So there I was, sitting at the edge of a clearing, waiting hopefully for some unsuspecting buck to come lalalaing on by so that I could shoot him. It was the last two hours before sunset, and I’m a horrible fidget, although I was trying very hard to hold still.

At one point, I was being inspected by three tiny squirrels and a titmouse in a tree. I was pretty sure the bird and I were cool, but the squirrels were highly suspicious. I froze, although my eyes were rolling all over the place trying to watch them all. Squirrels will rat you out to the deer, the little furry weasels.

One of them was bouncing up and down trees, headed in my general direction. He popped up onto my stump; all I could see without moving my head was a tiny fluffy tail. Then he disappeared behind my back. I could hear him making little squirrelly noises, and was just waiting for the shoe to drop.

Then in about a microsecond, he zipped up my back, over my shoulder, rotated in mid-air, and landed on the barrel of my rifle facing me. He looked at me and I looked at him for a few beats until I blinked.

He went, “Eep!” and launched himself back over my shoulder, using my thumb as a springboard for his sharp little toes. He must have thought I was just an oddly blinking stump, because he didn’t really sound the alarm. A few minutes later, and here came one of his partners in crime, up to my right knee. That one didn’t quite get on me, but he zoomed up the trunk of the tree right next to me and scritched pieces of bark off onto my head to see if I would move, all from the lofty safe distance of about a foot over my head. I was holding back a serious case of the giggles at this point, expecting at any moment to be wearing a four-ounce squirrel hat.

Eventually they moved on, and I still sat. The only large things I saw moving were two-legs, and they’re not hard to hide from if you just hold still. No deer, but I sat in the quiet long enough for my ears to stop ringing and the noise in my head to settle out and just be.

---

This was an impromptu day trip with Marvin. This is what I’m saving vacation days for, after all, and on a Friday, I only have to blow a half-day’s worth. So I got up at 3 AM, and we drove to get there in time for first light.

We sat and walked for a couple of hours, and then road hunted during the middle of the day. I knew Eric was up there somewhere, and sure enough, he passed us. He didn’t stop, but he had a water truck hot on his ass and a guy in the passenger seat, so I knew he was busy. When we stopped for lunch, we came upon the water truck guys, and they told me where he was working.

Marv and I drove on back to overlook Salt Springs Reservoir; you could see the fish surfacing, the water is that clear.

We found Eric just on his way back out to the mill with a load of chips. I was so happy to see him (it’s been since June, although we’ve been talking on the phone a lot) that I was grinning from ear to ear and forgot to drag my camera out with me. Fortunately, he was grinning too. He told us where he’d seen bucks in the early morning hours, which is how I came to be squirrel bait, gave me a kiss, and went on with his job. We went on too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now that I’ve reacquainted myself with this area (it’s been five years since I hunted it and I only bought a tag for that zone this year so I could hunt with Eric) I may go up by myself for a weekend. I’ll put the trailer at the logging camp, maybe ride around with him on Saturday, and then he can stay with me instead of commuting home. He’s got his rifle in his truck; I giggle at the thought of an eighteen-wheeler pulled over to the side of the road with the driver trying to load a buck up onto the chips. It’s really tall!

 

There’s a killer running loose in this neighborhood. They caught one, but the other one’s still on the lam.

One of my working guys saw it happen too.

We’re working on putting in wells at a few houses, and one of them has a sweet white boxer tied up outside. He’s our buddy, and we all always play with him a little when we’re there.

The guys were working on the electrical system for the pump yesterday when my contractor called me in sort of a panic.

“There’s been an incident,” he said, “but not with the job.” And he told me what had happened.

A couple of pit bulls had run into the back of the yard, and the guys heard barking, but not a whole lot of it. When they went back there though, the boxer was down and covered with blood, and the female pit was standing there wagging her tail with blood all over her mouth. Lyle tried to catch them or at least see where they came from. We know they’re local, since I’ve picked them up at the office and called Animal Control on them before.

I got to the site and walked around back, expecting to see some minor wounds. The tenant wasn’t home, so I was a little worried about our liability should we decide to do anything. Lyle had already called the County, and they were on their way out. I didn’t have a phone number for the tenant lady; I called her landlord, who was out of the country, but he said he’d try the numbers he had.

