Lama Jigme Namgyal Rinpoche

Spent some hours this morning at the Lama’s. We did meditations designed to bring us to emptiness. I lazily contemplated Sandru, the white cat, snoozing on the exact center of the carpet border, and after a while I was nodding off myself, remembering Losang Samten’s tales of the monk at his monastery who invariably fell asleep during meditation, drooling and snoring. Am I the class clown here? Nobody said anything so maybe I’m OK.

After meditation 5 of us conversed over black tea, an experience rendered exotic because Lama Jigme communicates with his translator, Esteban Castillo, in Chinese. Esteban is a native Costa Rican who speaks idiomatic American English and evidently fluent Chinese as well. He doesn’t speak Tibetan. Lama Jigme speaks Tibetan and Chinese but only recently  peppers his talks with a few words of English. So Lama Jigme speaks, in Chinese, usually at considerable length. Here and there Esteban will interject a word for clarification. The rest of us wait. Then Esteban reels off the entire segment in English. As with Chugdud Tulku Rinpoche before him, Lama Jigme catches any missed nuance regardless of language barrier. And he usually adds a few extra comments at the end just as Esteban winds down.

As ever, after a while I turned the converstion around to animals. Lama said if we take care of an animal, or save an animal from death, we “own that animal’s life.” Certainly HSUS would agree. He went on to say if Sandru could speak, most of it would be complaints. How true. So I had put myself out there as the protector of animals.

Clear enough. But later in the afternoon it got gnarlier.

Lately Sadie balks whenever it’s time to get back in the SUV. She can’t tell me her legs hurt, but I know it’s her arthritis. Her accustomed SUV entrance was for years a jump up to the front passenger floor, then a quick twist and leap to the back over the center cup holder and  the folded up rear seats.

But now she’s doggie 9 which equals people 63. She can do the jump in the garage when we’re setting out and she’s still fresh, but after a 2-hour walk, it’s too much for her. She doesn’t know how to tell me, she just knows she damn well doesn’t want to do it. So she wanders away, sniffing brush as though there is a special fascination here at the parking spot. She lets me leash her at this point, but sometimes it’s tricky with her drifting just far enough away to frustrate me before she finally stands still.Every extra move is painful for me; my arthritis is as bad or worse than hers.

Having recognized the problem, I got a ramp for her. This means once I leash her, I have to  open the back hatch, drag out the heavy ramp, then lure her up the incline with treats, all one-handed on my part as I am holding her leash the whole time. The first few times she twisted and balked and pulled right out of her collar. But it’s been four or five times now and last she anticipates the new routine, and I can lure her up the ramp and into the vehicle with training treats.

It’s shocking that her learning curve was so slow because ramp was her favorite obstacle in agility a few short years ago; she flew up the A-frame with no hesitation, dragging me behind her. Yes, my lama, change is the only constant.

So those are the  circumstances. Here’s what was weird today:

1. A battered old SUV, I think a Chevvy Blazer, all dented white with a blue roof and “911″ stenciled on the driver’s side rear exterior and on the other side a faded sign: “Paranormal research” and a young thin dark-haired woman parked at the Veronica entrance to the fields just sitting in the driver’s seat. She smiles and waves when I drive by her to park in our usual spot. She is looking at some sort of instrument. A video camera? She stays there at least 30 minutes, is still there when we leave.

2. As soon as I park and let her out, Sadie promptly disappears. There are people around which is highly unusual. The paranormal gal, a man with white hair and a fat retriever on a leash, a high school girl with backpack approaching on the dirt road. So there are at least 3 witnesses when Sadie finally shows up with a  newly killed handsome male California quail held firmly in her 63-year-old jaws. They are witness to my utter lack of control over this animal and her predation which some people accept and others definitely do not.

I make a bold face of it with the passing high school girl: “She got a quail” I point out. “It’s too late now”. Why do I expect sympathy? It’s like Obama and the Republicans. The girl makes a friendly little face but clearly wants no greater exposition, and we all march on.

3. Now Sadie won’t follow me to start our usual walk even though I tell her she can bring her quail.She wanders in circles. The stiff tail feathers protrude from the right side of her muzzle like an extended mustache, and the cute little yellow quail feet stick straight out from the center of Sadie’s mouth. The head is in her mouth, the beautiful white cheek markings of the male quail just partly visible on the left side of her jaws.

