Labor Day Redux

Labor Day finds me hiking up the erroneously named Beaver Pond Trail. Unfortunately, it turns out to be nothing more than a vague path through the brush that eventually leads to a dried out, cow-pie laden stock pond. No self-respecting beaver would be caught dead in a place like this. Encouraged by the sound of gunfire from farther up the hill, I decide to retreat and try my luck on Slate Mountain…twenty minutes later I’m headed up the trail. Less than an hour ago, when I passed by, there were eight or ten cars parked here—now, I have the place to myself. I pass a small butterfly on the trail, desperately flapping its wings in a futile attempt to warm up. Hopefully, any rattlesnakes lurking about will also have a case of frostbite.

5:15 PM: late for a hike but there’s no one else on the trail—just the way I like it. A subtle breeze blows down the mountain, causing the limbs of a juniper tree to rub together with a sigh. The overcast sky presses down upon me. No wonder everyone left; it’s a day only Poe could appreciate. Moving slowly up the trail, I pause to glass the mountainside looking for…what? I’m not sure. A mule deer, maybe a mountain lion or coyote—perhaps even a Bigfoot. Who knows? After all, this area is reputed to be prime habitat for them. I stare through the binoculars, willing the creature to appear. The minutes tick by as I study the terrain.

My concentration is broken as somewhere far overhead the dull roar of a jet intrudes upon the silence. Reminding me, once again, that my sense of isolation is illusionary. After all, I’m in Idaho’s Bannock mountain range. Pocatello to the north, Salt Lake City to the south; cowboys and cowgirls all over the place—not to mention their cows. By my standards it’s civilized, even genteel. What do I expect? Impatiently, I watch the jet disappear over the northern horizon. Eventually, the silence returns.

As shadows lengthen, the mountains close in, brooding and watchful. They know more than they’re saying—I’m sure of it. Shrugging off the feeling that I’m the one being watched, I resume glassing the slopes. Finally, my patience is rewarded. Far up the mountain, I spot a black bear standing up. For a moment I watch, spellbound as the bear stares intently at something farther up the mountainside. What's he looking at? Struggling to remain still, I marvel at the bear's composure. He doesn’t move a muscle; I’m impressed. Five minutes later, when he still hasn’t budged, I’m less impressed. A closer look, and my bear proves to be nothing more than a burnt tree stump. I’m not surprised—it’s not the first time this has happened.

Once on Kodiak, I was hurrying down a trail in the dusk of a winter’s evening when I looked up to see a huge, dark object looming up ahead. It had to be a brown bear, but what was it doing there? Occasionally, bears do awaken from hibernation during winter. And when they do, it’s best to avoid them since they're generally in a bad mood. My path wound around a steep hillside above a creek. I had no choice but to follow the trail. All was silent save for the crunch of my snowshoes. Hopefully, my slow pace would give the bear time to notice me. After what seemed like an eternity, the distance was halved.

Still, the bear did not move. It was getting darker and I could barely make him out through the swirling snow. One thing was sure: I couldn’t stay out there and freeze. The bear would have to move. Easing the safety off my .375, I carefully closed the distance. At thirty feet, I was relieved to find myself facing nothing more ferocious than a tree trunk protruding from the snow. Thankful there were no witnesses, I sheepishly continued on my way. Now, whenever I’m in the woods and it grows dark, I think about that evening. Still, it doesn’t pay to get too complacent. After all, my wife once mistook a sunning brown bear for a tree stump—you just never know….

Raindrops herald the imminent arrival of a storm. Time to get off the mountain. It’s not that I’m averse to a shower—I could probably use one. No, it’s the lightning I object to. Just the day before, I watched as clouds discharged enormous bolts of lightning onto the surrounding peaks. With this in mind, I reluctantly turn and start down the trail. Much later, the rain tapers off. Still overcast, the sky no longer holds the low, troubled clouds that threatened me earlier. I probably could have continued on my way. As I descend, the metaphorical nature of my decision does not escape me.