I thought poor Huero was dead when I found him. He was in shock and breathing his last gasps. Animal Control got there before he expired, but he didn’t survive the ride to the shelter to be seen by the vet.

Lyle talked to the poor lady today, and she was sort of torn up. I’m just glad that her four-year-old daughter wasn’t there to either see it or become a target herself. One of those pits is people-friendly, but the other one isn’t. They caught one of the dogs that had done it, but the other one’s on the loose; we know damn well that his owner caught him and is hiding him. Animal Control says that the DA will prosecute and they won’t get that dog back, but it doesn’t matter; they’ve got fresh puppies to raise up to fight again. This is the land of the fighting cocks and dogs, after all.

Poor ol’ Huero. He was a good dog. I will officially not know anything if the other pit turns up with a bullet in his head.

And wasn’t that the truth this weekend, although it really wasn’t a “worst” hunting trip. We didn’t get to a tree, but the dogs did strike a few bears and we got to listen to a few races. Mostly, we just chased dogs trying to recover them, but at least it was up there in the mountains where the air isn’t chunky.

So, I’ll have to save pictures of bears in trees for the next trip, but I got a lot of the first part of bear hunting.

 

 

You start by driving in. This particular site is paved all the way to our camp, which is nice. It’s incredibly steep though, and I don’t have a lens that can capture that.

 

 

I did drive over the water and power supply for the city of San Francisco, which is all controversial around here. This here’s taken from the bridge over the Tuolomne River, which is dammed a little further up at Hetch Hetchy. You pass the power station right after the bridge.

After setting up camp and doing a little deer hunting, you all get up at oh-my-god-it’s-early, which is really only 5 AM and only an hour earlier than I usually get up. The stars are so dense that it reminds you that we’re not alone in this universe, it’s cold, and trucks and dogs are getting warmed up.

 

 

Then we’re out. Dogs on the box to pick up scents, driving slowly down the roads watching for tracks in the dirt.

 

 

When we finally get a strike, it’s immediate and obvious. The dogs sing their hearts out, and are ready to go.

 

 

The dogs wonder what’s taking us so long. But we’re out checking on the tracks, making sure that the dogs start going in the right direction. It’s no fun if they follow the back trail, where the bear has been, rather than where it’s going, after all.

 

 

 

  

Finally, Don and Todd turn out the dogs, and we watch and listen to them.

 

  

 

 

Mostly, we listen.

And when they’ve moved on out of ear and tracking collar range (the same sort you use for tracking elk Grouse, I think) then we follow in the trucks. There’s a lot of stopping, shutting off the engines, and jumping out and holding perfectly still so we can hear. The dogs are very faint sometimes, and sometimes completely absent.

 

 

Sometimes we stop on points and listen over the edges.

 

 

Sometimes we drive through creeks to get to other sides of the canyons.

 

 

Sometimes, other people are complete idiots and don’t manage to stay on the road at all. (This was driven by a kid, whose very disgusted-looking father told us that he wasn’t even run off the road, he was just screwing around driving too fast. We’re all a little baffled at how he managed to fly off the inside curve of the road far enough to embed himself on rocks bad enough that the tow truck driver took one look and said, “Unh-uh.” and wouldn’t pull him out. Probably the five dog rigs standing around snickering didn’t help the guy’s feelings, but he refused the ride we offered. Last we saw, he was pulling off the plates and walking down the road with his shotgun. Was it stolen to start with? Is abandoning it going to help? Who knows.)

Usually this weekend, at this point, we figure out that the dogs either aren’t after anything really fresh, or they’ve backtracked themselves (bad dogs!) or otherwise lost the trail. Maybe they treed the bear and we couldn’t hear it; maybe it wasn’t a bear after all. We didn’t actually see the tracks at every strike. Then the hard part starts: getting the dogs back. That involves lots more driving ninety miles an hour on high country dirt roads, stopping, listening, and trying to triangulate them with their collars and the receivers. Which isn’t helped by them moving.

Finally, all the dogs are back, and after the weekend, (which started on Thursday for them) they’re pretty tired.

 

  

And eventually, it’s time to go home. Too bad; I was ready to stay another day.

