by Ron Rayborne
With fascination, she also observed the hornless ruminant, Longirostromeryx, a saber-tooth deer and its chevrotain-like relative, Pseudoblastomeryx.
When she finally spied her first chalicothere close up, Moropus merriami, Julie was ecstatic. It was a strange creature, which looked like a cross between a horse and a sloth, with sloping hindquarters and back legs shorter than the front. It stood on those powerful rear legs and pulled down branches from trees to browse. It also used its formidable sharp claws for defense. This one she guessed weighed about 300 to 400 pounds.
There was a thunderous bellow some distance away. A zygo. It was followed by similar bellows in answer, dispersed out to the far reaches of the plain. There were other calls as well, different tonalities, vibrations, pitches. Soon, all the plain was alive with sound. A quarter-mile away, a herd of Archaeohippus galloped south. There came a booming behind her and Julie jumped. Tapiravus, another tapir like animal. It stood at the border of the field. What a deep voice you have, Julie thought.
There was yet another sound now, a high-pitched howling of sorts. It too was joined by other howlings from locales unseen. When it began, the bellowers went silent. Julie climbed a small hummock and pulled out her binocs to have a look.
“Osbornodon!” she exclaimed. It was a pack of three. They belonged to an ancient family related to canines, the Hesperocyoninae and, in fact, were its last members. Soon they would be gone. Averaging forty to fifty pounds, they lived by scavenging the kills of other animals. Julie photographed the living fossils, then looked around at the other sources of canine howling. These sounds were similar, yet different. Barking, baying, yowling and yelping. Staccato cries and long, low timbres. Adjusting the focus, she found variously: two tomarctus species, canines which resembled coyotes, and tiny Cynarctoides, a mink like ground squirrel hunter of no more than two or three pounds. Loping by in the mid-distance was Protepicyon, a 75 pounder and ancestor to Epicyon, which should be arriving in another half million years. One of its species, Haydeni, will stand three feet at the shoulder and be the largest dog to ever live.
Another canine, Euoplocyon, was a pure carnivore, weighing around 20 pounds, and there was Phlaocyon, a fox to coyote sized omnivore with raccoon like markings on its face. These latter she spotted high on horizontal branches in some pecan trees. They were attempting to liberate honey from a hanging hive of angry bees, which swirled around them. Julie rejoiced in her discoveries, then did something a little wild and crazy; she began to howl herself, and together they sang, Julie and her Barstovian family.
When finally the howling began to wane, then the plains were silent once more — silent, that is, except for the light, colorful notes of bird song, and the whisper of the breeze through the grass and trees. A quiet world.
Under the wide, blue sky, she lay. In the sacred pasture. Her arms and legs spread out to embrace it all. She’d never let it go. Thin blades of green waved above her head and softened the ground beneath her. A huge beetle zoomed by a few inches above. It hit a tall shaft and somersaulted into the green. Julie flinched, then laughed. Finding it, she saw it struggle to right itself, then slowly begin walking along. Choosing a certain blade it climbed, or tried to, but the grass kept bending down to the ground under the beetle’s greater weight. Again and again it tried, but failed to climb. Then Julie picked it up in her hand.
“Hello there! Did you want to fly?” she asked sweetly. She lifted her hand above her head. The beetle walked to the end of her fingers, stopped, then lifted its shell-like carapace, exposing the delicate wings. A moment later, these began to flutter, and after a bit of a drop, it took to the air and zoomed off into obscurity.
“Bye!” she sang after it, waving and giggling again at the sight of the big bumbling bug.
Julie walked down the knoll and toward a small stream. It was getting hot, and she was thirsty. Better fill up her water pouch too. While at her camp and sitting on the hill one day, her metal bottle had fallen, rolled and dropped off the side before she could catch it. It landed in a rocky patch a hundred feet below. Now there was a deep dent, and centered within that dent was a tiny puncture, a pinhole really. Yet, although tiny, it was enough to cause the leaking out of most of her water. She’d panicked at first, then figured that she would be better served by thinking. She could plug it with pine sap. It was only a temporary solution, though.
