On the Incidence of Ocelli in Felis catus

ARE YOU A CAT-LOVER? If so, what follows may be of some interest. If you’re more of a dog person but have some background in the life sciences or natural history, read on. (And don’t be put off by the title, which is meant to lampoon an antiquated style of writing once found in stuffy scientific journals. This piece isn’t at all technical.) 

By one estimate, 42 million households here in the USA have one or more feline occupants. If your household happens to be one of the 42 million and it so happens that there’s a pussycat of the tabby persuasion in residence, please go and find her or him at this time. We’re going to perform a little hands-on demonstration that requires a cat; ideally one with stripes. (Tabbies make great subjects but any breed with tiger stripes and/or spots will do.) If your kitty is presently snoozing, all the better; let the sleeping cat lie. For the purposes of our investigation an immobile, dead-to-the-world specimen is actually preferable. Asleep or awake, if a suitable feline is not readily available just whip out your phone and google “cat images.” Scroll until you come across a good close-up head shot of any striped version of Felis catus, the common house cat.

Now: observe your sleeping pet (or acceptable online image). Right above the subject’s eyes you will see two small, dark-colored patches of fur—to be more exact, parallel-sided or possibly lens-shaped vertical “bars,” each flanked by two lighter-colored bits. For reasons unknown these dark, slightly elongated spots mark the place where the cat’s eyebrow whiskers arise. In your run of the mill black-and-gray-striped tabbycat, the whisker-encompassing central portion is always black; in the orange or gray models, it may be faint or absent but if present will invariably match the cat’s overall color scheme. With tabbies, coat patterning on top of the head—that is, the area betwixt the cat’s ears down to the bridge of its nose—ranges from slender converging stripes to an almost solid black, brown, orange, or gray patch (again, depending on the cat’s overall color scheme). Regardless of pattern, the crown markings narrow and then end abruptly in the vicinity of the two dark-colored spots. This goes for gray tabbies, ginger tabbies, orange and whites…regular tabbies with white chests and bellies, Maine coon cats, plus a few exotic breeds like Bengals and Abyssinians. Worth noting: the eyebrow whisker-spots tend to be most pronounced in those domestic strains bearing a residual resemblance to the common housecat’s direct ancestor, the African wildcat—first tamed in the Fertile Crescent around ten-thousand years ago. 

People who spend a great deal of time around cats eventually learn that most if not all stripy-coated individuals sport some version of the just-above-the-eye markings. But, after having noted their curious association with the eyebrow whiskers, it appears that even fanatical cat lovers give them little or no further thought. Here’s the thing: cat fanciers, even dyed-in-the-fur feliphiles, haven’t the faintest idea that those ubiquitous tabbycat markings are technically known as ocelli—“eyespots” to us regular folk. And there’s nothing random about our still half-wild pets having eyespots on their foreheads. They are in point of fact a survival aid; a special add-on bit of biological trickery whose function is to divert would-be predators. Lots of animals have them. (More on this in a moment.) Feline-style eyespots have presumably been around for millions of years; probably since shortly after cats were first invented, back in the Miocene epoch. 

Back to the (preferably sound asleep) kitty that you have by now located. Look into their adorable fuzzy face while concentrating on those two spots. To help achieve the objective of this hands-on investigation, you will now be asked to deploy a useful visual technique—we’ll call it “defocalizing”—which consists of nothing more than crossing the eyes slightly; just enough to make everything slightly blurry. Anyone can do it! Defocalizing has the effect of expanding your peripheral vision, making it a cinch to spot movement within a large and complex field of view. It also facilitates distinguishing subtle or hidden patterns that are either inobvious or flat-out invisible when looked at directly. This nifty trick has been used since time immemorial by hunters, birders, field biologists, and, in all likelihood, by…guess who? 

So. Cross your eyes slightly. Once you’re good and defocalized, look at those spots again. Now that the subterfuge has been pointed out, you should see a pair of wide-open eyes staring straight into yours: eyes with vertical pupils flanked by paler-colored irises—unmistakable, unambiguous cat eyes. (Assuming a live feline was not to be found and in its stead you’ve located a good head shot: using an index finger, block your view of the eyes so as to not obscure the eyebrow-spots…defocalize…and voilá!) 

What you’re looking at is a cunning deception—just one of many forms of defensive mimicry. Mimicry, like camouflage, is a passive means employed throughout the animal kingdom to help avoid injurious—possibly fatal—interactions with other organisms. There are a number of distinct, named strategies but I will mention only the one at play here, automimicry, wherein one part of an organism’s body resembles another part. Automimicry is used to great effect, for example, by the hairstreak—a small butterfly with delicate “tails” that project from the lower portion of its hindwings. These filamentous tails bear an astonishing resemblance to the hairstreak’s banded antennae. Together with other markings on the hindwing, they combine to produce a “false head.” Predators attacking this ersatz head might get a mouthful of wing instead of a tasty snack. Kitty’s counterfeit eyes are another textbook example of automimicry. 

An astonishing array of animals have independently evolved eyespots. These include butterflies and moths, caterpillars, fish, snakes, lizards, birds, and mammals (with insects being the vast majority). Insect ocelli, however, don’t meet the criteria of being a form of automimicry as they tend to resemble eyes belonging to some much larger fictitious creature. Instead, the basic idea is to elicit a startle response that might throw off a predator, giving one or the other party an opportunity to make a hasty getaway. A classic example is the Io moth, which bears outsized, strikingly realistic-looking eyespots at the center of each hindwing. Ordinarily these false eyes are concealed but when threatened by a predator the moth spreads its forewings to expose them, instantaneously conjuring a downright scary visage out of thin air. In many instances, butterfly and moth ocelli are uncannily lifelike, often with strategically located white dots that artfully create the illusion of light glinting off a moist, black orb. At any rate—finned, furred, or feathered, being confronted all of a sudden by a pair of glistening, inscrutable eyeballs is going to get your attention. It’s easy to see how the ocelli ruse might stop an attacker in its tracks, even one that’s much bigger and more powerful than its prey.

What about cats, though? It’s fair to ask how having fake eyes right above their real eyes could be beneficial in terms of the cat’s survival. Let’s not forget that predators get predated, too—especially their young. So, one possible scenario: great hairy beast on the hunt stumbles upon a fast asleep cat but, seeing the mock eyes and assuming its potential dinner to be awake and alert, thinks twice or maybe thrice about taking on all those sharp teeth and claws. This is a fairly implausible set of circumstances given that it would require the potential victim to be in deepest slumber—doubtful for such a    hyper-alert creature, especially one away from its den (or human habitation!) or at the very least hidden in a secure place where full repose is feasible. Another, more likely possibility: cat on the prowl passes beneath a predator waiting in ambush—say, one crouched on a limb or rock ledge or circling silently overhead. (In case you’re wondering: above ground ambush predators might include a larger feline species or, if the potential prey were one of the smaller cats, hawks, eagles, or owls.) And here’s where the real beauty of the subterfuge comes into play: from above, those sham eyespots appear to be gazing upwards, right into the lurking predator’s eyes. The savvy hunter, finding its cover blown, is unnerved enough to hold back. Or, shaken by being detected, unintentionally makes a sound that alerts the would-be victim, giving it time to flee or at least get into a defensive posture. Now: look down on your passed-out pet and imagine yourself a hairy beast about to pounce on its next meal. Get into defocused mode again and see the menacing glare of two wide-open eyes drilling straight into yours, just daring you to try. Keep in mind that predators will frequently forego a strike once they’ve lost the crucial element of surprise; going after prey that’s on the defensive, regardless of its size, is often deemed too risky due to possible injury.

So how is it that this eyespot-thing has managed to stay under the radar? Frankly, I’m shocked that it took me so long to figure it out. You see, I—ahem!—consider myself something of a cat expert; I’m familiar with the nictitating membrane and the tapetum lucidum…know of the carpal pad and the righting reflex…know what “flehmening” is and how it relates to the vomeronasal organ. With a lifetime of experience behind me, I can assess any cat’s mood in an instant through its facial expression, tail movements, and overall body language. I’ve been known to inform people, in a mock-ostentatious tone (but only half joking), that they are talking to a certified Cat Psychologist. So I’m a bit miffed that it took me a good half-century to spot the eyespots, particularly because they’ve been—pun intended—staring me in the face all this time. Clearly, I’m not alone here; no one else seems to have noticed them, either. This, I find hard to believe. Nonetheless, thus far I’ve been unable to locate a single reference to ocelli in cats—online, or in any of the several books about camouflage and mimicry that I’ve read. 

 

Now that you, too, know that many cats wear a set of false eyes on their foreheads, here’s one more bonus item; a bit of feline minutiae vis-à-vis the old chestnut about cats “sharpening their claws.” Which, it turns out, is erroneous—a widespread misconception that has been promulgated for centuries if not millennia. The sharpening-their-claws fallacy, accepted the world over as gospel truth, falls into the category of those things we’re told as mere toddlers (“Look, Melanie! Fluffy’s sharpening her claws!”) that we accept unquestioningly and in due course pass on to our children. And they to theirs. Well, cats are not—I repeat, not—honing their claws when they’re up on hind legs, gleefully shredding your sofa or out in the backyard going after small trees. Cats engage in this quintessentially feline behavior when they’re feeling sassy and fixin’ to go on a tear…maybe after a good long nap when, all of a sudden, they’re chock full of energy. Ever notice that devilish gleam in their eye as they assault the upholstery while you’re yelling Stop it! Stop it! and being completely ignored? Well, what’s going on here is that kitty is feeling really really good—ready to rock and roll!—and Nothin’ feels better than arching the ol’ back and stretching out the toes! Ahhhh!