While I couldn’t capture the sheer ruggedness of these mountains, here’s a panorama I put together of five shots from the edge of one of the roads we were on. The lake in the distance is Cherry Lake, where we ran that big bear last year. The horizon is well into Yosemite Park, but we don’t hunt north of the lake. Photo is thumbnailed; click to embiggen.

 

The challenging thing about driving home last night was keeping my foot out of it. After a month of having my wings clipped, it felt sooo good to have some muscle again. But driving like a seventeen year old boy is what got me into this mess, so I’d best behave. Until it’s paid off, at least.

I saw the old intercooler; the part I had blown out was made of plastic, so there was no putting it back together. Waiting for the aftermarket (and metal!) part was well worth it; there will be no blowing out of this one. Something else will fail first. I asked my mechanic what the next weakest spot is, and he thinks it’s probably the transmission. Getting those gauges will let me keep an eye on that too.

So with mobility back, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge tonight. One deer season’s open and the other one opens tomorrow. I’d rather not hunt alone this time, since I’m alone all the stinkin’ time lately, so I’m going to wait until four this afternoon to pick my spot. See, there’s a fire up where Eric’s working, so he might have the weekend off, and if so, we’ll go together. If not, I’ll head for my friends the bear hunters. I know where they’re camped and I’m always welcome to join them. If I don’t feel like bear hunting (yeah, like that’ll happen; bear hunting’s FUN) at least I’ll have company in camp at night.

A half day of work and then some frantic food shopping and packing, and I’m out of here, off to find my peace. See ya!

It’s that time of year again.

The drop in temperature and the quality of the light at dawn give me the itch to be up in the mountains. It’s my time of year, and I live for it these days. Today is opening day in my preferred hunting zone, in fact, but instead of sitting quietly on a stump, I’m down here typing.

Opening day isn’t my favorite anyway. It’s usually too hot and most of the deer haven’t moved down from the higher elevations yet. I’m not a huge fan of crowded dusty roads and getting shot at, and opening day is full of both of those. Besides, I have the kids, and I’ve been resigned to only hunting every other weekend for the last decade or so.

But I couldn’t go anyway, and that’s what’s catching at the back of my mind. My truck’s still not fixed, so even if I had the weekend free, I couldn’t get up there. I don’t expect it to be ready by next weekend either, and that’s really going to eat at me. I’m not even ready to hunt yet; usually by now, I’d have all of my tags filled out and neatly placed in their ziplock bag in my pack along with everything else I’ll need. I haven’t done that yet. The trailer’s not plugged in or filled with water waiting to go. My hunting clothes are in it, but they live there all year anyway. I’m not mentally prepared, and I really should be in case one of my friends will bring me with them on short notice.

---

The week’s been full of little things not worth their own entry.

I sent in the application for that job, and warned my current boss that he could be getting a call. I didn’t want to surprise him, and they’ve known all along that I can’t relocate. Now that I’ve done that, I find it hard to look myself in the eye when I think about how little I’m actually doing these days at work. I’m a little embarrassed; it’s dwindled so gradually that I didn’t notice right off that I’ve become a complete slacker. I worry that people think that’s a function of who I am, rather than the job I’ve got. I don’t want to look lazy, but there’s just not that much to do. If I have to leave before my last two projects are finished, it won’t matter. Someone else can easily pick up that slack.

I took the cat in to be neutered yesterday. He came home wide-eyed and subdued from the anesthetic, but he’s leaving himself alone once he got the vet-stink off of him. He was very cuddly last night. I’m really starting to dig this having a cat thing; he’s my little buddy who trips me routinely by walking between my feet and who sleeps every night in my left armpit. He’s getting big too; almost eight pounds yesterday, and he’s only four months old.

I decided to have my Ren Faire dress altered. I was a little hesitant about changing it and having it not done as well as it was originally made, but it really wasn’t going to work as it was. They’re taking about two inches off, so it should be nice and supportive, and what cleavage I have left won’t slither down into the bodice, never to be seen again. I’m having them leave the extra fabric in case I get fat again, but it might as well be wearable now. Of course, I also can’t get to the Ren Faire until the truck’s fixed.

That truck has my life on hold, I swear. At least I can get around town, but getting on the freeway is hazardous when there’s a big rig barrelling down on you, and you can’t get it above 40 in time to merge. I’m minimizing my freeway trips as much as possible and picking long on-ramps, because I like to live. I’m not looking forward to that repair bill either, especially with a pay cut possibly coming up.

