The largest Southern Pacific Rattlesnake I’ve seen at Upper Las Virgenes Canyon Open Space Preserve (Ahmanson Ranch)), or anywhere else. This one was on the fire road in East Las Virgenes Canyon, near Las Virgenes Canyon.
I counted 12 rattle segments, and as the video shows, the snake was nearly as long as the dirt road was wide.
From a run on Wednesday from the Victory trailhead to Las Virgenes Creek.
Related post: Southern Pacific Rattlesnake
Even though it was Summer, it was cold. Except for the clinking of our climbing gear, it was still and quiet at 13,000 ft. The sun had not yet risen, and I was perched on an icy step just below the bergschrund of Palisade Glacier. Tom had just crossed the large crevasse, and the brightly colored red rope ran through my hands as he worked up the ice of U-Notch couloir.
After a few moments, the rope stopped. My view of Tom on the steep ice slope above was obscured by the lip of the bergschrund, but from the clanking of the ice screws, it sounded like Tom had paused to put in some pro. It was early in the climb, and while keeping tabs on what was happening above, I surveyed the glacier below.
Even if the glacier was minuscule by Pacific Northwest standards, it was the largest in the Sierra Nevada, and my first “real” glacier. Most of the snow on its surface had melted, exposing the gray glacier ice. Also uncovered were parallel crevasses where the ice had flexed over a buried ridge or projection and cracked. We had bivied on the glacier just for the experience, peering into turquoise blue crevasses, and listening to its creaks and groans.
Now in the brightening light, my gaze followed the ice-sculpted canyons down into the Owens Valley and then across to the Inyo Mountains, along whose crest the sun would soon emerge.
What the — suddenly there was a loud buzzing at my ear, and in the second it took to identify the sound, a hummingbird landed on the climbing rope, just a few inches from my gloved hand. I stayed as still as possible and hoped Tom would not move. Curious eye met curious eye and we just pondered each other, asking in so many words, “What are you doing here?”
On another Sierra climbing excursion, Phil and I were hiking from the South Fork Kings, over the Monarch Divide, to the turrets in the Gorge of Despair. On a late summer morning, in a high, gilia-covered meadow, we paused to take some photos of wildflowers. There was much buzzing about the meadow and several hummingbirds.
Watching the activity, we stood in awe as a pair of hummingbirds flew at ground level from opposite ends of the meadow. Just feet above the wildflowers, they flew directly at each other, meeting in the middle of the meadow and then zooming upward together in a frenzy of flight. The pair then circled back and repeated the maneuver.
My most recent hummingbird encounter was Saturday at Stoney Point. I had done my usual circuit through the array of massive sandstone rocks, stopping at various boulders to do particular rock climbing moves. Earlier, I had watched some rabbits “playing chase” with a ground squirrel. I say “playing” because that’s what it looked like. Neither animal appeared particularly concerned, and the squirrel would weave and wind, running first from one rabbit and then another.
I had worked around to the back of Stoney Point and had just passed Maggie’s corridor. I heard buzzing and the familiar “tsk-tsk” of an upset hummingbird, followed by the equally familiar warning whistle of a ground squirrel. Hummingbirds are territorial, and I just assumed that I had stumbled upon some kind of weird territorial dispute. I looked for the hummingbird and for a moment did not see it. The squirrel whistled again, this time very near. This was odd. A squirrel will usually dive for cover when a threat is close.
Then I saw the hummingbird. It was about three feet away, backlit by the sun, and perched in the bare branches at the top of a sumac bush. As I watched, it continued to “tsk-tsk” its concerns. Then, in an explosive intake and expulsion of air that very briefly swelled its body, it expelled the loud warning note that I had mistaken to be the warning whistle of a squirrel!
The title photo is of a male Anna’s hummingbird on showy penstemon, near Eagle Rock in the Santa Monica Mountains.
Related post: Bigberry Manzanita – A Hummingbird Hotel
Even if the calendar is a little slow, Spring is here. The oaks are leafing out, goldfields blooming, chorus frogs singing, and I just had my first rattlesnake encounter of the year.