Everybody knows that as cat’s claws grow, the innermost layers periodically slough off leaving fresh, sharp tips behind. Without a doubt, those weird little curved “nail clippings” are shed during routine scratching sessions. But note: you don’t find them liberally scattered at the foot of their favorite scratching-post, the now tattered and frayed corner of your sofa. No. Instead, every so often you find one stuck in the carpet or laying on the kitchen floor by the food bowl. Think about it: those extraordinary retractable digits of theirs are kept folded up all day long, like toes crammed into too-tight shoes. Imagine how exquisite it must feel when they sink them into the pliant fabric of your BarcaLounger’s armrest and give ‘em a nice long strrrretch! 

So here’s the skinny: Tiger/Cinderella/Peaches is not “sharpening” his or her claws. Their claws don’t require maintenance. It happens automatically. What they’re doing is more or less the feline equivalent of knuckle cracking—an annoying habit. 

 

                  

                  ©2024 Tim Forsell                                                                    28 Jan 2024    

Camouflage and Mimicry

 Some of these resemblances are perfectly staggering—to me they are a source of constant wonder & thrilling delight. It seems to me as though I obtain a glimpse of an intelligent motive pervading nature, as well as of the mighty, never-resting wonder-working laws that regulate all things. 

 

Henry Walter Bates, letter to Darwin, 1861

 

OF ALL THE FORMS OF PHYSICAL ADAPTATION that play a role in furthering any species’ survival, two stand out by way of sheer sophistication: defense mechanisms and protective coloration. Not just in their sophistication, but with a hard to pin down attribute—a quality of devious genius the English language has no word for. 

Plant and animal defenses are often characterized as being products of evolutionary arms races. Nature’s first predator was some single celled organism that hit on the idea of engulfing smaller cells, thereby inventing food. Ever since that game-changing event took place, most living beings have taken part in what amounts to an endless contest where the winners manage to postpone being eaten by running faster, growing thicker shells to thwart increasingly powerful jaws, or simply by going into hiding. Defense mechanisms go well beyond basic, no-frills types of armor like tough skin or sturdy shells. There’s a whole array of spines, spurs, and horny spikes. There are vile excretions and break-away appendages. Biting and stinging double as defensive protection and means for securing prey. Some animals rely on smoke screens, electric shocks, or auto-evisceration. Edible but slow-moving (or resting) creatures often depend on some kind of protective coloration to serve as a warning sign or as camouflage. Many forms of camouflage are breathtaking in their subtlety of rendition, making them among the most dramatic displays of nature’s knack for coming up with inventive solutions. 

These attributes have long been a source of wonder and cause for heated debate thanks to a shared quality of appearing intentionally designed in a way that exceeds the appearance of design in other features. Nonetheless, evolutionary biologists maintain that all these things can be accounted for by way of classic Darwinian gradualistic evolution. In spite of this widespread conviction, there are no definitive explanations for marvels that have the appearance of being deliberately crafted by an intelligent agency. As it happens, there are a number of good reasons to question prevailing accounts.

Animals marshal an array of stratagems to defend themselves in a world teeming with sharp-eyed, hungry predators. These defenses also help relieve the stress of constantly being on the lookout—a point seldom noted. Thanks to their defense mechanisms, many creatures go about their lives virtually unmolested thanks to built-in protections, some of which act in concert with what amount to flashing warning signs. 

Here’s a partial listing of strategies, including a few singular cases:

 

• Many varieties of poisonous stings and bites. (Though used for securing prey these are often solely for protection.) Many insects are unpalatable as a result of concentrating toxic compounds from food plants in their own flesh. On the other hand, animals (such as frogs and newts) synthesize their own poisonous chemicals.

• A fearsome assortment of spines, spurs, bristles, and detachable quills. These can be poison-tipped or capable of causing potentially fatal infections.

• Diverse noxious, sticky, toxic, or just plain foul excretions and emissions are employed by many creatures throughout the animal kingdom. The chemical elements are sometimes altered versions of substances having other, often completely unrelated physiological roles.

• Along with their remarkable camouflage systems, cephalopods (squid, octopuses, and cuttlefish) deploy opaque “smoke screens” by expelling clouds of an inky substance.

• Many lizards and salamanders can voluntarily shed their tails, which then flail wildly, distracting the predator while the real prize escapes…and grows a new tail. 

• Sea cucumbers (a soft-bodied mollusk) have a related trick: when threatened, they expel several internal organs. Some of the eviscerated tissue includes part of the sea cucumber’s respiratory system. This tubular material expands many fold, elongating and becoming sticky, sometimes disabling predators. The organs regenerate within days.

• Warning coloration: bright colors or stripes, often in combination with black stripes or against a black background, indicating toxicity or other dangerous defenses.

• The electric eel (actually, a type of fish) can deliver brief shocks of up to 850 volts.  

• In addition to being well camouflaged, some species of the slow-moving horned lizards can spray blood from a special pore near the eyelid. In addition to the element of shock and surprise, their blood is reported to have a repellant effect. 

• The bombardier beetle stores a mixture of hydroquinones and hydrogen peroxide in a special chamber near its anus. If threatened, the beetle empties the contents into another sealed chamber where the chemicals mix with a catalyst, triggering a violent reaction that raises the temperature of the mixture to near boiling. Resulting pressure forces the hot fluid through a turret-like nozzle that the beetle can aim in a chosen direction.

• Native to tropical waters, the diminutive boxer crab carries tiny sea anemones in each of its claws. The anemones’ stinging tentacles provide protection to the otherwise defenseless little crab (who also scrapes off food particles captured in the tentacles for its own benefit).  

• The bizarre Malaysian exploding ant, suicide bomber of the insect world, belongs to a group of forest-dwelling ants that are often attacked by marauding weaver ants. Workers have enlarged mandibular glands running the length of their bodies. As a last resort in battle, worker ants violently contract their abdominal muscles which causes the poison-filled mandibular glands to rupture, spraying a sticky and corrosive fluid in all directions. This toxic glue can ensnare nearby attackers, immobilizing them.

            Then there’s the passive protective device of cryptic coloration, which encompasses both camouflage and mimicry. Cryptic coloration comprises a number of distinct subcategories (often named after their discoverers). These include:

            

• Cryptism: The commonest form of camouflage, where an organism resembles a leaf, flower part, twig, rock, or the surface upon which it typically resides or rests. With ever increasing frequency, photographic images are appearing online showing  exotic animals whose cryptism elicits gasps of amazement: walking-stick insects, caterpillars, katydids, mantises…geckos, toads, bizarre sea-horses such as the leafy sea dragon and other reef-dwelling fishes.

• Active camouflage: Through various physiological means, some animals can alter their coloration to match different backgrounds.  

• Disruptive coloration: Patterns of bold spots or stripes that serve to break up an animal’s outline against a complex backdrop (as is the case with leopards and zebras). In combination with cryptic coloration, an animal virtually disappears against its background.

 • Batesian mimicry: The “sheep in wolf’s clothing” trick, where a harmless animal resembles a toxic or dangerous one. 

• Müllerian mimicry: Two or more unpalatable species come to resemble one another, reinforcing their warning coloration patterns.

• Automimicry: One part of an organism’s body resembles another part. (Snakes whose blunt-tipped tails resemble a head; butterflies and other insects whose hind-ends mimic heads.) If attacked, they might escape with non-fatal injuries.

• Wassmannian mimicry: The mimic lives alongside the model (generally one of the social insects—ants, bees, termites). Living within the model’s colony or nest, the mimic makes its presence tolerable by producing pheromones.

 

Astonishing examples of protective coloration elicit wonder and admiration and are frequently held up as proof of the existence of an intelligent creator. Some instances of camouflage and imitation come close to being beyond belief. Even after Darwin, leading scientists have confessed to doubting whether naturalistic explanations can account for some of the especially vexing cases. Nonetheless, the discovery of mimicry (as a biological phenomenon) by a Victorian-era naturalist was thought to be the first truly convincing demonstration of the powers of natural selection. 

Henry Walter Bates, along with Alfred Russel Wallace, embarked on an expedition to Brazil in 1848. Bates and Wallace—only in their mid-twenties at the time—were both avid collectors of beetles and butterflies, a fashionable hobby in Victorian England. Each had been inspired by Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle, first published nine years earlier. Insect collectors (Darwin being one himself) were ideally suited to probe evolution’s mysteries, being particularly attuned to the variety and extreme diversity of the creatures they studied. The question of how such diversity arose was a much-discussed topic. Hoping to finally solve the problem of the origin of species, the two young men traveled up the Amazon River, together and then separately. Wallace, sick and exhausted, was forced to return to England in 1852. On the journey home, Wallace’s ship caught fire and sank—with all his specimens and notes. Bates remained abroad for seven more years. Having collected almost fifteen thousand animal species (eight thousand of them unknown to science) he arrived back in England, his body likewise ravaged by sickness and deprivation. Just months later Darwin’s Origin of Species was published. Bates became an enthusiastic supporter of Darwin’s new theory and the two became fast friends and life-long allies.

Bates’ most important contribution was the discovery of a previously unrecorded form of mimicry that now bears his name. In Brazil he noted many instances of one butterfly species that had taken on the colors and wing patterns of another. Typically, these markings were patches and stripes of vivid primary colors against a dark background (a key design theme among warning devices used by animals). After careful study, Bates found that one of the two—he termed it the model—was avoided by predators due to a diet of toxic plants while its mimic was safe to eat. Even more intriguing: during his travels, Bates repeatedly found distinct varieties of one of the unpalatable (model) species being impersonated by different varieties of the same mimic species. To further complicate matters, in some regions he found numbers of separate species—even day-flying moths—all sporting similar flashy wing patterns. And all along the way he came across instances of astonishing protective coloration. The sheer complexity and degree of sophistication of all these things captivated him.

