As I round the sharp bend that sends the river flowing north again, a muskrat hurries into the water and submerges. On the steep bank high above the river, I wait until it surfaces in midstream. It floats lazily for a while, its long, naked tail straight with the slow current. Then it heads back toward shore. Across the river, the floodplain cottonwoods bear the scars of beaver teeth. Some are girdled and dead. Others are in full leaf despite deep but incomplete incisions.
Growing dusk fills the river valley. In the failing sunlight vanquished to a thin, vertical display on the Tower face, it is almost possible to imagine what this splendid landscape must have been like as wilderness. Bison, not cattle, would have grazed nearby. Instead of the howling dog that has escaped the campground and races into the prairie dog town, a wolf might be pressing home its attack on an injured pronghorn. Grizzlies and cougars knew this valley, and the river was tamed not by a nearby reservoir but by a latticework of beaver dams.
There are no prairie dogs left above ground now to challenge my trespass as I head back toward the welcome firelights of the campground. The deer have left their daybeds to graze in the open, and the great horned owl again asserts its dominance in the river timber. With a long rattle, briefly echoed from a cliff, the kingfisher quits the day.
Beneath the expanding population of stars, I return to the comfort of hot coffee and the confines of my own world. For now, I am content with the memory of eagle and falcon. In my mind they will continue to soar, inspecting the splendid terrain my memory today acquired.
Prairie Dogs: A Tight-Knit Society
A prairie dog family gathers at the entrance to their burrow, watching the activity in the town and keeping an eye out for intruders.
When the long grip of winter’s crusted snow relaxes, pasqueflowers burst forth in ravines, unplowed pastures, and abandoned cemeteries. Their delicate silvery purple contrasts with the bleak stubble of last year’s ruined grasses. Before plows ever broke the grassland sod, pasqueflowers were so profuse the distant ground seemed veiled in haze. The pioneers called it “prairie smoke.”
With the appearance of the pasqueflowers, spring begins to renew the sun-warmed ground. Gone are the long days of waiting. Perhaps, the few prairie-dog sentinels that had stood motionless in the March wind wished that the spring would come. The sharp wind divides the dense fur of their winter coats while they survey the snow-skiffed ground of their silent town. They almost appear to regard the sun wistfully, wishing it strong, the snow gone, and the grass resurgent once again. But at last the meadowlarks lose their winter-long quiet, and the horned larks now lift up with extravagance, unhuddling from their long ordeal. Below ground, in the deep, secure warmth of their nursery chambers, a new generation of prairie dogs is developing, part of the ancient ritual of replenishment that spring brings to the Great Plains.
The breeding season of the prairie dog is determined by geographic location and weather conditions. On the southern plains of Texas it may be as early as January; on the Canadian plains as late as March. For four or five weeks there is much kissing, grooming, and investigation. Males become aggressive and squabble over territory. Besides the older females, perhaps half of the yearling females will mate.