I wander off in my senility, hoping against hope she will follow, loathe to keep calling her and getting no response,  but it’s obvious she won’t follow as she used to. So I return to see Sadie just finishing the job of burying her prey. She has hidden the bird under some brush near our SUV and is just now poking the last bits of dirt over the cache with her nose.

I knew this was what she had in mind. She wasn’t hungry; didn’t want to eat it; wanted it around where she could find it later or possibly bring it home after our walk. What I didn’t know was she wouldn’t bury it while I was watching.

4. Okay, all that was kind of understandable. But now instead of launching off for our usual walk to the west through the fields and up into the hills, Sadie wanders toward the houses, ignoring my calls.The man with the dog and the high school girl are gone, but the paranormal researcher, parked right where we must pass her, can all witness my ineptitude. I follow Sadie down to the house Debbie used to rent, now empty and weedy. She sniffs around, staying just out of my reach. At last I corner her by the side gate and she makes no protest when leashed and, very strange for Sadie, we walk back to the SUV together with a slack leash, the dog who up until recently strained at the leash at all times, utterly passive by my side.

So what is eerie is the abrupt change in Sadie’s habits and the fact that yet another being was killed on my watch. For so many years these walks have been my meditation practice. Is it finally come to pass that Sadie is happier not to run? Is the price in leg pain too much to pay despite daily glucosamine and chondroitin?

The lama angle: is this a voice from the Universe telling me to do indoor meditation? That the days of my outdoor meditation are past? Will it ultimately be for my own good?

5. We get home and there’s a yellowjacket in the kitchen. Is this revenge for the nest I recently had exterminated? Now I have instance after instance all in one day that I am not such a hot protector of animals. Sadie has killed yet again. Are the walks fun or torture for her? Is the yellowjacket a demon . . . as Lama casually refers to demons popping up here and there . . .

Conclusion: I’d better clean up my act which I thought was so lilly white earlier today. Pride. Lamas will always give you the solution: more meditation. And while I’m at it, I should clean up my diet.

Brown Bear Cub

Nevada Bears and Mountain Lions in Danger

The only bear I ever saw in our local habitat was a  freshly-shot cinnamon colored cub on the White’s Creek trail. He looked to be halfway toward adulthood . . . a mere adolescent. I have never seen a live bear nor cougar in the wild.

If the Nevada Board of Wildlife Commissioners have their way, I never will either. Their next meeting is September 24 and 25 in Las Vegas. (See online Commission calendar.)

The nine Wildlife Commissioners are not biologists nor scientists. One is nominally a “conservation” representative; all are “sportsmen” or ranchers. This is not an elective position; the nine are appointed by the Governor. The current Board are all Gibbons appointees.

On Friday Sep.  24, 2010 this board will consider changing the classification of the mountain lion  so that it can be trapped or killed by archery. Lions are currently available to be hunted year-round.  Hunters must have a license and a tag.  There is a quota system which always exceeds the actual number of lion killed.  In Nevada, there are (just short of) about 200 lions killed annually via sportsmen and Wildlife Services. Sportsmen kill about 140 - 150, and Wildlife Services kills another 2-3 dozen.

Nobody knows the lion population in Nevada. Over the past 35 years, estimates have ranged from 350 - 5000!!  Current estimates (mine, and the Chief of Game last year) were about 1600 -1800 adults, and another 500-600 juveniles, for a total population of around 2400 animals.

On Saturday the 25 they will determine whether Nevada should have, for the first time since 1929,  a black bear hunting season.Currently, bears are protected and have been since 1929.  There has never been a hunting season since then, and there is not one now.  If the commission enacts a bear hunt, it will be the first in over 80 years!!!  Estimate of current black bear population is 200 - 400 animals

Below are three documents on this matter. First is the Reno Gazette Journal article Bear hunting season pursued for Nevada
Then scroll down to see two letters by our longterm Defender of Wildlife, Dr. Don Molde. The first details why we should NOT hunt bears in Nevada and the second provides scientific argument for PROTECTING the mountain lion.

Bear Hunting Season Pursued for Nevada

By MARTIN GRIFFITH • Associated Press Writer • August 28, 2010

Nevada wildlife commissioners are pursuing plans to establish a bear hunting season for the first time in state history, saying Nevada’s bruin population now is stable enough to allow for one.