Back in England, Bates promoted his findings as the clearest-yet demonstration of natural selection at work. He described his discoveries in Darwinian terms, explaining them in words similar to these: Through chance mutation, some varieties of butterflies acquire a purely fortuitous, crude resemblance to an unpalatable species. Over time, by way of a string of chance mutations, this resemblance increasingly grows more refined, with selection favoring the offspring of superior mimics. And ever since, books and articles have offered up the explanation proposed by Darwin and Bates as consummate illustrations of natural selection in action. But is the phenomenon as straightforward as this? Time and again, such matters have proven to be more complex than originally conceived. Are other influences at work here?

Much has been learned about butterfly wing patterns through laboratory rearing and cross-breeding experiments. In time it was found that colors and patterns on two-dimensional surfaces like insect wings are more readily altered by genetic changes than those on three-dimensional structures. In the 1920s and 30s, biologists determined that, in at least one major group, individual species’ markings are variations on a basic “ground plan” consisting of pattern elements—rows of stripes and spots confined to specific subregions bounded by wing-veins. An important observation was made: these subregions are modular. As such, they can evolve independently of other elements and do so without impediment. The established theory explaining butterfly mimicry is based on a two step model. Initially, mutations in regulatory genes responsible for wing coloration result in morphological changes that bestow a chance resemblance. The second step involves further small scale mutations which, when subjected to natural selection, progressively result in ever-closer resemblances. Modifications to wing patterns, being modular and subject to “point mutations” (changes in a single nucleotide base), occur readily. And often.

Thanks to explosive advances in evolutionary developmental biology (evo-devo), we now have a fairly detailed understanding of the genetic aspects of coloration and pattern development. Certain genes, previously identified in Drosophila and known to have multiple functions, were shown to be responsible for eye-spot formation as well. Location of such features is set by the ground plan. When, if, and for how long these genes are switched on determines whether any one locus develops into a simple spot or something more elaborate—for instance, one of those markings that bears an astonishing resemblance to a vertebrate eye, complete with a tiny silvery dot near its center to create the convincing illusion of a reflection on an eye’s glassy surface. 

Many of these issues are far from settled, but investigators expect to make great strides in coming years. But conventional mechanistic approaches probably won’t unearth universal evolutionary pathways—developmental pathways that produce minor miracles such as wing markings on a species of tropical butterfly that replicate, with the realism of a trompe l’oeil painting, beaded raindrops. (As if this weren’t enough, there’s a thin line on the wing of this particular butterfly that is offset a bit where it passes beneath the sham water droplet, perfectly mimicking the visual effect of refraction such a spheroid “lens” would produce.) 

Of all the graphic illustrations of the raw power of organic evolution, choice instances of crypsis are surely among the most astonishing in terms of subtlety, sheer inventiveness, and aesthetic appeal. Take the squid-like cuttlefish that alters its shape, color, skin texture and patterning—in an instant—to match virtually any backdrop (including, in one experiment, a fair rendition of a black-and-white checkerboard). One variety of octopus can ape—in both coloration and physical form—a stingray, flounder, or sea snake. Then there’s the diverse array of insects that are virtually invisible against the leaves, bark, or any substrate  upon which they hide. And then there are those birds and mammals of northern latitudes that turn white in winter. [Note This critical adaptation has been independently invented by ptarmigan, weasels, foxes, wolves, hares, lemmings, and reindeer. (Note that the mammals represent four separate orders.) In light of this co-evolved adaptation’s remarkable utility, it’s somewhat surprising that the mechanisms behind the process haven’t yet been identified; all we know thus far is that there appears to be some connection with day length. If so, rampant and unchecked climate change taking place in arctic regions will surely have a grave effect on these creatures lives. While doubtful, some species may prove capable of adapting quickly.] 

Darwinian theory has a ready answer for those who shake their head in wonder, marveling at how such things could ever come about: The occasional minor, random mutation—a frilly edged wing, a subtly different color, a seemingly inconsequential bump—provides a chance advantage. Which, if passed on to offspring, improves their odds of surviving and reproducing. Through time, by way of additional random alterations, these features change or are enhanced, becoming over time ever more realistic and thus effective. Like many others, in the case of cryptism my faith in the Darwinian account wavers. I find myself unmoved by the stock version; similarly, the explanations given for many forms of protective coloration lack empirical substance or even a feel of scientific authenticity. I make this subversive claim while bearing in mind the risk of falling prey to the fallacy of “arguing from personal incredulity.” Basing one’s line of reasoning on intuition and feelings of doubt isn’t a valid approach to scientific questions. But accepted scientific truth has been up-ended thanks to one person’s nagging misgivings—misgivings, yes, based on sheer intuition. Still, people with scientific backgrounds, aware of the specific issues, find the matter of cryptism a classic demonstration of Darwinism in action, not even remotely “mystifying.” 

Speaking for myself: an experience that occurred when I was sixteen proved to be pivotal to a burgeoning awareness that certain natural phenomena seemed to defy rational, scientific explanation. 

Hiking alone in a canyon near my home, I came across a sizeable gopher snake—at almost five feet long, the largest one I’d ever seen. (Regarding the emotional impact of encounters with wild animals: when serpents are involved, “size matters.”) The snake was hidden under an old board I’d just lifted and, with the sudden loss of cover, it speedily assumed a defensive posture. I felt a rush of adrenaline when it coiled, head reared and tongue flickering. Staring me down, the typically docile reptile became a rattlesnake. As it is, the gopher snake’s coloration and scale patterns bear a passing resemblance to that of their venomous cousins. But the startling transformation went way beyond simply taking on the overall appearance of a rattlesnake. The snake flattened and widened its head, the jaws flared out from the neck—a classic viper trait. The snake inflated its lungs, which markedly increased its girth. (Rattlers are conspicuously thick-bodied compared to most snakes.) The slender tail, held aloft, vibrated in a hazy blur—almost indistinguishable from the blur of vibrating rattles. Simultaneously, air forcefully expelled from the snake’s lungs, made a hissing noise that credibly reproduced that instantly recognizable buzzing sound. The imposter faced me squarely, slowly weaving its head from side to side. Anyone who has faced down an angry rattlesnake with adrenaline pumping through their veins will attest that it automatically triggers a compelling and instinctive fear; keeping one’s distance is an involuntary response. (Of course, being an adolescent male human, I felt compelled to locate a stick to wave in front of the snake’s face, provoking it to strike.) All in all, the entire display was a thrilling demonstration of plucky menace that left me thoroughly cowed. The memory is still vivid. 

            Later, thinking about what I’d witnessed, I was shocked to realize that along with its viper-like coloration and markings the snake had displayed a total of seven discrete behaviors mimicking actions exhibited by its venomous relatives: drawn up in a pile of sinuous coils…reared head held flat, jaws flared…tail borne vertically behind the coils, tip raised and vibrating in a blur…inflated body…exhaled air that sounded amazingly similar to that viscerally fear-inducing rattle…the spirited strikes. Eventually I learned that these copy-cat behaviors are common defensive responses (and that many gopher snakes die by human hands as a result of their too-clever subterfuge). But the thing that most amazed me was in realizing that these ploys had not been learned—they were wholly instinctive. Snakes don’t rear their young; no parental guidance imparted these skills. Nor is it likely that gopher snakes learn through observing and imitating their formidable relations. No: they’re born with this singular, instinctive talent for mimicry. How do they know? I still wonder.

 

Readers of literary fiction are by and large unaware that, prior to his celebrated writing career, the expatriate Russian novelist Vladamir Nabakov was well known among butterfly fanciers around the globe. Nabakov was for some years a curator of Lepidoptera (butterflies and moths) at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology. A recognized expert in his field, Nabakov was well aware of contemporary neo-Darwinian thought when he included this memorable passage in the autobiographical work Speak, Memory:

 

The mysteries of mimicry had a special attraction for me. Its phenomena showed an artistic perfection usually associated with man-wrought things. Consider the imitation of oozing poison by bubblelike macules on a wing (complete with pseudo-refraction) or by glossy yellow knobs on a chrysalis (“Don’t eat me—I have already been squashed, sampled and rejected”)…. When a certain moth resembles a certain wasp in shape and color, it also walks and moves its antennae in a waspish, unmothlike manner. When a butterfly has to look like a leaf, not only are all the details of a leaf beautifully rendered but markings mimicking grub-bored holes are generously thrown in. “Natural selection,” in the Darwinian sense, could not explain the miraculous coincidence of imitative aspect and imitative behavior, nor could one appeal to the theory of “the struggle for life” when a protective device was carried to a point of mimetic subtlety, exuberance, and luxury far in excess of a predator’s power of appreciation.

 

Nabakov’s life-long fascination with mimicry and cryptic coloration roused in him a skepticism toward Darwinian explanations. His attitudes were shaped before modern evolutionary orthodoxy was settled, at a time when doubts of this kind were fairly common in certain fields. Later, Nabakov’s stance puzzled those who knew him as a credible scientist who was well aware that his contrarian views on natural selection were heretical. But Nabakov was far from alone in his skepticism—like many others, he questioned how something that so clearly showed signs of deliberate design could have resulted from slowly accumulating random mutations. (“The incredible artistic wit of mimetic disguise…seemed to have been invented by some waggish artist precisely for the intelligent eyes of man.”)

