For as long as I can remember, I've liked to look at plants and animals (mainly insects) and try to figure out what they were. When the summer days got long and boring with nothing else to do, I would strike out on a walk around my parents' farm, stopping to peer into the stream that flowed out from the pond, or turning over rocks or dried cow-patties to see what was living under them.
I collected things in jars, and grew things in jars on my poor mother's kitchen island, some full of life when viewed under the microscope, and some just stomach-turning stinky. I collected skulls of small animals bleached white in the sun and snail shells hidden in the leaves in the woods. I collected insects of all sorts, and put them in the freezer to die (I considered this a much more humane way of building a collection). Once thawed, I put the special insect pin through them, and patiently arranged them into life-like poses on styrofoam meat trays, until they were dry enough to move to a collection box. I had plants in pots, and plants in aquariums, and was absolutely delighted to watch them grow.
As I got older though, the familiar path around the farm became "more of the same" and I found myself feeling restless. Sometimes I would strike out on a walk, not telling anyone where I was going, or even that I was going. In those pre-cell-phone days, there wasn't any way to call if I got hurt, or got lost, or decided I had gone too far and needed a ride back. But I was young, and told myself I was very careful, and I had my loyal dog Stanley with me; surely he would go get help if I needed it.
So Stanley and I would walk down the driveway and disappear into the thicket across the road. We roamed through woods of cedar, elm, and oak, overgrown with honeysuckle. Down the draw and up the other side...we found a stream with the most amazing caddisfly larvae, carrying houses that were at least an inch and a half long, made of leaves cut into neat little squares. We crossed Grandpa's pasture and made our way down the slough. Sometimes the sun would be low in the west when we finally made our way back to the yard. I don't know if it made my parents worry. If it did, they never let on.
It's hard to believe, but that was over 30 years ago, those years a "time-out" of sorts, spent working and raising a family of my own. Then about a year and a half ago, I was given a used Canon T3 camera. I bought a used 55-250mm zoom lens, and slowly started to explore nature again.
When I first started walking again, I stayed close to home, walking through the pasture that surrounds the house. Although I suppose there's always a chance one might come across a snake, I never did. The worst thing I had to deal with were the ticks. Just as I had done as a young kid, I walked my same trail day after day, and just as when I was a kid, I started to feel restless.
So one afternoon, there was a flock of black vultures in the second field (which is called the Barber field), circling around something large and black. It was too far to see what it was, and I decided that I needed to go find out. It turned out that one of my father's cows had died, and it was very sad. But that walk opened up a whole new world. I saw wildflowers that I had never seen. It seemed that with every step, there was something new. It was a small bit of paradise.
Over the rest of the summer, and through the winter, I walked a route that took me ever farther from home...through the Carey field (which encircles the house), across the Barber field, and into the Flint place, where I inevitably ended up in a patch of woods that runs along the creek. Although it isn't really that far, it is still quite "wild" since human beings hardly ever go there. I wasn't too worried though...I felt special and talked myself into believing that God "wanted" me to explore and find out what was there.
Don't misunderstand me...I was careful, but perhaps became complacent. Because even if something happened, I reasoned in my mind, I had a cell phone, and could call for help (never mind that often there was no signal there).
But the thing is, I'm really not very smart at all when it comes to reading the signs of nature. Oh, I've learned to recognize a few things, but for the most part, I stumble along, loudly and blindly, perhaps taking chances where I shouldn't take chances, and so far, I have probably escaped harm by sheer dumb luck.
The winter fields and woods are kinder, you see. The grass has died down, and the leaves are gone, and you can actually see where you're going. But as the summertime plants start to come into their own, things change.
And that brings me (finally) to my point.
On May 2, I stepped foot into my stretch of woods, and got a jolt of reality. For about 20 feet in front of me the woods suddenly came to life with rustling and crashing sounds, and the plants waved and shuddered as a herd of feral hogs were startled up from their sleep. It was almost as if this was all happening in slow motion, and I was frozen, unable to move. By the time I got my wits about me, they were gone. Lucky for me, they went away from me instead of toward me. I shouted at them, "Get on out of here you pigs!" more than once as I retreated in the opposite direction.
I knew there had been hogs in the area. I had seen were they had rooted up the wildflowers, and left nasty droppings in the woods, and even thought I heard piglets in the cane thicket one afternoon. But I told myself I was careful - that I'd see them before they saw me. Was I wrong. That close encounter put an end to the walks by the creek. Feral hogs are dangerous, and while I was very lucky that day, I'm not fool enough to think that my terribly inadequate senses can even begin to compete with theirs.
We've separated ourselves from nature, you see. We don't understand her ways, but our "superior brains" convince us that we are in control. We aren't. We are at Mother Nature's mercy. Probably nine times out of 10, I will get by with it because the animals fear me. But they shouldn't. They are master of the wild...I am the outsider, the weakling.
You hear about people being killed by animals. Mountain lions in California, African lions in Africa. black bears in New Jersey, grizzlies in Yellowstone, sharks in the ocean...it happens maybe a lot more than we realize. And probably in all of the cases, the humans thought they would be safe. But maybe they got careless, or maybe they didn't take the right precautions, or maybe they took risks they shouldn't have taken. And maybe it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
So in my own case, I think I've managed to get by on just dumb luck. When I left the Flint place that day, I told myself I was lucky the pigs ran, and that I hadn't walked right into the middle of them before they did. I was lucky one hadn't turned on me, because there would have been nowhere for me to run (and honestly, I don't think I could outrun anything faster than a tortoise). The grass and the weeds were too tall for me to safely walk down there, and it was a sad realization that I wasn't going back anytime soon - perhaps after the hay was cut in the field.
"It's great to love nature. But don't be stupid about it." I had to remind myself every time I thought about going back to my woods.
I still walked in the Barber field, but it's a dangerous place too. With the cows fastened out, the grass has grown head-high, and you can't see anything that might be hiding there. I have scared up deer, coyotes, and a few snakes, and as I found out this weekend, there is at least one hog that has taken up residence there too. I recognize the signs now: the mud wallow; the trails through the grass where mud has rubbed off the pig's sides; the rooted out patches; the tracks; the droppings; the gouges in the trees from the tusks.
So now I have a decision to make. Just how much do I love nature, and just how stupid can I be and still make it back home? I'll have to think on that one a while.
Damage to the Barber field caused by wild hogs rooting up the ground.
