It's Waves, "All the Way Down" 1992

 epiphany (ĭ-pif’-uh-nē) n., pl. –nies. 3a. A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something. b. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization. (American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, 4^th ed., 2009.)

 

LABOR DAY WEEKEND WAS OVER, thank god. Now that everybody had gone home, a nice long ride was in order. Time to look in on some far-flung corners of my bailiwick. So after finishing up the usual morning chores I caught and saddled Pal and we headed off for Emigrant Pass and points beyond—a long patrol into some gorgeous  country up on the Toiyabe/Stanislaus boundary. Another top quality day in the mountains but I’ve already forgotten whatever went down, aside from something well out of the ordinary that happened on our way back to the cabin.

            Coming down from Long Lakes, at the foot of that last big grade…feeling pretty pounded after twenty-some miles and eight hours in the saddle, topped off by that last set of switchbacks. With only a couple of miles to go, we pulled up at the river crossing in Lower Piute Meadows. Pal was parched—he hadn’t had a drop all day long (this one absolutely refuses to drink from lakes and ponds) so I dropped his reins, knowing from hard-earned experience that failure to do so would result in them being ripped right out of my hands as soon as the big palomino foxtrotter got two hooves in the water. 

Whenever your equine cohort needs rehydrating you’re presented with a golden opportunity to relax and have a look around. (Enjoy the break—this may take a while.) So while Pal slaked his jumbo thirst I sat there in my leather high chair and got lost in the dancing sparkles created by sunlight glancing off the lazy river’s glassy surface. The miracle of polarized sunglasses allowed me to gaze at this hypnotic spectacle for as long as I wanted without being permanently dazzled. Meanwhile, the upper West Walker was doing what rivers do: taking the watery path of least resistance on a long, downhill slide to its next temporary resting place (in this case, following a brief layover in Topaz Reservoir, fields of alfalfa in Smith Valley, Nevada). Sitting there, I recalled how it looked—and sounded—right here at this very spot back in mosquito-ey June when the river was tearing along, all froth and liquid white-noise.

The Lower Piute ford is flat and free of obstructions—important features, particularly for packers leading strings of mules. (During the spring flood, hidden obstacles can turn a mere stumble into full-blown calamity.) Well over a century ago, Basque sheepherders and their tenders used this crossing. Sheep men supplying mutton to hungry miners during the Aurora and Bodie mining booms were among the earliest horseback visitors to this part of the world but, before their arrival, the Shoshonean peoples whose name these meadows now bear waded across at this exact same spot when the water was high—for millennia. At this time of year, here where the West Walker meanders through a series of pocket meadows, the ford is still fairly broad but only inches deep. What’s left of the river has now slowed to an almost silent crawl after one final boisterous tumble over an expanse of cobbled bed. Farther up-canyon, its gradient had dwindled to almost nothing in the span of a few hundred yards. During spring runoff the river slows incrementally through this stretch and as it settles to a pedestrian pace, first boulders then rocks, cobbles, pebbles, gravel, and sand drop out in turn until the sluggish current carries nothing weightier than silt and organic matter—the very reason this string of meadows happens to be where it is in the first place. 

The ford has a coarse gravel bottom of mostly small pebbles and decomposed granite (“DG”)—a coarse mix of quartz and feldspar crystals along with smaller fragments of darker minerals including mica, which reflects sunlight and adds a little bit of sparkle to the scene. By mid-July, when the water has slowed way down and is considerably warmer, algae colonizes the gravelly bottoms. This thin layer of underwater  vegetation turns the river bed a hard-to-describe color: sort of a dark-khaki green with orangish-tan undertones. Light reflecting off the bottom creates a false impression that the water itself has taken on this, what some would call, “yucky” color. By the time August rolls around, the upper West Walker is typically little more than a mid-sized creek, kept alive by residual snowfields clinging to cliffs and gullies up on the crest. 

            Back to the now & here. 

Low-angle late-summer sunlight slanted into the gently murmuring remnants of what had been a minor torrent just a couple of months before. Me, sitting there on Pal’s back, idly watching the river roll on by with those delightful flickering sunbursts bouncing off the back of my skull. Out of the blue, something else snagged my attention. Actually, two things materialized in my visual field—two separate phenomena, both of them somehow linked to those dancing sparkles. Both had completely escaped notice even though I’d been staring right at them. 

