Tag Archives: the animal kingdom

Solo

The nice thing is, even though I’m not the only one who likes the quiet of an early morning, most of the ones who agree with me aren’t people. This Friday, when I put boot to trail at 7 am, among those who shared my opinion were a female grouse, a universe of bumble bees, and an adult black bear.

I heard the bear before I saw it. I was close enough to it that the noises I heard were oddly intimate. Breathing—a little wet and grumpy, like so many of us in the morning—and chewing—open mouthed. It’s late summer, and the shrubs on either side of the trail were full of beautiful huckleberries at that perfect stage: two drops more sweet than tart. I’d been popping them into my own mouth, as I came along the trail.

“Hello, bear,” I said loudly, to let it know I was there. It made no sign that it either heard or cared, but breathed and chewed some more. It took a few slow steps through the bushes in the direction of an open meadow, located off trail beyond the trees, with lots more Vaccinium growing in it. I knew this, because that meadow is my lowest study site on the Paradise side of Mt. Rainier. My destination that morning was further up the trail, where I wanted to catch some high-elevation grasshoppers for an experiment I’m running—so I had to keep going up eventually. But it was still early, and I was certainly in no more of a hurry than the bear, so I took several steps back down the trail, and stood perhaps 50 or 60 feet away.

The bear breathed, and chewed, and rustled. It crossed the trail, passing into and out of my view. Somehow, with its giant mouth, it was consuming berries smaller than my fingernail without destroying entire branches. I wondered how delicate and mobile its lips must be. Every now and then I said something, to make sure everyone involved knew I was there and could make their own decisions about the matter. Once, the bear ran suddenly (away from me) a few feet, and I thought it had spooked—but then it returned to its slow, calm, breakfast. Otherwise, it ignored me utterly. It was, unlike most black bears I have seen, a true coal black instead of a cinnamon or old rust color. A marvelous animal.

After about 15 minutes, the bear had moved far enough toward the meadow, and it had been long enough since I had last heard rustling, that I felt comfortable continuing on. “Coming up now, bear,” I announced, and hiked beyond the place I’d last seen it. But there was no longer any sign that a 300-pound creature had been there.

*******

The previous night, I had listened to an episode of the podcast Invisibilia, which bills itself as being “about the invisible forces that shape human behavior”, and is often, though not always, interested in what science has to tell us about these forces. The episode is from their latest season, which I have in general found mildly irritating for reasons we can discuss in person if you are interested. 🙂 But the episode they called “Reality” was so irresponsible and had annoyed me so much that I had actually gone “UGH!” to myself out loud as I lay in bed alone at the field house that night, no one to hear or care. And I thought of it again the next morning as I hiked onward, leaving behind the bear.

This will make sense once I tell you that one of the main stories in the episode is about black bears—or rather, what the Invisibilia hosts call two “competing realities” about black bears. One, the conventional perspective, holds that black bears are wild animals, normally timid but nevertheless powerful and unpredictable, and though we may admire and appreciate them from a distance, they should not be trifled with or taught to associate humans with food—because this usually leads to negative outcomes for both people and bears. The other, which the podcast treats with equal merit, holds that black bears are not dangerous, especially if treated with “attention and love,” and that it is a great and good idea to set out feeding stations for them, attempt to befriend them, and ultimately become so close that when they visit your backyard you can lean on their backs and let their cubs crawl all over you.

The episode follows the conflict between a set of people living in a small town in Minnesota who passionately adhere to this “other reality”, and the rest of the townsfolk (who do not, and dislike the fact that their town’s black bears are constantly nosing around their houses and cars looking for food). Interestingly, the leading proponent of close human-bear contact is a wildlife ecologist, who teaches three day field courses in which among other things he trains people to hand-feed (and sometimes mouth-feed) bears. (Yup.)

