Revenge of the Cormies

Francisco in Minor
Orinoco  Tributary

Francisco was moving the power boat upriver in a leisurely fashion on the widest part of our tributary to the Orinoco, pointing out some incredibly beautiful, orchid like, fire engine red flowers that grew 40 and more feet up at the tops of riverside trees. It was because of our attention to them that Muriel was the first to sight the howler monkeys, for they spend almost their entire time as high up these sky scratching trees as they can get.

Suddenly, Francisco swung the boat around in a tight 90 degree and speeded up. He was sprinting now directly toward a mass of cormorants who were bobbing comfortably on the cream colored river, perhaps 500 of them, maybe more. They gave Francisco no apparent attention until he was within about forty yards and roaring full bore. Then, like a carpet being rippled, undulating from the river to the air, they were a mass of black. Also very noisy.

  

Cormorants cannot lift with any grace, like a heron, or a flamingo. They lunge forward, scampering and beating their wings, and with much complaining. So did these. They created a black sheet, first upstream, then curling toward the far shore.

Francisco slowed the boat to its standard putt-putt pace as we watched the half a hundred creatures, now ten or so feet above the river, veer away from the jungle. Back toward the river center they curved, now some fifteen feet clear of the surface, and finally back over the boat.

DISASTER!!! One cormie, slightly lower than his comrades, gave Francisco what he richly deserved.

After we had spent ourselves in laughter, Muriel pulled the roll of paper towels out of our picnic basket. Francisco, grinning as widely as we, nodded a thank you.

And Francisco, when the cormies had finally settled, proceeded among them at idle speed, so slowly that the birds merely swam out of the way.

How to Get a Croc's Attention

You can be too agreeable as a traveler, especially when you and your guide have nearly zero words in common, like when you are on a boat in a Venezuelan river, and your guide sees a crocodile.

Francisco (his Amazonian Indian tribal name was almost unpronounceable) operated our power boat. He could repair the boat's 40 hp engines, and so could be expected, in an emergency, to negotiate the 9 hour high speed trip from the camp down the tributary to the Orinoco and on to the nearest hospital. He also knew the rivers of Venezuela's Amazonia Basin better than we know our own kitchens.

He saw when river otters would emerge, when porpoise would break the surface, when crocodiles were swimming, when cormorants would be around the bend, where piranha were schooling. He knew everything.

This one day he had left the 200 yard wide main stream to enter a beautiful side one. Pausing near a bank; he touched my shoulder.

When I turned, he made a waggle motion with his index finger, like clicking a camera, and said, "Gator." Then he pointed down.

I nodded (the mistake) and looked over the gunwale. There was an 8 ft. crocodile resting on the bottom. (Everybody there says "gator," although they are crocodiles).

I started to adjust the camera when the boat went straight up a good foot. As it settled back, and Muriel stopped screaming, I saw the croc swimming to the far bank. Francisco had rammed his boat pole onto the croc's back, which it didn't like at all. At last I was justified beyond doubt in always, always keeping the camera strapped to me. I might have had to fight the croc for it.

Francisco motioned a question which meant had I gotten a picture?  No, and I was tempted to toss him after the croc.

Venezuelan Cayman

I did eventually get some wonderful shots of a couple of 16 footers; but then I was on a hill, and the beasts were some 40 feet away.  

¡Más bueno!

Staredown

We had two bichons: an alpha and a sweetie pie. Tiki, the "A," loved the world because he had ordered it to love him. He obeyed, with one stipulation: first, he let you know that he was obeying only because he had chosen to.


We did a lot of trailering and tried to find sites where we could let the dogs run free for awhile. There are some. One is set up in a very large disc shape with the sites arranged around the circumference. The fine center lawn has trees. It’s all secluded, beautiful, and quiet.


Arriving there one late afternoon, Muriel let Tiki, the alpha out. He promptly sprinted the considerable distance to the center, nosing around and counting squirrels.  After a few minutes, Muriel called to him, at which he looked up, then very deliberately walked to the nearest tree. He lifted his leg while staring at Muriel.

