Both of them are.” He pointed. “How about the pinyon jay?”
The jay, hopping on the ground, gleaned through leaf litter alongside a downed limb.
“Seeds?”
“Yes, seeds, and possibly insects. So what am I trying to show you?”
“Leave some understory? And some dead and downed material? The little critters need some habitat?”
“Very good,” Jack said.
“Break up the canopy and reduce the fuel...but not all of it?”
“Correct.” Jack watched him study the scene. Reger would carry these lessons with him for the rest of his career, just as he himself had, after getting them years before under the wing of another teacher. Someday, Reger--in some colorful way--would pass them on to someone else.
At day’s end, the crew packed up, talking of another wild night at Elena’s. Jack watched them disappear around a bend in the road, and then pulled his pack out from under the tarp in the back of the pickup.
Caveras Creek. He needed it after the Chamber of Commerce meeting.
He changed into canvas shorts and a T-shirt, and made one last check of his equipment. He had the usual gear, plus a few pieces of specialized equipment--a climbing rope, a seat harness, some webbing, half a dozen locking carabiners and a figure-eight rappelling device. The trip into Caveras Creek was said to be worth it, but it ended with a 40-foot rappel over a waterfall.
He moved out quickly, heading north-northwest. Before long he was breaking sweat, even under the cover of pine and fir. After nearly an hour of rolling terrain, he came to a ridge overlooking a drainage. He checked the map. This was Caveras Creek. Going in from the head of the creek would be easier, but it would take longer. Let’s get to water, he thought. He dropped off the ridge, and bushwhacked through Gamble oak, picking his way down to the creek.
Caveras Creek was running. Good. He headed downstream, having to wade, but the stream was shallow and cool. He grew anxious to find the pools.
The creek gradient picked up and he found himself having to rock hop and scramble down and around cascades framed by the deepening, red-rock canyon.
Around a bend, the canyon walls narrowed. No more than six feet apart, light peeked in from beyond the confines of the canyon. The creek appeared to drop away into thin air. He moved toward the light and emerged from the canyon. He crept to the edge.
There they were. Pools, terraced by travertine, filled with blue waters. The largest spilled into others. They in turn poured into even smaller ones, until finally, in the distance, the waters came together again to reform Caveras Creek and continue their way down the canyon.
The splatter of water against water and stone echoed off the walls. Below his feet, the ledge rounded so gradually that he could not see any more than the top of the waterfall.
He moved along the ledge, trying to get a better look, hoping to see dry land below. It didn’t help, and the ledge was supposedly rounded on the underside as well. The end of the rappel would be free--suspended only on the rope until he reached bottom. Depending on the tree used for an anchor, he could end up rappelling either into a pool or onto dry land, if there really was any. He’d been assured there was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tread water with a pack on, but he also didn’t want to risk lowering it into the pool. He decided to wear it down. He walked to the end of the ledge, and picked an upslope ponderosa to use as an anchor.
He pulled off his pack and dug out his seat harness. Then, he took a piece of one-inch webbing and wrapped it several times around the trunk of the ponderosa, and knotted the ends together. He checked the knots twice, and took two locking carabiners and clipped them into the webbing, orienting their gates in opposite directions. Unwinding the climbing rope, he found its center, tied a figure-eight knot, clipped it into the opposing carabiners and locked them down. Next, he dug out his figure-eight rappelling device, fed the strands of rope through, and clipped it into his harness. He put on his pack.
Ready to go.
He started to yell, ‘look out below’ before tossing the rope over the side but didn’t. The notion seemed silly. He tossed the rope, and watched its coils disappear below the edge.
He backed away from the anchor, tightening the rope. The rock curved at his feet. He approached the edge, feeding rope through the figure-eight and putting distance between himself and the anchor. He planted his feet and released more rope. His rear lowered until his legs were horizontal to the ground below. He saw sand. Good--that was the right tree.
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