Off in the Wilderness, a Sense of Resignation Grows

The meeting was scheduled for 2 a.m. in a large hollow beneath the ridge, but a full two hours beforehand the place was packed 1,200 strong.

Friend and foe alike, they arrived in wave after wave, each face more somber than the next.

Some hopped in, some bounded. Others pranced or flew. An especially large contingent scampered.

At 2 o’clock sharp, a barnyard owl asked for quiet and called the meeting to order. “We’ve had our differences,” the owl said, “but for tonight we’re putting that behind us. Tonight, we face a much larger common threat.”

The crowd murmured in assent. By any accounting, it was the largest assemblage of wildlife ever in Orange County.

Foxes, deer, bobcats, mountain lions, hawks, gopher snakes, hummingbirds, field mice, raccoons--from all over South County canyon country, wilderness parks and the sprawling Cleveland National Forest, they came. Even a few bighorn sheep, notoriously antisocial, loped in. From as far away as the Bolsa Chica wetlands, a rowdy group of 15 egrets and green-backed herons came to lend moral support.

“We’ve faced human encroachment for years,” the owl said. “Most of us have lost someone to a housing development or golf course. But this new Eastern tollway, well, this is the worst. We’ve lost about a dozen deer on the highway in the last several months and roughly another 20 big cats and coyotes.”

“What about field mice?” a squeaky voice from the back piped up. “Or don’t we count? I know a whole colony that’s been wiped out.”

“Of course, you count,” the owl said, sympathetically. “Sorry for the oversight. No one is fonder of you folks than I.”

That remark drew a smattering of nervous laughter, but the owl would have none of it.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, tersely. “OK, we have a big crowd tonight, and I’ll ask everyone to keep their remarks short. We’ve got some press here, and if we tell our stories, maybe we can get the word out.”

“I see in the papers where they’re going to put Deer Alert whistles on cars,” a fox said. “Maybe that’ll help. You know, give us a warning.”

“Big whoop,” an elderly mule deer replied dryly. “I couldn’t hear those things when I was young. By the time you hear them, you’re staring into headlights.”

The deer took a moment to collect herself. “Since January, I’ve lost a brother and niece out there on that blasted 241 highway,” she said. “And for what? So people can get to Corona 15 minutes sooner?”

A mountain lion perched on a jutting rock formation burst into applause.

“You tell ‘em,” he roared. He hoped the deer would never find out that he had tracked down and devoured her cousin two nights earlier.

A dusky-footed wood rat hopped forward. “I don’t want to be negative,” she said, “but when have humans ever cared about wildlife when it conflicted with their own needs? I know coyotes who have been shot at looking for food in backyards that used to be natural habitat.”

“Tell me about it,” a coyote said. “Why do you think I’m limping? I took a slug three weeks ago from some bratty 14-year-old in Trabuco Canyon. The whole thing makes me nuts. Last night, I went down to a farmhouse for some rabbits. Just for spite, I ate one of their goats too. And you all know I hate goat!”

That got a big laugh, but it was bittersweet merriment.

In a crevice toward the back of the crowd, two dozen field mice huddled together, nestled between large groups of warblers and hummingbirds.

A mouse stepped tentatively to the foreground, warily eyeing six red-shouldered hawks 20 feet away. “I think some of you know me,” the mouse said. “Me and the wife have a little place down by the reservoir. It isn’t much, but it’s ours. We’ve seen this push coming for years. Foothill Ranch, Portola Hills. Rancho Santa Margarita. And they’re not done yet.”

A hush descended over the group, a hush that spoke to the inevitability of their plight.

“The question,” said a sad-faced raccoon, “is whether it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“They won’t be happy till we’re all dead or in zoos,” said an angry bobcat.

“We were here first, we never bothered anyone,” a tiny titmouse said.

“What chance have we got?” a plaintive warbler asked.

Off in the distance, the faint but unmistakable sound of a car headed somewhere fast.

*

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821, by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail at dana.parsons@latimes.com.