With me so far? Then you won’t be surprised to hear that a bear dies, as it was bound to do. Here are the facts: A bear named Solo had begun to approach people for food so often and to generate so many complaints that the MN Department of Natural Resources decided to relocate her and her cubs  while they were hibernating, moving them to a sanctuary in Michigan—rather than euthanizing Solo. But people who wanted Solo to stay didn’t like this idea, so they “broke into the den early to help the bear and her cubs escape. They roused Solo with pepper spray – lots of it – and tried to coax her to the woods to safety.” The DNR employees then followed Solo and her cubs to the woods, where the bears climbed a tree. The agents darted the cubs, which fell out of the tree (but survived). The podcast isn’t clear on how Solo got down from the tree, but it sounds like the DNR folks retrieved her and tranquilized her, too—but in the show’s words, “After being pepper sprayed, being tranquilized and the trauma of the transport to Michigan, Solo never woke up from hibernation.”

So, those were the facts. Now, the Invisibilia take: The hosts describe Solo’s death as a result of “the different ways of perceiving the reality of bears”.

The different ways of perceiving the reality of bears.

Not: “People deliberately feeding a black bear, habituating it to humans as sources of food, causing it to become a problem bear, and then directly leading to its death by devising an insane and traumatic plan to “free” it from the reasonably good plan that was put in place to solve the problem they created in the first place.”

Listen. I believe that cuddling in your yard with a family of wild black bears is an extraordinarily cool and amazing thing. I am sure that having a wild black bear “kiss” a peanut from your lips, as one of the show hosts does, is a magical experience. But constructing that interaction by training a wild animal to approach you for food, and then calling it friendship, claiming that the bears are responding to your “love and attention,” is obscene and self-absorbed. If you hike across a frozen lake to visit a black bear in its den every few days while it is hibernating, lie down outside the den, and talk to it, as the main character in this story did with Solo, I don’t doubt that that means something to you. But it sure as fuck doesn’t mean a damn thing to the bear.

So if you’re going to be the kind of person who lives like this, then just be honest about it. Admit that close physical contact with a wild animal makes you feel remarkably special, and because of that feeling, you’re okay with the fact that the actions you take in order to extract that contact endanger the animal. Accept that you experience the entirety of the psychic benefit from the relationship, and the animal bears most of the risk.

And if you’re going to be the kind of podcast that tells a story about this kind of person, please don’t insult the rest of us by making this about “competing realities”, complete with a facile and grossly shallow reference to “Chinese philosophy and East Asian cultures” being willing to accept contradiction and the absurd implied conclusion that Solo died because “Western culture” isn’t.

UGH.

Enjoy your black bears and other wild animals with respect and joy, fellow humans. Please don’t make their lives about you.

Because it calms me, I shall leave you with this picture of the mountain that I took a few minutes before encountering the bear. Unlike the story of Solo, I think it benefits greatly from the presence of a person.

IMG_20170825_071001645_HDR

Dogs, Cats, and Scats: Saving Jaguars, One Poop at a Time

One of my favorite leisure activities is looking at other animals’ poop. If you’re reading this, you’re probably the kind of person who can relate. I have a collection of photos on my phone that I’ve taken while hiking—everything from the irresistibly hairy gray dreadlocks produced by coyotes (which I happily handle) to the compact tourmaline pellets of elk and moose and the enormous spreading mounds of bear sign, great brown skies constellated by the bright remains of berries. Someday, in the fullness of time, I will realize my dream of buying the domain name www.shitisaw.com and building there a grand compendium of crap.

