Pikas in the Year of the Rabbit

Ili pika, Tianshan Mountains, Xingjiang Province, China. Li Weidong photo

A friend posted a photo of a weird-looking ili pika with big furry ears, dubbed the “magic rabbit” by its discoverer, conservationist Weidong Li in 1983. He named the new species Ochotona iliensis, after his hometown, Ili. 

Thought to be endangered 20 years after its discovery, then extinct by 2003, an ili pika was spotted in China in 2014. Few critters make a successful comeback from extirpation! However, they are in serious decline, with a loss of 70% of its species due to climate change (they croak at 80°), the ila pika is circling the drain of extinction, as are all the species of pikas in the world.

The ili pika of the Tianshan Mountains, in the Xinjiang province of China is a lagomorph, same order, but not the same family as hares and rabbits. They are more like distant cousins.

Since bad reprints of the story has eked its way across the internet via dubious websites, it took some doing to find the original story via CNN via Daily Mail (stories are from 2015). Also in Nat Geo. That was seven years ago. How many of the estimated 1000 ila pika still survive? During the past decade, the median world temperature has gotten progressively warmer each year.

When we hiked up Mount Whitney, long, long ago, their cousins, the diminutive American pikas, (we have two surviving N. American species—once there were seven), and burly golden mantled marmots were despotic little monsters ruling the base camp with ear-slitting arias and iron teeth. 

While we made our slow ascent to the top of the mountain, traversing the fabled 97 switchbacks and back again, they ate through the pockets of my backpack, and a massive hole right through the middle of my insulated foam sleeping pad so all I had left to sleep on was the head and feet part. I guess they were mining the foam as insulation for their nests. Sleeping on cold granite above timberline at 12,000 ft., even in late summer, was pure misery. 

Hiding in the talus scree, the pikas whistled and bleated in the pitch of  high A, while making little haystacks in the sunshine, and the golden mantled marmots screamed in the key of Queen of the Night. It was cold. We even had snow flurry in August. Luckily it was clear when we got to the top. 

When we reached the summit, there was a forest fire raging in King’s Canyon and a fighter jet flew so close, I could actually see the pilot’s face inside the cockpit. The stone hut at the top of the mountain, built by the Smithsonian in 1909 after a trail worker was killed by lightning while eating lunch, had a mini glacier parked inside of it. A good thing we didn’t decide to sleep at the top. 

I still can’t believe I made it all the way to the summit of Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain the contiguous continental United States. Was it all a dream? My knees, old before their time, certainly don’t think so. The Paiute name for the mountain is Tumanguya, which means 'very old man.' It is said that the Great Spirit who presides over destiny once lived on the mountain. And now that I am old and grey, I am so glad I once stood on top of the world.

In those days (1974), Mt. Whitney was 14,494 feet. But we now have better tools by which to measure it, and the Sierra Nevada Range is still growing. Now the official elevation is 14,505 feet. But soon even that won’t be tall enough. Our alpine pikas are victims of global warming. An indicator species, they are disappearing all across the west at an alarming rate. 

At least the ili pika live at a higher altitude than our American pikas and northern Yukon collared pikas. Ain’t no mountain high enough in the contiguous continental United States where our American pikas can escape to. They just don’t do heat. And the ambiant world temperatures just keep on rising. Stay safe, little magic rabbits. It’s the year of the rabbit.

I’ve come a long way from first draft! Thanks Marc Nassar

MY ANTI-BUCKET LIST

Climbing Half Dome a 3rd time is on my anti-bucket list.
Never again. What was I thinking the 2nd time around?
On the way back down, I developed a fear of heights.
I sat on the ledge at Glacier Point, beyond the guardrail. 
I also sat on the lip of Half Dome. What was I thinking?

When I climbed Yosemite Falls, I had a high fever,
the view from above was to die for, but not worth dying for.
Coming down the slot canyon was a total bitch.

I probably won't climb Mt. Whitney again.
I  crawled on hands and knees, across the summit,
a knifeback ridge with a straight drop off on either side.
I practically kissed the rocks at the top.
Then I had to descend. What was I thinking?

I will never again climb the crevice at Sonora Pass,
the view from the ridgetop was stunning,
but then I had to back down the chimney,
I was fatigued, with overtaxed muscles.
My boyfriend guided me down, step by step,
but to fall, sans ropes, would be certain death.

