Whispering Bill did not come back the next night or the next. July was slipping by. Whisky came to the door every morning and Doug fed him. He needed to talk to him.
“Hello, Whisky,” he called. Doug sat down on the step with his bowl of oatmeal and Whisky sat on the spoon handle and helped himself.
“Grandpa’s still in town. I don’t know why, but he is.”
“Gnad, gnad, chee, chee, chee, cheee, beeeeer,” the bird answered.
“Whisky, I am going to tell you something. First of all get off the spoon or I’ll bite your feet.
“Whisky, Grandpa has a good claim up there in Avery. The assay house said so. It isn’t like the old Silvinite mine, but we could both earn a lot of money this summer, if we would just get to it.
“But the way I figure it, Whisky, we’ll be lucky to clear our expenses. Grandpa is a really wonderful person, and I love him, but he’s looking for a fortune, not a living. If he doesn’t find that fortune then he just wants to be in the mountains with people like you and the dippers and, yes, me.”
Doug stopped talking and Whisky cocked his head at him.
“Some people live like that, and some people don’t,” Doug said.
“I don’t think I’ll be a prospector, but I might be a ranger or a forester or something close to the mountains, maybe I’ll even be a cattleman and come up here every summer.”
The bird went on eating. Doug looked at him.
“Whisky, where is that fledgling of yours? You make him find his own food, don’t you? Good wild berries and nuts and maybe a cricket or two? Well, now, you go find him and eat with him.” He flipped the bird off his hand and Whisky winged into the spruces.
Later that day Whispering Bill returned to the cabin. He unloaded the supplies and sat down in his rocking chair. Doug was not surprised to learn that he had not hired a truck; but he was disappointed. There were grocery bills to pay, and Doug had hoped he could put some money away for the winter.
The old man did not seem the least bit upset by his failure. He rocked back and forth and finally said, “We’ll bring down some more ore, and maybe we’ll look around for old Jim Juddson’s lode. Do you know he tore up all his maps before he died. He was an old bear.” Bill looked at Mt. Avery, and shouted, “You’re an old bear, Jim Juddson!” The door was ajar and Bill was shaking his fist at the ghost of Jim.
Doug looked up at Jim Juddson and smiled. He was a bear at that, he thought, and was pulled into the enchanted world of the prospector again. His disappointment faded as he looked at the peak where Grandpa’s legendary enemy sat.
At Vera Falls the ouzel family was calling in tense excitement. Tippit had walked out of the nest. She had thrown out her wings and climbed to the top of the dome. There she looked down into the pounding flume.
Then she dipped and dipped. Across the churning gorge her father was calling to her and dipping; his eyes were flashing. He held a mass of tempting flies in his mouth. Tippit opened her mouth and screamed, but he did not come to her.
Cinclus was stirred by the sight of his first fledgling. This is what he and Teeter had been working for, but now that it had happened, they were frantic. The nest had been a safe cradle and nursery. Now Tippit had stepped into the wild, rugged canyon, and all the dangers of the high country.
Teeter came back and joined Cinclus and began crying in excitement. She became so alarmed that she swallowed the food she was holding for Tippit and fluttered into the water. She circled around and around, then ran out headlong into Cinclus.
Tippit was not ready to make the flight over the churning water. She relaxed and rested her yellow bill on her tawny breast feathers. While in the nest her breast had been gray, now it was pale yellow. Her feather color had changed; she was a fledgling. It had taken her twenty-four days in the nest to grow this plumage, longer than any other song bird her size. When she was in the nest, her gaping yellow beak, red mouth, and begging nestling call had inspired her parents to feed her. Now, her tawny breast and the fledgling call were their stimuli. Cinclus flew to her and fed her. This first feeding of his fledgling was over in a fraction of a second, but it set a new pattern of behavior. He plunged down into the pool below the falls.
Under the water, Cinclus spread his ragged tail that had been buffeted and worn by the rocks and stones, and snatched the larvae out of their hiding places. His mouth was so full he couldn’t close his bill. He ran onto the shore and dipped to Tippit.