In the meantime, I’d like to direct your attention to a particular piece of scatological science that you can support at this very moment. It’s a project run by University of Washington wildlife ecology PhD student Jennifer Mae-White Day, who’s crowdfunding the final year of her dissertation research. I’ve posted this several times in a couple of places, so apologies for the repetition; but I can’t overstate how worthy I think this project is of your support. Here’s why:

Jen’s work relies on trained detection dogs which help her search for jaguar scat. Her research site is located in a remote, rugged habitat in Southern Mexico where other techniques for studying these elusive animals would be extremely difficult. (Aside: Did you know that Darwin was fascinated by jaguars and continually tried to find them while on his excursions in the Americas? You would if you followed him on Twitter. He’s a great one for Twitter.) Anyway, scat surveys are a totally noninvasive means (they don’t involve trapping or otherwise stressing the species of interest) of collecting information about animal movements, diversity, and health. Poop contains both nuclear and mitochondrial DNA, so it can be used to identify individual jaguars and build a picture of genetic diversity within the population. It also contains hormones and absorbed toxins, which means Jen can quantify the psychological and nutritional stresses the jaguar population is under. And by tracking the locations where scat is found, she can figure out which landscape features, particularly those affected by human activity, attract or repel jaguars (hugely important to deciding where to target conservation)—as well as how genes flow between populations.

In short, this is very good basic science AND it’s highly applicable to our immediate efforts to preserve both the vanishing jaguar population and the ecosystems where they play a vital role as top predators. PLUS, it supports the work of Conservation Canines in general—so apart from anything else, you’ll be helping to save the lives of rescue dogs and give them purposeful work.

Jen with one of the Conservation Canines. I stole this picture from the project page. Apologies that I don't know who to credit for it!

Jen with one of the Conservation Canines. I stole this picture from the project page. Apologies that I don’t know who to credit for it!

That’s my pitch about the value of this research. My other pitch is about how much I think Jen, specifically, deserves your support. First of all, she’s very experienced with this type of research; she’s been working on projects involving large carnivores, tropical habitats, and scat surveys for many years, so she knows exactly what she’s doing and any funding she receives is going to be efficiently used. Secondly, I know her because she TAs my ecology class at UW, and she happens to be incredibly good at that. She leads our lab sessions with great enthusiasm, knowledgeability, and finesse, and I’ve learned a lot from her explanations.

Finally, Jen is a fantastic person as well as a determined scientist. A few weeks ago I made an appointment with her to talk about my grad school plans, and she sat with me for nearly two hours in the middle of what was an incredibly demanding week for her. At the end of it I felt like I had gotten an enormous education in approaching the application and decision processes, as well as sharp insight into how to thrive as a grad student. I was also moved by Jen’s generosity and kindness. If you’re reading this and you don’t happen to be the kind of person who likes looking at poop, then you’re probably a person who knows and loves me, and wants to support my future success. I can tell you that meeting Jen has directly contributed to my chances of achieving that success. So even if you couldn’t care less about jaguars or dogs or conservation, if you care about me, that’s a pretty good reason to support her.

I’m pushing this so hard because the Experiment.com model, like Kickstarter’s, only funds projects if they reach the goals they’ve set—so if Jen doesn’t get to $10,000 in the next 9 days, she’ll lose everything she has raised so far. I think that would be a tremendous shame. One last thing: Even if you can only spare a small amount in support, your modest backing will go twice as far, because every new donation from now on will be matched dollar for dollar till the end of the funding period.

Please consider making a contribution. If you do, and we’re ever in the same city at the same time, ping me and I’ll buy you a drink. Then we’ll toast to good science and good people and good old fashioned poop.

LINK TO THE PROJECT PAGE WHERE YOU CAN DONATE

LINK TO POSTS JEN HAS MADE ABOUT SCAT SURVEYS

JEN ON TWITTER

We Knew Him

Power is a strange and misunderstood thing. We tend to think we have very little; we tend to believe it is by rule or nature wielded by others over us. When we grasp it we do so with fervor, as if it could slip from our grasp. It is true that those who hold power are often masters, or monied, or men. But the word is smaller, too, and some of what it possesses is mere ability. To be powerful is to do what is possible for you.

Several years ago I passed some time as the editor of a smart, quirky, now defunct online science magazine. One of our problems was a near total lack of money and therefore a dearth of regular contributors, but I did occasionally receive queries of varying quality. One letter arrived from a Portland-based freelance writer on a Friday afternoon in October 2010. The poor woman who wrote it had been misled by a pamphlet to which she subscribed into thinking that we were a children’s magazine, and both the email and her cheerful, pun- and exclamation point-filled 660-word submission were entitled “A Slug is Not a Bug.”