 So it is that the bio-skeptic asks: How, through purely naturalistic means, does an animal contrive what amounts to an invisibility cloak? Despite claims to the contrary, this question has never been answered—it is routinely sidestepped. Here’s one example of how mimicry is “explained,” from Peter Forbes’ Dazzled and Deceived: Mimicry and Camouflage:

 

Very often we fall into circular arguments when we speculate on evolution because there is no purpose to it—no end in sight. We see that some organisms have survived, so we say that these must have been the fittest. And which are ‘the fittest’? Those which have survived. But in mimicry one creature has led and another has, through selection, copied it. The old problem of attributing to nature a goal when it has none dissolves in the face of mimicry because, although there is no purpose to the whole of it, for the mimicking species there is a goal: to copy the model. So we have an index of the success of evolution in producing the match. Similarly with the butterflies that mimic dead leaves. Success is demonstrable.

 

This is a striking but not atypical example of a phenomenon that was discussed in a previous essay: readers are warned of circular reasoning’s pitfalls, which the unwary often fall prey to. But here, Forbes stumbles into that very trap. How can we explain camouflage and mimicry from an evolutionary standpoint? Answer: Through the process of natural selection working on genes. How do we know that natural selection accounts for these features? Because, writes Forbes, “in mimicry one creature has led and another has, through selection, copied it.” Their success, as he asserts, “is demonstrable.” Classic circular reasoning. Christian de Duve, on mimicry: “Obviously, those traits did not develop for the purpose of protective covering. Neither were they copied. Mechanisms for such a phenomenon do not exist.”

            Odd, that the fallacious reasoning so often glides by unnoticed…that the feature or phenomenon in question is never actually elucidated. Much progress has been made in describing mechanisms behind wing pattern evolution. They are well-supported and make perfect sense. But the real issue—how it is that all these astonishing instances of mimicry came to be—is ignored. The same goes for all forms of protective coloration. Nabakov didn’t live to see the genetics revolution. But even if he had, even if he’d known about point mutations and Hox genes, Nabakov would be asking questions like these: How, through gradualistic processes, have genes been modified to the extent that a butterfly so perfectly resembles a leaf that it includes gnawed-looking edges and patches that appear exactly like the decayed places on similar leaves? Why is blind natural selection prone to yielding such unbelievably artful details?  What “codes” for a tiny, perfectly placed silver dot that imparts a sense of the moist reflectivity of an eye’s surface? 

            And here are a few more unanswered questions, seldom asked: Why, if protective coloration is so readily achieved by way of modular genetic mutation and selection, don’t more uncamouflaged species take advantage of such a beneficial adaptive trait? How is it that camouflage, being a result of random mutations that help individual organisms survive and reproduce, entire families, even orders (Mantidea—the mantises, for instance) are masters of the art across the board? Why don’t we see rudimentary, unfinished-looking instances of protective coloration that are clearly evolutionary “works in progress”? And this: or Batesian mimicry to “work,” the mimic has to be significantly less abundant than the model. (If mimics were as- or more-abundant than their models, predators sampling both species wouldn’t learn which to avoid.) How, then, are populations of Batesian mimics regulated to maintain relative scarcity—typically five percent or less of their model’s numbers? And this: as Nabakov pointed out, camouflage and mimicry need not be perfect in order to succeed; many crude but highly successful forms seen in nature bear this out. In fact, among the groups of butterflies Bates studied, mimics often bear only a crude resemblance to the model species. One final item: it would be of interest to learn how bugs that rely on careful positioning in order to turn into thorns or blend into the veiny surface of a leaf “know” to orient their bodies correctly (that is, to position themselves so that they vanish into thick tropical air as opposed to turning ninety degrees and turning into food). In many instances, these behaviors involve a specific way of positioning legs and antennae. These are simply inherited, instinctive behaviors, we are informed, like those of my gopher snake. No doubt this is true on one level but the fact remains that inherited behaviors—one of biology’s great mysteries—have thus far eluded scientific explanation.

Not only has my research failed to yield answers to these hard questions but thus far I have been unable to find askers. Meanwhile, innumerable instances of protective coloration have reached an evolutionary state of functional perfection and many of them achieved this state long, long ago. Such puzzles are little more than distraction in the face of deeper issues. Defense mechanisms and protective coloration are physical expressions of the survival imperative. They recapitulate in the clearest fashion what lengths LIFE will go to in order to help the living and further survival. LIFE doggedly finds a way and its solutions are something to behold. Protective coloration shows off nature’s signature flair, its tendency toward over-embellishment and whimsy. These, in (paradoxical) tandem  with spareness and practicality. And there is that thing Nabakov, with his fine feel for the English language, called “exuberance.” In contrast, the theory of evolution by natural selection has no cause or means to even acknowledge an enigmatic richness and depth that is a non-material ingredient of all biological features. It allows only for randomness and great spans of time to work its faux-magic. 

 

As with many of nature’s countenances, through their highly successful expressions of camouflage and mimicry plants and animals assume the guise of art. In the case of such “utilitarian” features, this seems an over-the-top extravagance—a needless addition of fringe and filigree. What some of us find a bit unnerving about LIFE’s aesthetic profligacy is a lingering suspicion that this particular form of natural beauty bears a veiled message. What we attempt to explain strictly in terms of function exists in nature as something more than simple practicality. Meanwhile, we’re left staring directly at the biological message while it remains concealed…hiding in plain sight.                             

It's Always Thursday 2024

 I started this silly little item back in 2020, mid-Covid, when all of us were slightly insane but didn’t even know it. Everything was so strange. Looking back, it’s all one big blur. I was unemployed for two years (Crooked Creek being shut down for two full seasons). Dylan normally works at home or does her botanical fieldwork alone. So we just hunkered down in “the little yurt in the big forest” and lived ourselves a peaceful little existence. With no kids and no family and everybody else quarantining away we were more or less on our own. But, seeing as how we’re both solitaires by nature, it was relatively easy for the two of us. At a certain point, though, the days began to blend together and for a long time it really made little difference what day of the week it was. This whole phase was made even more surreal by the fact that people were dying like flies and none of it touched us. And by the bizarre pandemania-induced culture wars—a completely unforeseen development. We paid way too much attention to the news and were dismayed and disheartened by the anti-mask and anti–vax contingent. And the full-on serial denialists and…well…everything. It was just weird. 

 

ANOTHER SIDE-EFFECT OF LIFE in the time of plague: perpetually forgetting what day it is. Or, more to the point, of not really caring what day of the week it is because now that there’s no SNL it doesn’t even matter. An offshoot of this temporal indifference is the uncanny phenomenon of time seeming to creep along on all fours with tongue hanging out while at the same time the months are flying by. Just flying by! You know what I’m talking about. (You can tell that things have gotten really bad when you have to stop and think about what month it is.)

            Dylan and I have this little insider’s joke. It started out like this:

Some while back we were talking about how the weeks seem to just zip by. 

“It’s Thursday again? Already?! How did that happen?”

            “Yeah, it seems like it was Thursday just a couple of days ago.”

            “No…I think yesterday was Thursday and it’s already Thursday again.”

            Thus was born our own private way of expressing puzzlement at the hazy sense of time’s passage during the Trumpdemic era, as we all try to make our way through this everlasting shit-blizzard of incessant obscurantism. While in isolation.  

In the PanTrumpic era it’s always Thursday.

            Yesterday we took an afternoon stroll down Back Ranch Road, something we typically do several times a week. This really is a lovely walk: down a narrow lane that, up high, traverses a broad marine terrace…open land with grazing cattle for pastoral effect…views out over the Pacific, across Monterey Bay, with the northern reaches of the Big Sur coast clearly visible on clear days. Soaring hawks. Bluebirds. Meadowlarks. Look! There’s that coyote again! But on this particular day the sky was opaque, with a sickly orange glow caused by smoke from the brand new fires up north. Everyone hereabouts is still in a state of perpetual anxiety as a result of recent close calls with all the local infernos [The CZU Complex Fire —ed.]. A pervasive, background agitation haunts us whenever there’s a hint of fire. (This backdrop of mid-level anxiety deserves an acronym—how about PCSD? For Post-Conflagration Stress Disorder.) This, on top of the grim situation in DC and our whole nation, for that matter. As we walked along we were chatting in the vein of what used to be called “talking politics.” Nowadays it’s something different…something considerably darker, as revealed by our calmly discussing, with straight faces, the odds that our beloved country will manage to survive the one-man onslaught against truth and decency. (A thing I “do” with alarming frequency these days: in the course of what feels like a normal conversation, pointing out how remarkable it is that we’re so casually and so matter-of-factly talking about how we/us/everybody/the-whole-world may be witnessing first hand the last dying gasps of democracy in America, ho-hum.) (You know me! Always the optimist!) 

After our un-cheery dialogue dwindled off into pained silence, this exchange:

            Dylan: “What day is it, anyway?”

            Tim: (pause) “I think it’s Thursday.” [I was reasonably certain it was a Saturday.]

            D: (laughs) “Are you sure? I thought today was maybe Shatterday.”

            T: “No…. Wait: you’re right. It is Shatterday. Yesterday was Thursday.”

            D: “Then wouldn’t this be Doomsday? Didn’t you go to town on Thursday?”

            T: “No. Remember? I went to town the day before, on Grimsday. I think.”

            D: (laughs) “I thought you went to town on Bluesday.”

            T: “No, no—it was definitely Grimsday. Bluesday…I have no idea what we did on Bluesday. I can’t even remember what we had for dinner last night? Can you?”

            Et cetera. It went on like this a bit longer but I’ve forgotten the rest.

            Well, I suppose this all sounds pretty trivial and not particularly funny. One of those “youda-hadda-been-there” deals. But we were cracking ourselves up good and it helped lighten our psychic load.