Wildlife commission Chairman Scott Raine said Nevada is the only Western state without such a hunt and he thinks it could help reduce human-bear conflicts along the eastern Sierra, including the Reno-Lake Tahoe area.

The panel still must work out details such as when the hunting season would take place and how many black bears would be harvested annually, he said.

“Nevada has the lowest bear population in the West, but it’s stable and growing,” Raine said. “They get a little bit of fear of people in them (from being hunted) and hopefully they won’t come in contact with people. It might prevent some from being euthanized.”

Nevada is home to at least 200 to 300 bears along the eastern Sierra, with most inhabiting the Carson Range on Lake Tahoe’s east shore, said Carl Lackey, a biologist with the Nevada Department of Wildlife.

The state also has viable bear populations in the Wassuk and Sweetwater ranges farther to the south, Lackey said, but no estimate is available for their numbers.

“I agree we do have a population that would support a small hunt,” he said. “Our latest figures show it’s growing at a rate of 16 percent a year, and that’s despite our losing an average of about two dozen bears a year due to human-related reasons.”

Over the past 14 years, an annual average of 23 bears in Nevada have either been struck and killed by vehicles or euthanized as a result of conflicts with humans, he said.

Don Molde of Reno, a former board member of the Defenders of Wildlife and a member of the Humane Society of the United States, said the commission is caving in to the pressure of hunting groups and the state’s bear population can’t sustain a hunt.

The latest proposal is similar to the wildlife commission’s May vote to step up the killing of mountain lions and coyotes to help increase the deer population, he added.

“They’re not conservation-oriented. They just want to kill animals and this is another example,” Molde said. “There’s no call for a bear hunting season in Nevada. We have almost no black bears in Nevada.”

Lackey said he doubts a hunting season would reduce the number of bear-human conflicts. The average annual number of such complaints along the eastern Sierra has soared from 20 to 30 in the early 1990s to well over 300 in recent years, according to NDOW.

“The only thing that will solve the situation is mandatory bear-resistant trash containers,” Lackey said.

The commission could take final action on the proposal as early as December after hearing from the public at a Sept. 24-25 meeting in Las Vegas.

“I think the commission in general supports some form of limited bear hunt,” Raine said.

North America is home to nearly 1 million black bears, Lackey said, and that’s twice as many as all other species of bears in the world combined.

“A lot of people are under the impression black bears are threatened or endangered. They’re not,” he said.

Letter to Chairman of Nevada Board of Wildlife Commissioners from Dr. Don Molde
Why Nevada Should NOT Have  Bear Hunting Season

September 20, 2010

Scott Raine, Chairman
Nevada Board of Wildlife Commissioners
1100 Valley Road
Reno, Nevada 89512
Regarding: Proposed black bear hunt.

Dear Chairman Raine

I am opposed to this proposed hunt for several reasons:

• Black bears have had protection in Nevada since 1929. There is no reason to change that now, particularly with only a handful of bears along the Sierra front.
• There is no public demand for such a hunt. The general public will probably be offended, should it be approved.
• Such a hunt may, indeed, be contrary to the public’s interest. Over the past decade or more, NDOW and a network of volunteers in the Tahoe Basin have worked together to reduce/minimize/handle bear-human conflicts. In my view, this coalition has accomplished much, using primarily non-lethal methods which have been demanded by the public. Imposing a bear hunt in the basin could, understandably, anger the public, and destroy or damage the effectiveness of the coalition, leading to more trouble rather than less.
• Contrary to your public statements, it is likely that a bear hunt would have no useful effect on reducing the bear-human interface problems along the Sierra front. (Please see page 30 of the 2004 NDOW Black Bear monograph which states that “…a legal harvest season would not then seem to be a solution to the nuisance bear problem.”)
• Since the hunt proposal suggests an archery only season throughout the summer (June to mid-September), this suggests to me that there would be a very real possibility that an adverse event could occur if a bear was wounded/angered and retaliated against homeowners/pets/hikers/visitors to the Tahoe Basin. This is particularly likely, in my view, since the 2004 Black Bear monograph points out that

• The hunt proposal also suggests a firearm season, mid-September to December, using dogs. If dogs are used, and are not required to be under physical control of the hunter at all times, the public is faced with the specter of dog packs running amok in the Tahoe Basin, creating havoc of unpredictable nature against humans and wildlife alike, and with the very likely result that the public will be greatly offended by this violation of the fair chase concept.
• Should this ill-advised bear hunt proposal actually be adopted and implemented, it would seem to me that adequate protection for the public’s interest would demand that bear hunters obtain liability insurance as a necessary pre-condition for carrying out a hunt.