There was something of a supplication in her tone that I have not forgotten. She entreated me not to dismiss her subject, despite its lowly stature in the world. She assured me she had done her research. She hoped I would read the entire article.

I wrote back politely, explaining that we did not publish material written specifically for children, and that was the end of that. But oddly enough I have thought about her email several times in the intervening years. She was professional, this woman—or anyway, as professional as she had learned so far to be. She was as hopeful as I was myself. I have no doubt she wanted more out of her life. To be a children’s writer; to be published. To be taken seriously. I have had so little power in my life, it has seemed to me. But there were things that were possible.

*******

Ross and I had a gorgeous day today up in Marin County, hiking 11 miles along a coastal trail in Point Reyes National Seashore. The ground was exploding with the purple of Pacific Coast irises and the air with wrentit and golden-crowned sparrow song. The sea below the bluffs crashed ecstatically onto the shore. It smelled like fenugreek; it smelled like ocean. It smelled like wild mustard, steaming and vegetal. We found the flat imprint of the shell of a marine mollusc on one half of a broken stone. We talked about the future and the beautiful possibilities Ross’s career success is about to provide us with.

We also met a slug. We met this particular banana slug (Ariolimax californicus), eating steadily away at what I think was a large leaf from a stinging nettle (Urtica doica)—more power to it.

We stopped to check it out. We marveled at the fact that we could hear the leaf disintegrating between its rasping, toothy mouth parts. I took a video. Slugs are so cool, we said to each other, nearly simultaneously, as we stood up.

About 15 minutes later, as we returned from the mid-point of our out-and-back hike, we saw the slug again. It was no longer eating. It had clearly been stepped on, no doubt by accident but extremely decisively, perhaps by one of the merry pair we had just seen wielding hiking-poles. The slug’s head, eyes, and part of its mantle were crushed and softly fissured. I did not take a picture.

*******

This is a strange post, and not the kind of strange I had intended. Not exactly a memorial for a single particular slug whose last minutes on this earth we happened to witness today. It has an odd humor, perhaps. But so many things are possible: To dash another’s hope or recognize it. To be the accidental cause of a small cessation of life. To be most excellent, despite one’s size, at excoriating the same Urtica leaves that stung Ross’s bare legs all afternoon.

Prep Lab Shenanigans

As most of you probably know, volunteering as a study skin preparator has been a big part of my life since 2008. I used to write a lot more about prep lab life and the birds I skinned at the Field Museum over at my old site, The Science Essayist (all those archives, by the way, are mirrored here). I realize that I haven’t said much at all about volunteering at Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, my new skinning home. Partly that’s because it took me a long time to start feeling comfortable there—something that was not at all the MVZ’s fault, and had much more to do with how close to my heart The Field was and how much I missed it.

Anyway, to make up for this lapse I thought I’d share some photos from the last year in the MVZ lab. Warning: Almost everything you see will be dead. But I did leave out the skinned mouse floating in a bucket of water.

Like hospitals, funeral homes, and graveyards, the prep labs of natural history museums tend to be workplaces where gallows humor thrives. This is just sitting on the shelf above the catalog binders, data sheets, and field guides.

This is just sitting on the shelf above the catalog binders, data sheets, and field guides.

I think these are voles, but don't quote me on it.

I think these are voles, but don’t quote me on it.

I *just today* learned how to ID white-breasted nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis) by two of their calls; they were hopping in Briones Regional Park this morning. This was the first bird I prepped for the MVZ, a beauty of a thing.

I *just today* learned how to ID white-breasted nuthatches (Sitta carolinensis) by ear, or at least by two of their many calls; they were hopping in Briones Regional Park this morning. This was the first bird I prepped for the MVZ, a beauty of a thing.

