On the Trail

Diplomat of
Cloud-Banish Canyon

There’s a place we’ve dubbed Cloud-Banish Canyon because when our wee home in the Mulholland Valley is buried under sopping clouds, Mt. Haleakala-style, this canyon a few miles to the southwest is generally cloud-free, warm and bright. Generally. As in life, there are no guarantees when you’re rolling the dice with Nature and climate.

Clouds depress the heck out of me unless they’re (1) bringing much needed rain and therefore serving a legitimate purpose; or (2) highly ornamental cumuli—those towering marshmallow mountains of gleaming white fluff with dramatic sculptural shapes no one can ever agree on:

"I see a pagoda!"

"A rabbit!"

"A dragon!"

So much for the communal Rorschach test in the sky.

But even these pagoda/rabbit/dragon-shaped interlopers can be a nuisance, casting vast chill shadows, so we flee to Cloud-Banish Canyon where we can glance homeward smugly. Yup, piles of cumuli stacked above ol’ Mulholland-Land but we’re free and clear and sweating like members of a chain gang at hard labor.

This is my primary raison d’être for living in Southern California—to be able to stay warm in winter. Yeah, sure, others may have migrated for better jobs and what once may have been affordable housing and breathable air, but me, I came to roast all through winter like the main course on a spit at a Hawaiian luau.

The canyon is bisected by a service road that dead ends at the last power pole, so for people seeking adventure and excitement, Cloud-Banish is fairly dull. There’s a dozen much more interesting, varied and challenging places I’d rather hike in the Santa Monica Mountains, but they all seem to fall short in the swelter factor. So we leave adventure and challenge to more cold-tolerant souls and spend all winter strolling Same-Old, Same-Old Road through Cloud-Banish, blissfully basking.

One day we notice fresh tire tracks on the road and figure the utility company is checking its towers. But then we spot an unmarked white SUV up ahead. We’re pretty far away but can just about distinguish a man getting out of the car balancing a strange contraption in his hands. The sun glints off the device as he disappears with it on a brushy knoll.

The dog spies the stranger, growls then directs some seriously indignant barking his way. There’s a whopper of an echo courtesy of the near canyon wall. And I thought I was alone in feeling somewhat territorial about Cloud-Banish Canyon. Having spent so much time visiting the place, even the dog developed a proprietary interest.

"Let’s check out this trespasser!" is my rallying cry to my companion, who’s already hot on the stranger’s trail. By the time we reach his vehicle I’ve got my notepad out, scribbling down the car’s make, model and license plate number. As the fellow emerges from the brush, I glare suspiciously at him then fire off my first volley:

"Who in heck are you and just what do you think you’re doing back in here anyway, bud?"

Diplomacy is just not in my genes.

He appears startled to encounter two manic ornery-looking creatures surrounding his vehicle, one barking furiously, the other scribbling furiously.

"How’s that again?" he calls uncertainly, remaining at a safe distance. It’s then I notice two things: he’s a slightly-built young man, unshaven and with dark sweat-slicked hair beneath a baseball cap; and he’s wearing the familiar drab uniform of a National Park Service (NPS) worker.

NPS owns or has an easement on most of the surrounding land.

Nice going, O Lord High Empress of Cloud-Banish Canyon, accosting a federal employee.

I quiet the dog and in a more civilized tone rephrase my original query to:

"Mind if I ask what you’re doing?"

"Wildlife tracking," he answers a bit sullenly, reaching for his car door handle as if still anxious to flee from us at a moment’s notice.

I ask what type of wildlife and he replies, "Mountain lion—there’s a radio-collared female that seems to spend a lot of time down in the canyon bottom. We get a signal from the GPS that helps us then we use this thing," he indicated the shiny object that resembled a mini-version of an old-time multi-tiered rooftop TV antenna, "and a compass."

With that he tugged on a cord and withdrew a fancy boxed compass from his shirt pocket, the kind of gizmo kids in the ’50s would save up 100 bubblegum wrappers to send away for.

I’m not big on government types but I start to think he’s okay—he had interesting toys and didn’t mind explaining their—or his—purpose. In turn, he seems to relax and regard us less as some overbearing lunatic duo.

He draws closer to show me a trail on his map. As he does I notice the brass name plate on his shirt. Now I’ve done it! This is not some youth who lost the office lottery and got sent out to do grunt work in the field. Now I’ve made a total fool of myself in front of Seth Riley, Ph.D., wildlife ecologist for the NPS’s Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area.

But he’s patient and polite as I unleash a torrent of apologies and lamebrained explanations for my presumptuous behavior, then assail him with 3,000 questions about his work. Clearly, diplomacy is in young Dr. Riley’s genes.

The sun cooks our respective heads as he talks about the "herp poaching" problem (illegal capture of snakes for sale to the trade or to be kept as pets; herpetology is the branch of zoology dealing with reptiles and amphibians) and of "veg grids" (charting native vegetation, though it sounded like a reconnaissance mission to a salad bar to me). And of bobcats’ denning habits and diet and his special subject of interest, big cats and the need to preserve vast tracts of open space for them.

We part on cordial terms.

The canyon is its old familiar self once more, quiet and warm and not a cloud in sight.