The single track trail paralleled the dirt road in upper Las Virgenes Canyon. I weaved and wound my way through the grassland and oaks, eventually returning to the road near the connector to Cheeseboro Canyon.
Usually, the sound of my footfalls would be enough to abruptly silence the sing-song of the frogs at the creek crossing. As I approached the creek, the calls slowed but did not stop. I paused at a small pool and stood quietly.
Over a period of seconds, the chorus of the frogs grew to a surprising intensity, interleaving and reverberating in such a way as to envelop me in sound. In the small pond at my feet, I could not see the frogs, but I could see the waves and ripples of their calls on the water’s surface. Immersed in sound, I stood still for a few moments, and then crossed the creek, and continued down the canyon.
I’d been thinking about it earlier in the run. Highs had been in the 80’s since Monday. Was three days enough to get the rattlesnakes out and about?
I reacted to the rattle before I heard it, leaping away from the sound. The snake was in the grass at the margin of the trail, about halfway up “the Beast,” west of Lasky Mesa. It was nearly invisible in the tall grass, and only an inch or two off the overgrown path. Fortunately, it’s reaction had been similar to mine, a defensive recoil, rather than a strike.
The adrenalin of the encounter quickened my pace up the hill. At the top of a hill, a falcon flew from a sentinel oak. I followed its flight until it disappeared in the glare of the setting sun, and sighed…
A California mountain kingsnake on the South Fork Trail, in the San Gabriel Mountains, near Los Angeles.
From our trail run on Sunday.
Did an enjoyable run at Sage Ranch today that started and ended in showers, but also included a few moments of subdued sun.
The shrub with the yellow-orange leaves is rain soaked poison oak. As I took the photo, a California towhee landed in its limbs, probably a little concerned about the unexpected house guest. From a towhee point of view, a thick chaparral shrub is a homey place with all of the creature comforts.
In chaparral areas towhees are common, and I frequently see them on my runs. Over years of running I’ve learned some of their habits.
Many times when I encounter a towhee on the trail, it will flutter and scurry along the ground just ahead of me, and then dart into a bush. Although not as dramatic as the broken wing act of a killdeer, this “catch me if you can” behavior is probably intended to draw a potential predator away from the bird’s nesting and living area.
Very different animals will often cooperate to benefit each other. In the case of a towhee, one of its best buds is apparently the cottontail rabbit. On occasion I will see the bird and rabbit foraging together on a trail. When trying to keep a wary eye out for potential predators, four eyes are much better than two.
Where there is one towhee, there will often be another nearby — presumably its mate. At Sage Ranch, I’ve repeatedly encountered a pair of towhees near a particular shrub over a period of several years.
Part of the appeal of trail running is that even on a short weekday run, close to home, on a familiar trail, stuff happens.
The plan for today’s trail run was a simple one — run up and down the Chumash Trail in Rocky Peak Park. By the time we were done, a 5 mile run would morph into a loop of nearly 10 miles. We would encounter a rattlesnake and a longhorn bull, and we would run short on water. But we would also have a great run!
I’ve run in the Rocky Peak area for decades, and from time to time have encountered cattle near the end of Rocky Peak road. In recent years, the herd has been hanging out in the oil field and oaks between Las Llajas Canyon (near Poe Ranch) and a small mesa east of Rocky Peak road.
Seems to me most of the stock used to be Brahman, but these days there are many longhorns in the mix and according to an expert, these could be Longhorn, Corriente, or a Longhorn/Corriente cross.
When they heard us coming down the road most of the cattle just moved to another area — except for the big guy in the title photo. He made it very clear that no one should be messing with his heifers. He was a little agitated. While he didn’t charge us, it seemed possible he might. Avoiding any appearance of confrontation, we kept moving, and after a few moments were well away from the herd.
Here’s a Cesium browser View of a GPS trace of the Chumash – Las Llajas loop.
Some related posts: Chumash – Las Llajas Loop, Las Llajas Hill 2484, Exploring Las Llajas