Mono Basin Journal
A roundup of less political events at Mono Lake
by Geoff McQuilkin
Mornings,
early mornings, quiet mornings, at the lake reveal a thin, dense layer of
ice fog hanging off the south tip of Paoha. Watch it, and it rises with the
sun, lifting off the lake, generally migrating to the west before dissolving
into the air. As winter sets in, and snows cover the basin floor, the cold
night air will help the cloud grow much larger, until it envelopes Lee
Vining on calm days, filling the basin with ice crystals.
But on quiet fall mornings, as the fog lifted, the broad expanse of the lake sparkled at sunrise. Not with wind, but birds. One, one and a half, two million eared grebes out there floating on the lake, diving for food, breaking the surface and sending out shimmering ripples to make the lake sparkle from miles away. Down close to the lake, a casual glance might overlook the low-floating, dark colored birds. But with a moment’s more attention they are unavoidable, then overwhelming, scattered as they are across the water all the way out to the horizon.
Then come the cold, cold nights. The poconip clouds grow bigger, food grows scarcer, and the grebes depart for southern coastal waters. As the grebes leave, the lake becomes placid without their sparkling morning dives, but only until the next resident shows up: the winter wind, whipping up froth and spray and spinning it across the lake. Each winter storm brings new energy to the wind, and tufa towers stand strong as whitecaps crash to shore. Reluctant to leave, the grebes, no doubt, are happier diving in their warmer, less windy waters.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|