Castle in the Sand
by Gary Nelson
I must confess that at some point during the summer canoe tour program, after I have guided about 50 or 60 tours, I begin suffering from the dreaded canoe burnout syndrome. Symptoms include:
- hysterical laughter upon being asked how DWP gets the salt out of the lakewater before sending it south;
- not being able to remember whether it's the flies or the shrimp that have pupa;
- a strong yearning for winter.
Our summer visitors might have a hard time understanding why I would look forward to sub-zero temperatures and icy roads. I guess every blizzard has its silver lining, and for me winter is the time when canoe tour responsibilities are behind me, and I can get into one of our Kiwi kayaks and go for a solitary paddle.
Soon after our first snowfall, I pointed my bow east and paddled far away from the more familiar tufa groves. In the distance I could see my goal, looking at first like a castle rising above its mounded ramparts. As I got closer, the image resolved into a solitary tufa formation surrounded by a sand dune.
Beaching the kayak, I walked up to the tufa and found a spring flowing from the base of the formation. Its rust-colored water cut a miniature gorge through the sand, nourishing lush plant growth along its short course to the lake. Tracks on the dune showed that this spring was well known to the local kangaroo rat population, as well as to many small birds.
Additional tufa towers arced away from the spring, enclosing an amphitheater of sand that opened out onto the lake. In the few years since I had been there last, the lake had risen almost 5 feet. Its waters now blocked my former path along the shoreline to the east, so I turned toward the sand.
At the top of the dune, a gap in the tufa provided a pass. Crossing over, I surprised seven ducks who took flight over the lake. I, too, was rather surprised: the ducks came from a freshwater pond which was separated from the lake by a sinuous stretch of sand. This barrier beach, created by deposition of wave-born sand, was only five feet wide.
The last time I was in this area, it had been a dry, shallow, sandy depression which was over 20 feet from the lakeshore. Following the shore eastward, I came upon a larger pond which, like the duck's retreat, was covered with a thin crust of ice.
Just beyond, a line of coyote willows traced the bottom of a small drainage which led down to the lake. These willows stood around six feet tall, and towered over the surrounding vegetation.
As I approached the willows, I noticed coyote tracks in the wet sand along the shore. This drainage apparently was serving as the coyotes' access to prime hunting grounds around the ponds and springs. The line of willows provided excellent cover, allowing these crafty predators to stalk unseen to within a few feet of the shoreline.
Coyote tracks winding through the willows showed that this dry, sandy arroyo was certainly an artery of life and, as I soon discovered, a place of death.
Before I had gone twenty feet up the drainage I found the carcass of an adult coyote, skin and skeleton still intact. Ten feet further along, I found another coyote carcass, slightly more decomposed. Ten feet further I found a third set of coyote remains which could best be described as a pile of something that used to be fur.
I immediately recalled the account of a Mono Basin coyote researcher whose radio-collared subject had been eaten by a mountain lion. At that moment, I realized that these willows could give cover to other predators. Larger predators!
Becoming very still and attentive to my surroundings, I attained instant empathy with all prey species. Straining to be aware of the slightest sound, I heard only the frigid immensity of the Great Basin.
Gary Nelson is the Committee's Canoe Tour Supervisor.
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