Sincerely
Don Molde, Reno

Letter to Chairman of Nevada Board of Wildlife Commissioners from Dr. Don Molde
Why Nevada Should NOT Reclassify Mountain Lions

September 20, 2010

Scott Raine, Chairman
Nevada Board of Wildlife Commissioners
1100 Valley Road
Reno, Nevada   89512
Regarding:   Mountain Lion reclassification proposals

Dear Chairman Raine

Speaking as a member of the general public, I am offended and dismayed that the commission is considering removal of protection for the mountain lion in Nevada.    Since there is no public call for such a retrogressive step  and no biological or scientific reason to justify it, such a proposal can only be viewed, in my opinion, as an arbitrary and capricious  act based purely upon dislike of the animal, and upon nothing else.

While we as individuals are entitled to our opinions about sundry matters, it is my opinion that the Board of Wildlife Commissioners, as a regulatory agency,  charged with the responsibility of managing the public’s wildlife resource for “preservation, protection, management and restoration” and to protect the public’s “aesthetic, recreational and economic aspects of these natural resources” (NRS 501.100), does not have the discretion to make decisions regarding native species on the basis of personal likes/dislikes, but has a broader responsibility which would not be met by such action.

Aside from  obvious deficiencies, such as the utter  lack of precise knowledge of the parameters of the mountain lion population in this state, the failure to spare females from hunters, the year-round season…which offers the animal no respite, such action would invalidate and set aside NDOW’s current lion management plan which has been years in the making, and which appears to at least include a data collection system, and regional distribution of hunters so as to distribute hunting “pressure” in a manner which would not be the case with declassification of the animal.

You are also aware, from the information provided you, that Texas stands alone as the only state or province in western North America to take such a retrogressive view of lion

management.  Texas has a well-deserved terrible reputation for doing so.  I see no reason why Nevada should be associated with Texas in such a tawdry way.

Finally, you must be aware that the general public likes and values the large predators.  Every time a lion is killed around Reno by Wildlife Services or the department, and the public is made aware of it, there is always a large outcry from the public which is favorable  to the animal and not so to the agencies.

It’s my opinion that such a drastic and backward step as this proposal represents, demands a public attitude survey as to its merits and desirability.  The well-known anti-predator bias…if not outright bigotry…of this commission towards the lion should not trump the public’s interest.

Sincerely
Don Molde, Reno

Years ago I saw a huge one — possibly a foot long – in Mayberry Park near the river in the old days when you could be alone with your dogs all day in that park. This one is smaller. I’m not good at length estimation, but I would hazard 9 inches. He was where I’ve seen one other of his species in the past — the steep trail up to the higher grounds. He crawled around his rock to avoid me, but very slowly and he finally gave up and just posed. Here’s the best shot of him. When I recall how to create a Gallery in WordPress, I’ll put up the other pix.

Pleasant expression. Question: Does he like me?

BadaBing: Graceful in Defeat

Six weeks seemed like eternity living too close to this  mouse. When I thought it would never happen, he ended up in the CatchMaster Live Humane MultiCatch Mouse Trap with Clear Lid — $14.99. His lust for peanuts in the shell was his undoing. His name is BadaBing, after the mobster hangout in The Sopranos.

Every night I heard him crashing around in the kitchen. Thuds when he landed on the floor. He could disappear in a corner where I couldn’t see any opening, not even the penny-sized opening mice presumably can squeeze into. I was never ready for him to dart out and I screamed every time. Eventually he lost all fear or respect for me and would appear from behind the couch or in the pantry or behind the refrigerator, or once, he shot across the bathroom floor in front of me – that was indeed a dark night. My fear and dread increased with the weeks and months and I became super-aware of him; I could sense his presence by a crawling in my skin. It was as though my nerves picked up his little emanations.Daily he increased his range, lengthening the little paths he followed. But still it seemed to be just one mouse as indeed it proved to be.

Six years ago I had just one, but it was a female, and I found mounds of feathers, peanut shells and other debris under the toaster oven where she planned to nest. Her reign of terror ended when I adopted my Border Collie, Sadie. In fact, it ended the first night Sadie was in the house, so I thought my mouse problems were over.

