I went to bed with Ingrid at 9 PM and when I awoke in the early morning, she was still there. That is to say: “there” on the TV when I clicked back on the old movies channel. Turner Classic Movies (TCM) was celebrating Ingrid Bergman’s career with 24 hours of her films. Since I had seen “Gaslight” at least once before, I decided to read instead and clicked off the TV.

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly 4 AM, which is about the average time for me to start my day; year-round. In the summer, this is convenient, as I like to begin my day with a walk in the early dawn light. But in the winter, well, that means that if there isn’t a good flick on TCM, then I have plenty of time to do some reading. Usually, I do my non-fiction reading in the early mornings, leaving the less mentally taxing fiction for lazy afternoons or evenings. 

For over an hour I read from a book of essays by the early American naturalist, John Burroughs. Eventually though, my coffee craving kicked in so I got up to brew up a pot of French Roast, which I then poured into a small thermos and took back into the bedroom for another spell of reading. At this point, however, while those first few cups of coffee spun up my nervous system, I opted to merely flip through the pages of my Peterson Field Guide to the Birds of Western North America. I opened the book at random and wound up in the woodpecker section of the Guide. As I studied the simple but dramatic colors of the various woodpeckers (most clad in bold black and white patterns, often with a splash of red somewhere on the head) I decided that once it was near first light, I would go to a nearby chunk of woodlands and hike up Walnut Creek to an area I’ve dubbed Woodpecker Alley. 

By 6:30 AM I had finished both coffee and reading, so, after the morning’s ablutions I dressed warmly in layers of winter garb and stepped out through my east-facing front door. There was just a hint of early light but due to a warming trend, the temperatures were not terribly unpleasant, perhaps mid-20s, and thankfully, it was blessedly still. I stood on the front walkway, steeped in early morning silence, and noticed in the dimness, that two plucky nuthatches were feeding on the fatty suet which hangs in a feeder near my front gate. I wasn’t the only one who started my days with early morning cravings. 

Before long I was at the trailhead and could hear the geese honking at a nearby, but slightly out of view, pond. I was tempted to follow the sound and go watch the waterfowl start their day but resisted the urge and took the trail to Woodpecker Alley. After a leisurely walk along the trail, listening to ravens, jays, and chickadees en route, I came to the creek and commenced along the narrow upstream footpath. 

Soon I was within the corridor that is Walnut Creek canyon where the vegetation is a mix of riparian willow, alder, and wild rose and the slopes are a mix of oak, juniper, and pine. I call this particular stretch of trail Woodpecker Alley because it has so many dead trees (aka: snags) that various types of woodpeckers use this habitat avidly. I followed the creek upstream and by doing so, was walking into the rising sun. I would have had to stop and turn 180 degrees to have good front-lit bird viewing, but it really didn’t matter since, so far, all of the birds I was detecting were common species that I could identify from their vocalizations and back-lit silhouettes.

The first woodpecker of the day was, not surprisingly, a flicker. The Northern Flicker is a big bird, the size of one of our smaller raptors, and with a massive beak that looks like it was designed with jousting in mind. Oddly enough, despite its powerful beak, the flicker is quite content to slurp ants off the ground, using its long tongue like a narrow ribbon of adhesive tape. But now, during winter when the ants are not milling about in the open, the flicker has to engage in more typical woodpecker fare: hammering and chiseling at tree bark to reveal and consume hibernating grubs and other types of bugs. 

In addition to flickers, I knew that there was a good chance that I would see Acorn and Hairy woodpeckers on my route, but what I was really hoping to find was one of the less commonly seen species of sapsuckers. As it turned out, the next woodpecker I did see was, in fact, a sapsucker and I heard him several minutes before I could actually see him with my eyes. It was a Red-naped Sapsucker, which, like other sapsuckers is known for drilling orderly rows of small holes in trees looking for sap. The holes made by sapsuckers can sometimes make a tree look like it’s been shot at by a small bore machine gun but in the case of the bird I was now watching through my binoculars, he was not so much drilling holes but rather chipping and peeling away bark. I assumed that this might be a winter foraging strategy since sap probably doesn’t flow very well in cold temperatures and the sapsuckers may have to resort to feeding on insect larvae like the other types of woodpeckers. 

I continued my uphill ramble for about a mile until the trail became overgrown and then I left the corridor and hiked up a steep hill and back to one of the major trails that runs through the higher portions of the forest. By the time I started back toward the trailhead, the sun was a warm friend putting his rays to work on the black fabric of my winter coat and making me feel as toasty as I could ever hope to be on a winter’s morn. 

Along the trail, I spooked up a few mule deer and envied their agility and power as they bounded effortless through the dense woods and on out of sight. Later on my hike, I would encounter either the same deer, or possibly others, that held their ground and watched me closely from a mere 20 meters distance, not knowing, or not caring, that with my binoculars I could practically count the ticks embedded in their winter coats.

Here and there along the path there was coyote scat (studded with juniper berries) and I wondered how often a group of coyotes might make a feast of a yearling deer. At one point, I came across such fresh coyote scat that I thought surely I must spot the actual beast but instead; I caught a glimpse of another predator – a Red-tailed Hawk – winging through the tall pines. It seemed odd to see this species of hawk in such densely forested country; as I typically see them soaring high above open fields or sparsely wooded terrain. But there was no doubting his identity, as not long after I saw him on the wing, I came to him perched in the top of a big snag. 

I watched the handsome raptor through my binoculars for quite some time. He seemed in no great hurry to depart. When he turned his head in profile, the hook on the tip of his powerful beak looked like it would make neat work of slicing open a rabbit’s belly; so as to feast on the rich gut meat first. 

I got to thinking about our fascination with predators: be they leopards, orcas, or boa constrictors. As a kid, I had watched in horror the Nat Geo footage revealing a lethal, ambushing crocodile pulling a thirsty gazelle headfirst into the water. I think that such brutal acts are so compelling because we realize that with a different shuffling of the deck, any one of us, might be the one pulled beneath the dark waters. Perhaps in our taming and overcoming of Nature, we assume we will always remain king of the hill. Once we altered our environment sufficient to minimize the likelihood of our falling prey to some much larger and ferocious creature, we seem to have developed a keenness, even a respect, for their savage way of life. 



Eventually, I bid adieu to the red-tail and wished him happy hunting wherever his broad wings might take him. The combination of a couple of hours of hiking, along with my having left the house earlier this morning with nothing more in my belly than coffee and a brownie, now had me ravenously hungry. Heck, for that matter, maybe I worked up an appetite by watching the nuthatches start their day with suet, the flicker prying away bark for grubworms, the deer browsing on rose stems, and a hawk keeping a sharp eye out for a plump cottontail. If there is another life after this one, I think I would like to come back as a plant, so that I can just subsist on sunshine, rain, and soil nutrients. Then again, with my luck, I’ll come back as a Venus Fly Trap and have to spend a lifetime eating filthy houseflies.