This is a marsh wren (Cistothorus palustris). Don't you love it when wrens are named for where you'll find them? So helpful. Also, don't you love wrens? They're a little bit perfect.

This is a marsh wren (Cistothorus palustris). Don’t you love it when wrens are named for where you’ll find them? So helpful. Also, don’t you love wrens? They’re a little bit perfect.

This is a juvenile red-breasted sapsucker (Sphyrapicus ruber); if you've ever seen a pine tree ringed with rows and rows of neat holes, those are likely where sapsuckers have been earning their name.

This is a juvenile red-breasted sapsucker (Sphyrapicus ruber); if you’ve ever seen a pine tree ringed with rows and rows of neat holes, those are likely where sapsuckers have been earning their name.

Jun Senseri is a professor of anthropology at Cal, and among other things, he studies foodways—the social, cultural, and economic context surrounding how a particular group of people make and eat food. The prep lab has been processing sheep and goat remains that Sunseri collected from indigenous communities after the animals themselves were consumed.

Jun Senseri is a professor of anthropology at Cal, and among other things, he studies foodways—the social, cultural, and economic context surrounding how a particular group of people make and eat food. The prep lab has been processing sheep and goat remains that Sunseri collected from indigenous communities after the animals themselves were consumed.

I do not know why we had a warthog (Phacochoerus africanus) but I'm guessing it was from the zoo. I'm also guessing it had a bit of a violent life (look at that broken tusk!). I have no guesses as to why it chose to wear that embarrassing hat.

I do not know why we had a warthog (Phacochoerus africanus) but I’m guessing it was from the zoo. I’m also guessing it had a bit of a violent life (look at that broken tusk!). I have no guesses as to why it chose to wear that embarrassing hat.

This is a beautiful green-tailed towhee (Pipilo chlorurus); I think this particular bird has unusually dark olive/gray plumage on its back. You can just see a hint of a brighter green—almost yellow—at the edge of the left wing, and that's the same color in the tail that (mostly hidden on this bird) gives it its name.

This is a beautiful green-tailed towhee (Pipilo chlorurus); I think this particular bird has unusually dark olive/gray plumage on its back. You can just see a hint of a brighter green—almost yellow—at the edge of the left wing, and that’s the same color in the tail that (mostly hidden on this bird) gives it its name.

SEA TURTLE UNDERCARRIAGE!

SEA TURTLE UNDERCARRIAGE!

I am not sure what was going on here, but I think it had something to do with things decomposing at a particular temperature.

I am not sure what was going on here, but I think it had something to do with things decomposing at a particular temperature.

If this looks like a hummingbird chick that was mummified in its nest, that is because that is exactly what it is. Sad, but incredibly cool. I can't say for sure, because it came out of a freezer and I'm not sure how the museum acquired it, but if it was from around here it was probably a ruby-throated hummingbird. (Archilochus colubris).

If this looks like a hummingbird chick that was mummified in its nest, that is because that is exactly what it is. Sad, but incredibly cool. I can’t say for sure, because it came out of a freezer and I’m not sure how the museum acquired it, but if it was from around here it was probably a ruby-throated hummingbird. (Archilochus colubris).

These are chipmunk skulls in tiny vials. It doesn't take much room to store a chipmunk skull, which is lucky if that is what you are studying.

These are chipmunk skulls in tiny vials. It doesn’t take much room to store a chipmunk skull, which is lucky if that is what you are studying.

That’s enough of that for now; I’ll try to tell you more about the MVZ when I can. It’s really a very special place, even if it’ll never come close to replacing the Field Museum prep lab in my heart.

*******

One of the other things keeping me busy just lately has been a 10-day virtual book tour I did to promote the new edition of my book Mountainfit. You can find links to all ten stops here; my favorites include:
— This heart-to-heart with the brilliant eclectic Sienna Latham;
— This video chat with the endlessly charming Chris Clarke;
— This Spotify playlist, hosted by book-blogger Introverted Jen, which you can enjoy whether or not you read a single page of the book; and
— This guest post on DeLene’s wonderful blog Wild Muse , about peat moss, sucking bogs, and whiskey.

