Almost always, nature heals itself
When conditions are right, it’s amazing how fast nature knits
itself back together.
Last Saturday gave me the occasion to ponder that anew.
Several dozen of us scattered ourselves across Monterey County
to see how many bird species we could shake out of the trees in a
24-hour period. The final tally was 242. It’s a goofy tradition we
practice, going out once a year to see if Monterey can be
officially designated
”
America’s Birdiest County.
”
And usually, Monterey is right in the hunt.
Almost always, nature heals itself
When conditions are right, it’s amazing how fast nature knits itself back together.
Last Saturday gave me the occasion to ponder that anew.
Several dozen of us scattered ourselves across Monterey County to see how many bird species we could shake out of the trees in a 24-hour period. The final tally was 242. It’s a goofy tradition we practice, going out once a year to see if Monterey can be officially designated “America’s Birdiest County.” And usually, Monterey is right in the hunt.
This year’s tally was off a bit. The best we ever did was 252 species. But the glorious weather of the previous days likely convinced a lot of wintering birds that it was time to return home to the north.
Most of my day was spent at Elkhorn Ranch, a spectacular stretch of coastal bluffs extending inland from Hwy. 1 near Moss Landing to Elkhorn Slough. The property is owned by the Packard family, heirs of Hewlett-Packard founder Dave Packard. Its uplands are blanketed in strawberries, a small native plant nursery and pastures. Closer to the slough it looks pretty much as it always has. The property was once open to walkers who used a network of trails.
But it’s been closed for several years, and one must secure special permission to visit.
I did. And boy-oh-boy, lucky me.
Arriving shortly after dawn, I shouldered a pack, binoculars, scope and the rest of the things I lug around while birding and headed off. A cabin and outbuildings overlooking the slough, a place I once visited frequently, are now melting into the lush grass. It won’t be long before they are nearly invisible. The plants that once brightened the farmhouse garden will probably be the last evidence that people once lived there. Red hot poker was blooming. The spring bulbs had passed and aloe waited near the door where it would have been convenient if one received a little burn in the long abandoned kitchen.
Rings of flowers, poppies and lupine, mostly, circled small ponds that are drying out. Larger ponds boiled with ducks, coots, herons, egrets and a solitary moorhen.
A canopy of willows shaded a swale above a larger pond. The willows attracted a host of migrants and songbirds. It was about then that I began to notice that the trails we once enjoyed were gone or fast disappearing. The only openings were the farm roads that are still occasionally used. Past the swale, I climbed a bluff to what had been one of my favorite places.
There, a row of benches sits above the slough. One lingering there can take in perhaps 25 square miles, from the ocean to the barrier dunes, the slough and the surrounding farms. As I sat still and took it in, a noise a few feet to my left attracted my attention. I turned, and my movement startled a coyote perhaps 12 feet away. The animal, now unaccustomed to encountering people there, immediately evaporated.
Eventually, I looped back by a different route. There, too, the land is erasing evidence of humankind.
Given adequate dedication to the task, it’s certainly possible to irretrievably scar a place. If good fortune and common sense prevail, an old growth forest that’s logged will take many hundreds of years to return to something approaching the rich tapestry that it once was.
The earth itself can be scraped from a landscape. There’s a small state park in the Sierra Foothills, Malakoff Diggins State Historic Park, which allows people to see what a place like that looks like after more than 150 years. It looks pretty darn inhospitable.
It’s profoundly comforting to know that most of the time, our passing can be erased just like our tracks across a sand dune.
