February 9, 1854. In a walk some days since through the Redwoods, I encountered an old man by the side of the road engaged in making shingles. He was a very coarse-looking fellow with a dark complexion and a black, bushy beard, that more than half covered his face, giving an additional grimness to his rough, harsh features. He was an old Kentucky rifleman, and, as I learned to-day, a first-rate marksman. He had shot a Vulture some time before, and it was lying near his cabin, half decayed. Some quills were scattered over the ground, and I picked up two or three of them, when he ordered me in the rudest manner to leave them. I then offered to buy some of them, but he would neither sell nor give them away. He wanted them for himself.
While I stood there another man joined us, and asked the name of the bird. "A Turkey Buzzard," said the old man. I disputed him, and endeavored to point out the difference between this bird and the Turkey Buzzard. But he would not be convinced. He had seen thousands of them in Kentucky, though he admitted they were smaller there than here. I replied that he might with equal propriety say that a Raven was a large Crow, or a Crow a large Blackbird. But he did not admit the analogy of the two cases, and the bird was a Turkey Buzzard and nothing more. So I left him in the enjoyment of his own opinion.
To-day I passed his cabin again, and he accosted me with considerable civility. A sort of grim smile played over his harsh features, his manners were wonderfully softened, and the gruff old savage seemed to have been suddenly transformed into a half civilized being. He had shot two Vultures yesterday, though one of them, which he had only wing-tipped, and tied to a stake, had escaped. He was willing to sell me the remaining bird, and the payment of five bits made me its owner.
On further conversation with him, I found that he possessed a taste for birds and other natural curiosities, and had some preparations for preserving specimens. He showed me some birds and a horned toad which he had preserved.
I skinned my bird, and left it with the Kentuckian, while I continued my walk. But this walk furnished me with nothing further to record except a word or two concerning the habits of these same Vultures. I saw six or eight of them perched on trees, sitting in perfect idleness and scarcely moving. I believe Audubon says that they are very shy and difficult to approach. But Audubon had never seen one. A man was cutting up a fallen tree near one of the birds, but without disturbing him. Another one sat on a branch of a low tree, which I approached. When I arrived within less than gunshot distance, he half spread his wings and stood up, as if preparing to fly. But after a minute's hesitation he folded his pinions again, and seemed to have come to the conclusion that there was no danger from a man with only a stick in his hand. As I continued to approach the tree on which he stood, he thrust his head down below his body, and turned it about most whimsically, while he kept his keen eye fastened on me as though he were quizzing me; but still he showed no disposition to fly. I now began to shout at him, and to swing my cap, and i' faith, it seemed as if my noise and gesticulations served rather to amuse than to frighten him. Then I threw my cane up in the air towards him, but he only gave his head an extra cant, and continued peering at me with such an impudent, derisive, no-ye-don't sort of a look, that I almost expected to see him raise his thumb to his nose, and shake his fingers at me. Finding him thus firmly resolved not to be driven from his position, I left him, fully believing that if a man wishes to hunt California Vultures, their shyness will be no obstacle to his success.
On returning, I called for the skin of my bird which measured nine feet four inches from tip to tip of the wings, and three feet eleven inches in length.