12/18/2022: Quiet

Today, I took a walk with the dogs. To my right, the arroyo dropped 30′ to a shelf of cottonwoods and scrub oak. A thin ribbon of water wound its way down canyon.

To my left, the cliff face rose 600′ to a high mesa. “Monero Man” (a stone figure) lives up there in the rocks, but is hard to see from this angle.

It was quiet. There was no wind, no planes, no birds. Dead quiet. Even my footsteps were hushed. The dogs trotted ahead. They were suddenly on high alert, hearing something out of my range; channeling ancestral Dingo pack behavior: ears up, hackles up, tails straight out, gaze swinging left and right looking for any disturbance in the quiet. On patrol. Hair rose on the back of my neck.

A loud crash exploded from the scrub oak near the creek, 50 yards away. I caught a quick glimpse of an elk butt before it vanished into thicker brush. The bushes shook and branches cracked. The dogs stood stock still, turned to face this potential menace. A flock of small birds and a dozen ravens and crows emerged from the cottonwoods, cackling, cawing, and squawking as they rose into the air, angry that their afternoon nap was disturbed.

For 15 seconds, the noise was cacophonous, as the birds reacted to the elk. Then, just as quickly, the elk stopped moving, and the birds settled back into the bare branches with a few loud complaints. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk cried “kree! kree!”, circled once to check things out (anything yummy down there?), then took the currents up to the top of the cliff. All was quiet again. It happened that fast. The elk was likely just getting comfy.

The dogs looked at me, as if asking if there was something they should have done. I gave them a treat, and we continued our walk in the December light.

Whoever said that winter was boring?