Many thanks to Jason Pettus, owner of the Chicago Center for Literature and Publishing, for requiring this demanding but rewarding task of all his writers, and to Lori Hettler, CCLaP’s marketing director, for scheduling all these stops.

Backyard Drama

Ross’s family is in town and we’ve been doing a bit of gallivanting, so right now I’m supposed to be stealing an hour or two to catch up on some work. But since my sister-in-law and her husband are napping in the living room, I’m working on the bed. Facing the window. Which looks out into the garden.

There is a butterfly bush right opposite the bedroom window; it’s a tall one, and the lawn chairs and round wooden table that live in the garden sit underneath its patchy shade. I have never seen a butterfly so much as look through a brochure for this plant, let alone come for a visit, but almost all of the backyard’s birdy denizens are big fans.

About 45 minutes ago, when I opened up my laptop to get started on this work of which I speak, an extremely chatty male Anna’s hummingbird and his lady companion were really having a go at it, helicoptering from cluster to cluster like purple butterfly bushes were going out of style.

He of the pair was pitty-pit-pitting away, presumably in an attempt to keep the goods for the two of them—but maybe 20 minutes after that, two Bewick’s wrens horned in on the action. You’d think they’d be able to keep things civil, share the shrub, you take the nectar, we’ll take the bugs—but no. There were some seemingly grievous hostilities going on out there for a while.

Eventually the Troglodytidae displaced the Calyptes, and all the scolding switched to a hyperactive flurry of happier whee-it, whee-it! nonsense until the wrens decided they wanted to forage on the cane chairs for some reason.

Right now the Anna’s couple is back. This time they are wisely keeping mum. The wrens have moved on, moved up: no need to turn up one’s bill at the purple trumpet vine on the garden wall, after all. A temporary harmony’s settled, and all is quiet.

But the juncoes and the towhees in the grass are still going to stay well out of it, man.

*******

Well, that attempt at labor was a flop. Looks like it’s going to be a late night.

Walking With Chris, Walking With Zeke

I didn’t take a lot of notes in college, so I’ve forgotten most of the discussions about books that went on around those scratched wooden tables I scrambled to. I can’t tell you what makes The Stranger a political novel, which misfit puzzle piece of Pale Fire connects to which other. But I’ll always remember what my dear A. said about Thus Spoke Zarathustra, pulling what in my memory is an old Dover Thrift edition from under the pillow of his dorm room bed—the book’s cover showing the dour, mustached face of Nietzsche himself, and not the cool and distant mountain of more recent editions.

“Sometimes when I really, really love a book,” said A., all blazing eyes, and curls, and wire-rimmed spectacles: “this is what I do.” And he brought Nietzsche to a pair of smiling lips and planted on his paper cheek a great big smackeroo.

I’m not sure either A. or I would make the same gesture of affection toward Zarathustra today. It remains beloved to me, not least because of this memory, but as with so many formative books that have not yet been reread, I can’t say what my present self would think of it. The gesture, though, I immediately adopted and have never relinquished. It was in this context that I posted the following tweet last week, and against this backdrop I’d like to tell you a little more about why this book deserves a kiss.

zeketweet

It is probably worth mentioning that Chris Clarke is firstly the author of Walking With Zeke, secondly the founder of the Coyot.es Network, where I write, and thirdly a person I happen to think is kind of the bee’s knees. I may not be the most impartial observer of his writing. But it’s also worth mentioning that a big part of the reason I like Chris so much—we’ve never met, and our digital lives have only recently become entwined—is that I’ve read his book.

His big-hearted, deeply intelligent, surprising, wholly satisfying book.

People sometimes volunteer that the highest compliment one writer can pay another is to say I wish I’d written that. I write about some of the same things Chris writes about—nature, place, identity, memory, the pull of wildness and the ache of home—and I had plenty of I wish I’d written that moments while reading Walking With Zeke.