So, low-level stress all around this week. I’m going to take advantage of the fall weather and cook. Beer-braised short ribs and homemade pizza are on the menu for this weekend, both of which should occupy my mind and time with something safe for a while.

After last year’s most entertaining Renaissance Faire, I decided to get a little more into it. I browsed the hell out of eBay and googled my heart out. Finally, a few months ago, I settled on the lovely Laura of Greycat Designs, and sent in my measurements. I sort of waited until the last minute, thinking that I was being unreasonably optimistic. After all, my diets never do work, so why wouldn’t I be the same size?

Uh, yeah. This one did. I have no idea how much weight I’ve lost, but I’ve dropped at least a pants size and I’m still losing on the Quit Drinking So Much Stinkin’ Beer Diet. Which means that my lovely dress, which arrived today, is a little too big. It’s close enough to wear now, but if I lose much more, I won’t be able to without falling right out of it when I bend over. Sadly, I lost my cleavage too. Damn, if I could keep any part of being fat, it would be that!

What’s that you say? You want pictures? OK, but bear in mind that I’m horrible in front of the camera, and for some reason can’t smile even when I’m doing the picture-taking myself, by remote control. It looks a little baggy because it is; I may yet find someone to take it in, but it’s so well made that I’d be afraid to ruin it.

 

 

Now, if only I could get my truck fixed so I can actually get over the Pacheco Pass, I can go to the Faire in style. 

 

I’ve always known that this job wouldn’t last forever. It’s the nature of the beast; sooner or later, the site was going to get cleaned up and I would be out of a job. Every year, in fact, I’m surprised to have been working at it for a whole year longer. Each fall, I get nervous that my contract won’t get renewed.

So, last February, I started to do something about it. I found a posting on the County’s website about a very closely related position that would have a lot more security, if not as much pay. I jumped through hoops to get certified to be considered for it, and then I sat back to enjoy my salary at what was possibly the last year at my current job.

Fall’s here again though, so it’s nervous time. That job posting is still open, but it’s not the only direction in which I could go. I could hold my breath that another County job, one that hasn’t even been created yet, becomes available before I end up scrambling on the unemployment line. Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bright, does it?

I filled out the application, but I’ve been second-guessing myself to death. The salary cut would be pretty significant, especially if I have to give up my business, as I suspect that I would. I think I’d be happier doing the other job, but it’s a figment of someone else’s imagination at this point, and it wouldn’t be terribly smart to wait on it.

I talked to my client’s rep today to see if I’m even funded for next year in the position that I’m in. He hasn’t heard that I’m not, but we both agree that it’s fairly likely that I’ll only be partially funded. So, does a four-day per week job plus keeping my business going for one more year equal a 20K pay cut, but with good long-term stability? I don’t think it quite does, but I’m loathe to give up my last three months at this salary.

I’m getting old to start a new career. This wouldn’t exactly be new new, but it would be different enough that it would take me a few years to catch back up to my present level. What are my choices though? Take the hit now, or struggle through next year and take it anyway in a year? I might as well get started on it if I’m going to do it.

I do think that I’m a strong enough candidate that I have some bargaining room. I do have nine years of very closely related experience and can probably hold out for the high end of the salary range. I could see talking them into letting me keep half of the business, just not the part that’s contracted with the County or that works in the very industry within the County that the new position oversees. Maybe I can keep the City part of it though, which would help. I’ve heard through the rumor mill that they really don’t have the funding to fill the position until December anyway, which would be perfect for me. I could finish up my last couple of projects here and keep my nice paycheck a little bit longer, but have something waiting for me in the wings.

If I do take this job, and do have to give up that part of my business, I don’t think Big Jeff would be able to keep the contract if he’s gone to Iraq for eight months. Which would totally put the squeeze on the other possibility to go ahead and make it a position, rather than paying the contractor that costs them three times as much as we do. And an interagency transfer is much easier than getting hired into it cold.

This is one of those times when it really bites to be single. I’ve bounced the thoughts off of several friends, and that’s helped enormously, but it’s not quite the same thing as sharing a decision with someone who loves you. It gets weary after a while, carrying the load all alone. I haven’t had to look for a new job since before I was divorced, and I had a safety net for that one. All of the others have fallen into place, one after the other, as conditions changed and my experience with this site grew.