Note: I do not kill animals if at all possible, but ethical or not, I don’t have a problem with predators killing. My rationale is that predators, such as dogs, are hard-wired to kill whereas humans have options. You can argue with me if you want to, but if you’ve ever had your house over-run with mice, as I did in 1974, you won’t want to repeat the experience.

But Sadie is an old gal now and proved useless against BadaBing. He stood glaring at me defiantly from the counter. I picked her up until the two were nose to nose. “Mouse,” I told her. No action. I told a friend about this and we concocted a character for BadaBing: dressed in a tight striped T-shirt and leather vest, hands on his hips, sneering at the world, “I pity the fool. . . ”

So I tried three models of humane mouse traps before investing in the CatchMaster.

Famed Havahart® Two Door Mouse Trap: $19.68

The famed Havahart was useless. The trip mechanism consists of  tiny metal rods delicately balancing on one another. BadaBing learned to get in and get the peanut or the cheese or the cracker and get out, tripping the doors shut behind him, but never trapping himself. I tried taping the bait to the floor of the trap, but he got it out of the tape every time.

Smart Mouse Trap - By Humane Mousetrap

 So then I tried the Smart Mouse Trap –shaped like a little house, which I found on Amazon.com. They tell you to insert a saltine which doesn’t work – the saltine crumbles — and BadaBing ignored this device entirely.

Victor® Live Mouse Trap $4.06

He also ignored the little gray traps, the Victor, you get at Ace Hardware that tilt over to close. Sometimes he’d tilt them from the outside just for fun, and I’d hear him laughing in the dark.

So I was as shocked as he was to come out one morning and find him in the CatchMaster. Now what? I didn’t want him to die, but I didn’t want him to come back, nor to bring his friends. So I set him free on the grassy slope by the local elementary school. He tried to hide in the trap and I had to shake it and lightly pull his tail to get him out. By now I felt nothing but pity for the varmint who so terrorized me so recently. For the first time, I saw his delicacy and helplessness.

CatchMaster Live Humane MultiCatch Mouse Trap

Are humane traps really humane? I would never use the glue strip or the classic snap trap. Nevertheless, just the act of relocation may signal his demise. Now an animal designed to live indoors is outdoors. He faces lack of feta or Havarti cheese. He faces cold, wind and rain (although I read mice can swim). Predators abound.

My best hope for him is that children will drop lots of candy where he shivers, alone and lost. Or that he’ll find a penny-sized entrance to the school and a warm closet.

Meanwhile, have I solved my problem, or will another mouse move in now that the alpha male (yes it does work that way) has lost his territory?

Karma is intricate, my friends, and the path is full of curves.

Wingfield Park, Reno, Nevada

The setting was so tranquil. It was, ironically, International Peace Day, and I was at sunny Wingfield Park on the banks of the Truckee River, with friends. The UN declared this to be a day off; a global cease-fire. But how can this be when we so easily misunderstand each other? Being the ghoul I am, I will check to see how many Afghanis and Iraqis and Palestinians died today. And on the local scene, I can describe this one little soul murder.

I was promoting TrailSafe, the organization I founded to promote humane treatment of pets and wildlife. The day was productive; I had three pages of signatures on my sign-up sheet, and numerous pleasant conversations. About one in the afternoon, a little girl I had met earlier came running up to me. A dog was in trouble, as the official animal person of the day, would I help? She was about third or fourth grade and she was breathless. A dog was down by the river, chained for at least two hours with no owner. She had already fed it a hot dog, but this animal needed more help. She added that it cringed when she approached, clearly had been mistreated. It had a cruel choke collar, and the collar was too tight. She couldn’t fit two fingers under it.

Here was sublime ego flattery. Had I not fashioned myself the savior of the animals, Saint Francesca of Reno? I dropped everything I was doing to follow the child down the broad stones to the riverbank where her aunt was waiting. I recognized the aunt from an earlier very pleasant conversation. She looked Hispanic, but spoke with no accent, and she had signed  up for TrailSafe without hesitation. Somehow she made it known that she was born again, also that a friend would soon give her a computer.

Now I was greeted as a heroine. I whipped out my Tracfone (cheapest plan in the USA) and called Animal Control.

