I took my niece and her son (age 9) target shooting on public land near Alta in Placer County. We used my Sheridan Blue Streak air rifle, my first firearm, acquired when I was about thirteen. With that rifle I had my luckiest shot ever, in Tehama County around age fifteen, the target being a California valley quail running up a small rise some twenty yards away. I took quick aim and fired. The 5mm lead pellet entered the bird's breast. But the quail had its revenge, for it fell amidst poison oak bushes. This was my first real exposure to poison oak. I got oil on my arms and face, and for days afterwards I suffered greatly.
I taped a paper target to a cardboard box, and atop the box I set aluminum soda cans. My niece was familiar with firearms - I'd taken her to Dillman Range in Lincoln three times before. But this was her son's first time handling a firearm, so I gave him a safety briefing: shooting firearms is not a game; a firearm is not a toy; always consider a firearm to be loaded; never point a firearm at what you don't intend to shoot; &tc &tc. And then, to drive the point home, I told him what I was told many, many years ago. Pointing to the barrel of the rifle, I said, "This is where Death lives." We then commenced target shooting.
What a magnificent spot to spend the day! Some 1800 feet below us was the North Fork American River. Before us was the expanse of the canyons, covered with pine trees and manzanita bushes, and to the west was Giant Gap. To the east and 26 miles away stood Tinker Knob at the crest of the Sierra, elevation 8901 feet. The December storms brought much-needed snow to the Sierra, but warmer weather followed, and now here and there the andesite rocks on the sun-exposed west slope of Tinker Knob could be seen, meaning a low snow level, not good for our drought situation.
And we had this place to ourselves, mostly. Two people in an old sedan bearing Washington state license plates drove up and parked nearby. We paused shooting until they disappeared on their day hike. This topography transported to a flatland state out east would be a national park crawling with people.
The sky had been overcast and the temperature chilly upon our arrival around eleven o'clock, but soon the sun poked through and warmed things up. The dead of winter in California.
A short distance from the practice site, on the return drive, I stopped to show the two a small slate bedrock with some five grinding mortars. A Nisenan village had stood here. It was a good spot to live. A spring with fresh water was close by. Deer and other game were in the surrounding forests. There were salmon runs in the river (no longer, due to dams). Over thousands of years, generations of Nisenan women had sat at this bedrock, grinding seeds and nuts into meal, making the mortar holes deeper and deeper.
I had been here several times before, but it was my niece who discovered the rock pestle buried halfway in the soil. It fit perfectly in the hand, the flat side to the palm, fingers easily grasping it, the rounded side matching the concavity of the mortar holes. When had a Nisenan woman last used it? Was it right up to the Gold Rush, when the Argonauts came in a ran off those Nisenan they did not kill outright? And when was it first used? 1000 years ago? 4000 years ago? One thing was for certain, the rock was not from the rough slate here. It was rounded and polished in a riverbed, and the nearest riverbed was some 2000 feet below us. We set the pestle back into the hole, made it appear undisturbed, and continued on our way.
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