 

  

        ©2024 Tim Forsell                                                                 Nov 2020, 5 Jan 2024

Lunch Was Not Free 1989

 THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS had been a real whirlwind. I was back to Bridgeport after spending my four days-off rock climbing with an old pal, over on the west slope, up near Lake Tahoe. This, right on the heels of my weeklong pack trip into the wilds of northern Yosemite where I innocently posed as a Park Service backcountry ranger (wrong uniform) whilst gallivanting about on another Federal agency’s turf. This six day joy ride was a seditious response to having my “official duty station”—that is, the cabin at Piute Meadows—overrun by Forest Service muckity-mucks off on what amounted to a taxpayer-funded political junket. No way was I going to stick around for that fiasco so I went on a little trip of my own (also taxpayer funded). Without telling a soul—not even my boss, friend, and partner-in-crime, Lucky Lorenzo. Pulled it off, almost without incident. Now it was time to saddle up and head back into the woods for a long, uninterrupted stint at the cabin…get back into a balanced routine of honest outdoor labor, healthy eating, and post-work repose in the form of, say, sitting in my little folding beach chair out in the meadow, watching the sun go down after a revitalizing river bath (at least, on those days when the sun was still up when work was done).

My plan: leave for Piute early the next morning. To that end, after stocking up on supplies in town and hitting the village Laundromat, I drove five miles north on 395, out to the facility we call “the old ranger station” (several buildings converted to staff and seasonal housing). I had a few things yet to take care of and parked my truck next to the barn. One of the new guys on the fire crew walked by and informed me that there was a potluck dinner in progress over at the women’s barracks. I told him I’d already eaten, thanks, and had stuff to attend to but would maybe walk over later. 

It was dark by the time my horses were caught up and locked in the corral. Done. I strolled over to the barracks, only to find that this potluck affair was more dorm-style party than some sedate dinner gathering—no surprise, given that the men’s and women’s barracks are a stone’s-throw apart. I walked into a room full of mostly college-age kids with beers in their hands and was about to turn around and leave when I saw two old friends seated together on a sofa near the door, co-workers who seldom see my smiling face post-Solstice. They called me over and had me squeeze in between them. 

And there’s John Howe, the Bridgeport District Assistant Recreation Officer, in the kitchen talking to a young woman I didn’t know. John, whose office desk sits across from Lorenzo’s in the overcrowded Rec room, is a tall, swarthy, career-bureaucrat-in-the-making. I’m still not quite clear on what he does from day to day or what his job actually entails. It’s hard to pin down exactly what it is but something about John is a bit off. He’s one of those people (we all know the type) who make routine conversation uncomfortable and say downright offensive things without meaning to. As for the young woman: judging by the faded denim jeans and lace-up packers’ boots, that had to be Kate—a new seasonal hire on our Resources crew. I recalled Lorenzo bringing up her name a while back; how she’d been working in Yosemite Valley for the Park Service but, for reasons unknown, abruptly left a cushy NPS job. He said she was a competent horsewoman and packer and that he hoped to poach her from Resources next year by convincing her that she’d be much happier working in the backcountry than out monitoring trashed grazing allotments and sitting in front of a computer all day. 

Back to the party. From the confusion of loud talk, these words leapt out at me: “I hear you might be coming over to our side next year.” Apparently Lorenzo had shared his designs with John, too. I got up and threaded my way over thinking to throw in my own pitch on behalf of the Wilderness crew. But Kate didn’t seem to want to chat with either of us and soon drifted off. Before I could do the same, John got his hooks in me. He started right in to griping about how his boss, Bill, the guy in charge of anything recreation-oriented on the district, had just dumped a certified boondoggle in his lap. Within days, he told me, a bunch of people from not one, but two Reno TV stations were descending on Bridgeport with plans to ride into the mountains, camera crews and equipment in tow, to film parts for evening news segments on capital-w Wilderness (the 25^th anniversary of the 1964 Wilderness Act being later this very week). “And I have to organize the whole freekin’ thing.” John then offhandedly mentioned that they wanted to interview a backcountry ranger for the segment. Gazing off, he wondered aloud who he might be able to get. With stunning naïveté I said, “Well, good luck finding somebody, John! Me: I’m heading back to Piute tomorrow.”

 Next morning was your typical, mad, first-day-back-on-the-job rush. In the office, talking with three people at once, I eventually managed to pull Lorenzo aside as he exited the mailroom. “Lorenzo, before I split we need to settle on a day for you to bring in my resupply.” A bit later we had a chance to sit down and talk. I brought up the resupply matter again. He just laughed and said, “Problem solved, Fersell! You’ll be doing it yourself! Wednesday, ride out of Piute. On Thursday you’re going to be interviewed for a piece on Wilderness that’ll be shown on TV. You’ll be the star!”

            (Saw it all in a flash: John, trying to be nice for a change, instead of his customary, brusque self, had been offering me a chance to volunteer before having Lorenzo do his dirty work.) “Oh, now I get it. John was chatting me up at this party last night at the women’s barracks and I was too stupid to see what he was getting at.” Switching to third-person and, apropos of nothing whatsoever, adding hick-accent: “But Tim don’ wanna be no TV stahr! What if Tim sez he ain’t gonna do it?”

            Lorenzo: “You cannot refuse.” (Serious tone but grinning.)

            Tim, back to normal voice: ”What if I say ‘John, unh-uh, nope, count me out. Sorry, not gonna do it.’ What, you think they’ll fire me?”

            “You cannot refuse. You will be a TV star.” He looked like a jovial pirate minus the costume. I smiled, conceding defeat. 

“Okaaay, okay…I’ll do it. At least now I won’t have to worry about you losing my grocery list again. Besides, I can flub it so bad they won’t be able to use the footage. I’ll j-j-just act r-r-real n-n-nervous. Maybe [gazing off] blank out for a few seconds—‘Hey, uhh, having a little seizure! Not to worry; just gimme a minute and I’ll be okay!’”

            If I had to come back to town after only two nights at the cabin, well, so be it. So, there was a new plan: ride out Wednesday, do the gig, ride back in on Friday. Then, hopefully, stay back for a good long while. Anyway, this would be something new and different; an adventure of sorts. It might even be fun—you never know. I’m thinking, Maybe they’ll take us all out to dinner when it’s over. Might even get a free meal out of them!

 

AS PER THE REVISED PLAN, I rode out on Wednesday, a flawless late-summer day with hints of autumn in the shadows and light. A few miles from the pack station, I ran into a solo backpacker on his way in; a fellow Forest Service employee who works over on the west slope, on some district I’ve never even heard of. Turns out that he’d been a backcountry ranger early in his career so we ended up jawing like two old friends. During our talk, my right hand was resting on my saddlehorn. At some point, what felt like a big fly lit on my thumb. It tickled a bit so I unconsciously took a swipe at the thing with my other hand. Bad luck: this was no fly, it was a “meat bee,” and as my left hand grazed it the varmint zapped me. Instant fire. “Oh, ow! OW! A wasp just stung me!” We kept right on talking but by the end of our palaver my thumb was ablaze. Meat bees are actually wasps, not bees—pesky miniature yellowjackets that buzz around your head while you’re trying to eat your ham sandwich. There’s been a rash of these pests in recent years, clearly drought related, and the locals say they’ve never seen them so abundant. Or so surly. You can shoo them off with impunity so long as you don’t make physical contact like I did. They can spoil a perfectly good picnic. In fact, I’d been hearing reports of vacations cut short because of them…tales of people who aren’t normally allergic to bee stings having unusually severe reactions. 

 I made it to the pack station without further incident. My thumb burned and started to itch but was tolerable. It stayed about the same for the rest of the day. 

BUT THEN…

            That night (parked by the barn again, asleep in my camper) I woke up and found myself not just scratching but feverishly clawing at the back of my hand. By the time I’d gone to bed, it had been bothering me for hours. Now, my whole hand—not just the thumb—was ablaze. I’m very disciplined when it comes to not scratching things that itch but self restraint, it seems, doesn’t automatically carry over into sleepworld. And now it was way too late so I just went to town. Ahhhhhh…. Vigorous rubbing provided exquisite relief but the moment I stopped, something unanticipated took over. I’ve never experienced anything quite like this particular form of agony—while not what you’d call painful, it was nothing shy of torture. I tossed and turned for awhile, then switched to turning and tossing. Sleep was out of the question. Finally, I slipped my pants on and walked barefoot to an unoccupied barracks trailer by the light of a dazzling Milky Way. Orion was well up which, in early September, meant it was around two a.m. Blinking in the harsh light of the bathroom’s naked ninety-watt bulb, I ran cold tap water over the tormentor while studying my face in the mirror. When numbness somewhat masked the burning sensation I stumbled back, crawled into my bag, and eventually drifted off. 

            The wind came up during those last hours of fitful sleep and I woke to a raw, wintery day. Trying to ignore my hot-and-bothered extremity, I drove to town and met  Lorenzo for breakfast as planned. He was fresh back from his own days off and had no idea what this day would bring. Over fried breakfast he told me about how the Toiyabe Forest powers-that-be up at the Forest HQ in Reno recently hired a new Public Affairs Officer—a woman who’d been on Senator Harry Reid’s staff but quit to take this new position. She was the one charged with setting the whole thing up but, thanks to her strong anti-Wilderness political bias, had intentionally put little effort into making it happen—no surprise, considering she worked for Harry Reid—a staunch conservative, at least when it comes to Federally owned land. For further context, Lorenzo explained that, on average, Nevadans are opposed to designated Wilderness (Nevada is without any) and that the upcoming vote on a State Wilderness Bill was thus sort of a big deal. 

As a result of all this the Bridgeport FS contingent were still more or less in the dark as to the day’s agenda. Walking out of the café I asked, “Well…what now, boss?” 