And so, following the orbit of a group of vultures, she found the remains of a Prosynthetoceras, a strangely horned deer-like creature about the size of a wapiti. She searched, then, with no small amount of repulsion, cut out the stomach. There was no other choice. Carrying it to the nearest stream, with her fingertips she washed it inside - by stretching the stomach opening and putting in her hand - and out with sand, water and crushed oak leaves. Then she allowed it to dry. A new water bottle.
Her pouch filled, Julie stood and re-hefted the pack onto her back. She was about to leave when she happened to look to her right. Something was moving there, among the various herds of grazers, trotting, seemingly heading in her direction. It looked a long ways from her, perhaps half a mile. A camel with a long, thin neck. She turned back and started out. Her pace was slow, but steady; she knew the cost of haste was depletion.
Silence. A minute went by when the usual cacophony of songbird suddenly stopped. It was like an alarm. She glanced again at the dark thing coming from her right, frowned. It was closer now and seemed to be moving straight for her. Instinctively, she took hold of her scope, which swung from the lanyard around her neck and brought it to her eye. She dropped it in a shriek. It was Jaqzen. He was racing at full speed and carrying his rifle.
Terror overtook her, and Julie immediately set off at a run toward the north. Jaqzen adjusted his trajectory to match, calculating when he would intercept her. He’d left his supplies on the hill while she was still carrying hers. She’s slow as a wounded skunk, while I’m fast as an antelope, he mused. Let her run. It won’t be long now.
In near hysteria, Julie hurried, crying in fright. She could hear Jaqzen’s roaring, laughing, the triumph in his voice. He was now about an eighth mile away. Animals in his path moved off and away from the madman. This is it then, Julie thought in anguish. Too late, she realized that her pack had been hampering her, but she dropped it anyway. Ran faster now.
She was coming up on a large herd of Hypohippus, an edgy, quarter-ton horse that preferred the forest margins. As well, within their ranks were a few of the similarly sized Megahippus. They were between her and Jaqzen. Maybe if she ran around them and kept low. But he was closing fast. Then a thought occurred to her. She looked across the backs of the primitive horses, which, already nervous, were milling about in antsy circles at the running two-leggers. She headed straight for them, flailing her arms and yelling for all she was worth. That was all it took. Like a flash, they were off and thundering toward Jaqzen in a panicked flurry of hooves and dust. She last saw his head above the herd, but that was soon hidden by the hazy veil.
There were two gunshots, seconds apart, one which whizzed by her, then nothing else but the sound of hundreds of galloping feet. She didn’t wait around to discover the outcome. Racing back to retrieve her pack, she then lit out again through the forest.
Chapter 25
Tom stared out at the open sea southeast and into the distance. The Temblor. The Sierras projected high, gauzy blue and faraway. In between was this expanse of deep, dark water, though how deep he had no idea. How could he do it? He looked around at the “supplies”, a variety of trees of various sizes. No, it was impossible! He had no axe or hatchet, no hammer or nails, no rope or glue. He did have a handsaw, but what could he do with that? A depression came over him then, and he sat once again in the warm sand, head in hands. How stupid that he hadn’t thought about the fact that the river they followed from the mountains was between them and the mainland. That it might grow in size. When he was at his lowest and feeling good and sorry for himself, Little came over to him and nuzzled his neck with her cold,
wet nose. Her timing was just right, and he smiled.
“Thanks, old friend,” he said, stroking her thick fur. “Got any suggestions?” She sat and looked expectantly at him, tongue lolling to one side. Tom sighed. “Me neither.”
The mid-Miocene Temblor Sea extended inland from the Pacific all the way to the future Bakersfield, in places its waters almost lapping at the foothills of the Sierras. Vertically, it ran from Fresno in the North to the San Emigdio range in the South, or roughly 150 miles. Compared to the Pacific, it was shallow and warm, generally varying between 200 and 600 feet deep, with areas of both shallower and deeper waters. It was enclosed on the West by the Diablo Range, but still connected by inlets, and seaways; one, through a slender strait from the future Monterey area to Coalinga, and another wider passage from Santa Maria, north.