The dog was chained to a rock about 15 feet from us. He was a good-looking German Shepherd cross, big, about 65- 75 pounds, all tan, no typical Shepherd markings, well muscled.  I was in no hurry to approach him. Although he had accepted the hot dogs without incident,  he was still big, chained and unknown. I tried to stop her, but the girl ran at him, with a third hot dog. She lunged at him, as kids do, which caused the momentary cringe on his part. The aunt and I yelled against the live band in the background and the river noise to see if he had tags. “No” she told us, “no tags.”

I reported all this to Animal Control, an organization I have come to know and trust. They are not out to steal anybody’s dog and will do their utmost to contact the owners. A friendly, handsome beauty like this animal would be sent to Humane Society if not claimed; and Humane Society has a no-kill policy.

After calling Animal Control, I approached the dog after all, partially because I thought I did see tags on his collar and partially to restrain the child who wouldn’t leave him alone. In fact he did have two bone-shaped tags: one for rabies and one for ID with two phone numbers.

The first phone number was no longer in service. I left a message on the second, a cell number, explaining the dog would be at Animal Control.

Just then the owner appeared, a  handsome young man in kayaking gear. I have to mention he was black because it pertains to the story. Naturally, he wanted to know what was going on, and the girl was blurting out her case: that the dog was there for two hours, and that’s when he got mad, but not scary mad, just articulate end-of-my-rope but still a reasonable person mad. He spoke loudly, but not roaring anger, just firm anger. He told us he was gone 15 minutes, not two hours. He was instructing some kids in kayaking. He was, in fact, a rated (I do not understand the rating system) kayaker. He had been swimming and kayaking with the dog all afternoon.

And that’s when he said “Why is my karma like this today?” because some kids on the other side of the river had said something to him about a “nigger dog.”

Then this. I had to tell him Animal Control was coming. I told him as fast as I could that they wouldn’t give him any trouble and they wouldn’t take his dog away and they would be delighted the owner was there. But he was freaked by now. Not at me. He heard me and he got that I meant no harm. But the N-word plus Animal Control was all he could take for one day. Then the aunt started yelling at him from her rock, thinking he was yelling at me. She was defending me, not aware I didn’t need any defense.

“Don’t yell at her! We asked her to come over here. She only called because we asked her to. Don’t you be yelling at her!” She was yelling.

He told her he wasn’t yelling. That he and I were having a conversation and she should stay out of it. But she wouldn’t. She said he should be grateful we cared about his dog that was out there chained for two hours. He told her it wasn’t chained for two hours and to stay out of it.

He was a man who knew his limits and the situation was pushing him way beyond. He picked up his kayak and unchained his dog and left after he and I exchanged some quick words to make it clear we had no beef with each other. It’s possible he left before he started to cry; no proof of that, just my feeling about it.

So all our good intentions led us astray. I cancelled the call to Animal Control and I caught the aunt as she was leaving the fair. “I’m colored, too” she said, still defensive, but she was basically OK, the child is basically OK, I’m basically OK. It’s the kayaker who was deeply wounded. He did not deserve such a day.

I made it worse a few hours later, after I was home, by calling the cell number from the dog’s tag again. This time I got a young man. “Were you kayaking today and we had an incident with your dog? I just wanted to make things better.” By then I was fumbling for words, had lost all track of my thoughts.

“You mean my dad? How did you get this number?”

“From the dog’s collar.”

“The first number on the tag is his; the second one is mine. I’m not in town.”

“Do I have the right person? Does your dad kayak?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Now I was beyond bewilderment. How could the kayaker, who looked to be in his 20’s, have an adult son? Too much muddle already. All our karma gone nuts, exploded into senseless fragments, spattered against the walls.

“I don’t mean to make it more complicated. Just tell him he can call this cell number if he wants to talk to me.”

I hope he does call. But he probably won’t.  All I can do is observe International Peace Day and pray his karma tomorrow is better.

Click on thumbnail for full size image

Grisly staging

Click on thumbnails for full-size images. 

Female hip wound

Male leg wound

Male chest

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tragedy at the Trailhead” my March 7, 2009 blog gives the details. Now this sadist strikes again. A few yards further up the trail, I smelled corpse. On the slope to the south was a bag.

Stinking bag

 I approached with dread, knowing what I would find. A dead coyote  was wrapped in a sheet and stuffed into this bag. The forelegs were visible at the opening. The bag was Nutrebeef for Cows: Right Now Mineral for Cows which means I could possibly locate this executioner because only one or two locals keep cattle; there are no ranches here.