Tippit saw him pumping up and down on his slender legs and she lifted her head. Her stomach was so empty it hurt. She looked at Cinclus, then at the roaring water, and back at Cinclus.
Cinclus ran a few steps one way, turned and ran a few steps the other way, dipped and ran again. To say that he was nervous would not be enough. No other animal can get quite as excited as a bird; and at fledging time they all but explode.
Tippit looked at the food, and tried her wings again. The cries of her parents grew wilder and wilder. Tippit was excited. She screamed and flapped her wings. She ran around and around in a circle, and finally, as she heard her father deeking and checking, she ran off the top of the dome, spread her wings, and pumped them for all her life.
Tippit was airborne. She was out above the growling cascade. She flapped, but she could not stay aloft. Down, down, down she came. She hit the Niobrara limestone with the soft pillow of feathers under her tail, and skidded to a halt. Tippit had made the crossing and was ready to begin her life as a water ouzel.
She opened her mouth and was stuffed with offerings from the cold glacial waters. Cinclus and Teeter went down in the stream for more and more. At last Tippit could not swallow another bit of food. Her head pulled back; she was contented and sleepy.
Cinclus gave her a signal to follow him and he ran toward the dam. The fluffy little shadow followed him. He led her to the shallow water, and without hesitating swam to the foot of the dam.
Tippit touched the water, jumped back and looked at it. The clear water surprised her, it was more resistant than the air. She thrust her head into it, felt the tightness and weight of it and instinctively bathed.
She walked down under the water and fluttered her wings. She held her breath and her nose sealed without her knowing it. She learned that this third element of the dipper was wet, and she held her feathers close. As she stood on the bottom of the stream she adjusted her eyes in order to see in this heavier, moving environment. Then she came out of the water and ran over to her father who was dipping close to the dam.
The ceremony of fledging for the young ouzel was completed. For thousands of generations every young ouzel had repeated this ritual; from the nest across the turbulent waters to the earth; from the earth to the water. Tippit still had much to learn, but she was now initiated into the third medium of the ouzel birds—the water.
She stopped when she reached Cinclus. He indicated that she should climb the beams. She did and found a protected niche on which to stand. Then Cinclus left her, and she was alone under the falls. The spray was bright with sunlight, and she was terribly sleepy.
There was an understanding between Cinclus and Teeter. Cinclus would feed Tippit. Teeter would return with food to the two nestlings on the canyon wall.
Cinclus kept Tippit hidden under the spray. She dared not follow him on his trips. He called to her when he returned with food, and she answered with her new “chip” of the fledgling. As he fed her, her cry was again the “eeeee” of the nestling.
The tiny bird suffering her first enormous emotions of freedom was only a speck under the falling water in the canyon. The forests rose around her, the peaks rose above the forest, and the infinite sky rose up forever above the Colorado Rockies.
But she was there and this meant tremendous things. It meant that there were great mountains in the United States; that they were forested, and inhabited by the lions, the deers, the coyotes, the marmots, the ground squirrels, the weasels; it meant that the waters were crystal clear in the canyons; and that there could be water ouzel
s. If any of these things changed the balance would be disturbed and there would be no dippers. The presence of the little ouzel meant that the mountain tops were as they should be. The summit of the Rockies was in good health.
In the afternoon Tippit became curious about the rocks and stones and water around her. Cinclus was quick to sense this and called to her to follow him.
She ran behind him along the shore to the head of the falls. She stopped on the highest point, looked down the cascade, then flapped and flew out over it. It rumbled and tumbled below her. She glanced down, saw a large stone in the pool at the foot of the falls and aimed for it.
Tippit landed safely and looked around for her father. He was nearby with food. She started to fly to him.
Cinclus would not permit this. There were hawks combing the waterways, looking for nestlings unable to dodge. He directed her under the big boom of Vera Falls, and fed her.
