Leave my husky alone for a bit, and (if she doesn't go sleep under a spruce tree) she'll invent a game. This may be "cut me off as I try to walk to the car." It may be "throw the ball up for myself and run to catch it." It may be "gently wrestle with the cat as it bats my head with its paws." Or it may be "run circles around an older dog on our path just to annoy it." The point, though, is play (versus, say, barking at a balloonist or ultralight pilot as these strange craft slowly crawl over our air space). Even the more sedentary cats know this (they like to play "race around the house chasing each other over around and through everything because it's 5:30 a.m.").
Children know this too---leave them alone, and they'll invent a game. Creativity and play just seem natural.
So what happens to adults? When and why do we lose that sense of playful inventiveness? Why not take rolling chairs and books and construct bumper chair wars, for example? Why do we design "sport" as structured by rules, a serious business that must be done only by proper procedures?
What happened to the game?
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Game
Twenty some years ago, when I was finally able to move to the country, I was fascinated by all the sights I loved so much, especially sighting wildlife: “Oh look! A deer!” “Look! Wild turkeys!” “A fox!” “Raccoons!” and so forth. I’m still glad for the change, but long since this has moved to “Would you get your damn ass out of the road?! I’ve got to get to work!!” A few days ago, I had to stop for four coyote pups considering negotiating the road, the “leader” poised with one paw raised (OK, I admit—this was wicked awesome cute).
Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.
Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s rain ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.
But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.
I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.
For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.
Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.
Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.
Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.
Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s rain ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.
But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.
I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.
For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.
Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.
Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
An Open Letter to the Hawks
Dear Red-Tailed Hawks:
For quite some time, I have enjoyed watching you circle above the land, floating on the thermals, presumably looking for prey. I’ve even seen you sitting on the utility wires, and a few times standing by the side of the road. Given your strong numbers, your clear proximity, and your superior vision (eight times greater than human eyesight!), I can’t help but wonder a few things about your behavior.
My land is increasingly overrun with voles. The unsightly valleys they dig, yards and yards and yards of them, exacerbated by erosion, just get worse every year. They’ve even killed trees, and my neighbors tell similar stories, including that the problem just gets worse every year. We also all complain about rabbits, and again, they are worse every year. Last year, they destroyed my entire orchard, save one apricot tree. This year, we are all growing large gardens, even those of us who decided in past years that we just didn’t have the time, largely because the high price of gasoline has pushed the price of produce so high. We’d hate to lose this to rabbits.
The encyclopedias report that your primary diet is rodents and small game like rabbits, so we were wondering—what’s the problem? Why don’t you swoop down and help yourselves? Granted, some prey, like birds and chipmunks, keep the cover of the trees, but I can’t walk across the lawn to the garden without seeing voles, and as I strive to keep the grass cut—why don’t YOU see them? Rabbits too—they get hit in the road everyday. Is your vision overrated? Or do you just not care?
I admit my species can’t do much better. Just as we can’t seem to control the voles and rabbits, the hawks in Washington circle above the country seemingly just as aloof as you to our persistent and growing problems. A quarter of the country’s people have no health insurance, and as costs rise, that percentage does too, so people wait until they must go to the emergency room, a much higher cost to the nation than preventative care. Funding and management for natural disasters remains inadequate, and past victims are still coldly left to fend for themselves. Social Security will need some adjustments, and even though it now shows a surplus the government uses to fund its debt in other areas, and even though preventing a crisis still a few decades away is readily achievable now, the will to do so seems absent. Pollution keeps getting worse, but the government continues to study it, deny it, whitewash it, excuse it. And education is so bad that we even graduate college students who can’t write correct sentences—and yet we keep cutting funding for education.
Our hawks ARE good at attacking things when they want—but only attacking. Going after Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan was one thing, but invading Iraq seems so ill-advised that even the administration’s party big-wigs advised against it; brushing off such seasoned advice, the administration arrogantly attacked anyway, confident of quick victory and ushering in a peace that would spread throughout the region, even to Palestine. Instead, we now see endless civil war in Iraq, thousands of deaths, and a drain of billions of dollars—all likely to continue for several years.
