Lesson from a recent trip
to “The Sea Ranch”
Sonoma County’s Sea
Ranch was formed, in
part, from the expanse of Rancho Del Mar
– Spanish, by the way, for “The Sea Ranch.” In the late 1800s, acreage used by cattle ranchers and lumbermen
proved to be a gold mine of a different sort as they profiteered from the building
and feeding of a burgeoning and youthful post-Gold-Rush San Francisco. The cattlemen felt it would aid grazing
were the prairie above the coastal bluffs transected by rows of cypress trees
planted to serve as windbreaks against the forces of prevailing northerly
gusts. A century passed and the
land fell to development.
Development, it is claimed, where residents respect the natural
environment and support endeavors to protect the not-necessarily-native
plantings by dotting expensive homes in and about those human-engineered windrows.
The Sea Ranch
is also the land of a little eaves. Truthfully: big houses – we’d just rented one for the weekend
– little eaves. Eave-less-ness,
along with wood-toned exterior siding, are elements of the community’s
CC&Rs. Admittedly, this makes
for a nice visual effect and, not coincidentally, a bit of a Mother Nature
inspired manufactured-urban/manufactured-forest interface. Today, then, we observe the normal, yet
enchanting, interaction of foxes, squirrels, deer, humans and dogs – on leash –
from our picture windows.
The first evening of our visit, just as dusk was about to
settle, a noticeable clunk – the report of an accidental collision – was heard
at the window just above the sink.
“What was
that?” we all exclaimed.
I ventured
out onto the deck. A young hawk
lay – what's the word for it? – spread-eagled on the deck. He had crashed into the window and
knocked himself out. Apparently,
he was drawn to the light from the kitchen through a window whose light glowed from
the interior of a house that, if designed by any other architect or under any
other CC&Rs, might not have been so attractive to such an inexperienced
hunter of the night.
Perhaps, if
there had been eaves…
The grandkids
had followed me out to investigate. The young hawk lay face down on the
deck panting and panting and panting. I stretched an arm to hold the youngsters at an appropriate
distance. Were this some Warner
Brothers cartoon of the middle 1950s, I'm sure I'd have made out little stars
orbiting the stunned harrier’s head. I reached for the Sony pocket camera that I always carry with
me, the new one; the one I don't quite know how to operate yet. As I fumbled to turn it on and activate
the lens, the young raptor hopped to its feet, bounced twice or maybe three
times, recovered its senses and took flight to the windrow of cypress trees
perhaps 50 yards away.
Where he had
lain rested the body of a tiny gray and yellow-bellied bird. Moments earlier I suppose, this little
guy was simply grazing for fleas or ticks or seeds or grubs when down swept the
predator. Now, it seemed as if the
poor fella was dead on my deck and not destined to be dinner for the
dumb-struck hawk. But then, the
slightest movement told me otherwise. The little gray bird with a yellow
belly lay faintly panting; faintly but faster than that of his mortal nemesis,
the young hawk. Should I simply step
on the little critter and put him out of his misery? I shooed the grandchildren back into the house.
I chose to
save my makeshift Vibram® executioner’s tool for a bit later on. I followed the grandkids in.
After a time,
I came out and the little gray and yellow bird still lay on the deck still
shivering and pulsing. Mercy, or
some similar compelling factor, commanded me to rescue-and-recover rather than
squash. Retrieving a “clean”
bandana from my hip pocket, I gently wrapped the little guy up and carried him
to a bush maybe 20 feet away. Laying Tweetie-Pie in a soft mattress of
dried grass, hopefully out of view of the hawk, I went inside.
Ten minutes
later, when I checked back, the little bird was gone. What possibly could've
happened? I tried not to think about it, as I re-entered our rental and dined
on oven-baked chicken drenched in a delightful honey mustard sauce.
It is said that when a bird crashes into a window
and later flies away, that it is a harbinger of bad luck to follow.
I don't know
about that. However, as I was readying for bed that night, while flossing my teeth, I
busted the top off a molar and somehow swallowed its remains.
© 2017
Church of the
Open Road Press
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