Toad in the Hole

Sunol Stroll

Drove down to Sunol Regional Park today, because someone had reported a Harris’ sparrow hanging out with a flock of golden-crowns. What the heck, an excuse to get out on a sunny day. The creek was running high and merry, and everybody was full of Spring excitement.

Posies were popping out by the road—several lupines, mostly blue; one was so blue I took it for delphinium at first. Also some pale pink lotus, woodland star, fiddleneck, poppies, the exotic short deep-pink cranesbill, mule ears, butter-n-eggs, owl clover, paintbrush. Tha bigleaf maples and oaks (achoo) were blooming too—I took bad photos of the maple flowers, because they’re really quite handsome: a sort of dangling loose snapdragon like a set of windchimes, red and yellow, that on close inspection has tiny maple noses starting out on it.

Found the sparrow flock after being redirected to the other parking lot, and after a few minutes’ patience as they skittered in and out of some low snowberry lining the leaf-littered path, sure enough, one was a first-year Harris’. It seemed a bit shyer than the golden-crowns, retreating to cover more often and for longer periods.

We also has a couple of glimpses of a dusky-footed woodrat doing the same dance in and out of the brush. Cute little booger.

Strung out on the same path, a couple of spotted and several California towhees, plain titmouse making lots of noise, Hutton’s vireo, chickadees, acorn woodpeckers, black phoebe, and a Bullock’s oriole by ear, chattering and singing.

After the sparrow flock got flushed by walkers, we strolled out onto the arched and weirdly bouncy bridge over the creek, where a few other birders were looking around. Another oriole (or the same one, dunno)—two orioles, male and female, in sight this time, in the sun, chasing and bopping around in the mostly-leafless sycamores along the creek. A park naturalist told us that one of the stick nests in view over the water belonged to a pair of red-shouldered hawks, and sure enough we heard one hollering, though no one was on the nest. Cliff swallows dashed over, and a house wren sat on a twig near one end of the bridge and sang his head off for at least five minutes.

Turned onto the trail in the general direction of Little Yosemite, and there were more house wrens carrying on—in total at least three males and two females, paired up and one carying nesting material. We stopped to sort out a chatter between acorn woodpecker and red-shafted flicker, and followed the flicker up a sycamore trunk, where she did us a great favor.

She skittered up over a hole in the trunk, and a face appeared in it, looking for all the works like a little fuzzy old man just awakened from not enough sleep and grumpy about it. Once the face was in sunlight, it blinked and winced and finally settled in to enjoy the warmth. As it poked out farther, filling the hole completely, we decided it was a western screech-owl. There it stayed, eyes slitted, basking and occasionally blinking, eventually bringing its small ear tufts up.

We walked up the trail a bit, taking wildflower photos—lots of blue-eyed grass—and watching those wrens carry on, admiring the new foliage on oaks and sycamores and walnut, until it felt like lunchtime.

Coming back, we re-found the sycamore and hole and the owl was still there, apparently napping in its hole in the sunshine.

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Gossip, Dammit

Joe was in the UC library today and heard someone say that Alan Dundes, the urban folklorist, had dropped dead. Haven’t heard it from official sources yet… Maybe it’s an urban legend.

If not—damn.

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Another Dem Genius Moment

I hear the Democrats are buying attack ads against Ton DeLay. Great timing, folks. Look, his own base base is turning on him; the “conservatives” are making ominous rumblings about his contribution to the Schiavo mess. A perceived attack from the other side could only help him now—these people thrive on a pouty and aggrieved sense of being persecuted.

I’m thinking they should stand back and let nature take its course. Sort of like what ought to have happened long ago with Terri Schiavo.

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Back from the Death Valley

We’re back, and I thank whatever gods may be for Motel 6. If we’d camped, we’d have enjoyed high winds, sandstorms, and rain by turns. As it happened, though, we got to frolic in the flowers, brave the flying sand in the car, and at the end of the day drive through the rain, which was strong enough to wash the bugs and ichor off the front of the car besides.

And the place was gorgeous. I’ll post a few more grafs on it later.

We were lucky enough to be caught in the middle of a butterfly migration. Painted ladies migrate as spectacularly as monarchs, though I guess they don’t congregate as densely when they get south. They were coming north from Mexico in their millions the two days we were in Death Valley, riding those stiff winds, sailing by in an aerial flood, a blizzard of butterflies.

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And Away!

We’re off to Death Valley for a few days, feeling only slightly guilty about leaving the housesitters in charge of a lovelorn snake. (I thank whatever gods may be that the Vivarium has a liberal return policy on feeder rats.)

Amd I promise not to think about Terri Schiavo and that pack of hyenas in DC even once.

here’s the scary thing, though: her parents reportedly said that even if she had left her wishes in writing, they’d have ignored them unless it meant keeping her breathing. The consolation is that it probably would have been harder for them to do so, and this mess would be long over by now.

Me, I’m donating to Body Worlds if they’ll have me. I figure I’d look better without my skin anyhow.

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