Remembering the wildlife on Red Mountain

"You've got to come see what's happening!'' was the urgent phone message from our nearest neighbor. My wife, Ann, and I rushed down our long driveway, past their house, and down the road to the gully where they stood pointing at something very few people have seen.

Two huge Western Diamondback rattlesnakes, at least 6 feet long, with heads as large as my hand, were passionately engaged in their mating ritual.

Their bodies were wrapped around each other, like the entwined serpents of the medical caduceus. Standing on rattling tails, they weaved about, fanged mouths finally touching. They threw themselves backward, landing apart in the brush, then quickly reuniting.

We have witnessed many acts of nature. After buying four acres of brush-covered Red Mountain hillside, we asked the Fallbrook representative of the U.S. Department of Agriculture what crop our land was best suited for. His answer, "Actually your land is best suited for what it is now, a wildlife preserve."

We disregarded his professional opinion and, after much bulldozer work, planted avocado trees and built a house. Over the years we would share our hillside with a variety of creatures.

We would see many snakes, but my worry was not for the snakes seen, but for those close by but unseen. I once went down the deck's stairs carrying a load for the trashcan. When I turned and started back I saw a rattlesnake lying the length of the step I'd just crossed. Fortunately, his belly was swollen with a rodent he'd recently swallowed. He lay lethargic, digesting his meal.

Our white, odd-eyed Turkish Angora littermates, Priscilla and Penelope, had grown from kittens to adult cats while the four of us lived in a twenty-foot trailer during the year spent building our house. The cats' beauty, their long white fluffy fur and expressive blue and gold eyes could have made them blue ribbon winners at cat shows, but our domesticated cats retained the instincts of their wild cousins.

They hunted together, killing and eating mice, rats, gophers, even ground squirrels. They stalked rabbits, but I doubt they ever caught one. The pair attacked a rattlesnake that fatally struck Penelope.

Our sadder but wiser Priscilla lived another 15 years as our indoor-outdoor pet.

Ann hung bird houses and feeders around our backyard deck. Multitudes of birds landed and fed, but we never had a bird book to identify the many colorful species that flew our way. Some took up residence, and laid eggs that became families.

We watched hawks circling, wings spread, riding updrafts, then folding their wings, diving, then rising from the brush, prey clutched in talons. We also watched hawks fighting for hunting territory. We watched one dive on another, feathers flying when talons struck the competitor.

Working in the grove, I walked within a few feet of a large owl perched in an avocado tree. The nocturnal bird was having his midday snooze. We eyeballed each other for several seconds before he rose, and with a sideward goodbye glance, flapped his wings and flew away.

Other times when walking the driveway Ann or I would be startled by the sound of a multitude of beating wings as a covey of dove or quail rose from nearby vegetation.

But we felt most privileged when watching a male quail protecting his family. Mama and daddy were walking their little, black, dot-like, brood near a stone wall. When daddy bird thought we'd gotten too near, he flew to the top of that wall and in quail language loudly shouted, "Hey, look at me! I'm up here! Pay no attention to attention to my family!"

We watched roadrunners; they are a fun bird to watch. Their cocky attitude is not that different from the cartoon character outwitting Wiley Coyote. It's easy for sympathies to be for the cartoon coyote.

A real life coyote captured our sympathies. If the leader of a pack is the alpha male this little guy was the omega. We were watching, from a window, a pack of five coyotes traveling the grove road beside our house.

The omega was following a short distance behind, wanting to be accepted by the pack, but one of the members would turn and nip him, letting the outcast know he was not welcome. When the enforcer ran to catch up with the pack the outcast would rise from his subservient position and resume his effort to be accepted.

I rooted for the underdog. I hope his life got better, that he established his own hunting territory, found a mate and lived happily ever after.

One evening Ann and I were walking our driveway at dusk. In the dim light, a fearsome mass of black and white fur approached us. When it got closer we saw that it was not one large animal. A mother skunk, her tail aloft, was keeping a steady forward pace as her four, nearly adult size, offspring ran hurried circles around her. We stepped aside, not wanting to arouse motherly protection. The bushy tailed family continued down the drive and disappeared into the brush.

There was a little (about the size of your thumb to the first knuckle) lime green frog that lived in our waterfall fountain. He would sit and let his little head be stroked. Naturally, we named him Kermit.

There were other frogs and toads, even horny toads. Actually a horny toad is a lizard, and we knew a variety of lizards.

When unloading a pickup truck load of trash at the dump, I noticed a long, black lizard that'd come along for the ride. I picked him up and set him atop the truck's cab, where he sat, his head up, taking in the scene.

When I had removed the trash, I placed him back in the truck's bed, drove home, and set him on the ground. He scurried away. I like to think he reunited with friends and family with the exclamation, "You won't believe where I've been, and what I've seen!"

We saw possums but didn't make pets of them. I'm sure a mother possum thinks her babies are cute, but they don't have the lovable faces of raccoons.

Ann did make pets of a raccoon family. She had the habit of throwing Priscilla's dry food leftovers into the flower bed when putting fresh food in the cat's bowl. This attracted a family of raccoons. She then began putting out fresh food just for the raccoons.

I managed to convince her that was not a good idea, we were changing their lifestyle. But, the raccoons were not convinced that free food was a bad thing. They'd adjusted to the welfare state.

A pottery crock, with handles of wire and wood, sat near the back door. The alpha male learned to pick up a handle, then let it fall, causing a bell-like ringing sound. He'd repeat this until we'd opened the door, and there were all those cute little masked faces asking, "Where's our dinner?"

A favorite memory did not directly involve any wild animals. An owl may have hooted, or perhaps a coyote yipped and howled, serenading the full moon. Arriving home, after a night shift at the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Plant, I too was emotionally affected by that, directly overhead, 2 a.m. full moon.

Low-lying white clouds filled the lowest elevation of the Santa Margarita Valley. Bright moonlight shown down upon those clouds, highlights and contrasting shadows accentuating the smallest details. The vegetated hills and highlands appeared as the shoreline of a lake with a scattering of small islands.

I stood alone in the driveway absorbing the beauty of that once in a lifetime scene. Then unexpectedly the silence and solitude were broken by three softly spoken words, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

I turned to see my wife standing at the railing of our upper level deck, her blond hair and white nightgown gloriously aglow in the moonlight.

I ran up the steps, wrapped my arms around my favorite animal, and answered, "And so are you, Bertha Anna." . . . We'll have this moment forever, But never, never again." (Lyrics from the 1948 song "Again.")

I've had a life of wondrous and beautiful experiences, shared with a wondrous and beautiful wife. . .. I have been a lucky guy.