Last summer I was on a campout with long time buddy Brad. In the morning he and his truck headed downhill toward promising trout waters. I headed uphill to add intel to my expanding Rolodex of San Juan Mountains knowledge. There was a trail in need of a checkout.
The monsoons had arrived. The air was chillingly damp. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to rain as much as when. I made my way up the trail balancing on slimy rocks and roots. Above tree line I glanced at acres and acres of talus slopes intermixed with grassy vegetation. I began to smile. Pika Country.
Sure enough, I heard the squeaks and shrieks of the little fur balls before I saw them. Then I began counting. From 11,800 feet to the top of the 12,400 pass and back. I spotted approximately 50 pikas. It was the highest concentration of Ochotona Princeps I saw in the summer of 2022.
On my way down the rains came, the temperature plummeted and the wind kicked up. I donned layers of fleece, a wool cap and a pancho. Once back in Sanctuary One, I cranked the heat up en route back to camp.
Brad was already warm and toasty in his camper. He stated the obvious, “Turned out to be a pretty miserable day of weather, didn’t it?”
“Yes! But I saw about 50 pikas!” I was practically glowing.
Needless to say a 2023 personal goal was to return to that concentrated stretch of Pika Country.
But first I’ll backtrack. I notice weather. The western winter of 22/23 was abnormally cold with an inordinate amount of white stuff in the mountains. My least favorite season seemed to drag on for five months. Spring was cool and cloudy. There wasn’t much melting in the high country until mid June. (For comparison shopping, normally I’m camping and hiking snow-free above 11,000 feet easily by June).
I guessed it would be a late start for the pikas to harvest grasses, cure them in piles and tuck them into their dens for the future winter of 23/24. (Pikas don’t hibernate like slacker Marmots do.)
Then a climatic shifting insult . Record setting heat in the Southwest for the month of July. Pikas wilt above 78 degrees.
With all this in mind, I was wondering on what I might find. After slip sliding across a steep snow bank which quite frankly scared the shit out of me, I was in the pika paradise of 2022. There I was met by a silent summer. I slowed down and glanced for those scampering furry guys. I counted only eight to the top of the pass.
There I met a young family who has ascended from the western side of the pass. After small talk, I asked the matriarch, “Did you folks notice any pikas?”
“We saw two.”
I then relayed my sad story of how many I had seen the previous summer.
She took it all in and remarked, “You definitely have a passion for pikas!”
I looked up at her and replied, “Depending on the news cycle, I’d say I like pikas a lot more than people at times.”
I began my descent all the while keeping an eye out for any pika motion. Instead I came across a young woman and her skittish unleashed dog.
More small talk. I then innocently asked, “Does your dog chase wildlife?”
“She does but she doesn’t hurt them.”
“Well honestly, chasing the marmots and pikas are hurting them. The long winter and hot summer has probably stressed them. They don’t have the energy to be playthings for your pet.”
My comment went over like a turd floating in a community pool. Somehow I doubt we’ll be exchanging Hanukkah cards this year.
At the terminus of Pika Country, I saddled up to Pika number fourteen. We were making interspecies eye to eye contact.
For those who read “As I Ponder the Paucity of Pikas” Chapter One, you may recall one of my few talents (besides hiking and drinking IPAs) is being a “pika whisperer.” I began the conversation.
Here’s Chapter One:
“How’s it goin’?”
“OY! Jeffy! Not so good. Pikas didn’t intend to become a climate change indicator species. (Source National Park Service) You have to be mshuge (crazy in Yiddish) and schmucks (fools) to would live at high altitude, low oxygen, short growing season, cold and fur ruffling windy places. Pikas never aspired to be the Earth’s canary in the coal mine. We just evolved this way!
We thought climate change only happened to the lower attitude species. Flooding, wildfires, hurricanes, tornadoes and heat waves wasn’t our concern. Way up here, we thought we were immune to the affects of a planet going off kilter. OY! Were we wrong!”
I then interjected, “Yes, I can see in my unscientific survey, this colony took a hit. I’m bummed. Seeing you guys brings me joy. I don’t want you little furry underdogs going the route of the Dodo birds, Tasmanian Devils or Passenger Pigeons. What can I do to help?”
“Jeffy! We know you are a FOP (Friend of the Pikas) and thanks for chewing out that woman with the over-caffeinated mongrel. We’re in survival mode. We don’t need the extra tsrus (troubles) to be hounded by canines.
“Here’s what you can do. Keep writing pika posts. Maybe a few readers will take notice and become “Woke” that climate change is real. It’s here. Everyday, Earth gets closer to the tipping point of no return. From our high country perspective, the future stinks like spoiled Gefilte Fish.”
There was a short lapse in the dialogue. Then the fist sized fur ball looked up and said, “OY! Where’s my manners. I’m Izzy. You can tell your readers to vote responsibly too”
Listen to Izzy.
Vote responsibly. (Not for a Party whose platform is trying to make LGBTQ lives miserable)
Cheers
Jeff