“Not really sure. There’s no hurry; we’re supposed to meet everybody at Virginia Lakes around ten o’clock. We’ll need seven head. Let’s take Pokey, Pal, Nugget, Zeke,  JD…Bruno….uh, that’s six. We need one more pack animal. Who’s left? I guess we’ll have to take that worthless Charlie Brown. Worthless! All the saddles and tack. Don’t forget anything. Brian can drive the truck pulling the four-horse trailer.” [Brian being this year’s rookie-ranger.] “You and I’ll take the Gutless Pig. John will show up on his own. Tom Roberts is renting horses to some of the dudes; he’s gonna ride with ‘em and he’ll get interviewed, too. Because he’s an outfitter.” [Tom owns and operates the Virginia Lakes Pack Station.] “Y’know: the commercial angle, ‘Business and Wilderness in harmony,’ blah bla-blah! So let’s get the truck and head for the Okay Corral.” Lorenzo has nicknames for everything.

            “Well, this is looking like it’s gonna be a long day,” I said. “We’d better go over to the store and grab something for the trail.” 

            “Nah—don’t worry about it…they’re providing lunch. They’ll spring for it.”

            “Are you sure about that? Monday, I saw a memo from Bill on your desk. I just glanced at it but I think it said something about ‘five dollars for a sack lunch.’”

            “No…they’re bringing stuff with ‘em. And they’ll pick up the tab. Trust me. They always do with gigs like this.”

            “Lorenzo—haven’t you heard? There’s no such thing as a free lunch!” 

 

THE THREE OF US WASTED a perfectly good hour at the barn, much of it spent running around in circles out in the pasture trying to corner the aforementioned half-wild mule called Charlie Brown, who rarely gets used and only when absolutely necessary. Then, after loading the animals and collecting all the saddles and gear, we moved to the old barn’s lee side to get out of the biting wind and stood in patches of sunlight, hands a-pocket. Technically, there were still a couple of weeks of summer left; this day felt like we’d skipped fall and gone straight to winter. At long last, we climbed into our rigs and took off. Wild lenticular clouds were lined up, north and south as far as the eye could see. It was going to be nasty up at Virginia Lakes.

            Lorenzo piloted the Gutless Pig [his name for our absurdly underpowered stock truck] while I sat in the passenger seat, cradling my hand in my lap. Visibly swollen, it looked to be badly sunburned or something worse. Lorenzo glanced over. Then again.

“Uh…by the way, what’s up with that, buckaroo? While we were eating I couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a sore paw there.”

“Yeah,” holding it up for his inspection, “Nice, hunh? I got stung by a meat bee on my ride out yesterday…itches like hell. I’m gonna try and go easy on it today.”

As usual, the stock truck overheated going up Conway Grade but we reached the campground without having to stop and let it cool down. Brian pulled in behind us minutes later. John Howe wasn’t there yet so we just sat in our rigs, getting rocked by the more violent gusts. Virginia Creek Canyon is known for being an exceptionally windy place. The upper lake basin has little in the way of cover much beyond the trailhead (one of the highest in the Sierra, at just under ten-thousand feet). It had to be screaming up on the crest. Tough luck for us: this was a truly odious day to be out and about. 

            John showed up. After unloading the animals we started grabbing things from a massive pile of tack in the back of Brian’s truck. Lorenzo went off to meet the rest of the group, wherever they might be. I tried to saddle a horse but couldn’t properly do up buckles or thread latigos through cinch-rings so left the rest to John (Brian just starting to learn how) and instead huddled in the stock truck’s cab, nursing my sick baby. When they were ready to go we led “the seven stooges” [Lorenzo again] up a narrow fire lane lined with frantically quaking aspens, golden leaves raining down. This led to another parking area, an overflow lot just past the campground that I didn’t even know existed. The Reno people were there. It was already eleven—not exactly an early start.

I asked “John, “So where exactly are we headed? Do you even know?”

            “We’re all supposed to meet up at a place called Lunch Meadow. Do you know where this Lunch Meadow is? I have no idea.”

            “Sure—it’s on the other side of the divide, part way down that long set of switch-backs on the other side. The meadow sits on a bench maybe half a mile above where the trail splits off to Summit Lake. Tom’s packers usually stop there to give their dudes a break from the ass-pounding they got coming down that steep grade. It’s a nice spot: great views looking straight across the headwaters of Green Creek at Summit Lake, almost level with it, and down on Hoover Lakes. It’s, oh, probably just shy of three miles from here. Yeah, that’s a good place to aim for. But, I’ll warn you now, John: the wind is gonna be howling going over the top. Howling! It’s like a wind tunnel there on days like this. Your people are not going to like it, I can tell you that much. Not even a little.”

            “Well, that’s where we’ll stop for lunch, but they said they wanna continue on to Summit Lake if we have time.”

            “Summit?! You’ve gotta be kidding! We won’t get back ‘til dark, John!”

            “No, no—they say they’re hoping to be back to their rigs by three.”

            “Rrright! I doubt we’ll make it much past the meadow. Not at this rate, anyway.”

            “They said the cameras will only come out once. Hell, I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes. I’m basically along for the ride.”

            The Reno crew consisted of half a dozen city-slicker types, all in western garb. Most of them looked reasonably normal but two were dolled up like cowboy parodies, like characters in some silly Hollywood musical. (The ones who’d be in front of the cameras, no doubt). There were vehicles and horses parked all around, people standing in knots, talking. Lorenzo, master schmoozer that he is, was there with them, bla-blah-blaing away. No one seemed to be in any kind of hurry. Brian and I walked up to one circle. I was going to introduce us both, maybe get some idea of what this show was all about but right then Lorenzo walked past and said under his breath, “You…Brian: GO! Hit the road!” I didn’t know what this sudden rush was about but figured he wanted us to get a lead on the riders. So I grabbed my prop (a shovel) and the two of us started off. But we hadn’t gone a hundred yards before Lorenzo, now on horseback, rode up behind us. “Brian—go back and help John with the packing. Make sure he doesn’t load any camera gear on Charlie Brown—that useless mule would figure out a way to destroy it and it’d be better if that didn’t happen.” Then he turned around and rode back.

            As soon as we left I’d handed Brian my shovel. Now, grinning and shaking his head, he gave it back. Brian is a nice kid—a twenty-two-year-old blond surfer-dude from Southern California, straight out of college, new to “the life,” and maybe a bit overwhelmed by this day’s vivid demonstration of Federally funded chaos. As he started back I spied Lorenzo through the trees, stopped, waiting for the others and could make out another horse and rider through the trees. Thinking: The riders are leaving and Lorenzo wants me to streak on over so we can meet up at the meadow and schmooze a bit before the pack animals arrive and the real stuff begins. I hope one of them has my lunch. So I took off in earnest, Forest Service cap clamped onto my head. (I’d already adjusted the adjustable headband to its hurricane setting.) A half mile on, just before reaching the old miner’s cabin below Cooney Lake, I jumped off the busy thoroughfare and proceeded cross country via a slightly more direct route leading to the upper basin. This sort-of-a-shortcut bypasses the popular lake and all the fishermen and campers who’d slow me down with their questions. However! It had been several years since I’d last taken this route and I managed to get myself lost for a few minutes. Just slightly.

Once back on track I took a breather in the lee of a dense willow thicket. Even with the chill factor I was sweating so took off my jacket and stuffed it in the pack. Thanks to all this heavy exertion at ten-thousand feet, my almost useless appendage was now throbbing. The itch was terrible. And it was definitely more swollen. When I hit the main trail again at Frog Lakes I paused for a few minutes to dip it in one of the lake’s outlet stream. No riders had appeared yet which wasn’t surprising since I’d been traveling faster than a walking horse. The trail showed fresh horse prints heading upcanyon, already blown in with grit and pine needles but quite recent—definitely not yesterday’s. Still, there was a slight chance that the riders had gotten in front of me while I was wandering around, slightly lost. (And because my so-called shortcut wasn’t actually shorter—it was more a way to save time by avoiding recreators.) On reflection, it seemed unlikely that the group would have made it this far so I kept going, walking fast, feeling a bit more relaxed inside. 

            Made it to the head of the cirque, where switchbacks lead to the top of what I call Virginia-Green Divide—an otherwise nameless pass crossing the high ridge between the Virginia Creek and Green Creek watersheds. [Hikers wrongly refer to it as Virginia Pass.] The wind kicked into a higher gear as soon as I started up the switchbacks and left the krummholzed whitebark pines’ paltry shelter. One tremendous gust snatched my cap and flung it into a clump of the stunted trees a hundred feet below. Back down I went. I still couldn’t see anyone so the doubt began to slither back in.

            It was just as wild up on top as I’d known it would be, having been there on similar days. (Though never this bad.) The divide itself is a couple of hundred yards broad, pancake-flat and completely exposed, with a sweeping 360° bird’s-eye vista: two highcountry lake basins, massive Dunderberg Peak to the northeast, looming, and a sliver of Mono Lake peeking out from behind the bare naked ridge-crest called Black Mountain. As soon as you top out, you’re facing an equally spectacular view due west, down the length of half-mile-long Summit Lake with the real Virginia Pass at its far end and northernmost Yosemite Park beyond, with more snow-clad peaks. Today, the typically blue blue Summit Lake was covered with frothy whitecaps and I was getting rocked by a fifty-mile-per-hour tempest—and that’s no exaggeration. Glad to not have a load on my back, I held onto the shovel with a death grip to keep it from being ripped out of my hand. (It really was that bad.) I paused for just a moment and glanced back, expecting people on horseback to be in view at last. But nary a horse rider in sight. Maybe they’re about to come out of the trees. Or maybe the riders didn’t leave before the packstock after all. This definitely made me uneasy. But I wasn’t about to linger and resolved to just hump it down to Lunch Meadow and wait for the others to arrive. I knew of a sort of hiding place there that would provide a little shelter from the storm.

