Whisperers of the Forest

             We don’t have to go to the extreme of Jains, who wipe the ground in front of them to avoid stepping on bugs or spiders, but it does matter how we treat the creatures of nature. Catch-and-release fishing, for instance, might be a good start towards treating wild animals better, though some animal rights fanatics point out the cruelty of even that sporting method. John McPhee, a fanatical fisherman who has written a book about shad fishing, gives their arguments in that book. Then you expect him to defend the sport he loves. Instead he says, somewhat shamefacedly, “They do have a point.” Perhaps, he says, generations years hence will be aghast to think how we treated animals.

             I have long been neighbors with wild animals, having lived for thirty-five years on the mountain, not at the edge of nature but in its lap, not on the margins of the woods but in the forest itself. I allow wasps to fly in and out of my open windows along with butterflies. Yellow jackets, though, are bullies and deserve to be knocked out of the way with my hand if they're hovering while I eat lunch on the deck. I can almost but not quite understand what the raccoons are saying when they warble to each other through the woods at night. I miss the porcupines. I haven't seen one for decades. I love the blue-tailed skinks disappearing with a flash of cerulean under the front step. I would like to see more snakes in my yard. Contrary to iconography, I consider snakes good omens for the land.

             Once I was on a hike with a ten-year-old boy who found a snail in the middle of the trail. Afraid someone would step on it, he stooped and picked it up. Though snails usually retreat into their shells at the slightest sign of danger, this one stayed fully extended in Condor's hand as Condor stroked and petted it with one finger. The snail seemed to be in sensual heaven, even turning on its back, like a dog, for more petting on its belly. Condor, the snail whisperer.

            One summer day I was sitting on the bench under my cherry tree when the bear walked by (my bear, Mr. Bear) through the woods behind me. Stately and huge in his shaggy coal-black mantel, he ambled om past, then scrambled up the hill. If he knew I was there, he didn't care. That evening three does and a pair of fawns galloped under the plum tree, frightened by some unseen danger in the woods. Later, at dusk, on an errand outside I heard my barred owl on the path just behind my house, very close, very loud. Early the next morning a fox stepped on the path in front of the house and stood there barking. Did I have a whisperer's connection with these wild animals who called my home their home? I had talked to each of them, whispering my thanks. I wouldn't mind being the bear, deer, owl, and fox whisperer of the forest.