Close Encounter

I hiked Torrey Pines State Reserve, yesterday. I've hiked it once before, when I was interviewing in San Diego, but didn't go as far as I did yesterday. San Diego County is a surprisingly green desert. Dr. Seuss lived here, and it's obvious that the bizarre trees and plants in his books were heavily influenced by the native flora. The leaves of many plants have an orange "color cast," similar to the tint on unfiltered photos taken with analog cameras on sunny days. Many of the trees stretch upward in unnatural curves, naked almost all the way to the top. Their leaves are clustered in round puffs, and these puffs are powdered with the colors of dusk, a surreal color scheme that I've seen only in children's books!

Torrey Pines, named after a very rare, bonsai-like pine tree species that grows here, is one of the most spectacular natural parks I've ever experienced. Amidst a Mediterranean climate, a collision of chaparral and coastal sage scrub ecosystems, spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean (watch for dolphins surfing near the shore, or for whales in the distance) and grizzled species of flora and fauna that you would expect to see in much harsher climates, it leaves you desperately trying to encapsulate it all in a way your hyperstimulated brain can understand.

I hiked along the mesas of the park, which reflect to each other their precipitous, grooved, and pocketed sandstone cliffs dropping away into green ravines. I startled Audubon cottontail rabbits near the trail as I approached them. At one point, I encountered a scaly lizard of the desert, probably a western fence lizard, in the middle of my path. It didn't budge, so I viewed it from about seven feet away with 10-power binoculars. In an anthropomorphic gesture, it cocked its left eye up and looked me directly in the eyes. After a few moments, I let it win the staring contest and continued onward.

I reached an overlook at the edge of the cliff that was fenced in with large, squared logs, to prevent people from tipping over to their demise 600 feet below, and as I looked for dolphins in the Pacific Ocean and watched brown pelicans skimming the water, their wingtips almost touching the waves, I heard a sharp note that probably came from a towhee or finch somewhere in the ravine behind me. I turned around, and I saw a common raven flying up the ravine. It turned sharply towards me and landed on a wooden post just three feet away!

The raven didn't make any aggressive gestures; just watched me with curiosity, croaking every few seconds. It impressed me with a shaggy "beard" of feathers and a heavy-looking bill. Its eyes were a dull milky-black, the color of death; its intentions impenetrable. I didn't know if I should turn around or keep staring -- I feared being attacked because I didn't want to have to hurt the bird. Suddenly, it hopped off the post and coasted down the sandstone cliff facing the sea. It disappeared into the cliffside, several yards below, and I figured it's nesting there.

I turned around to leave, spoke to some hikers nearby about the experience, and the raven flew back up to several yards over our heads, flying in small haloes. We disbanded, but I kept watching the bird. Another raven, this one with a partly-unfeathered head, flew onto a torrey pine cast almost into a frieze in the valley below, its trunk providing a horizontal perch for the bird, its five-needled branches seemingly sprouting from the valley itself. The first raven joined it; their playful behavior suggested they were mates.

Later on, during the hike, I saw a raven fly into one of the many pockets in the sandstone cliffs; I brought my binoculars up and saw a portion of what was probably its nest. Other interesting sights included the large, smooth, and shiny stink beetles encountered on the trail, and a wren singing remarkable songs and that I've not yet identified. I also saw a spotted towhee and several California towhees.

On a lagoon near the shore, I spotted a bird species that seemed to be a cross between a tern and a black skimmer. At first I thought these birds were skimmers, but when they flew (one-by-one, towards the ocean) they seemed like very large terns with gull-like wingspans. I hoped I was seeing tropicbirds, but googling last night trampled this hope: they were Caspian terns, the largest tern species in the world.

Aerial Battle

I am in the beautiful seaside town of Del Mar, California, in search of a home. I start residency, nearby, in a month!

I ran atop a cliff today, and I saw two crows harassing a much larger raven. The crows made large loops, redoubling to attack the raven, and each time the raven would twirl onto its back in mid-air, meet the attack, and then correct itself. It may have twirled 360 degrees a few times! As I ran, the aerial battle moved in my general direction until I passed the birds and eventually descended to the beach below. As they battled overhead, I saw that the raven was carrying something in its beak. I didn't have my binoculars. It flew away from the cliffside and down the beach, with the crows in distant pursuit.

Ravens are known for their acrobatics near oceanside cliffs. They will sometimes turn 180 degrees and fly belly up for a while!

Periodically, during my run, solitary gulls larger than the raven would soar low overhead (I was standing atop a cliff, so they were pretty high above sea level). Once, a fleet of three brown pelicans in tight formation, leader in front, palpably filled the sky as they flew past.

I have a new appreciation for pelicans. There are many brown pelicans in Del Mar. They have huge wingspans, and they fly with wings strictly parallel to the ocean surface, such that only the natural curves of their wings break the parallelism. The wind is always blowing inland, and I view these soaring pelicans from clifftops. They skim the clifftops like radio-controlled aircraft: when they're flying in from the Pacific, I have to double-check to ensure they aren't small planes! They fly so low that I fear colliding with them.

I like Del Mar. It's a progressive little town. At night, there's little light pollution. Driving through the convoluted, narrow, clifftop streets, I'm forced to turn on my rental car's high beam to see what's in front of me.

I looked at a two-bedroom apartment here with a potential roommate, and one of the bedrooms had a window facing a half-block-sized construction area. The landlord said that, for decades, this was an undeveloped plot of land filled with native grasses and beautiful trees. Many years ago, a contract had been signed to prevent developers from ruining it. I don't know the exact story, but the current owner is apparently hungry or greedy enough to break this pact with the community. Such a loss of uniquely beautiful Southern California landscape.

I spend part of each day searching for an apartment, and my parents' tomtom GPS device has been indispensable. I'm a technology minimalist, but I realize that this device has saved me so much time and gasoline.

Global positioning device
with sultry, Hollywood voice,
I'd be lost without you.

Where have you been all my life?