With time and weathering, California’s topography would erode. By the late Hemphillian it would wear down to its granitic roots. By the end of the Pliocene, though, 2.2 million years before the Anthropocene, the North American Plate would rise thanks to subduction by the Pacific Plate, and the waters would begin to drain. Meanwhile, the global climate would grow colder. A lot of oceanic water was being sequestered at the poles and frozen into ice. All this would cause a gradual lowering of the Temblor sea level and closure of the inlets. Eventually, the seas would be driven out of the interior.
By the Pleistocene, however, about 700,000 years B.A., the former Temblor, now called the Corcoran or Lake Clyde, would become a larger, 225 mile long by 50 wide, fresh water lake, fed by glaciers. But that was fourteen million years away.
Something jumped out there in the blue. A dolphin. No, two. No, three. Then more. Kentriodon, the Miocene version. There was a whistle; it was similar to the sounds he remembered hearing on the old nature programs his mother had secretly stored. She’d made him promise not to reveal them. He never did.
Now watching the Kentriodon, Tom thought about how easy it would be to get across this inland sea — if he had flippers. But of course he didn’t. He gazed at the mountains again, trying to see the shore.
“Wait a minute.” He remembered something, something he was told back at the Institute about his binoculars. He got them, remembering now. Tom set them on a boulder at eye level. They focused automatically. Then he adjusted them until the level gage indicated that they were perfectly inline. Finishing that, he pushed a small black button on the side. Instantly an invisible laser shot out and back again. In that fraction of a second, it travelled to the foothills and returned. A figure popped back, blinking in red: 12.4 miles. That’s how far it was to that point on the hill. He nodded to himself, readjusted and focused on the shoreline. 7.9 miles. Okay, from where they stood it was roughly eight miles to land. He thought about that: It really isn’t that far ... is it?
Tom looked anew at his surroundings. Maybe. Maybe. Then he began to sketch in the sand.
His first idea was to make a canoe. It occurred to him after he chanced upon a fallen log with an already partially hollowed out center. Could it be beaver work, he wondered? He decided that it wasn’t, as neither end appeared chewed. Perhaps insects then, or simply rot. Anyway, it was a convenient find. All he’d need to do was clean out the middle better and taper the ends.
How did the Native Americans do it? With sharp implements, of which he had none — of the right kind at least. The inside of the log, though, was soft and shouldn’t take too much work. He looked around and found a hard piece of glassy rock, chert, and banging the sides with another rock, created a sharp edge. A hand axe of sorts. He believed he could carve out the core with it. The ends would be harder. So Tom set to, chopping and flinging chunks behind him and whistling.
Little lay down on the other side of the log near the tide and watched him as he worked. Tom thought about her. Seeing that Amphicyon before got him thinking. The huge beast seemed to lumber more than walk. He doubted that it was made for long migrations. Probably it stayed within a certain territory. Was he asking Little to do something not in her nature to take this long, cross-country, one-way trek? What if she finally balked? But she wasn’t an Amphicyon. Still, the thought worried him.
Tom stopped every now and then to sit and rest. Fresh water ran in a rivulet nearby and he drank liberally. Little, at times, fetched some crab walking on the beach, risking a good pinching when she did. She bit down on them, easily crunching through the carapace. Tom found eggs from some kind of sea turtle and cooked them. Some of the lovely purple star fruit also grew here, the sun shining beautifully through its semi-translucent skin, and he sated his need for sugar therefrom.
A couple of hours after beginning, Tom felt that he’d carved enough from the center of the log to comfortably fit he, Little, and their supplies. He tested it by loading everyone and everything in. Little had to be pushed, but, finally, ponderously, got inside, lying down in the middle, thereby taking up most of the room. Tom shoved from behind to move her, but she resisted, then, with a grump, gave in and sat in the front of the carving. There was room for all. He carved some from the ends now with his handsaw. The result was not smooth, but it was an improvement. Then, with everything out, he got behind it and pushed to get it into the water. It wouldn’t budge.
“Oh lovely!” he said. All this work and he wouldn’t be able to get the thing in the water. Tom now began to dig some of the sand from underneath the canoe. Water ran into the cavity. Glancing up, he noticed that the tide was now a little higher. He gazed around and deduced that tidewater regularly overtook much of this beach. Ah, he had only to wait.