I have literally scaled the heights of Machu Picchu.
Another climb I will not do again, is Huayna Picchu,
with that loose steel cable barely anchored to the cliff,
I probably won't hike the Machu Picchu trail again either.
My knees simply wouldn't make it.
Ah, impetuous youth, well-spent.

4/27/18

HIKING BACK IN TIME

I had a couple of hard miles ahead of me
up the first two long switchbacks, 
past Carillon Creek, the north fork of Lone Pine Creek
into the deep gorge at the base of Mt. Whitney, 
well above the waterfall at Whitney Portal. 
I gained just enough altitude 
that with each step I hiked backwards in time 
back toward the very beginning of summer.

9/15/17
Mt. Whitney

SUNRISE, MT. WHITNEY

SUNRISE, MT. WHITNEY
     After John O'Donohue's poem, At the end of the day: a mirror of questions

The night dreamed of its own beginning.
My eyes lingered on the spires of mountains
I was blinded by the dawn light.
I was wounded and no one knew
I read the dark script of canyons.
The trees closest to me whispered old secrets.
I forgot about the old speech of the mountains.
I neglected that part of myself
that traversed the secret trail heads, into the past.
What did I begin today that might endure?
These small words, everyday conversations
are meaningless next to that of the ravens at dawn.
I keep forgetting that kindness costs nothing
so I greet everyone and every thing with respect.
And when I smile, my heart is lighter for it.
For I remember the dead today, and every day.

I remember my cousin who died too young in his sleep
whom my family will honor at the Druid's Hall in Nicasio
today, with the cows looking on, while I, here,
gaze upon the face of beauty.
These mountains comb the indigo sky
Sometimes it's the only love I allow myself to receive.
The moment of self, a friend unexpectedly hugs me
on the back side of the Sierras
where the past and the present are one thing,
a deep imprint on the psyche.
The poets see me as I see myself,
a speck of dust in the vastness of what is.
I did not avoid that gift I was given—only to ask:
Why was I given this day?

7/15/17
Lo Inyo High School
With Kathy Evans
Lone Pine, CA
video

LAST NIGHT I DREAMED

Last night I dreamed the moon spoke in tongues.
It talked of distant dreams, and far horizons.
It whispered of the past and it splashed
across the stone faces of the mountains.
It danced with the shadows of dark trees.
It sang with the lonely coyotes
who consider it their mother.
The moonlight was well pleased with itself
and the stars seemed brighter still,
if only for a moment, and then the mountains shifted.
They stood a little taller in the darkness.
The world turtle shifted in its sleep,
and the earth moved in its slumber.
There was no one there to translate.

9/15/17
Lo Inyo Elementary School
With Kathy EvansLone Pine, CA

(there was an earthquake)

The Scandinavians in the parking lot

The Scandinavians are having breakfast in the Lone Pine parking lot at dawn with their rented Harleys. In another century, they would’ve been horses in the parking lot. I can almost understand what the Scandinavians are saying... I keep thinking that if I tilt my head a little more, just so, it will become clearer.

Last night I listened to the Norwegians and Finns sing American folk songs badly. But they knew all the words. And they sang with gusto. They've ridden rented Harleys from San Diego to Zion and are headed towards the chilly fog of San Francisco. Adventure of a lifetime.

They are mostly from Oslo. They're singing Happy Birthday to one of their friends in English. Oddly, I will miss them. Today is a birthday of sorts. They're off to San Francisco. Where will they park all those bikes?

My next door neighbor was from Finland, but didn't speak a word of English. He leaned on his bike in the parking lot and smiled. I tried to communicate, and realized that Finnish has few cognate words with English. I was hoping that via the dialectic continuum from English to Norwegian... nope. 

I was looking for loanwords. I didn't even know the word for poet in Finnish, so I said Kalevala. It was pretty surreal. He looked startled, laughed, and said I no speak English, coughed over his cigarette, and smiled again. The universal language.

Dawn, Mt Whitney, from Lone Pine (photos)

The firebird of dawn only sang for a short moment and Mt Whitney was ablaze. I was not expecting to see the magenta shadow fading to purple. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would've thought the camera was fibbing. The smoke is a prism lens. The edge of the rainbow's spectrum revealed on the face of Mt. Whitney. I watched the shadow of the White Mountains draped on the Alabama Hills, the sun rose in a gap in the White Mountains which followed the contour of Whiitney's foothills. Synchronicity. A cradle of light. 



