“What was the highlight of your day?” I directed this at my daughter as she sprawled in tee shirt and underwear on the motel bed and poked at a Caesar salad in a supermarket plastic container.
“The pikas,” she responded without hesitation. Slight pause, as she glanced at me. “You have to ask?”
We had spent the day hiking one of the prettiest, and one of the highest, wildflower trails of California’s Sierra Nevada. The route along Rock Creek through Little Lakes Valley, starting at 10, 230 feet, was a gardener’s paradise of lupine, goldenrod, paintbrush, and countless other alpine flowers that grow at and above the tree line. Bubbling streams flowed clear and cold over rust-colored stones. Grassy meadows basked peacefully beneath towering granite cliffs. Around us lay pebbles, rocks, and boulders in all shades of gray streaked with orange and green. Black clouds and thunder chased us. And we were entertained by the tiny creatures that inhabit the slopes of scree and talus—the pikas.
Pikas are lagomorphs, rabbits, but they look more like guinea pigs. They are six to eight inches long and have little round ears and no visible tail. I have tried to avoid using the “c” word, but cute is exactly what they are. My daughter spent a great deal of time with her camera trying to capture one of them perched on a sharp-edged rock before it darted off and disappeared between the crevices.
Did I really need to ask this forty-four year-old woman who was somehow still my six-year-old daughter? Evidently not. Some people acquire an obsession early on and it informs their life. My girl-child shunned dolls and preferred toy animals. Real animals were even better. She has kept the usual dogs and cats, plus an assortment of mice, frogs, and spiders. Yes, spiders. Her daughter now keeps snakes and geckos in her bedroom. The genes live on.
I am the plant person on our hikes. My daughter is the bird and mammal authority. The pika sightings are a delight for both of us. Hikers usually do not notice them because they are small, speedy, and the same color as their stone environment. But if we hear a metallic squeak, the pika alarm call, and, if we are quick and have a finely tuned sense of direction, we’ll catch sight of the tiny sentry. Is this sigalert meant to warn the other pikas or are we being rebuked for passing by uninvited?
Pikas are small but they have a huge sense of their own importance and—the clincher for me—they seem unutterably happy. And who wouldn’t be, inhabiting a Minimalist condo with a mountain view, located at the edge of a sweet-smelling meadow that serves as a free supermarket. Their thick gray-brown fur makes it possible for these high-altitude mammals to be active all winter. They do not hibernate, but spend the time, as they do in summer, scurrying over and under the rocky slopes at the base of steep cliffs.
Summer is a busy time for these little creatures, since they need to gather a food supply that lasts through the barren winter months. During the warm days from July through October, pikas harvest grasses and wildflowers and pile them in neat little haystacks to dry in the sun. Watching one of them dash from rock to rock with a plume of greenery waving out of the side of its mouth is enormously entertaining. Because it is so hard to preserve their antics on film, our pleasure remains especially ephemeral and precious. We just want to pick up one of these cuddly little guys, put it in our pocket, and take it home. But of course we will never get that close.
That evening at the motel we opened our copy of the bible of alpine ecology, Sierra East; Edge of the Great Basin, edited by Genny Smith. In the Small Mammal section we learned more about Ochotona princeps. We found out that pikas are quite territorial and are not very social. They live alone in their rocky apartments and do not share their haystacks. Juveniles must find a territory of their own a year after the spring they are born. We worried about how far they would have to go to find their new home, since all the scree we passed already had several pikas busily scampering about. The book said they vigorously defend their territory. I wondered how extensive that area might be. My daughter speculated it would be as large as the animal could declare its own and keep all others away.
Inquisitive humans have studied the pika diet and learned that the plant material gathered for their haystacks is poisonous. The toxin acts as a preservative and it gradually dissipates; in the meantime it keeps the harvest fresh. Grasses and leaves containing just a little toxin are soon ready to eat; those with more will be good pika meals at the end of winter.
Because of their speed and ability to dive into small openings and sprint through narrow passageways under the rocks, pikas have few predators. Weasels are perhaps the only animals that are small and agile enough to be a threat, but coyotes, martens, and hawks are other possible dangers. Pikas may be rugged individualists, but they are social enough to raise an alarm to alert their neighbors.
The next morning at Saddlebag Lake, elevation 10,080 feet, we saw many more pikas as we set out along the east shore just before nine o’clock. The dusty midsummer trail was bordered by tall pink fireweed, the round white flower heads of ranger’s buttons, and clumps of yellow alpine asters and arnicas. Juncos, chickadees, and nuthatches called softly from the contorted pines gathered at the edge of the tree limit. The fluffy whipped-cream clouds of morning would turn to slate-colored thunderheads by noon. At every tumble of rocks we searched for our favorite little mammal and were often rewarded. I no longer wondered what would be the highlight of this day. I already knew.