These hawks even blindly attack their own allies in their own partisan operations, to their own detriment. After hiring a well-respected Secretary of State, a seasoned general of the FIRST Iraq war, the administration side-lined him, replacing him with a Sovietologist—who has managed to sour own relations with Russia to the point where their President has threatened to re-aim missiles at Western targets. Although elder party leaders have stressed the importance of talking to regional players like Syria and Iran, the administration refuses to negotiate unless absolutely forced to do so. And when one good public servant accurately questioned the administration’s distortion of “factual” evidence, administration officials rabidly turned to punish him by destroying his wife’s CIA cover—an act of treason. They followed up by lying to the grand jury, in strict violation of the U.S. law they’re sworn to protect.
When anyone questions the hawks, those critics are ridiculed as advocating “cut and run” policies—even seeing their patriotism attacked. This is an old game, of course, as even early presidents like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were attacked as cowards when they opted to build trade with other nations instead of attacking them. Ironic that we refer to a strongly constructed woodworking joint as a “dovetail.” Building is so much harder, and takes so much more long-term courage than attacking things. No wonder that Jefferson famously observed that given the choice between government and the press, he’d prefer the press—and no wonder that the administration so hates and mistrusts the press. After all, I’ve frequently noted small birds chasing hawks away.
Perhaps, then, you hawks are simply judicious, knowing when to pursue, when to back away. Perhaps you simply choose your targets carefully, seeking balance, not vendetta. And, I suppose, you could fairly ask that since I have a dog who has already proven her competence against both vole and rabbit, why don’t I simply let her loose to address the invasion? The answer is that she wouldn’t be so focused, but would hunt indiscriminately, wandering far off our home turf.
Come to think of it, maybe we don’t have hawks in Washington after all. Maybe we have dogs.
For quite some time, I have enjoyed watching you circle above the land, floating on the thermals, presumably looking for prey. I’ve even seen you sitting on the utility wires, and a few times standing by the side of the road. Given your strong numbers, your clear proximity, and your superior vision (eight times greater than human eyesight!), I can’t help but wonder a few things about your behavior.
My land is increasingly overrun with voles. The unsightly valleys they dig, yards and yards and yards of them, exacerbated by erosion, just get worse every year. They’ve even killed trees, and my neighbors tell similar stories, including that the problem just gets worse every year. We also all complain about rabbits, and again, they are worse every year. Last year, they destroyed my entire orchard, save one apricot tree. This year, we are all growing large gardens, even those of us who decided in past years that we just didn’t have the time, largely because the high price of gasoline has pushed the price of produce so high. We’d hate to lose this to rabbits.
The encyclopedias report that your primary diet is rodents and small game like rabbits, so we were wondering—what’s the problem? Why don’t you swoop down and help yourselves? Granted, some prey, like birds and chipmunks, keep the cover of the trees, but I can’t walk across the lawn to the garden without seeing voles, and as I strive to keep the grass cut—why don’t YOU see them? Rabbits too—they get hit in the road everyday. Is your vision overrated? Or do you just not care?
I admit my species can’t do much better. Just as we can’t seem to control the voles and rabbits, the hawks in Washington circle above the country seemingly just as aloof as you to our persistent and growing problems. A quarter of the country’s people have no health insurance, and as costs rise, that percentage does too, so people wait until they must go to the emergency room, a much higher cost to the nation than preventative care. Funding and management for natural disasters remains inadequate, and past victims are still coldly left to fend for themselves. Social Security will need some adjustments, and even though it now shows a surplus the government uses to fund its debt in other areas, and even though preventing a crisis still a few decades away is readily achievable now, the will to do so seems absent. Pollution keeps getting worse, but the government continues to study it, deny it, whitewash it, excuse it. And education is so bad that we even graduate college students who can’t write correct sentences—and yet we keep cutting funding for education.
Our hawks ARE good at attacking things when they want—but only attacking. Going after Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan was one thing, but invading Iraq seems so ill-advised that even the administration’s party big-wigs advised against it; brushing off such seasoned advice, the administration arrogantly attacked anyway, confident of quick victory and ushering in a peace that would spread throughout the region, even to Palestine. Instead, we now see endless civil war in Iraq, thousands of deaths, and a drain of billions of dollars—all likely to continue for several years.