When I first got up, the mountains were a drab dove grey. I was disappointed. But then, sometimes, when you least expect it, magic happened. Sometimes you just have to wait for the right moments to align with the universe. Channeling pure Galen Rowell light this morning. It's a gift from the gods when you catch a moment like that.

Lone Pine Peak, a band of magenta above the shadows. 

A slightly better photo of Mt. Whitney a few minutes later. 

And then the color was gone. A lone raven in the sky.

Later, I visited Galen’s storefront, Mountain Light, to pay homage. And yes, I was talking to a window with his name on it, to tell him a story of mountain light. I got up early for the next several mornings to witness another roseated dawn on the face of Mt. Whitney. It never glowed like that again. 

CROSSING TIOGA PASS

It snowed at Tioga Pass, just a sprinkling.
The vagaries of weather, still in the high 80s,
back side of the Sierras. No respite from the heat.

When we drove over Tioga Pass at sunset,

the air was so thick with smoke from wildfires,

we could see godbeams piercing the clouds.

I watched the sun set on the crest of Mt. Whitney.
Magical. Dow Villa is loaded with movie memorabilia.
The light still shines on the place where the Duke once slept.

9/14/17
Lone Pine

Whitney Portal

Whitney Portal 7,851'. Hard to believe I once hiked up to the top of Mt. Whitney. My knees would strenuously object. The 99 switchbacks will live on in infamy. The trail crest is about 22 miles, roundtrip. My boyfriend and I clocked in at 27 miles after hiking to the Sierra hut, and around the perimeter. There was a permanent iceberg inside the hut. Elevation: 14,505′ (it's gained some elevation since the 1980s. It used to be 14,495".) It's still growing whereas I'm shrinking in height.

Today is John's birthday. Old habits die hard, my old backpack lock is still set to that date... I said hello to Mt. Whitney for him. I can't believe we actually climbed that mountain. Yeah, another 30 turns around the sun. 

The Whitney Portal road was used in "High Sierra (1941), with Humphrey Bogart and Ida Lupino, and The Long, Long Trailer (1954) with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz." I think The Treasure of the Sierra Madre was filmed here too. I like to think of Bogie on the flank of the mountain.
 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Whitney_Trail

SALT-SEEKING MARMOT, MT. WHITNEY

While we climbed to the summit
of the tallest mountain in the Sierras,

a salt-seeking marmot munched a hole 

right in the middle of my foam mat

stashed in the scree at our base camp.

Sleeping on bare rock that night was no picnic.
My bruised sacrum and hips found no solace
from muller and quern grinding basalt into flour.

I can't imagine the marmot survived the night

after eating that ensolite. Clearly, it tasted
good to him, seasoned with chocolate,
sweat, and the yeast of new love under stars.

I didn't think to cut my holy pad in half 

and marry the two uneaten ends together. 

If only duct tape had been invented, 

if only I'd thought to bring a roll with me. 

But the view from the crest of Mt. Whitney
was a feast for the eyes that nourished
me long after he lost his appetite—
when climbing the tallest mountain
wasn't fodder enough.

8/21/2014

Journal entry, back side of the Sierras

I am sitting on the backside of of the Sierras, looking into the Owens Valley. Mount Williamson rises up 14,375 feet. The great eastern wall divides California from the Great Basin region. A collision of ecosystems. The bare bones of the White Mountains harbor a different story, and the Inyo fossils dream of ancient seas. this is the land of cloud of consciousness and lava flows where the wind wakes the morning on a thousand miles of sage. The Owens Valley water wars, Chinatown, the Tinemaha reservoir, the beginning of the journey of water to the LA aqueduct. I find myself naming things. As if that could stop time in its tracks. Onion Valley, Kearsarge Pass at 9200 feet, the saddle, the old road ,sedimentary versus volcanic. Kings Canyon, Mt  Gould, and the Bristlecone Pines, Methuselah clocks in at 4700 years, Schulman Grove and the Alabama Hills faulted up from the Sierras in 1872, an 8.1 earthquake, the valley floor dropped 20 feet mount Whitney risers 14,496 feet up touching the sky. A mountain still growing.

9/23/2000