Years ago, when I was working for Dave, he landed a project some twenty miles east of town, off Highway 166. Once you left the highway, you still had another ten minutes of gravel roads with three creek crossings before reaching the work site, which sat on a river bench in the middle of the canyon carved by that creek over the past several millennia. We framed that project late in the fall; the roofing was rolled on as the first drops of the rainy season began falling, and we worked on the siding and finishes through the winter and into the early spring.
It was beautiful on that backwoods property. We sat and ate lunch under their carport, admiring the rocky cliffs jutting up from the opposite side of the creek, and wondered where the endless lines of game trails through the thickets of sage, manzanita, and poison oak might take us if we started exploring. We saw coyotes and bobcats skirting the dirt road fairly frequently on our early morning drives, there was an abundance of quail, mourning dove, and songbirds, more than a few species of hawk, and one morning we were lucky enough to spot what I’m quite certain was an eagle.
It was a wet winter, and it was cold back in that canyon. One particularly cold day, we were milling door trim in the garage. We were protected from the rain, but there was no garage door yet, and the room was uninsulated. Even with gloves and layers, our spoiled Central Coast bodies were not used to temperatures under 50 degrees, so we struggled to keep ourselves warm. Then partway through the day we noticed the raindrops had slowed way down in their descent from the clouds, had gone from grey to white, and were now dusting the ground with gentlest shroud of snow. Our sensibilities were scrambled by the complete context break of snow on the Central Coast, so we spent the next 15 minutes trying to collect enough of the rare substance to make one gross, brown ice ball and then fight over who got to throw it at whom. I don’t remember exactly how it ended, but I don’t remember having to clean dirty ice-snow off my hair and clothes before going back to work. I can’t speak for anyone else.
When it got really wet, we lost access to the project; the water levels of the creek raised too deep at the points the road forded it to risk driving through. I remember one day in early spring Dave sent me out alone to work on some interior finishes. The forecast was for a full day of rain at the end of a long week of rain. The fords were already about as high as my little truck could handle, and Dave warned me: “if it starts raining hard, get out before the creek goes up too far for you to be able to leave.” But how much rain is enough rain to raise the crossings? Neither of us knew, so I spent the day watching the fall rate of the rain closely, caught between not wanting to wimp out and cash in early when I could have stayed, and earnestly hoping I wasn’t being a total idiot and stranding myself on the jobsite until God knows when. All through that day, I remember there was a bluebird flitting around the property, dipping in and out of the trees and letting himself be seen every half hour or so when I would check on the rain again. Something about that beautiful cobalt blue plumage darting in and around the wet grey world gave me hope, and I thought (perhaps foolishly) that as long as I could spot that bluebird, I would be able to get back across the creek. Sure enough, when 4PM came, I said farewell to the bluebird, and my tough little truck swamped right through the crossings and took me home safe.
Later that spring, the temperatures started rising quickly, the ground dried out, and the emerald green of the hills began to soften into the golden-brown they wear for the majority of the year. As the site dried off, Dave and I were able to uncover the lumber pile and start assembling some exterior beam work we’d been waiting all spring for an opportunity to do. When we removed the tarps that had protected our lumber from the rain, we were startled by a rat that jumped out from the beams and scampered away. Then, as we moved the last beam, we found a perfect little grass nest hidden in a hollow of the earth, dry and safe under the pile of beams and tarps. In the nest were six, tiny, still blind baby rats, left alone by their terrified mother. Now I enjoy fishing and hunting and I am not intimidated by the process of killing animals, butchering, and eating them. In that detailed practice of pursuit, one cannot help but admire the beauty, strength, and grace of one’s prey in its natural habitat. There is a sacred respect in the intentional harvest of a game animal. However, exposing a nest of helpless baby animals to die by whatever means nature sees fit to dole out, even if they are just rats, has none of that honor; it’s simply sad. We left the nest and moved on to our workday, taking care to ignore and hopefully forget all about that small tragedy in the grass.
Dave left early that day to finish up in the office, and eventually quitting time came for me too. As I walked to my truck, I remembered the nest and I detoured my way towards it. Maybe the mama-rat had come back for them; one could hope. If she hadn’t, it seemed wrong for me to leave them to die slowly of exposure to the cold night, or the hot sun of tomorrow. I didn’t know what I would do; maybe fill the nest with water or dirt and give the babies a quicker death. Even that seemed wrong. I had no plan. But when I arrived at the nest, I found that nature had already solved my problem. Easing his way out of the nest was a substantial gopher snake, and as he slithered his 40-inch-plus length away from the hole, I could count six neat, even spaced lumps working their way down his body, the last of which was still only an inch or so from the snake’s mouth. I followed him for some twenty yards to the fence line, admiring the way his body glided gracefully along the earth, winding effortlessly away into the tall grass, even so encumbered by his recent gluttony. A shiver rolled down my back. Even a harmless snake like a gopher snake is still just a little bit creepy. I took one last look at the empty nest, then climbed in my truck and took my leave. Nature is a weird and wonderful thing.