Clearly visible on the river’s near-glassy surface was a striking honeycomb pattern consisting of discrete, polygonal “cells.” Roughly six to ten inches in diameter, each one had a slight indentation near its center, like the little dimple you see when a whirlpool is starting to form above a bathtub or sink drain. These isolated bits of swirling current, I could see, were little eddies. Each one was rimmed on all sides with identical rotating cells, all of which were separated by distinct but subtle boundaries. (In other words, they had “edges.”) As it happened, the lighting was perfect and I was able to focus on individual cells as they slowly passed by and saw how some would curl into their neighbors and merge while others divided in two. At the same time, an entire network of stripy shadows shimmied on the orangish-tannish-khaki-colored river bed—an offset mirroring of the eddy-cells’ edges visible on the surface. These criss-crossing lines formed a grid of filamentous shadows of varying widths and shades of gray. (Imagine if you will, shadows cast by an open-meshed fishing net lying on the surface—a net made out of some sort of make-believe multi-strand cordage, each segment simultaneously unraveling and re-raveling while the whole thing undulates in a sensuous,  rhythmic manner most pleasing to the eye.) 

Moments before, staring at those flickering sunbursts, I was almost in a trance, my mind adrift. But this new show had me wide awake and rapt. It so happens that I’ve observed a similar play of wavering shadows on other stream beds without giving them much thought. But on this one particular sunny afternoon I really saw them—really saw them—as if for the first time. This may have been due to my weariness; I know from experience that fatigue can unlock a part of the brain that lets you see things through a different lens. There was a lot going on here—things that I’d somehow completely overlooked. A wordless thought appeared in my mind, the gist of which was: Amazing! The countless hours I’ve spent sitting beside streams and rivers…watching them roll on by, gazing into their depths—all my years in the mountains, completely unaware of flowing water’s hidden complexities. So much going on in there that we’re not even aware of!

Now, every so often, when some weird or inexplicable natural phenomenon grabs my attention, what I’ve come to call “the inner scientist” suddenly rises up and takes the helm—a hyper-objective, emotionally detached version of Me who observes things with an empirical eye…some nerdy guy who’s talking inside my head, using my voice. (It’s a subtle thing; often, only later will I realize “he” made one of his appearances and weighed in on something.) It was, in fact, the arrival of the inner scientist that caused regular-me to snap to attention and focus on the various things I was looking at. The following is an account of what inner-science-guy observed:[1]

The presence here of these compartmentalized eddies is owing to the river’s shallowness and its relatively smooth, flat bed. (Deeper, faster-moving water and a rocky bottom would result in a more homogenous mixture of currents.) Water flowing along the bottom is slowed by drag, which draws water from near the surface. This in turn creates upwelling currents, initiating localized rotational flow as a means to absorb drag. Discrete “pods” of swirling water begin to emerge due to the meeting of neighboring currents—currents moving at varying speeds or in direct opposition—which causes invisible boundaries to form between adjacent compartments. Meanwhile, down-stream (that is, horizontal) flow encourages the contents of each pod to begin rotating around a vertical axis, creating an incipient whirlpool—a vortex. Sunlight reflecting off each eddy-pod’s faintly indented surface exposes the presence of three things, each in ceaseless motion: a vortex; the pod’s shifting two-dimensional shape; the pod’s outer edges—all this on a shifting tide of low amplitude surface waves (the reason why the shadows on the gravelly bottom appear to undulate). And as for those undulating shadows: the darkish, swaying lines are a result of refraction—the bending of light as it enters a new, largely transparent medium. Light striking the ever-so-slightly uplifted outer edges of each eddy-pod is refracted through the body of water at different angles, casting that weird pattern of roughly polygonal false-shadows on the river bed —“false,” in the sense that nothing is actually blocking the sun. All of the pods are connected, edge to edge…an endless fleet of eddies. Revolving amoeboid bubbles rimmed on all sides by others of their kind—each and every eddy-cell a manifestation of chaos and randomness operating according to physical law: shrinking, swelling, colliding…merging and dividing. Giving way in a seamless, chaotic anarchy and all the while flowing onward as one united body.