I jogged (more like lurched) across the plateau, clutching the shovel in my good hand and leaning into the blasts. Once over the divide, the gale-force winds lost some of their energy. Starting from the top, a gentle incline quickly drops away and the trail snakes between bluffs of shaley metamorphic rock for a while then zags and zigs straight down via short, tight switchbacks. One stretch crosses a lower-angled, blocky talus field. Meltwater from big perennial snowfields cascades freely across the soil-free trail in several places and flows straight down it in others. This section gives way to more switchbacks before briefly leveling out at a sweet little pocket meadow perched on the mountainside: our designated rendezvous. 

It was already after noon. 

Not far below the divide I met three backpackers. One of them, in the lead and a bit ahead of his partners, really stood out against the backdrop of grey and brown shale. Ambient temperature-wise it wasn’t all that cold. But this guy’s outfit—cherry-red short shorts and a festive Hawaiian shirt—just didn’t match the current conditions. To top it off, he had this completely outlandish hat: a broad-brimmed straw affair whose floppy two-foot-wide brim drooped down almost to his shoulders, reminiscent of a Bassett hound’s ears. What an outfit! What’s holding that thing on? He hailed me: 

“Hey, mister ranger! Is it, uh, this windy on the other side of the pass?” 

Now, that old saw, “There are no stupid questions,” is simply not true; I field legitimately stupid questions on a regular basis. Grinning smugly, I nodded with exaggerated slowness and replied, “Unh-huh”—an unh-huh that fairly oozed snarky sarcasm. The foul weather, combined with my digital affliction and the whole bizarre situation, had taken a toll on my overall mood and I just hadn’t noticed. Until now. His two buddies caught up to us just then and were listening attentively. 

“Well, is it like this down lower, say at the trailhead?” In the background, instead of your typical serene mountain stillness punctuated by the odd marmot’s chirp or calling bird or murmur of cascading water off in the distance, was a pervasive dull roar coming from everywhere at once. We had to lean in and talk loud to be heard over it.

“It’s this windy everywhere! See those clouds up north? The weird pancake-stack clouds? When you see those bad boys it means that the jet stream has dropped down where it shouldn’t be. I’m guessing there’s a low low pressure trough over us right now and it’s sucking the thing down, apparently over the entire region. It’s probably like this pretty much everywhere today, up and down the Sierra at least. Especially up high. But this place is almost always windy—the whole canyon is like a funnel for some reason. See how carved up those clumps of whitebark pines are? That’s wind. But it won’t be nearly this bad once you get down into some real trees, into the lodgepole forest; it’ll make a big difference. But you won’t hit lodgepoles until you’re all the way down to Cooney Lake and that place is a zoo. You don’t wanna camp there. Where you coming from?”

“We’ve been over in the Park for almost a week but spent last night down at those Hoover Lakes. Then—jeez!—middle of the night, it just starts ripping!” 

Once we got to talking, it was obvious that I was in the company of backcountry pros who were having a fine time despite today’s less-than-ideal conditions. Our little trailside chat ended up being a top notch version of what we in the ranger business refer to in our reports as “visitor encounters.” These three suburbanites from Sacramento were affable and funny and fully game and we had a few good laughs while being buffeted about. One of them kept glancing down at my hand but said nothing. 

Guy with red shorts and silly hat: “This is our last full day. We wanna spend one more night out and don’t really want to go much farther. What’s the camping like at that Big Frog Lake?” [He’d seen it on his map—the next named body of water they’d come to, still well above ten-thousand feet.] “Got some big ol’ frogs there, hunh?”

“Wise guy. ‘Big Frog’ Lake is basically the biggest of three very large puddles. It wouldn’t even have a name if it weren’t right next to a trail. Not much in the way of cover there, only a few scrawny little whitebarks. It’ll be…okay. But I’m guessing it’s gonna blow like this all day and there’s no wood left to burn around any of these high lakes. Too windy for a fire, anyway. Where’re you all headed after you get out?” 

“We’re travelling, actually. Extended road trip. But our next destination is Reno. Eat pizza. Drink beer. Gamble. In that order. Then take it from there.”

“Hmmm. Tell you what: if I were you…well, there’s loads of good, cheap motels in Reno. Soft beds. Hot showers…those other ‘amenities’ of which you speak. You’ve been out for almost a week? Well, that’s what I’d do. But this is my job—I’m not on vacation. On days like this I just wanna be back in my cabin stuffing wood into the stove.” We shared a last laugh before I checked their Wilderness permit and waved them on. As we parted ways I yelled back, “Watch out up ahead—buncha people on horseback coming this way. A TV crew from Reno, actually. They’re gonna interview me down there in that little meadow you just passed for a thing that’ll be on the Reno news tonight—a piece about Wilderness seeing as how today just happens to be the 25^th anniversary of the Wilderness Act. I’m gonna be the star of the show!”

“Hey, we’ll watch it tonight on the TV in our cheap motel room. I think you just convinced us to move on. Have fun! This could lead to bigger and better things!”

Shortly thereafter, I passed two slow-moving backpackers carrying big loads; like me, on their way down, but we didn’t stop to talk. Reaching the bench, I strode through a small grove of upright whitebark pines, crossed the little half-acre meadow, and ducked into a natural enclosure hemmed in by low rock walls and shrubby whitebarks. (I’d taken refuge here on other windy days.) After emptying my pack I plopped down on it and leaned back into this perfect little body-sized nook, in full sun, and just like that found myself reclined in near-total comfort—in a virtual calm, no less. There was nothing left to do but hunker down, keep an eye out for the crew, and try to ignore my throbbing, itching hand. The whole thing was grossly swollen now—had reached that state usually characterized as “blown-up dish glove.” The skin was tight and shiny. And it was driving me mad. By my side was a block of the slatey metamorphic rock this whole area is made of, still in shade. Gingerly pressing the feverish foreign body against its smooth, icy-cold surface brought a little relief. A little. 

But, just minutes into the wait, I was getting antsy and it was hard to sit still. Part of this was the itch that couldn’t be scratched. But something definitely wasn’t right and time went by at a crawl. Hungry! Why didn’t I think to bring some snacks? 

Just a few minutes later I looked up and caught a brief glimpse of something human, mostly obscured by two layers of trees. Maybe hikers on the trail. I leapt to my feet and tried to get a better look but couldn’t see anything through the tangle of krummholzed conifers surrounding the enclosure. I went for a better look but once out into the open saw no one. It must’ve been those last two backpackers passing through. Couldn’t see anyone coming down the switchbacks, either, so I went back to my little sanctuary and tried to remain calm. On any other day, I wouldn’t be waiting around like this— at least, not for very long. But given my condition I opted to hold tight. When the group showed up—or rather, if they showed up—I’d try to talk Lorenzo or maybe John out of their saddlehorse and ride back. 

Time crept by. It was now going on two o’clock and I was beginning to spin out: They should’ve shown up by now! SOMEBODY should be here! [And:] Maybe they’re in front of me after all…what if they passed me while I was “lost”? [Then:] No, no…the three guys I talked with would’ve mentioned seeing them. [Followed by:] Wait! Maybe those guys, after leaving camp this morning, hadn’t reached the Summit Lake junction before the horses came through, bound for Summit Lake, and they missed seeing them. Then I’d go back and run through it all again. And there was this: I knew that the pack animals would be well behind the riders. So where were they? The trail, being little more than shattered rock in these parts, didn’t show tracks. Wish I’d thought to ask those last two backpackers if they’d seen anyone.

At least an hour passed. It was time—past time—to trudge back up to the hill and have a look over the other side. Something was definitely amiss. Disgusted, I threw my stuff in the pack, crossed the meadow, and started up the long grade. 

Maybe half way to the divide two more backpackers appeared, heading downhill—another couple. When I first saw them, they’d just come around a bend but were still aways off and a switchback or two above. The man spotted me and yelled down, “ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ANOTHER RANGER?!” 

“YEAH! SORT OF! DID YOU SEE HIM?! WERE THERE ANY PEOPLE ON HORSEBACK?!” We were both shouting but his words were getting blown away like confetti. Both replies sounded like affirmatives, though, and I yelled back, “DID YOU HEAR ANYBODY SAY WHERE THEY WERE GOING?!”

“EAST LAKE!”

That last I heard clearly. East Lake! What?! Now I was very confused. Beyond confused: bewildered. This made absolutely no sense. East Lake was well below the two Hoover Lakes, a mile farther down Green Creek. Without another word I waved at the pair, turned, and started back down. How in the world did everybody get in front of me? They’ve already eaten lunch and finished whatever it is they were gonna do and everyone’s wondering what happened to that ranger. How could I have missed seeing them?! Where’s Brian? 

I ran, actually ran down the switchbacks (switchbacks, please note, that I’d already been down once and had just climbed back up), loped past Lunch Meadow, and started down the next set of switchbacks. Down down down, ignoring my throbbing blown-up-dishglove appendage, trying to make sense of the senseless while keeping an eye on the stony trail lest I break an ankle and have to be rescued.

A half-mile below Lunch Meadow, almost to the Summit/Hoover Lakes junction, I practically ran into Brian as he came around a blind corner, heading up the trail at a slow jog. Red-faced and dripping sweat, he was staggered by my sudden appearance. 

“Tim!! Where’ve you been?! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“What are you doing here, Brian?! Where’s everyone else? Are they still coming?”

“They’re all back at Frog Lakes! Tim! We only went a mile or so and everyone wanted to stop—nobody knew where you’d gone off to so they were gonna interview me! But I don’t know anything! So I said I’d go look for you instead and they told me, ‘Well, you’d better start running.’ I ran all the way to the far end of Summit Lake and still never found you and I was all confused. Tim!! Where’ve you been all this time?!”