A mystery: pausing to rest, I notice that here the mountainside is littered with the bleached remains of defunct snails. Scattered about me is a profusion of calcified shells, their former tenants missing in action. What dreadful calamity, I wonder, could have befallen them, and why here? Only on Slate Mountain have I found such remains. Adding to the mystery is the fact that there are no living snails to be found in the area. Could an epidemic have wiped them out? Carefully, I examine one of the delicate shells. Tracing with my eye the graceful curve of its geometry, I marvel at the mathematical precision it manifests. I recall a line of verse:

To see the world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower;

hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.

Like Blake’s grain of sand, my shell’s significance belies its small size. Though no mathematician [I barely scraped through college algebra], I have read of the Fibonacci sequence and the natural logarithm e. And so I realize that the structure of the shell I hold in my hand is predicated upon mysterious forces I can scarcely comprehend. How many generations of humans have trod the humble snail underfoot, unaware of the message locked within its shell? And if a shell the size of a dime can provide us with such startling insight into the nature of reality, what other revelations does nature reserve for those smart, and humble enough, to ask the correct questions?

I’d better watch out. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself living in Sedona, an over-the-hill new-age guru busily engaged in crystal gazing and other esoteric forms of self-deception. The contemplation of nature is not without its dangers; chief among them the natural tendency of humans to conflate the mind of nature with the mind of man—they are not the same. Sometimes, as with the shell, the two intersect. When this occurs, it is a numinous experience. But in that moment, care must be taken lest we slip across the imperceptible boundary that divides our reality from some more mystical realm where the caprices of our mind hold sway.

Enough. This is supposed to be a hike, not Philosophy 101. With infinite care, I put the shell back where it lay; mindful of the fact that, in a few million years, someone [or something] else may find the fossil it becomes. Back on the trail, I find the tracks of a small mule deer. It wasn’t there when I went up—I’m sure of it. Kneeling, I place my hand on the track. It’s cool to the touch, the soil soft and damp. I consider the track, and the one who made it. Concentrating, I try to forge a bond between us, but nothing happens. By looking at the track, I can say with a degree of certainty the direction of travel, size of the deer, and how long ago it passed. But does this really tell me anything about the deer? What does it think? How does it view the world? These are considerations that must lie forever beyond my ken. Giving it up as a bad job, I head down the trail.

Hiking with me is not for everyone, that’s why I tend to go alone. For those who measure the success of a hike by the miles covered or the peaks conquered, my slow, contemplative approach holds little charm. Besides, I’m not that sociable to begin with. Nature cannot be properly appreciated en masse; it’s best experienced alone. Anyway, I’m always watching the ground, looking for tracks. Once again, the hike grinds to a halt when I spot a spent rifle cartridge half embedded in the trail. What past tragedy does this represent? Picking up the bent, corroded case I see that it is a .223—very popular in these parts for shooting what are vulgarly referred to as “varmints.”

This generous and inclusive term is applied to a variety of animals: foxes, coyotes, gophers, ground squirrels, etc. These and others are all fair game to the varmint hunter, who sanctimoniously looks upon his task as somewhat akin to a civic duty. Not only does he [or she] get to satisfy his thirst for senseless killing, he can then claim with some justification that he is making the Great American West a better place to live—for ranchers and cattle. To be fair, this particular round might have been expended on some other sporting proposition: a rock, sign or beer bottle—the possibilities are endless. Dropping the case, I continue down the mountain. In the distance, gunfire announces the presence of another Good Samaritan busily engaged in civic improvement.

Now the wind grows colder—gravedigger’s weather. The leaves blush scarlet as, beneath my feet, a caterpillar makes his way across the trail on what may be his last journey. Soon, winter will clasp the land in its icy embrace as the winds howl unrestrained across the Great Basin. Later, the age-old cycle will begin anew. The snows will melt, revealing the remains of winter’s victims, the fallen ones. The carcass of a mule deer emerging from a snow drift, or a nondescript pile of feathers trapped in the corner of the wire—the pathetic remains of creatures that, just the season before, felt the wind upon them as I do now. And yet, in the midst of death’s pathos, the sharp insistent cry of new life will be heard as the wheel of existence turns over, once more. Without realizing it, I have reached the trailhead. For now, my journey is over.