Then, again out of the blue, something else happened: I—that is, regular me; non-science-guy me; the bone-tired ranger who just wanted to get home and out of his filthy uniform—was pervaded by a certain clarity. I was, just like that [snap fingers here], in possession of a Great Truth. It seemed to have been triggered by that last point: flowing onward as one united body. But no words or conceptualization were involved; logical thought was bypassed. What appeared in my mind came fully formed. The following is a crude rendition; the best I can come up with. And it won’t sound like much. 

This entire river—all rivers—ALL WATERS!—are one colossal entwined network of currents within currents within currents…a turbulent confusion of waves and swirling eddies, interacting without cease: one thing. One GREAT BIG MOVING THING!

Mental-flashes, epiphanies—whatever you care to call them—like poetry, seldom fare well in translation. Note that the words above don’t add up to a literally true state-ment: not all lakes and ponds have watercourses flowing in and out of them, after all, and many streams and rivers don’t empty into the great Earth-spanning ocean. My Big Insight was founded on the (admittedly) fuzzy notion of all waters being one water—something I actually visualized via a host of fleeting, superimposed visual images. For one brief moment, I saw all this in my mind and knew. 

But this was just one side of what took place. The real red meat of whatever it was that lit up my mind was a convoluted, multifaceted grokking of what nature-as-one-interconnected-network actually means, big picture—of grasping instantaneously the innermost essence of a universal truth. (Again: there’s no way to even come close to adequately describing what I’m talking about.) Now, nature as an interconnected whole is a broadly held philosophical/religious precept—a thing that, as an undeclared pantheist, I’ve understood to be true for going on half a century. The difference here was that this wasn’t something that I thought or believed to be true. Unfortunately, saying “I was possessed by a profound yet simple, wordless understanding,” even with sincere and humble intent, comes across as ostentatious blather. The fact is that any attempt to describe this kind of experience inevitably fails to capture its core truth. Fails miserably. Nor can mere words begin to convey the emotional impact. In any case: it hit me hard and “felt” (not the right word) like something genuinely insightful. 

I should make clear that incidents of this ilk befall me from time to time, always without warning—maybe a dozen big ones and others less impactful, beginning in my early teens. As for trying to express the overall feeling behind these…things-I-don’t-even-have-a-name-for: this may sound silly but, for me, what comes closest to capturing the feel of them is that venerable cartoon lightbulb-over-the-head motif. The farcical comic strip character (saucer-eyed, goofy grin, outstretched arms, sweat drops flying) with gleaming light bulb in the thought-bubble denoting unforeseen arrival of a Great Idea or The Perfect Plan. That image captures the overall flavor, at least. As for the weirdness factor: there have been a few semi-hallucinatory apparitions, yes. Usually, time slows to a crawl and things get real quiet. Also, there’s this peculiar zooming-in sensation: seeing things or scenes as if magnified—preternaturally clear…hazy around the edges. I can say categorically that it’s nothing like being on LSD or psilocybin mush-rooms. These “visions” don’t last long; maybe five or ten seconds at most. And once it’s over, bang, I pop right back into normal consciousness—typically with an unvoiced Whoa! THAT was weird!-type reaction. For me, the so-called “big ones” have always been accompanied by spontaneous waves of gratitude. For having been gifted with something extraordinary. Sometimes (as if these events need validation) they come with a bonus: one of those delicious up-the-spine frissons. Sometimes a tear or two, no more. Unfortunately, within seconds, whatever it was that just stopped me cold and left me standing there blinking dissipates like smoke, leaving in its wake an anguished sensation analogous to what you feel upon waking from one of those exceptionally vibrant dreams: you don’t want it to end but it fades away and then is just going-going-gone even as, still three-quarters asleep, you desperately try to hang on to its memory and message. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Nonetheless: these experiential gifts-of-the-gods tend to have lasting effects on my thinking and morph into vivid, easily recalled memories that remain potent even though the remembrance may only vaguely resemble what actually went down. A number of my writings center around accounts of similar roughly events. But I almost never mention them to others, in part due to their being so hard to communicate. Truth be told, it’s more for lack of a receptive audience. (For the most part, people want to hear about someone’s visionary experiences about as much as they want to hear about their medical problems.) Still, I trust that some people will find written accounts like these edifying, seeing as how I’m recording—as accurately and honestly as I can—uncanny events that have shaped my life and changed my mind.