Sometimes it was a single word I’d envy: the way Chris made me see that yes, coyote nostrils do “seine” breezes for scents. Yes, the partnership between a man and his dog is “thigmotropic.”

Sometimes I coveted a list: “I want no part of any enlightenment posited on the nonexistence of bird song, of capsicum, of salt water or libido or tooth enamel.”

And sometimes an image would arrest: “She is wearing black spandex, her body and the slickrock rhyming.” Chris is an incredibly gifted observer of the world, and I can’t count the times I felt like if I looked up quickly enough from the page I’d catch it: that screaming streak of a Steller’s jay or the trampled carpet of Bradford pears he was seeing when he wrote the words. I’d give a lot to be that clear and true.

But thing of it is, for me there are still higher compliments. I wish I’d thought that. I wish I’d known that. I wish I’d lived that. And in a way I have, now. Reading this book is to spend, in the course of a scant 150 pages, several years in great intimacy with both Chris and Zeke. It is anguish to be there when Zeke seems lost in the dark of a gathering storm in Nevada, and a thrill to be there when the aging, ailing dog has a wonderful day that involves explosive playfighting with a poodle, running circles around Chris, and making a clean 18-inch leap up a driveway wall.

This is not a book that feels confessional, though it is terribly, startlingly honest. It is not a memoir. But walk after walk, entry after entry, we cannot help but come to know the secret happiness and pain of someone who begins, to most readers, as a stranger. It is a book about a man and his dog; it is a book about the great, sweet, dizzyingly beautiful world. It is a book about growing older, and growing old, and growing something that is not quite wise.

Each chapter in Walking With Zeke was originally a blog post, and I will admit that when I bought it I was not looking forward to feeling like I was sitting at my computer clicking through a patchwork of random posts. Please don’t be put off by the origin of these words. The most surprising thing about them is how fluid, cohesive, and complete they feel. This is a work that seems to have come into the world fully formed, and it is extraordinarily hard to believe that Chris did not have a book in mind when he wrote these pieces.

If it seems I may be overstating how lovely this book is, and if it seems I may be doing so because of how much I admire and like its author, I can only say that I have read several books by friends and acquaintances, some much closer to my inner circle than Chris—but this is the first time I have ever written more than a dozen words about one.

I am not alone in encouraging you to pick up a copy of Chris’s book. Other people besides me—far more Internet-Famous people—have done so. Still, I may be alone in urging you to do this right: Learn from my mistake. Buy yourself an actual paper and ink copy. When you close the book on its last page, do not be surprised if you want to bring its lovely cover to your lips. (And do not be surprised if they are a little wet with tears.)

This photo of Zeke, courtesy of the Walking With Zeke Facebook page, was taken in his earlier years; Chris notes that "he didn't always look noble."

This photo of Zeke, courtesy of the Walking With Zeke Facebook page, was taken in his earlier years; Chris notes that “he didn’t always look noble.”

Rise If You’re Sleeping

For years I’ve had a bad little habit of not attending to (or actively ignoring) parts of my body that are experiencing low levels of discomfort or pain. It isn’t a let’s-put-off-seeking-medical-help-for-as-long-as-possible thing, although like almost everyone I know, I have that going on too. What I mean is that if, for instance, I happen to sit, stand, slide, or snooze myself into a position where my neck is bent at an awkward angle, a shoulder is shoved against too tight a corner, or a shin strains against too much weight-bearing, I’m very likely to stay right where I am, just as I am—even if all it would take to be perfectly comfortable is the tiniest, most simple of movements.

I sometimes (rarely, but sometimes) plunge into a similar kind of stasis when I’m thirsty, too: refuse to pick up a glass of water that’s on the table in front of me. Does that seem odd to you? It does to me. I’m wanting in the most primary, most organic way, and life, satiation, clear relief stand right there waiting. What sense does that make?

