Early January 2010; it was an extremely foggy day, and I felt restless, fidgety and wanted to get out of the house, escape into the foothills, bad weather or not. I loaded up my camera and put on cold weather gear and hiked up Cottonwood Creek. The fog seemed to get thicker as the sun slinked unseen above the horizon, leaving no telltale traces, covering everything in a soft white blanket. It was so thick that you couldn't even turn a shadow. The shroud seemed to magnify the sounds in the canyon, especially the rushing waters of Cottonwood Creek. It was the kind of day I didn't expect to see much bird or animal life.
The fog made the landscape appear much brighter, than it would have normally, like a gaggle of colors on a white canvas. The willows or water wallys stood out in reds and yellows and the rose hips on the wild rose shrubs looked like brilliant red fire brands showering from the sky. One small patch of bright red willows extended up slope, from under a stand of cottonwoods along the creek, looking like a wild fire that was ready to run up the ridge.
I spotted the old red-tailed hawk nest, biding time for spring occupants, and to my surprise sitting 15 feet above the nest was a large hawk with a whitish breast. I was startled by a sudden noise off to my right, as another hawk came winging over the low hill in low level fight, screaming his eerie, ghostly song, making a bee line for timeworn nest. The hawk-screech knifed through the bulky, thick air and the intruder landing a branch away, from the resting buteo. Finches, juncos and sparrows darted amongst the shrubs keeping low to the ground or hidden in the thick brush, perhaps aware that predators were out and about.
I continued my walk and within minutes a pack of coyotes erupted in song on the ridge above me, just out of sight behind curtains of fog. There must have been several canines and they yipped, barked, yelped, yodeled, yapped, squeaked, howled and wailed in a delightful chorus
of joyous tunes. I stopped and listened to them for some time half expecting to see the pack appear out of the fog, but the shindig soon ended.
Near the end of my hike the trail wedged up near a stand of black locust trees, where I spotted a great horned owl perched on a branch about 6 feet off the ground and just behind it was another owl, that was larger. The smaller bird may have been a yearling and perhaps the bigger one was a full sized adult. The owls were somewhat hidden in the branches and well camouflaged in their gray mottled feathers, with yellow piercing eyes that fixed on mine and their ear-tufts that made them appear quite catlike. The owls had a mystical, supernatural presence, sitting on their black locust thrones in the mist, not making a peep and keeping very still.
It was time to head back, and getting colder so I cinched my jacket up tighter around my neck. The day belonged to the owls, hawks, finches and sparrows, and besides a warm pellet stove waited at home.