As for that riverside epiphany: though not as powerful as some, this one comes to mind now and again. It has proven to be a handy allegorical tool, a stepping stone to further imaginative speculation. To illustrate what I mean: What I saw in the river that day came back to me when I first learned of the following—

 

Over the last few decades astrophysicists have firmly established that galaxies, once thought to be randomly distributed in space, are in fact grouped in clusters. Clusters of from dozens to up to several thousand individual galaxies are found gathered together along linear galactic “filaments“ or in planar “walls” and “sheets” separated by all-but-empty voids hundreds of millions of light years across. Such “supercluster complexes,” largest organized structures in the known universe, are held together gravitationally by aggregations of the mysterious dark matter, forming web-like networks—networks that, in computer simulations, I recall thinking at the time, bear a passing resemblance to those curious shadows I saw on the river bed. These web-like configurations, astrophysicists tell us, can be envisioned as “an immense cosmic froth” or “galactic foam.” All right, then! We’re talking about something entirely beyond our ken, an enormity so utterly unfathomable that pondering it for more than a few seconds leads to existential distress. All of it, though—everything contained within this incomprehensible vastness, whether it be thin air or fire or flowing water or even galactic foam…all of it!—is subject to the same natural laws that shape our world and our daily lives, reiterated at each and every scale in fractal fashion. What makes it go? The list is short: There’s spacetime. The four fundamental forces. Time’s perhaps illusory arrow. There’s energy. There’s energy in the form of matter, matter in the form of frantically vibrating subatomic particles that make waves, both literally and figuratively. Chaos and entropy…perpetual movement and change. Waves, in one form or another, everywhere you turn. 

In fact, at bottom, one could simply say, It’s all waves—waves, ‘all the way down.’ And you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

I’m thinking of dancing shadows and the patchwork of dimpled eddies at this very moment. What I saw in the river that afternoon while sitting on the back of a tall blond horse—deep in the backcountry, dog-tired with aching knees—serves as a good practical metaphor for how the entire Universe works. The whole big-bang shebang. 

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[1] The following narrative was pieced together over time. I was seriously baffled by these revealed river-secrets. Almost obsessed. Because I am drawn to nature puzzles that involve physics, this watery event received an inordinate amount of mulling-over. In all honesty, though, I still don’t understand what I saw and some of these conjectures may be way off. The science of fluid dynamics is, after all, a field of daunting complexity. To make matters worse, chaotic systems of all stripes staunchly resist being understood the way us scientifically inclined types like to quote-unquote “understand” things. 

  

 

              ©2024 Tim Forsell                                                                 14 Sep 1992,  28 Jun 2024

 

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    

Piute Log...Backyard Explorations. 1996

  

Sometimes it feels like too many of these log entries are little more than accounts of a renegade ranger out a-gallivanting. Gallivanting was indeed my weak spot. And maybe all-time-favorite activity. But, as I’ve noted previously, what I’d put on record for an average sort of patrol day (mundane things like route taken, trailwork details, visitor contacts) make for boring reading. So, okay…many descriptions of beautiful places; wowza! lightning storms; dazzling sunsets. Then there are the ones—too many, I fear—about the times one of the horses or mules almost killed me or I almost got them killed; gripping entertainment, yes, but maybe not the best depictions of “the life.” My personal favorites center around meetings with interesting characters, critter-encounters, or those golden days when something amazing went down—which, I gotta say, happened on a regular basis. ◦◦◦◦◦ At any rate, without question one of the very best features of living and working in the backcountry—for me, at least—was having endless opportunities to explore hidden corners and secret byways that led to craggy viewpoint vistas. It was a thrill, always a thrill, to stumble upon things I’d never seen before that were right in my own backyard (which is how I thought of it). Majestic trees, undiscovered lily ponds, elegant mini-waterfalls, long abandoned trails, nineteenth-century sheepherder carvings…right in my backyard! Within walking distance! ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, I wouldn’t say I “envy” anyone, but there are loads of people who’ve backpacked all over the Sierra and visited wonderlands I’ll never set eyes on—all those high lake-dotted basins in Sequoia and Kings Canyon, for one. (Not to mention Utah. And Arizona. Alaska…et cetera.) Truth is, I’ve only seen a tiny sliver of the Sierra, having spent all those spring-summer-falls on just the one district. But I did get to know a few special places. Really…well. Piute Log entries like the following hopefully convey some of what it means to feel a soul-deep connection to PLACE; what it’s like when PLACE becomes an extension of one’s interior life. 

