Diminishing wildlife

     One day last week I was asked, by a man who used to live here, what changes I had seen in my fifty years on this land.

    "Not much," I said blithely, "thanks to Oregon's wonderful land use laws" —no sprawl in the Applegate, no new residences on my mountain. I live here as remotely as ever (except that I have electricity now).

    But that's not what he meant. He meant changes in the wildlife, as in, less than there was forty or fifty years ago.

    I hate admitting the diminishment of wildlife.

   But I haven't seen a porcupine for decades, those wonderful strange creatures Mary Oliver called a "thornbush" and "a plump dark lady/wearing a gown of nails." I cringe to think there might be no more porcupines in these mountains.

    Nor have I seen an opossum for as long. I haven't seen a skunk, either, but am just as happy not to, and, anyway, I know there are skunks around. Some people hold no more love for a 'possum than for a skunk, but the opossum is America's only marsupial, and I can only hope 'possums still live in the Siskiyous.

    My questioner said there are fewer fence lizards now than when he lived here before. I still see them, but as many as before? I'm not sure. I do notice that there are fewer frogs, but I am so grateful that there are any at all that I can't spend energy regretting the low numbers. 

    I haven't seen the fisher for years, but I only saw it once in earlier years, anyway, so who's to say that the fisher population isn't as strong as ever? I saw the ringtail cat recently, the second time in fifty years. I haven't seen the cougar, but I only saw it once, thirty years ago, and I'm pretty sure it's still around. I still see plenty of bears. 

    I haven't seen fish in Pipe Fork for many years, though I used to see German browns in those cold, fast waters.

    Everyone knows that songbird populations are plummeting, but birdsong in my forest was always more sparse than birdsong during the Middle Ages, when the woods resounded with trills, calls, and melodies. How I would love to have walked through those woods! But is there less birdsong now than thirty or fifty years ago? My heart sinks, but, probably, yes. 

    It breaks my heart to admit it, but I don't hear my owl much any more, either. 

    And so it goes. I think that because I'm a poor records keeper, I have turned a blind eye to what seems to be a diminishment of wildlife. Not seeing evidence of that decrease—or not admitting it—is preferable because the reality is too painful to bear.