These hawks even blindly attack their own allies in their own partisan operations, to their own detriment. After hiring a well-respected Secretary of State, a seasoned general of the FIRST Iraq war, the administration side-lined him, replacing him with a Sovietologist—who has managed to sour own relations with Russia to the point where their President has threatened to re-aim missiles at Western targets. Although elder party leaders have stressed the importance of talking to regional players like Syria and Iran, the administration refuses to negotiate unless absolutely forced to do so. And when one good public servant accurately questioned the administration’s distortion of “factual” evidence, administration officials rabidly turned to punish him by destroying his wife’s CIA cover—an act of treason. They followed up by lying to the grand jury, in strict violation of the U.S. law they’re sworn to protect.
When anyone questions the hawks, those critics are ridiculed as advocating “cut and run” policies—even seeing their patriotism attacked. This is an old game, of course, as even early presidents like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were attacked as cowards when they opted to build trade with other nations instead of attacking them. Ironic that we refer to a strongly constructed woodworking joint as a “dovetail.” Building is so much harder, and takes so much more long-term courage than attacking things. No wonder that Jefferson famously observed that given the choice between government and the press, he’d prefer the press—and no wonder that the administration so hates and mistrusts the press. After all, I’ve frequently noted small birds chasing hawks away.
Perhaps, then, you hawks are simply judicious, knowing when to pursue, when to back away. Perhaps you simply choose your targets carefully, seeking balance, not vendetta. And, I suppose, you could fairly ask that since I have a dog who has already proven her competence against both vole and rabbit, why don’t I simply let her loose to address the invasion? The answer is that she wouldn’t be so focused, but would hunt indiscriminately, wandering far off our home turf.
Come to think of it, maybe we don’t have hawks in Washington after all. Maybe we have dogs.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Cats and Birds
I was sitting on my futon (I work on the floor), typing away, while my older cat, Kira, eight years old, lay comfortably purring across my lap, when suddenly she leapt up so fast I didn’t even see the move, body stretched out, hanging from her front claws imbedded in the screen, her tail four feet higher than where she had been resting a moment ago. A bird had alighted for a second outside the window.
We think of cats as chasing mice, but cats will sometimes calmly ignore mice—not so birds. Cats immediately go ballistic over birds. My one year old cat, Tawny, gets up in the morning to sit in the kitchen window to visually track the robins, sparrows, goldfinches and red-winded blackbirds from tree to post to grass to tree., ignoring his breakfast to do so—the same breakfast these cats usually start lobbying for by 6 a.m.
Dogs, at least the ones I’ve had, find birds fascinating, but not to such an insane degree. Sasha, a shepherd mix, liked to run toward groups of ducks or geese just to force them to fly—then she’d sit down to watch. Shanti, my husky mix, loves to chase birds (and she’s fast enough to do it), gets excited when she accidentally flushes a pheasant or a quail, and will successfully hunt fowl if allowed to do so (she isn’t), but none of that comes close to the insanity that prevails when a cat sees a bird.
Twice, a while back, a bird managed to fly inside my home. Both times, the cats immediately went nuts. Cats, thus motivated, can travel at the speed of light, jumping instantaneously the length and height of a room. As quickly as those sparrows flew from one room to another, the cats flew just as fast, oblivious to my protestations. In both cases, I was able to catch the birds with a blanket in an hour or so, releasing them safely, but both cases were also quite an ordeal.
One spring, a pair of sparrows nested on my porch, directly across my front door, settling on the broad side of a 2 x 4 just under the slanting roof. The parents flew in and out from time to time, reacting to my coming and going, and then made regular trips, perching on the ledge while four large beaks suddenly appeared, opened 180 degrees, ready for the treat, disappearing again just as quickly as the adults flew out for more food.
Eventually, four rolly-poly chicks ventured out of the nest, onto the ledge, spread over between twelve and eighteen inches. That is, until the May weather abruptly turned cold, when the four chicks were huddled together, in a straight line, as closely as possible, less than half a foot across, looking like comic actors in a silent movie. Then, abruptly, one day they had all flown the nest, leaving the porch in peace.
And my orange tiger, Neko, spent virtually every moment of that six week nesting experience perched perfectly still on the counter, staring intently at the nest through the front door’s narrow window.