"Oh, that game," Muriel said. "Let‘s just see how long he can do that."

Tiki, leg up, stared at Muriel. Muriel, in the trailer doorway, stared back. For nearly three full minutes the staring continued. Then, slowly, Tiki’s leg sagged a little, then a bit more. When he had four feet back on the ground, with his tail dragging, he made his way back to the trailer. Entering it, he stalked over to his crate, slapped his chin on the deck, and pouted. At least, he was very forgiving. At our dinner, he snuggled against Muriel.

12 lb. Terrorist

The bichon frise could pass for a white, stuffed teddy bear. Ours often slept among Muriel's collection along the wall, going completely unnoticed.


People would sometimes ask if Tiffany was aggressive. My reply would be that she would barely bite her own food.
We decided to take one of our regular walks along the canal levee path near our home. En route, Tiffany shied away from a fireplug, refusing to allow herself to be within twenty feet of it as we entered the levee trail.


At the base of the levee, enjoying a rest on the green lea, was a 2,000+ lb. bull, solidly muscled and broad of horn.  With a savage snarl, our girl charged down the slope. Only the fifteen foot spring lead checked her attack.


Dragging her back up to the trail, I lifted her to my shoulder. As we continued along the path, she glared past my ear at the automobile-sized red mass, continuing her rumbling, growls. This from a pet so mild mannered she barks only through the window at bicycles, never even at cats. Burglars, we suspect, she might welcome warmly. But we’re certainly safe from one-ton red bulls. 

Havasu Falls

Havasu Falls is one of those places that, when mentioned, usually draws a smile because it somehow sounds familiar, even if one hasn’t seen a picture, or hasn’t even heard of it before. And it is one of the most famous spots in "America not visited all that much."
I don’t mind. I’ve been there, and I’m not sure it could tolerate more casual visits. It’s too delicate.
Access is only eight miles from a parking area, and the site is only an eight mile walk past a Supai village; but they’re not the easiest eight. You know you’re downstream from the Grand Canyon; but there aren’t any classic views during those eight, not until you reach the falls. Then, as if a door swung open, you find yourself within an Indian myth. You are in a glen by a stream delicately decorated with soft green life. Even the water is so, descending basins of lime green chalk handing filmy water along, dribbling it over its rims and down perhaps a foot each descent. Off the surfaces reflect shimmering oranges from the towering mesas that cup this Shangri La.


Gradually, a steady background, purring sound reaches your awareness. You look to the south a bit and see Havasu Falls, the force that creates, modifies, and recreates the delicate series of stair-stepping ponds. Even as you see its reality, it is more like a painting than a spraying, diving plunge of water. Your first reaction might be you’ve come upon a Kinkade painting. At once you regret that you have brought insufficient supplies to allow you to be here for a month.


Inevitably, in fact, the more you watch the cascade, you feel the compulsion to learn where all that water is coming from. After all, this is Arizona. The Colorado comes through it, not from it. So, you climb up beside the falls and start trailing upstream.
As you do, the stream narrows. Eventually, you find yourself standing by a bathtub sized puddle. There is no river, or stream, or anything wet. The source of that fairy like cascade is this humble seepage. And so soon!


Reversing your course, you return downstream. Without visible cause, it grows and grows and begins to ripple. And, in shouting distance from its source, you can see the mist that signals the lip of a waterfall. Havasu is, in fact, Gluck’s fairy tale creation of "Treasure Valley."


So, having seen and photographed Havasu from in front, below, above, and its start. I had to get a view from inside. Nature was especially kind that day. A gentle wind trailed across the falls cliff that day, brushing the descent of water just enough toward one side that I could pick footholds to directly underneath the lip. A brilliant Arizona sun lit up every water drop in the air, creating several miniature rainbows in the spray. I’ve never cared so little that my clothes were soaked.


A distance below Havasu is Mooney Falls, taller, lovelier, and truly hidden in the narrow canyon descending to the Colorado, more than worth the extra journey, probably missed by most who do press on down to the great river. And that is their loss. But they have seen Havasu Falls, the one that comes from nowhere.