August 8, 2024.
The morning walks around the block with my Chihuahua mix, Ruby, have become more cautious over time. Especially on days like this one, when the weather has turned unexpectedly cool and the fog creeps in, spilling over the mountainsides, sending out tendrils that cling to the landscape. Especially on gray mornings when predators have been known to stalk these mountain neighborhoods. Recently, neighbors spotted a mountain lion slinking along their backyard. Another neighbor confirmed a second sighting. Not long ago, a black bear made the local news by strolling around a neighbor’s driveway not far from here. My feed on the Nextdoor app features at least one account each day of a beloved pet going missing or being carried off by opportunistic coyotes. “Wile E.” is even known to crash through screen doors to score a meal.
Bring your pets in and close and lock your doors at night, folks! Make sure any doggy doors can be locked shut.
I pay close attention to Ruby’s cues. If she stops to sniff the air, or keeps checking over her shoulder as we make our way around the block, it puts me on guard. I carry a walking stick to help ward off attackers. I’m not the only one—I see other women doing the same. It’s part of the price we pay for living in a suburban-wildland interface. One day, we may have to “interface” with the wild.
On this particular morning, I stopped our walk short, just one house up from ours. A surveyor had set up shop, his scope planted near the sidewalk, facing out over town. Being the nosy curious person I am, I asked him what he was surveying. I wasn’t aware of any major projects in the area.
He said he was surveying control points for the landslide on Highway 150. After a winter of heavy rains, the ground along the 150 had yielded and collapsed heavy across the highway, effectively closing off a major route between Santa Paula and Ojai. I turned to try to see what he was seeing. Beneath the fog, the Santa Clara River Valley sprawled below us, encrusted with light—faint glimmers bouncing off familiar landmarks. Apparently, the landslide could be tied to other geographical points across town. The land connecting with itself in ways invisible to the naked eye.
He pulled up a surveyor’s map on his iPhone to show me. It was unlike a Google map. All I could make out were the green squares denoting wooded areas, some yellow lines forming meaningless rhomboids.
He told me that their crews were having to trek back deep into the canyons and remote wilderness around the 150. “Spooky,” is how he described it. No signs of civilization, other than a hermit apparently squatting in a dilapidated shack some ways in. The sense of isolation was palpable. I knew what he meant. I used to go exploring along the 150 and took walks around St. Thomas Aquinas College. Even when you’re alone out there, you feel like you’re being watched. Not to sound too woo-woo about it, but it’s as if the land there is sentient. It sees you. It’s unnerving in a way that kept luring me back for repeat visits.
The surveyor remarked that he was relieved to be here this morning, where the streets are paved and the neighbors are friendly. Apparently, on their last foray into the wilderness, the crew returned to their truck by following the footsteps they’d made on the way out. When they reached their truck, they looked back and noticed something odd in their boot tracks. Animal prints. Mountain lion. A big cat had been stalking them the whole way, also treading carefully in their footprints, but was now nowhere to be seen. As if it had evaporated into the wilderness. They hopped in the truck and got the righteous fuck out of there.
Today’s Nextdoor tally: a missing cat, some horrible sounds heard in a backyard. Have you seen this dog?