattered haphazardly beside the trail?
Scat, I learned, was the tracker’s word for shit. It offered a multitude of clues for what animals had been ambling down the trail and what they had been eating. There were deer droppings and rabbit droppings and mouse droppings descending in size. Coyotes and foxes left their distinctive dog-like scat but the presence of fur and berries suggested that something other than dog food had been on the menu. Some scat was particularly fascinating, at least to me. Burped up owl pellets provided a treasure chest of bones— little feet, little legs and little skulls that grinned back with the vacant stare of slow mice.
While Tarzan hung out in the Graveyard and pirates infested the Pond, mountain men, cowboys, Indians, Robin Hood and various bad guys roamed the Woods. Each bush hid a potential enemy that I would indubitably vanquish. I had the fastest two fingers in the West and I could split a pine nut with an imaginary arrow at 50 yards. I never lost. How could I? It was my fantasy. But daydreams were only a part of the picture. I fell in love with wandering in the Woods and playing on the Pond. There was an encyclopedia of knowledge available and a multitude of lessons about life. Learning wasn’t a conscious effort, though; it was more like absorption. The world shifted for me when I entered the Woods and time slowed down. A spider with an egg sack was worth ten minutes, a gopher pushing dirt out of its hole an hour, and a deer with a fawn a lifetime.
NEXT MONDAY’S POST: Not surprisingly, my classmates start calling me Nature Boy. It was a title I wore proudly.
28 thoughts on “The Skull with the Vacant Stare… The Woods”
More perfect growing up years. Now, cow pats. They have a long history in my family. Brought up on a dairy farm there were plenty about. My father once organised a cricket match in a field that had held cows right up until that morning. I was perfectly happy to join in the fun but fielding in certain areas was not in my contract 😉
Laughing, I’ll bet. At least I wasn’t rushing about trying to corral a ball. Thanks for adding your comment, AC. Fun. –Curt
Curt, I love and envy your imagery.
On another topic, have you ever read Patrick F. McManus?
First, thanks Ray.
Second, at some point in the past I read something by McManus and remember it being outdoorsy and a fun read. It might have been a magazine article. –Curt
I enjoyed your walk back through the years and The Woods, Curt. I found it especially intriguing because all of the creatures you mention are my current friends in the woods in which I currently live. Unlike you, I came to these Woods as an adult, but either way, child or adult, the Woods and its inhabitants change our lives forever. Lovely essay, Curt.
Northern California animals for sure, Jet, but also Southern Oregon. Our home in the Applegate Valley has a Mediterranean climate just like Northern California!
Nature has a way of capturing us if we are open to it, Jet, regardless of age! 🙂
Jet- Glad to see you found your way here to Curt’s blog! Seems we’re all connected by similar interests and habitats. Seems like we came to the Woods in our later years, but better late than never!
Curt- another fascinating and interesting post. I may be slow getting to some, but I enjoy them all the same! 🤗
Thanks, Gunta. And I am glad to have Jet following my posts now, and to be following hers. As you noted, birds of a feather… 🙂
Reblogged this on Love and Love Alone.
Thanks again! 🙂 –Curt
I particularly enjoyed this chapter.. Hope you can stop by soon and we can go to the country club for dinner our lunch?
So glad you are enjoying the tales, Don. And yes with lunch, or dinner. I’ll run it by Peggy. Thanks. –Curt
Wish I had known you as a kid. We could have enjoyed Nature and stayed in trouble for years!
Yeah! We would have incorporated as Mischief Inc. 🙂
Of course they would tag you Nature Boy.
“A well-placed patty can send you sliding faster than black ice.” LOL. That one got a big laugh out of me. As a kid with a big woods to play in, I can completely relate to the adventures, Curt. The Woods was alive, better than any amusement park, full of places to play, animals to stalk and tame, hide outs, and “dangerous challenges.” Thanks for the post full of smiles. Good luck with the book!
Thanks, D. Glad I could give you a laugh. –Curt
Curt, a wonderful post about your magical Wood! Your descriptions bring it vividly to life and it’s great how the real and imaginary became interwoven during your time there, how your love of nature developed even further. The ending is beautiful and indeed ‘a deer with a fawn (is wotrth) a lifetime’.
Haha … I can see how your cow pat photo would get you into trouble with Peggy!!😀 Yes, just modern art, you know!
Thanks Annika. And the experiences have influenced my whole life. 🙂
Laughing. When Peggy edited the post for me, she snorted when she came to the cow patty.
As I read your childhood memories of wandering about the woods and compare them to postings from more recent memories, I get the impression that nature boy never really grew up.
Absolutely not, Dave. 🙂
It sounds like you found a childhood heaven.
What a nice blog! I also remember the cow pies. Shudder.
There’s only one problem with posting photos of a fawn at the beginning of an entry — it’s so hard to move on! I do envy you the deer, and I’m looking forward to this year’s ‘crop.’ Your cow patties brought to mind their value when dried. The so-called buffalo chips weren’t a snack to go with beer, that’s for sure. I found an interesting short entry that includes this tidbit: “A canon of cow chip desirability for fuel developed: chips from cows grazing on autumn plums and therefore full of hard, hot, and long-burning plum pits were particularly prized and reserved for nighttime and cold weather fires.”
I wonder if the plum pits had a sweet, fruity smell. Another use of value: dried cow chips can substitute for frisbees, not the kind you want to catch however. Fun article.
Should be fawns coming soo judging from the size of the wood-be moms!
Awesome bllog you have here
Well thank you, Vicky. Appreciated.