They spent the next hour exploring the coast, west. Pebbles in the moist sand were small and smooth, like little jewels, polished to a shine by ages of tossing in the tide. It was a pleasant feel on bare feet. Oyster and other shells lay open among the stones, iridescent mother-of-pearl gorgeously reflecting the solar light. Tom collected several.
As they’d closed on the Temblor earlier, aloft in the trees he spotted massive stick and reed nests and their tall, slender, blue/gray residents. The heron-like birds were elegant fliers, but their call was a rough croak. He glanced up now to see one peering over nest-side down at them. A few hundred yards away, in another grouping of trees, was a large flock of cormorants. He noticed that many of the trunks, branches and the ground beneath them were white with guano. The stuff was thick and mushy to walk in. Smelled too. It was probably a great fertilizer, though. About half of their trees had been defoliated thanks to who knew how many generations of the birds idling there.
They continued on, then came upon a band of Giant Leatherback Turtles laying eggs in a wide area of sand. Little wanted to go after one, but Tom restrained her and to his amazement she listened. Then they sat and watched as the turtles dug holes with their rear flippers and dropped big eggs in them, carefully burying them afterwards and heading back to sea. It was all very serene.
The tide had risen further, and when he thought they’d waited long enough, they stood, turned and went back. The water was at about the halfway mark on the canoe now. Tom removed his shoes and pants and dug out more sand, then pushed from behind. When the tide had climbed higher, the log began to move. He got the rope from his pack and attached it to a knob on the log, walked up and around a palm, then back again. He didn’t want to chance losing his boat. He continued pushing and the canoe began to rock. Finally, with one large wave and strenuous pushing, it was in and floating. It bobbed admirably.
“YEAH!” Tom shouted, scaring a gang of avocets, which flew off noisily down the beach. He held onto one end of the rope while the other end tugged gently. He tied it off and contemplated a paddle. A modified frond from the palm might do nicely, he thought. First, though, he wanted to test the craft’s watertightness.
With some difficulty, he climbed aboard and sat, or tried to sit. Soon as he was on, however, the log began to list, spinning slowly to the right. His mouth went a-gape. The canoe continued to roll, while Tom held on with white knuckles, yowling. With him on, it was finding a new cen
ter of gravity, rotating until finally the hatch he’d carved out was pointing downwards, unloading him in the process. Soaked, Tom, swam out from underneath, then stood in the semi-shallows wondering what went wrong. Slowly, the log rolled back to upright, so he tried again, and again the log went south, dumping him in the water. Tom tried several more times, hoping that perhaps a different sitting configuration might work. It made no difference, each time he ended up face down underwater.
Swimming out again, Tom stood and smacked his head with his hand while roaring expletives, then, still cursing, stamped out and picked up rocks to throw at the “canoe.” For good measure, he threw a few as far out to sea as he could. He couldn’t believe it! In truth, though, he was madder at himself, at his lack of expertise. Finally, ashamed and dejected, Tom sat down. Back to the drawing board.
The sun was past the halfway point in the sky now. If not for the continual sea breeze, he’d be baking. He would not give up, so Tom went to look for another log, then ditched the canoe idea altogether when another began to form in his mind. If not a canoe, then what about a raft? He’d try it before going all the way back to the mountains.
Now he thought about how to construct a raft. It shouldn’t be too hard, he reasoned. As a youngster, he’d once read a picture book about it. He’d need logs, long, thin and straight, tied together. A lot of them. For rope, he’d try vines and hope they held. Thus, Tom roamed the forest and edges, dragging likely candidates back to their temporary camp. That took several hours more, as he had to wander farther and farther away to locate suitable subjects. Fortunately, willow cut easily. When he had his pile of logs, Tom grabbed onto old vines hanging from trees and pulled. They were stiff and resisted, before snapping off. No. Next he thought about the green ones and tried them. They were supple, flexible and did not break. Okay. With apologies to the starfruit, he climbed the trees and severed lengths of vine that varied between ten and fifty feet long, letting them drop to the ground. Then, down, he carried them back and went about trimming the ends of the logs with his handsaw to make them all of similar length.