by Keith Leatherwood
November 20, 2002

There are no Blue Jays west of the Rockies. According to Jennifer, my ornithologist friend, those noisy birds I’ve always called Bluejay are probably Steller’s Jay (Cyanocitta stelleri), or their smaller, crestless cousin the Scrub Jay (Aphelocoma coerulescens). Hard to stop calling them Blue Jay’s , though.
On September 8th, I was jamming around , trying to accomplish five things at once, up from my usual two or three. Not taking much time to smell the roses. Trying to save time, I thought I’d leave the water on in the garden while I kept moving. I gave a twist, and a few meager drops fell from my hose. I hurried over the hill to find my spring had ceased producing for the summer. Major setback. Looked like I was going to be busier than I’d thought.
First thing to do was check the back up spring, near my neighbor’s place. Better let him know, too, I thought.
Pulling up to Nate’s, I got that “nobody at home” feeling. Silence. But there was his bike, helmet hanging from the bars. Still, it felt so quiet, I must have stood there for thirty seconds, wondering if I should just leave a note. I was going for pen and paper, when I heard movement. There he was, reading in the sun, not ten yards away.
“Spring’s dried up,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said, not sounding too worried. “Would you like a cookie? I was just thinking about a walk to the river.”
Right then my day changed. A walk to the River did sound good. I’d have to give up on accomplishing a few things.
“Sure, why not?” I said.
A steep trail switchbacks through a three- hundred year -old Douglas-fir grove. It’s one of my favorite places. Halfway down, a pile of blue feathers lay in the middle of the path. More were scattered nearby. Above , a big snag leaned over the trail. I wondered who’d been dining up there.
Several swims later, I awoke in the warm sand, late afternoon, judging by the long shadows stretching eastward.
No longer in any hurry, we wandered back to the trail, scanning for fish in shrinking pools, which had been isolated from the river earlier in the summer. Nate had spent some time transferring those he could net back to the main channel. Lots more still swam there, awaiting the first rains, or raccoons, or entombment in the mud.
Starting up the trail, a strange cry rang out upslope. The voices of more than one creature had spoken simultaneously. Way up hill, I saw a flash of color, then the sound changed to an urgent, “Shaak! Shaak! Shaak!”
Down the hill glided a large hawk. He floated slowly back and forth and down between the trees, just a few feet above the ground. His wings made only tiny adjustments. In his talons a large Steller’s Jay struggled for his life, “Shaak! Shaak! Shaak!”
It took a few long seconds for the pair to reach us. As we stood there six feet apart, the hawk glided right to us. Flaring his wings, it slowed and passed at eye level between us, so close that I felt the wind from its wings. I flinched and leaned away, and the hawk turned its head, regarding me with one eye.
All this time, the Jay screamed for his life. It wasn’t until the pair touched ground, not a hundred feet away, that he was silent.
The next day, I shared this experience with a new acquaintance. Allen hails from the Wiyot tribe. He shared with me how the elders told him that hawks kill Jays for tattling. It made sense. If you’ve been in the woods then you’ve heard the Jay, warning other creatures you’re coming. I’ll always remember this when I see blue feathers on the ground.



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Table of Contents for Mattole Restoration Newsletter, Issue 19 - Winter/Spring 2002-03