We think of cats as chasing mice, but cats will sometimes calmly ignore mice—not so birds. Cats immediately go ballistic over birds. My one year old cat, Tawny, gets up in the morning to sit in the kitchen window to visually track the robins, sparrows, goldfinches and red-winded blackbirds from tree to post to grass to tree., ignoring his breakfast to do so—the same breakfast these cats usually start lobbying for by 6 a.m.
Dogs, at least the ones I’ve had, find birds fascinating, but not to such an insane degree. Sasha, a shepherd mix, liked to run toward groups of ducks or geese just to force them to fly—then she’d sit down to watch. Shanti, my husky mix, loves to chase birds (and she’s fast enough to do it), gets excited when she accidentally flushes a pheasant or a quail, and will successfully hunt fowl if allowed to do so (she isn’t), but none of that comes close to the insanity that prevails when a cat sees a bird.
Twice, a while back, a bird managed to fly inside my home. Both times, the cats immediately went nuts. Cats, thus motivated, can travel at the speed of light, jumping instantaneously the length and height of a room. As quickly as those sparrows flew from one room to another, the cats flew just as fast, oblivious to my protestations. In both cases, I was able to catch the birds with a blanket in an hour or so, releasing them safely, but both cases were also quite an ordeal.
One spring, a pair of sparrows nested on my porch, directly across my front door, settling on the broad side of a 2 x 4 just under the slanting roof. The parents flew in and out from time to time, reacting to my coming and going, and then made regular trips, perching on the ledge while four large beaks suddenly appeared, opened 180 degrees, ready for the treat, disappearing again just as quickly as the adults flew out for more food.
Eventually, four rolly-poly chicks ventured out of the nest, onto the ledge, spread over between twelve and eighteen inches. That is, until the May weather abruptly turned cold, when the four chicks were huddled together, in a straight line, as closely as possible, less than half a foot across, looking like comic actors in a silent movie. Then, abruptly, one day they had all flown the nest, leaving the porch in peace.
And my orange tiger, Neko, spent virtually every moment of that six week nesting experience perched perfectly still on the counter, staring intently at the nest through the front door’s narrow window.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Boys, Men, Nature, and a Dog
Walking around Stony Pond early in the morning, surprising game is not unusual. This can be trying with a husky mix. In the past, I’ve usually just let my dogs run in the woods, since their chances of actually catching what they chase were slim anyway. I can’t do that with Shanti, as she’s strong, fast as a bullet, keen nose, avid hunter, and her chances of catching her prey have proven, I’m afraid, excellent. So, I keep her on a 26’ retractable leash and a “no-pull” harness. She can still run around, and when she takes off abruptly after a pheasant, the “no-pull” harness keeps her from taking my arm with her--or at least lessens the shock.
Saturday morning, we were walking early to avoid the rush of weekenders, and we came across a pair of geese with a gosling. Geese commonly breed here, but seeing them on the foot path is a bit unusual. Shanti, of course, flew after them, pulling my arm out and me after it, until I could lean back and use my weight against her enthusiastic force. The geese, unfortunately, chose to continue waddling quickly down the path (a gosling can’t yet fly, so one parent leads while the other watches the rear), so our little adventure continued quite a while before the panicked parents finally dogged into the woods toward the pond (even goslings are excellent swimmers). Crisis averted, this time.
Not all creatures would fare so well. The next morning, as Shanti and I rounded the curve out of the forest to the meadow by the pond, where near the camp ground two boys were walking slowly along the shore, exploring nature. “Oh! Look!” said one, pointing to some creature on the ground. The other one calmly picked up a rock, dashed it to the ground, and picked up his dead prize by the tail—a rodent of some kind. They walked on.
A little further, we came across another group, standing closely together. “Guys, check it out,” said the man of the group, a strong, calm, man pointing at the ground. The boys looked. “No—leave it alone,” he said. One of the boys spoke softly. “He killed it?” asked the man. We walked on, while I thought about the challenge of one man handling a dozen boys on a camping trip.
The next day, a weekday, brought another group, a regular one here—Camp Georgetown. Inmates from this low security facility help keep the grass cut, remove fallen trees from the trails, and pick up trash around the campground. The weather isn’t always conducive to these activities, so on some days, they mill about the van parked on the beach, just enjoying nature—a reward for guys with good behavior, I’m guessing. They certainly aren’t considered any risk, as the guard, while armed, is relaxed, barely attentive, and clearly doesn’t expect any trouble.