27 Jul (Sat)     Really beat from two days of hard ridin’ and hard workin’. Hard to wake up! Laid abed, unable to open my eyes, listening to the river-talk coming from where it starts into the gorge (only place the river speaks with more than a whisper in the whole mile-long length of the meadow). ◦◦◦◦◦ Caught and grained the equines. Unsure what to do with my day—psyched to work but feeling pretty depleted. Finally opted for sort-of-a rest day. Sprayed Red and Val down with bug juice then turned ‘em loose. Yippeee! ◦◦◦◦◦ Once across the river, I walked up the trail just a bit before striking off due north, traversing to a small saddle (this, half a mile from cabin). Continued on a contour til I reached a darling little pond, then began a slow climb through mixed forest of Jeffreys and junipers and white pine til I was on a steep, sandy slope maybe 600 vertical feet directly above Sheepherder Meadow. I’ve noticed this open slope from the Long Lakes trail, directly ‘cross canyon, and thought it looked like an easy way to get over the ridge and then on down to Beartrap Lake. Near the top of this steep slope was a stately juniper of the “inverted carrot” variety: 8’–9’ diameter five feet above ground level on the uphill side but only about 55 feet tall; southern exposure, symmetrical form, in its prime. I hoiked myself up to the tippy top of this maybe two-millennia-old grandfather juniper (thanks to a virtual ladder of dead limbs down low) and stood in comfort on its uppermost branchlets, eyes above the ultimate twigs, and surveyed ay my leisure the entire western half of my domain. Superb vantage and perspective. Tower Peak looking very grand. While scanning sky & peak, I spotted one of the local eagles, a good mile away and soaring very high. They don’t see detail but can detect motion at great distances so I began waving my free arm and, sur’ nuf, within about a minute the eagle glided over, still sky high, and circled directly overhead. This is their domain, too, and they do like to keep an eye on things. ◦◦◦◦◦ From there I proceeded coyote-style, zagging and zigging according to whim only, on up to the crest. A forgotten piece of ridge-top real estate, easy on the legs and eyes—in places an open woodland with tall grass where the sun makes it to the ground, all of it cut up by tasteful white granite slabs and little bluffs. Found lion scat (compressed marmot fur + bone). Glacierized knobs (one, with xlnt 40’rock route, nice big incut holds), a tiny spring-fed brook on very ridgetop flowing through an alpiney meadowlet. Came to a rocky point overlooking Upper Piute Meadows, cabin directly below. Right there! Feeling a bone-deep tiredness set in (probably shoulda stayed home and rested) but it was all so fine and Wildernessy. Must say, not many folks have the opportunity to take strolls of this caliber right out their door. And for this gift I am forever grateful. ◦◦◦◦◦ Right at the top, found Stenotus acaulis and Eriophyllum lanatum, two yellow-daisy type flowers, both perennials. Only the third locality I’ve seen either of these plants up here but, so far, never together. They favor open patches of DG. ◦◦◦◦◦ Lowered  myself down the hill on heavy legs—1700 vertical in just over a horizontal mile through a series of verdant pocket meadows that are invisible from the cabin, hidden beneath dense timber. This whole mountainside is watered by springs forced to the surface where shallow soils overlay granite bedrock. Found crumbling remnants of ancient cowpies—old Bim Koenig’s cows would spend entire summers up here trampling these pristine hillside meadows and never be seen by a soul. Loads of bear sign. ◦◦◦◦◦ Popped out of the woods directly above the log bridge across from the cabin, feeling a bit smug and self-satisfied with my honed route-finding skills. ◦◦◦◦◦ To the cabin, now thoroughly zonked and flagging. Après nap, worked on this log whilst sitting on the porch in my little folding chair…a light drizzly rain, horses grazing right over there. I’m writing in the present (for a change). One of the young marmots just jogged up to the porch with a ridiculous mouthful of elk sedge protruding from either side of its mouth. The little feller stopped a scant yard from my left foot, stood up on hind legs, and eyed me intently while sniffing the air for more info. Seems they’ve begun to accept my presence somewhat. Times like this, I’m tempted to start feeding them…maybe get ‘em to where they’re eatin’ right outa my hand. No, no. Better not.  

 

                   ©2024 Tim Forsell                                                                   22 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