“Who? Me? Hah! I’ve been waiting for you guys in this little protected hideaway spot, a place I knew about that’s on the other side of Lunch Meadow right across from the trail. I waited there for a good hour, just trying to get out of this little, uh, ‘breeze.’”

“I must’ve just missed you. I was talking with two backpackers stopped right there, taking a break, who told me they’d passed you on the trail. And three other guys before them said they’d seen you, too. So I kept going.” 

“Yeah—I saw those two but didn’t so much as say hello. They wouldn’t have known I was stopped there, hiding in the rocks. So I just missed you, too. Damn. By the time I made it over to the trail everybody was gone.”

“But what are you doing down here?! Oh, man, I’ve been running for miles. My legs are fried!” Poor kid: he was all worked up, probably thinking we were both going to get the sack.

“Relax, Brian. Relax. There’s no hurry now. It’s all over.” His face fell. “And we’re not gonna get fired over this. It’s nobody’s fault. Lorenzo told me to blast over here. I knew what he was thinking: he wanted me to get in front of the horses, get to the meadow ahead of everybody and have time to schmooze it up with the news-guys before the interview. The reason he sent the two of us off first was because he knows that with deals like this, someone has to actually leave to get the ball rolling. Nobody was taking charge back there and they would’ve stood around jabbering all day if somebody didn’t make a move. I waited at the meadow for, jeez, a good hour. Finally, it was obvious that something was wrong and I started back. Saw those backpackers up ahead, the ones you talked to. The one yelled down asking if I was looking for you. They were still a couple of switchbacks above me and I couldn’t hear over the roar but when I yelled back, asking if they’d seen people on horses, it sounded like a yes. And he definitely said they were headed for East Lake! That had me totally mystified! Couldn’t figure out how or why, but it looked like you all were ahead of me and had gone on to Summit Lake. John told me this morning that, originally, they wanted to go all the way to Summit. So then why would that guy have said East Lake? It made no sense.”

“Well, a string of unloaded mules from the pack station passed through earlier. They were booking! That backpacker must’ve thought you meant them.” At that moment, he spotted the bloated red thing poking out of my sleeve. “What happened to your hand?!” I held it up and Brian’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gawd!”

“I got stung by one of those meat bees. What a comedy of errors! Somehow I missed seeing ‘em pass by when I was hiding in the rocks—couldn’t hear squat over this hurricane. Really, it’s almost funny! No, it is funny! Haw haw haw! The gods must’ve been a little bored today and decided they needed some light entertainment. Oh well, it’s all over now! Let’s head back—hey, can you carry my shovel?...thanks—and try to get to the trailhead before they take off without us. Good lord. But hey! We just did what we were told.”

So we marched back over the hill, into the wind, slogging up those rocky switchbacks one more time. At the divide I left Brian behind and trotted the rest of the way. Not that there was any rush—just to burn off some of my angst, hand be damned. It was beyond mattering at this point.

 

A QUARTER MILE FROM the trailhead I came up on the last riders, fell in behind, and walked in a thick cloud of dust. John Howe, riding drag and leading two mules, finally saw me as he rounded a bend. He grinned  sheepishly and said, “Sorry, Tim.” That was all. I dropped back to get out of the brown cloud and came in just behind the last pack-animal, that wicked Charlie Brown, who turned and shot me his patented contemptuous sneer—a look he saves for the rare occasions when he has to be around humans.

I stumbled into the circle of vehicles. People were in the process of exchanging handshakes and congratulations, as in “Well done! Mission accomplished!” I went over and plopped down on the Gutless Pig’s loading ramp, ignoring the powdered manure and dried mud. I must’ve looked pretty hangdog. One of the camera crew guys saw me and, without saying a word, handed me a bottle of water—which I drained on the spot—and someone else pulled a can of Pepsi out of their saddlebags and gave it to me. I sat there sipping my warm Pepsi, watching everybody pile into their cars and vans. No one spoke to me but several complete strangers grinned apologetically. Something in the almost shy, slightly awkward looks on their faces told me that one and all were aware that, whoever I was, I’d gotten a raw deal. 

Right about then, Lorenzo came over. Smiling sympathetically, he said, “Hey there, buckaroo! How’s it goin’?”

“Oh, fine.” (This, in a neutral tone, without overt irony.) “Hand’s not so good.” 

“I can see that.” He gazed off. After an appropriate number of seconds passed he said, “Oh, well,” which is sort of an expression Lorenzo uses at times like this. Somehow, his soulful ‘Oh, well’ summed up perfectly the sloppy mess this day had been; no further apology was needed. The Reno contingent drove off in one last cloud of swirling dust, leaving us Forest Service folk to deal with our stock and all the tack. Tom Roberts had already led off his rented saddle horses. [Tom is an old friend; I’d seen him when we first arrived but never even had a chance to say hello.] 

Brian rolled in right then and wasted no time voicing what was foremost in his thoughts and mine: “Um…is there any lunch left? Would it be possible to, uh….”

John said, “There’s a couple of leftover sandwiches in my saddlebags. They were for you guys. I’m afraid they got kinda smashed—that *!#@*$!# Charlie Brown spun around and slammed into my horse for no reason. Twice.” 

And so, at three-thirty o’clock, I finally got to eat my free lunch: a beat-up, soggy turkey sandwich on a compressed French roll. While this generic deli-style sandwich had (so to speak) seen better days, it tasted mighty fine right about then. I hunkered in the stock truck, at long last out of the infernal wind, peeled the cellophane wrapper off with my teeth and devoured the thing in about two minutes. Lorenzo climbed in and drove us straight to the Bridgeport hospital’s ER where I saw the doctor on duty. He more or less advised me to take two aspirin (two Benadryls) and call in the morning.

 

LATER, LORENZO AND I were back at the barn. All the tack was stashed away. He unloaded the stock by himself and turned them loose while I watched. Brian was already gone. “Let’s go to town, Fersell, and get us a couple o’ gruntburgers!” [Lorenzo-speak for your basic hamburger-and-fries meal.] This would give us a chance to review our day and the errors in judgment we’d made along the way. A debriefing, as it were.

Lorenzo kicked things off: “I wanted to get you out of there so that we could untangle everything and get the dog’n’pony show on the road. You hadn’t been gone two minutes—I swear, not two minutes—when John told me the news-guys said they had to be back at the vehicles by three so they could zoom back to Reno in time to get their footage to editors. We obviously weren’t gonna make it as far as Lunch Meadow, let alone—Hah!—Summit Lake. I knew you were gone and I told John, ‘He’s gone. Fersell’s gone. We’ll never see him again.’ We only made it as far as Frog Lakes before everybody wanted to stop. You shoulda seen ‘em! They were all clutching their little cowboy hats and ab-so-lutely FREAKING! OUT!—like we were in the Himalayas. Greenhorns!!”

“So what happened? Did you get interviewed?”

“Yeah, they interviewed me—blah bla-blah! And Tom Roberts, too. He was real nervous. Said to me, ‘Lorenzo, I’m real nervous! I’ve never done anything like this before,’ and I told him, ‘Tom, you’ll do fine. Just be yourself.’ And he did great.”

“Well, he sure looked great. Tom’s got that classic packer look down: the wool vest…the yoke shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons—gotta have those mother-of-pearl buttons! Silk neckerchief wrapped twice, knot in back. And, hey, that’s gen-u-ine dirt on his Wranglers and real horseshit stuck to his boots! Those Paul Newman-blue eyes and John Muir beard complete the picture: authentic western. Not that fake-western.”

“Yeah, he looked pretty darn western all right! Not like those drugstore cowboys from Reno. They had no idea how absurd they looked in their shiny, brand-new costumes. So they were gonna interview Brian instead of you but he managed to escape. Then these three backpackers show up. One had on this gigantic, completely ridiculous hat…brim flapping in the wind. They got to be in the show, too. And these guys were priceless…said all the right things. Like I was saying, Nevadans hate Wilderness and the news-guys were asking all these leading questions—‘Why do we need Wilderness? Why should Nevada have Wilderness?’—and those guys were candid, funny…weren’t self-conscious or at all nervous. And they answered the questions perfectly: ‘Of course you need Wilderness, you imbeciles!’” [Those weren’t their words—this was Lorenzo acting out their part.] “They were the real stars. It couldn’t have been scripted any better.”

“I talked to those guys…had a real nice conversation. Yeah, they’d be perfect. Definitely. Uhhh…did they mention running into me, by any chance?”

“They did, actually. One said, ‘Please be sure to tell that ranger we’re gonna go watch ourselves on TV tonight while we’re lounging in our motel rooms!’ They all laughed when he said it. For some reason they seemed to think it was pretty hilarious.”

That’s okay. 

I didn’t want to be a TV star, anyway. 

I didn’t…I really didn’t.

 

Afterword… 

 

NEXT MORNING IN THE OFFICE: Bill, the Rec Officer, John Howe’s boss, walked in and straightaway asked for money. 

“Tim, lunch was five bucks.”

Me, all whiney and indignant: “I was told lunch was taken care of!” Well, my lunch had been “taken care of,” all right—very poorly as it turned out. I didn’t even get the little bag of chips or the pickle, not to mention a can of carbonated sugar water to wash it all down with. But Bill had paid for them out of pocket so I handed him a fiver. 

And so it is that, in my experience at least, the Free Lunch continues to retain its mythic status—symbolic of things exceedingly elusive or maybe even unattainable.                      

                                                                        

                ©2023 Tim Forsell                     14 Sep 1989, 22 Apr 2013, 5 Dec 2023