This morning they certainly weren’t in a hurry. The van was ahead of me when I turned down the dirt road to the trails. They stopped a few times while an inmate got out to pick up trash. I was in no hurry. When Shanti and I had hiked around the pond, the van was parked right dead in the campground road. This was unusual, as several other options are available. The guys were standing around, spread out around the van, a few of them sitting inside, the guard standing with his back to the group in front of the van, talking to the forest ranger in his pickup truck on this daily rounds.
One of the guys was standing off by the edge of the forest, looking into the brush. Later, I pieced together that he was looking after the turtle he had rescued. Turtles here sometimes cross the roads—probably the reason the van was stopped where it was. “Is that a wolf?” one of them asked me, sitting on the back ledge of the van. A lot of people ask me that, and yes, Shanti does look like an Arctic wolf. I pulled the leash in—lots of people are afraid of “big” dogs (although at 48 lbs., I consider her a medium size dog). This guy, though, was clearly interested, and since Shanti loves all people, we moved in closer. Man and dog loved each other, and the guys and I chatted while Shanti soaked up the attention—in a cloud of white fur (shedding season big time). “You live around here?” “Does she run loose on the trails?” Stuff like that.
“Give her some bread,” said one of the guys in the van. “Just a little,” I cautioned, “she probably won’t eat it.” They pulled off a tennis ball size piece of hot dog roll. She didn’t eat it, but man and dog loved playing with it for a bit. “Want some water?” he asked—and offered her a palmful of water from a cooler on the back of the van. “Get her a cup, Ghost” said one of the guys. Man reached behind and produced a grey cup, filled it with water, and set it on the ground. To my surprise, Shanti drank it all. “That’s YOUR cup, Ghost!” the guys warned, good naturedly. Ghost held the cup while Shanti licked out every corner. She placed her front paws on the back of the van and poked her nose inside. “Shanti,” I called quietly. “No, girl—you don’t want to go in there,” warned Ghost. “That’s too much like a kennel.”
I hated to leave—Ghost was clearly enjoying this, and Shanti certainly didn’t mind. Things to do.
I’m reminded of a guy I met once, an accident victim. After years of sobriety, he had several beers at a Fourth of July party and hit a telephone pole on the way home. He was in the hospital for weeks, and had no memory of the event—just going by what friends told him later. He still had memory lapses. He lost his wife, his construction business, his house, everything.
A calm, gentle, nice guy. We asked him what he missed most. He thought for a few moments.
“My dog,” he said. “I just miss my dog.”
Saturday morning, we were walking early to avoid the rush of weekenders, and we came across a pair of geese with a gosling. Geese commonly breed here, but seeing them on the foot path is a bit unusual. Shanti, of course, flew after them, pulling my arm out and me after it, until I could lean back and use my weight against her enthusiastic force. The geese, unfortunately, chose to continue waddling quickly down the path (a gosling can’t yet fly, so one parent leads while the other watches the rear), so our little adventure continued quite a while before the panicked parents finally dogged into the woods toward the pond (even goslings are excellent swimmers). Crisis averted, this time.
Not all creatures would fare so well. The next morning, as Shanti and I rounded the curve out of the forest to the meadow by the pond, where near the camp ground two boys were walking slowly along the shore, exploring nature. “Oh! Look!” said one, pointing to some creature on the ground. The other one calmly picked up a rock, dashed it to the ground, and picked up his dead prize by the tail—a rodent of some kind. They walked on.
A little further, we came across another group, standing closely together. “Guys, check it out,” said the man of the group, a strong, calm, man pointing at the ground. The boys looked. “No—leave it alone,” he said. One of the boys spoke softly. “He killed it?” asked the man. We walked on, while I thought about the challenge of one man handling a dozen boys on a camping trip.
The next day, a weekday, brought another group, a regular one here—Camp Georgetown. Inmates from this low security facility help keep the grass cut, remove fallen trees from the trails, and pick up trash around the campground. The weather isn’t always conducive to these activities, so on some days, they mill about the van parked on the beach, just enjoying nature—a reward for guys with good behavior, I’m guessing. They certainly aren’t considered any risk, as the guard, while armed, is relaxed, barely attentive, and clearly doesn’t expect any trouble.