It’s interesting, this tendency toward inertia, because it often feels simultaneously masochistic and involuntary. There is a determination, a weird diamond resolve that keeps me stiller-than-still, as if I’ve begun playing a staring game with my own anatomy. And yet there’s also a heavy sense of paralysis in the whole affair, as if an incubus is sitting on my chest. Rational thought makes no appearance in these moments—not, at any rate, until the self-cast/else-cast/tangible/imaginary hex or curse or anathema lifts, and I make move toward some greater ease.

All that exists is my strange and stubborn unwillingness to stir, even or especially for the sake of my own well being.

I thought of this a week ago today, when Ross and I drove north from Tel Aviv along the coast to land on sands that Herod walked on, once. We wanted to see where he’d built a little kingdom by the Mediterranean—where moneyed Romans soaked in baths kissed by sea breezes, cheered on chariot racers turning on tight pivots in the sand, watched moody actors play out Senecan tragedies on the stage below their great amphitheater. At this instant, though, it wasn’t Romans I was contemplating. It was bats.

Ross was wandering down into an ancient shrine when I heard squeaking from the vault next door to it, and wondered if it was birds nesting in the dark. The cries grew louder and more irritated as I made my approach, but for a time I couldn’t see a damn thing in the narrow cavern, its entrance (perhaps crumbling a little after these thousands of years) now held up by wooden beams. Eventually, I crouched to pass beneath a beam and lifted my head up as I moved forward, and hey—there they were: a colony of bats.

roosting bats

Here is the thing about the bats that was surprising to me. Here is the thing that makes me tell you this not-very-weighty story after all my rambling up above about inertia (obdurate inertia, making me so careless of my own simplest and most important needs). It was the middle of the afternoon and these bats, by my lights, were all meant to be asleep—but they were not asleep.

Well, some of them were. Some asleep and quiet and unpended, hanging from the ceiling just like bats in your imagination hang: with folded wings and stretched-out feet. But like I said, there was a great deal of squeaking going on, and each squeak was accompanied by lots of movement. Bats flew this way and that, flapping right to left and left to right; one would nudge another out of place and set off a small domino line of shifts, and only a few moments would pass in between the flurries and exchanges of position.

“They’re so chatty!” said Ross, who had come up from the shrine to find me rapt and glowing, taking video after video on my phone. “I know!” I said, and we both wondered at the inexplicable bustle.

Later I looked it up, and as best as I can understand it, this was not a colony of outliers who had learned to be diurnal. Roosting bats will often, it seems, change positions through the day. Sometimes (usually when roosting outdoors, though, in trees) they’re moving to escape from concentrations of the parasites that often plague them, like biting fleas and mites.

And sometimes (this is what I think was going on in that cool, time-worn vault) they’re moving in response to tiny fluctuations in the ambient temperature, following pockets of warmth as they occur and disappear. Roosting birds do this, too, although I hadn’t really thought about it much before that day: They spend at least part of their sleeping hours seeking finer rest.

To sleep, or maybe just to be alive, if you’re a bat or bird or probably most any other creature in the turbulent, immense cacophony of living things that fills the world, is to be always taking care of your own needs. You don’t need to consider much, to make this happen—your body answers to necessity and the environment without your making any serious judgment or decision. You just fly after what will change your situation for the better. You’re always in motion of one kind or another, making incremental shifts toward an unachievable, but useful, perfect state.

I, apparently, do not. Am not. Shift not. I see what would improve my lot and lay my energies toward failing to improve it. It’s not just cricks in my neck and popping knees I’m talking about here, friends. (You know.)

The bats have squeaked. I, they have said, am quite ridiculous. I should insert smiley face here, because I’m smiling, rather, at this batty pattern.

What to do? Ah, raise my capsized head and shove my way into a better place, of course. The bats have squeaked.

(Here is a video of Caesarea’s bats. I wish I could tell you what species they are, but Israel has several dozen and I have almost no mammal taxonomy. Maybe one of you can tell me.)