Tippit instinctively understood from her father’s actions that she must remain hidden. She walked far under the falls, found a stone where nothing but minute organisms lived and pulled one leg up into her breast feathers. She tried to preen, but her beak missed the spot she sought. Not in the least dismayed she went on as if she were doing a fine job.
She heard a call note from her father, and chipped in answer. A moment later she saw Cinclus fly in under the falls. He came to her, fed her, and was off. Tippit swallowed and stopped calling. The edge of the water caught her eye. She pecked at it. A tiny crustacean crawled away. She saw it and stabbed at it. She missed, fluffed her feathers, and dozed.
THE RIMROCK
THE MORNING threatened rain. Whispering Bill decided not to attempt a climb to his mine. Doug set out for the dipper nest. He listened to the thunder and watched the clouds gather behind Gothic peak. He stretched out under his spruce and chewed the stalk of an orange paintbrush. The alpine meadows were glowing with the pert blossoms of these flowers.
Doug stood up and looked carefully at the dipper nest, for he thought he saw only two nestlings. He looked piercingly into the nest. He was right! He ran to the edge of the falls and looked down, he ran to the miners’ dam and splashed into the water trying to flush the young bird. He found no trace of Tippit.
The thunder grew increasingly louder, and Doug looked at the storm above Gothic peak. It was moving eastward, a sure sign of rain. He decided to go back to the cabin before it poured. Then he saw Diver walk right out of the nest to meet his mother returning with food.
Teeter knew it was going to rain and she did not try to lure Diver from the nest. This was no time to begin the ceremony of fledging. She dove into the flume about seven times and stuffed him so that he had no desire to move. He rocked sleepily on the nest.
Doug sat in a trance. This bird was to be his. The clouds were coming down the side of the mountain, but the boy did not see them any more.
Diver digested his food and awoke. He looked at the gleaming spray in the gorge. He must fly.
The storm broke upon the mountain just above the rimrock. It lashed the water across the face of Gothic, and deluged the land.
The rain poured into the fissure behind the rock, and once more the great chunk of stone sagged under the weight of the water.
Felis, the mountain lion, was holed up in an excellent den about one hundred yards to the right of the rimrock. He had dragged a young mule deer under a big boulder one night and after he had eaten his fill, he had looked for a place to cache it. Behind the boulder was a hole that led into a cave. He slipped into it and found himself in a big horizontal shaft. It was man-made.
He stirred the bats as he paced down the tunnel. The females squeaked and zoomed. When the lion entered, they hung their tiny squirming young together in a nursery. One female remained with the young as nursemaid while the other females flew around Felis.
Some swept under the boulder where Felis had entered and darted into the light. Some came back to nurse their young.
Felis explored the tunnel, sniffed the wooden beams and returned to drag his kill farther into the shelter. This was an excellent hideout. It was well protected from the cowboys who were combing the hills for him, and was just above the meadow where the mule deer fed.
Felis, the mountain lion of Gothic Mountain, did not know that he had found old Jim Juddson’s coveted lode.
The flesh wound that Felis had suffered was almost healed, but his hatred for man was raw. He knew where Doug was and he kept him in mind.
But Felis was sleeping soundly when the thunderstorm of this particular day broke over his mountain. It was a severe storm, but the cat was undisturbed. He came out of his sleep just enough to hear that it was thundering and raining. He stretched in his snug mine shaft and listened to the rain.
At Vera Falls Tippit went behind the waterfall when the storm broke. Her father joined her and they preened and fluffed and rested. Occasionally he flew out for food.
The thunder and lightning was alarming to Diver. It was impossible for him to go back into the nest; there were no free spaces or footholds at the door.
Teeter knew that no more deeks and warnings from her could keep him from flying. This was not a good time for Diver to take this step toward adulthood, but she would do her part to help him.
Diver flew out into the rain and across the flume.
Doug came out of the spruce shelter and ran toward the excited fledgling. He held his breath and cupped his hands.
A brilliant flash of lightning was followed by an immediate explosion of thunder. Startled, the boy looked up at Gothic.
The lightning hit a tall spruce standing on the rimrock. The whole mountain shuddered and groaned.