What is he trying to say with this display? His utter contempt for the graceful life he has brutally ended. Parading his potent masculinity, i.e. gun, to the world. A warning to all of us — anybody or anything he doesn’t like.

By contrast, ironically, symbolically and serendipitously as well as coincidentally, further up the trail I came upon a new dog grave. Locals frequently bury dogs up here, fitting remembrance of happy trails together. Witness the care put into this memorial.  Etched on the wooden cross the words: “Here lies the big dog” and mysterious numbers: ”9407″. The whimsical sculpture. The scribbles probably by a child in the family. A metal cross, possibly constructed by another child. Probably a tear-stained outdoor family funeral was held.

 

 

 

 

Again the glaring contrast. Horror for the wild dog; reverence for the pet. The best and worst of the human spirit.

More local dog graves:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gateway to Silence

Our first stop in Nevada, back in 1973, was an abandoned stone hut near Austin on Lonely Route 50. I was traveling with a man henceforth to be known as The Felon; a buddy of his and the buddy’s girl friend; two horses; two dogs. I was grateful to stay behind and tend the horses in a big abandoned corral loosely fenced with sagging wire while the others went to explore a nearby canyon.

Sadly I had no camera, so this generic desert picture I took at another time in another place will have to tell the story. In fact, where I stood was tall grass, not desert scrub, and a gentle wind blew. I faced a round hill to the north and a peace descended after months and years of self-inflicted conflict and inner noise.

For the first time in memory, I heard not others ranting at me, not the chorus of inner compulsions, but silence. The only sound was the pulse of my own life beating in my ears. I could see the red of my circulation in my mind’s eye; the rest was mercifully quiet.

I rested in that space, standing still, and Nevada had me from then on.

That was a benchmark moment.

We forget and we get back to “normal”. Today it happened again. I was hiking the usual route with Sadie. It was 6:30 AM on a misty, overcast morning and already somebody was shooting what sounded like an arsenal of various weapons off to the northwest.

I can only figure approximately where these random shooters are and I have no idea in which direction they shoot. They are the bane of my walks and I fully expect to be found bullet-riddled one day, the dog poking me with her nose, the murderer anonymous, unsought by the law, and long gone.

Nevada condones this random gunfire, another of the many holdovers from a past when the range was emptier. But the lone frontiersman today exists only in the imagination of guys (it has to be guys although here and there a sellout woman will go along with them) who in fact are too lazy to go more than a mile from their homes and who open fire wherever they happen to be. I’ve seen them shooting toward roads, across roads, toward houses.

Law enforcement told me when I complained a few years ago that nobody can be shooting if they can see a house from where they are. That would certainly apply to this morning’s gunman, but you don’t educate these guys; you avoid them.

Two possibilities: many of these pistol-whippers are lawmen themselves out for a little practice or — Armageddon freaks getting ready for the big day.

What must be noted is the dedication to the firearm that gets a man out of bed at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday to be shooting into the cloudy dawn. There were soft pops; there were bursts of what must have been automatic fire; there were long pauses followed by big bangs.

So I was irritated. And scared. Sadie was scared, clinging to my legs; new behavior for her — was Roger’s soul informing her?

Anyway we veered way south to get as far away as possible. The mist partially cleared and weak sunlight filtered through. It felt like a new dawn. And then there it was — the silence. The shooter was gone. There was no traffic. The only sounds were the blood pounding in my ears, Sadie’s skitterings on the sand, my own boots crunching pebbles. I stood still and there was absolute silence except the weak occasional peeping of some bird in a nearby juniper.

It was the same silence and it re-greeted me after 36 years. There has been a ton of meditation and revelation and bliss intervening. But this was a special, absolute silence. It would not have been much surprise if I got back to the neighborhood and found everybody gone and me the only witness, as in The Twilight Zone.

There was no fear, no bliss, no sadness, no joy, no noise. Just silence. I did not need to analyze, nor cling to the moment, nor escape the moment. The world remained as it has always been, and yet anything could have happened. It was the moment of Becoming, the closest we can approach to Now. I did not need a lama or a rabbi or a guru or a sensei. It may or may not ever happen again.

Hear me, Master Card, that is priceless. I wish it for all of you.