This morning they certainly weren’t in a hurry. The van was ahead of me when I turned down the dirt road to the trails. They stopped a few times while an inmate got out to pick up trash. I was in no hurry. When Shanti and I had hiked around the pond, the van was parked right dead in the campground road. This was unusual, as several other options are available. The guys were standing around, spread out around the van, a few of them sitting inside, the guard standing with his back to the group in front of the van, talking to the forest ranger in his pickup truck on this daily rounds.
One of the guys was standing off by the edge of the forest, looking into the brush. Later, I pieced together that he was looking after the turtle he had rescued. Turtles here sometimes cross the roads—probably the reason the van was stopped where it was. “Is that a wolf?” one of them asked me, sitting on the back ledge of the van. A lot of people ask me that, and yes, Shanti does look like an Arctic wolf. I pulled the leash in—lots of people are afraid of “big” dogs (although at 48 lbs., I consider her a medium size dog). This guy, though, was clearly interested, and since Shanti loves all people, we moved in closer. Man and dog loved each other, and the guys and I chatted while Shanti soaked up the attention—in a cloud of white fur (shedding season big time). “You live around here?” “Does she run loose on the trails?” Stuff like that.
“Give her some bread,” said one of the guys in the van. “Just a little,” I cautioned, “she probably won’t eat it.” They pulled off a tennis ball size piece of hot dog roll. She didn’t eat it, but man and dog loved playing with it for a bit. “Want some water?” he asked—and offered her a palmful of water from a cooler on the back of the van. “Get her a cup, Ghost” said one of the guys. Man reached behind and produced a grey cup, filled it with water, and set it on the ground. To my surprise, Shanti drank it all. “That’s YOUR cup, Ghost!” the guys warned, good naturedly. Ghost held the cup while Shanti licked out every corner. She placed her front paws on the back of the van and poked her nose inside. “Shanti,” I called quietly. “No, girl—you don’t want to go in there,” warned Ghost. “That’s too much like a kennel.”
I hated to leave—Ghost was clearly enjoying this, and Shanti certainly didn’t mind. Things to do.
I’m reminded of a guy I met once, an accident victim. After years of sobriety, he had several beers at a Fourth of July party and hit a telephone pole on the way home. He was in the hospital for weeks, and had no memory of the event—just going by what friends told him later. He still had memory lapses. He lost his wife, his construction business, his house, everything.
A calm, gentle, nice guy. We asked him what he missed most. He thought for a few moments.
“My dog,” he said. “I just miss my dog.”
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Scrrunch
Scrunch. Scrrunch. Scarrrunth.
“Just great,” I thought, awakened by the sound of tractor-trailer tires on gravel. “Here I’ve hiked into the mountains to escape into nature, and I STILL can’t get away from the noise of traffic.” Then I realized I was at least 5-6 miles from the nearest highway. I had driven five hours to the High Peaks, then down the long road to the Adirondack Log, then hiked an hour up to a lean-to by Marcy Dam, the first leg of a two week backpacking trip with my shepherd mix, Sasha.
Scrunch. Scrrunth. I sat up.
Sasha was sitting as erect as could be, her back pressed against me, stiff as possible while every part of her body trembled slightly, her attention focused intently ahead.
Scrrunch. Scarrunthh!
The night was cloudy, no light at all. Still, through the complete dark of the forest, the sky was lighter above the trees where the land sloped down toward the dam. Against that backdrop, bit by bit, I watched a large, dark shape slowly pull itself up one of the trees suspending my food. [Backpackers bag their food and tie it suspended between two trees, at least 15 feet from the ground and from either tree, to protect it from persistent woodland creatures, like raccoons and—bears.]
Scrunch. With every pull of the bear, my dog’s alert, staring head abruptly inched up another angle. Scrunth—another inch. Scrunth—another head adjustment. Scrunch. Scarrunthh!
The bear had reached the line suspending the food. A moment passed while the bear realized it couldn’t reach the bag, and let out a low grumble.
Scrunch. Scrrunth.