Doug looked in horror and fascination as he saw the side of the mountain tremble and bulge forward. The cliff bellied and seemed to hang in space; each rock in its place.
Then the mountain fell! Millions of boulders flew out into space, broke into stones and hurtled down the mountain. The noise was so loud, Doug heard it with pain; then he could not hear at all.
He was terrified. He could not run. Instead he calmly stooped down and picked up the tiny water ouzel. He came to his wits, turned and ran.
Doug climbed the trail like a deer; but he felt as if he were all iron. Halfway up the steep trail, he again became aware of the boom of the falling mountainside. It seemed to press him into the ground. He gained the road and stopped. Stones were raining all around him. He looked up to see the sky fill with rocks. They hit the earth and bounced like rubber balls. He had to run;and he did.
A little huddle of men stood in the road beside Lee’s Tavern. Whispering Bill Smith was among them. He knew Doug had gone to Vera Falls and fear for the boy’s life drained the blood from his face.
“Doug’s in there!” he whispered to the men. No one was able to move.
The rocks poured down the mountain like water. They moaned and exploded, and rolled on and on and on and on.
“Look!” Someone cried and pointed up the road.
The boy was running out of the mist of stone fragments. He came past the old orehouse, the cattlemen’s cabin, Jim Juddson’s ruins, and stumbled into the arms of the men at Lee’s Tavern.
Tears poured down Whispering Bill’s leathery face. He slipped his arms gently around the trembling boy.
The slide lasted only minutes more, and then there was silence. A few rocks that were still not balanced, bounced free from time to time and crashed down the slope. A smoke of finely powdered stone descended like a shroud over the open gash in the mountain.
It was ten minutes before anyone could take his eyes off the mountain and speak. It was Doug who broke the spell. He felt the little bird struggle in his hands, and he remembered that he had a water ouzel. He looked down at the small compact body with its dense feathers and stubby tail. Its bright eyes were clear and untroubled. He said, “I have a water ouzel.”
The men began to move when Doug spoke and the frieze of human bodies came to life. They gathered around the boy. Some one said, “He d
oes!”
“Oh, a wonderful, wonderful bird.” It was Whispering Bill speaking very quietly. “He loves the most beautiful places in the world.”
The man and the boy laughed. It seemed terribly funny. The cowboys laughed. They all laughed, and then they cried; and they looked back at Gothic and were frightened by the tremendous power of the earth.
They came closer to Doug and the bird. They did not ask Doug what he remembered of the experience. They concentrated on the bright little thing in his hand.
It was really not a very beautiful bird. There were many in the mountains that were more lovely, but Cowboy Pete said, “It looks like a nugget.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Lander, the cattle owner. “It sure does.”
Not one of the hard-working men thought that it was strange to study a little bird just after the mountain had slid into the valley.
It was half an hour later when Mr. Lander said, “It’s pouring rain; and we’re all soaked to the skin.”
THE END OF THE SLIDE
THE ROCKSLIDE STOPPED at the top of Dipper Hill, and the falls and the stream were spared the worst of the avalanche. They did not escape entirely, for rocks were hurled over the ground for half a mile around, and the vibrations from the falling mountain were almost as mortal as the stones. The boy ran out of the holocaust, but the birds and animals stayed. Tippit was under the waterfall. The great wall of rock that made the cascade moaned and trembled. She sat still waiting for a signal from her father. She heard nothing, so she did not move. The mountain roared, dust floated in the air, and the water turned white as boulders splashed into it. The cascade rolled on, and deflected some of the plunging rocks. Tippit froze with fear and watched the world fall apart.
Cinclus was in Iron Wheel Pool. He was listening to the water. The sound that he had so feared was beginning again. He left the pool immediately. He thought of his fledgling but the air was filled with bits of the mountains, rocks, and trees, and he dared go no closer to the falls than his Gothic brooklet. He stood still, protected by his own inability to move.
Dipper of Copper Creek (American Woodland Tales) Page 10