Salamandre Wine Cellars Spring 2008 Newsletter
The Owl Feather in Dead Horse Canyon

A kindly gentleman with powerful binoculars and a well-worn guidebook once told me with a broad wink that there are three kinds of birds: little brown birds, big brown birds…and owls. My Trinity Alps musical companion of 2007, the Townsend's Solitaire, is probably one of the first category, but, I'd have to say, I think the raptors deserve a place in the hierarchy.

The compulsion to say something, in itself, illustrates a personal weakness. But for now, let's just stipulate that owls have distinctive, if not mystical, virtues.

So does the wilderness. Raw environments teach us many lessons. Sometimes these involve pain—the abrupt, crunchy kind—but hopefully more often they deliver inspirations. One thing seems predictable, however: the revelations hardly ever turn out to be the ones we expected. Instead, perhaps they are the ones we needed.

In late March, George and I scraped off the accreted dross of our winter torpor, tossed our backpacks into the truck, and headed once again to Death Valley for a four-day, 40 mile hike. Our first day took us up Cottonwood Canyon to the three springs that support the improbable groves of mature green trees in the middle of one of the world's most parched gullies.

The second day took us up the proverbial “ Lonesome Valley ” where we discovered we were not alone at all. We saw wild horses browsing, a golden eagle prowling, and the tracks of many coyotes, undoubtedly howling…in addition to some of fastest lizards on Earth. We hiked North into a gathering clutch of black clouds, crested the 5000 foot ridgeline at the head of the canyon, chose the right compass bearing, and descended happily to Dead Horse Springs…probably named for a not-so-happy horse. We welcomed a brief desert shower which left glinting sunsparkles on every surface, while lacing the air with the aroma of wet sage. After a fine meal of pasta with shallots, porcini, pine nuts, crumbled smoked salmon, and wild water cress, we were treated to an owl conversation through most of the night. Hidden peepers and crickets surrounded us with love songs, although I don't think they were courting the two whiskery humans.

We awoke with a crusty ice glaze upon our bags, and the third day proved to be the charm. Perked by George's French Press coffee and the delight of a crystalline blue sky, we descended Dead Horse Canyon . We traced a braided stream through flowers, rushes, and moss, capturing the shimmering gold of morning reflections. We even splashed in a legitimate waterfall before the desert finally reclaimed the surface water. We entered one section of striking, polished zebra striped marble walls. These would have been marvelous in their own right…except that I found an owl feather sitting on the floor of the wash. Owl feathers are nearly silent when one rubs the vanes against skin, and they seem to beckon the slightest movement of air. Certainly a rare and precious omen! In moment of prancing indulgence, I installed the feather in a hole in my hat. (I believe this is a technical violation of National Park Service rules, but I made amends.)

We rounded the next bend, and as I looked up the flanks of a side canyon, the bushes appeared to be covered with cottonwood fluff, glowing in the morning sun. But that was all wrong; cottonwoods don't make fluff in March. On closer inspection, the luminous tufts turned out to be downy underfeathers. Soon we found other, larger feathers…that matched the one in my hat.

I was stricken by a great sadness. What a loss to Nature. Then the questions: How could an owl ever allow itself to be caught? What predator could pull that off? What if she had owlets starving in some inaccessible grotto high on the cliff? My grief was followed by a wave of embarrassment. My original exultation finding the single feather felt like crass souvenir grubbing.

George put his hand on my shoulder and reminded me that wild things, even owls, don't live forever, and we may have wandered into one of those sacred, private flexures in time, as we all will, probably in a less beautiful place.

At that instant, a ball of fluff on the canyon floor stirred in a barely palpable canyon breath, then lifted a few inches above the gravel. A second puff sent it twirling upwards a few feet, hovering in the air just a pace away. Then it darted above our heads, swaying back and forth as the canyon shrank below it. The feathers drifted higher, gaining speed until they broke into the sunlight with an exuberant flash of light. The bright ball soared higher, circling, dipping like a kite, drifting lazily for a while, then vaulting higher again, gleaming, tumbling, laughing it seemed, until the now tiny speck disappeared with a twinkle into the skies of the Valley of Most Determined Life.

This time, there was nothing I needed to say. But that was then.

Now, I think there are a few things to share, among them a great sense of relief that endurance of the spirit is not merely a conjured opiate to salve the pains of the suffering, or manipulate gullible parishioners, or assuage the guilt of cheaters and brutes who have found late but convenient penitence.

For George and me, the next two days were filled with joy as we probed far deeper into the upper reaches of Marble Canyon than we planned. A rarely seen long-eared owl left his rocky perch and drifted silently across the narrow canyon at dusk. We saw rock art of geological provenance…and the inscrutable petroglyphs of canyon walkers 1000 years ago…and fossils, flowers, and forgiveness.

Of course, some Primitivo met its proverbial maker over dinner, too.

Come see us at Salamandre. We'll pull a cork and see if you can make it fly on the wings of friendship and hope. We'll help.

Wells Shoemaker MD, Winemaker.
April, 2008