But none of this is even going to be possible if I don’t apply for the damn thing, so I’ve decided to stop beating myself up about possibilities. The package is on my desk at home, waiting to be taken to the post office tomorrow.

Wish me luck; I’m going to need help landing on my feet this time.

I’ve never written about it.

I wasn’t journalling then, although I was reading others’. In the years after, it seemed that everything that could be said about it, had been, and by better writers than me.

Writing about political things just isn’t what I do anyway, and it’s become so politicized. I write about things that happen, goofy stuff that I come across in my everyday life. I’m not so good at addressing feelings.

But it wasn’t a tool of the politicos on that day. That day, it was all about what was happening and the wild emotions that went with it.

It was about talking to a stranger at the gas station at 7 AM, and not believing.

It was about dragging a TV into the office.

About working on a Federal site that was being shut down, and being one of the last to leave because we had hot asphalt on the ground.

About locking the gate to the flight line behind me, worrying about it for the first time in years.

About facing the horror of the day with my friend the photographer, who I was dating at the time, and not knowing that the way those towers falling would also doom that fledgling relationship somehow.

About feeling willing to go back into the Army (as if they’d take a middle-aged, limpy asthmatic.)

About picking the kids up from school early, but not knowing what to tell them, and instead we three spent the afternoon in tears, glued to the television at home.

It was about the way our lives as a country were changed. The mindset in which we raise our children. The way we look at the world, and how we’re seen in turn.

I still don’t have the words, but don’t think that a silence on my part is a lack of thought. That day is still burned on my brain as if it were yesterday, and I don’t know anyone for whom that’s not the case.

This one for a coworker/friend’s wife. I’d never met her, but after spending five hours honoring her, I sort of feel like I had, and I wish I’d had the chance to get to know her. He’s really a neat person, and apparently so was she. He doesn’t deserve to be a widower at 50, but then, who ever does deserve that?

I feel for what he’s going to go through in the next few years; I only lost a love by being dumped. I can still see mine once in a while, hear his voice. He lost his soul mate, and won’t ever get to hear her voice again. They’d been married for 16 years, and were among the happiest people that I knew. Two months ago, she was OK; sick, but only a little. Liver cancer can sneak up on a body though, and it devastated their family.

All of this time I’ve spent feeling lonely this summer is nothing on what he’s going through. I’m not sure what to say to him when he does come back to work. We have one of those strictly work friendships, not a social one, and we usually keep it rather light and superficial. There’s nothing superficial about the way he’s feeling now.

It was the most beautiful ceremony I’ve ever been to. It was held in an ancient (for California) chapel on a former Naval base. The stained glass windows are the oldest examples of Tiffany Glass west of the Mississippi. The dates on some of them were from the 1800s. The wood was so polished with use that it glowed. There was a large and varied turnout too; suited environmental professionals mixed with free-flowing environmentalists. I shouldn’t have worn mascara; even though I’d never met her, I couldn’t help but cry for what my friend and the rest of her family had lost.

For someone who only steps foot in churches for two reasons, I’ve been in an alarming number of them this year, and only once for a wedding. It’s been a long year.

There was a blip on the radio on the way in to work this morning about redneck poetry. Now, I don’t write poetry and I don’t particularly want tickets to Toby Keith (sacrilege! But I’ve seen him) but I do like a nice haiku now and then, and the more off-beat, the better. Feel free to add to them in the comments.

That bear killed my hound
Tracking collar not helping
if signal don’t move

That’s a redneck car
Four wheel drive El Camino
with big mudder tires

Almost deer season
Time to sight in the guns
and pack the cooler

The trailer’s ready
only a little dry-rot
but the heater works

You have a problem?
This is my favorite hat
It’s old and dirty

Nothing like cooking
barbecue on the back porch
bring on the beer!

Don’t complain about
smell of cowshit in the air
the cows were here first

Quit building houses
in our cornfields and pastures
commuters go home

Lost our red heeler
jumped out of the truck in town
hasn’t come home yet

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Had to add one after the last phone call:

Truck still anemic
intercooler backordered
stuck in the flatland