The bear headed down, my dog’s attention fixed, her head abruptly adjusting to each change in the bear’s position.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Lower and lower—bear and dog’s head.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Having reached the bottom of the tree, the bear placed its back feet on the ground. My dog responded. So softly I could barely hear her, throat just two feet from my ears, Sasha let out a long, low “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruff.” There. I barked. Now YOU do something.
I did. Looking around for a few pots to bang together to startle bear, I reminded myself that startled bears take off in whatever direction they’re pointed, so be careful before startling. But how was I going to manage that in the dark, when I could see little more than a large, ominous shape?
I needn’t have worried, since knowing it wasn’t going to get our food, the bear simply walked away, down the path toward Marcy Dam. Once the adrenaline finally settled, I settled down to sleep—my dog still sharply on the watch.
The next morning, I packed our gear (including Sasha’s doggie backpack—hey, why should I carry HER food for two weeks?), and we set off on the first full day of our trip, climbing Mt. Marcy. To do so, we first had to head down past Marcy Dam. The previous day, while filling water bottles at the spring there, I noticed three college age hikers in the dam-side lean-to, their food hung in bags from the edge of the lean-to. After making small talk, I suggested they might want to hang the food suspended between two trees, according to custom, and explained why. “Nah,” they confidently responded. “The bear isn’t going to come up to us here in the lean-to, with the fire going.” This morning, apparently they were wrong—bits of paper, plastic, food wrappers and similar debris littered the ground surrounding the lean-to for a few hundred feet in every direction. The hikers had vacated the premises.
The forest rangers report that bears learn very quickly—a single experience is enough. Around Eighth Lake State Park, bears cruise campers’ cars, looking inside for coolers, peeling open promising prospects like opening a can. of Spam.
A former housemate and I at the time looked into hiking in Montana, and consequently requested information about hiking in bear country. The brochure did, indeed, share grizzly facts. “Do not run from a grizzly—you have no chance of outrunning a grizzly.” “Do not try to climb a tree to escape a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent climbers.” “Do not try to swim from a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent swimmers.” Sobering, no? Reminds me of a Gary Larson cartoon showing two bears polishing off the bones of a few hikers. “I love it when they play dead,” reads the caption. “No running or nothing!”
Bears go out of their way to avoid humans. One nature show claimed that hikers probably frequently came close to bears but never saw them. To prove the point, a camera watched a trail while indeed, bears crossed the hikers’ path, unnoticed. After hundreds and hundreds of hours hiking in the mountains, I’ve only once seen a bear cross my path—and then only briefly as it vanished before my eyes, like ball players walking into the corn in “Field of Dreams.” [Luckily I saw the bear before Sasha did, and quickly called her safely to my side.]
Hikers in grizzly country are asked to store food in bear proof canisters. The issue is that just one careless hiker teaches bears that backpack equals dinner—not a happy situation for hikers (or, ultimately, the bears). The same nature show featured footage of a grizzly bating around such a container, knowing it held food, unable to reach it. My housemate and I didn’t go hiking in Montana after all. He met the woman who would become his wife. They went. I went on this backpacking trip with Sasha.
Hikers in the high peaks joke that the raccoons and the bears are in cahoots—the bears through the raccoons up into the air at the food, and the raccoons untie the bag and throw it to the ground. Some days, it’s a tempting explanation.
On the other side of Marcy, at the base of Mt. Colden, lies a relatively large flat piece of ground, an attractive and popular place for backpackers to camp. The trees are scored with claw marks, as the bears have learned to claw through the ropes suspending the food bags.
“Just great,” I thought, awakened by the sound of tractor-trailer tires on gravel. “Here I’ve hiked into the mountains to escape into nature, and I STILL can’t get away from the noise of traffic.” Then I realized I was at least 5-6 miles from the nearest highway. I had driven five hours to the High Peaks, then down the long road to the Adirondack Log, then hiked an hour up to a lean-to by Marcy Dam, the first leg of a two week backpacking trip with my shepherd mix, Sasha.
Scrunch. Scrrunth. I sat up.
Sasha was sitting as erect as could be, her back pressed against me, stiff as possible while every part of her body trembled slightly, her attention focused intently ahead.
Scrrunch. Scarrunthh!
