On a warm, sunny afternoon in late November, Roger Cornwell stopped his pickup near the edge of a harvested rice field to avoid spooking a great blue heron standing still as a statute, alert for prey. He pointed to a dozen or so great egrets at the opposite end of the field as a chorus of killdeer sang a high lonesome tune in the distance.
It wasn’t my finest moment.
I was hiking the Owens River Gorge in mid-July. Usually that would be as smart as planting your hands on a stove burner turned to high.
Severe thunderstorms in the eastern Sierra above Bishop prompted a last minute change in plans. And given that the temperature in the Owens Valley that day was predicted to be 20 degrees cooler than the previous day’s high it was the perfect opportunity to take a hike in an area where the heat makes it a seriously insane proposition between June and September.
Before Los Angeles got is claws into Owens Valley to divert snowmelt and draw down the high desert water tables to essentially bleed Eastern California and stunt its economic growth all so the City of Angels could prosper beyond the means of its water basin, the gorge carried water tapped into by farmers and ranchers working the land.
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