The night was cloudy, no light at all. Still, through the complete dark of the forest, the sky was lighter above the trees where the land sloped down toward the dam. Against that backdrop, bit by bit, I watched a large, dark shape slowly pull itself up one of the trees suspending my food. [Backpackers bag their food and tie it suspended between two trees, at least 15 feet from the ground and from either tree, to protect it from persistent woodland creatures, like raccoons and—bears.]
Scrunch. With every pull of the bear, my dog’s alert, staring head abruptly inched up another angle. Scrunth—another inch. Scrunth—another head adjustment. Scrunch. Scarrunthh!
The bear had reached the line suspending the food. A moment passed while the bear realized it couldn’t reach the bag, and let out a low grumble.
Scrunch. Scrrunth.
The bear headed down, my dog’s attention fixed, her head abruptly adjusting to each change in the bear’s position.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Lower and lower—bear and dog’s head.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Having reached the bottom of the tree, the bear placed its back feet on the ground. My dog responded. So softly I could barely hear her, throat just two feet from my ears, Sasha let out a long, low “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruff.” There. I barked. Now YOU do something.
I did. Looking around for a few pots to bang together to startle bear, I reminded myself that startled bears take off in whatever direction they’re pointed, so be careful before startling. But how was I going to manage that in the dark, when I could see little more than a large, ominous shape?
I needn’t have worried, since knowing it wasn’t going to get our food, the bear simply walked away, down the path toward Marcy Dam. Once the adrenaline finally settled, I settled down to sleep—my dog still sharply on the watch.
The next morning, I packed our gear (including Sasha’s doggie backpack—hey, why should I carry HER food for two weeks?), and we set off on the first full day of our trip, climbing Mt. Marcy. To do so, we first had to head down past Marcy Dam. The previous day, while filling water bottles at the spring there, I noticed three college age hikers in the dam-side lean-to, their food hung in bags from the edge of the lean-to. After making small talk, I suggested they might want to hang the food suspended between two trees, according to custom, and explained why. “Nah,” they confidently responded. “The bear isn’t going to come up to us here in the lean-to, with the fire going.” This morning, apparently they were wrong—bits of paper, plastic, food wrappers and similar debris littered the ground surrounding the lean-to for a few hundred feet in every direction. The hikers had vacated the premises.
The forest rangers report that bears learn very quickly—a single experience is enough. Around Eighth Lake State Park, bears cruise campers’ cars, looking inside for coolers, peeling open promising prospects like opening a can. of Spam.
A former housemate and I at the time looked into hiking in Montana, and consequently requested information about hiking in bear country. The brochure did, indeed, share grizzly facts. “Do not run from a grizzly—you have no chance of outrunning a grizzly.” “Do not try to climb a tree to escape a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent climbers.” “Do not try to swim from a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent swimmers.” Sobering, no? Reminds me of a Gary Larson cartoon showing two bears polishing off the bones of a few hikers. “I love it when they play dead,” reads the caption. “No running or nothing!”
Bears go out of their way to avoid humans. One nature show claimed that hikers probably frequently came close to bears but never saw them. To prove the point, a camera watched a trail while indeed, bears crossed the hikers’ path, unnoticed. After hundreds and hundreds of hours hiking in the mountains, I’ve only once seen a bear cross my path—and then only briefly as it vanished before my eyes, like ball players walking into the corn in “Field of Dreams.” [Luckily I saw the bear before Sasha did, and quickly called her safely to my side.]
Hikers in grizzly country are asked to store food in bear proof canisters. The issue is that just one careless hiker teaches bears that backpack equals dinner—not a happy situation for hikers (or, ultimately, the bears). The same nature show featured footage of a grizzly bating around such a container, knowing it held food, unable to reach it. My housemate and I didn’t go hiking in Montana after all. He met the woman who would become his wife. They went. I went on this backpacking trip with Sasha.
Hikers in the high peaks joke that the raccoons and the bears are in cahoots—the bears through the raccoons up into the air at the food, and the raccoons untie the bag and throw it to the ground. Some days, it’s a tempting explanation.
On the other side of Marcy, at the base of Mt. Colden, lies a relatively large flat piece of ground, an attractive and popular place for backpackers to camp. The trees are scored with claw marks, as the bears have learned to claw through the ropes suspending the food bags.
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