Seeing

Other Beings

Thanks to bike journeys, I experienced my one porcupine encounter. The Big and I were in New England, and until that moment, I didn’t know porcupines climbed trees. She didn’t climb squirrel fast, but she was darned quick for someone hauling all those quills. Not so quick that I didn’t manage a photo, though. It isn’t her most flattering profile, but there she is, up a tree.

You don’t think she was trying to escape me, do you? I hope not, but I didn’t consider that possibility at the time.

The Big also introduced a number of sleek little creatures I assumed were mink, and they were squirrel fast. Slinky blurs, mink.

I saw a mountain lion from a distance while pedaling through Nevada. She saw us, too. No, I’m not sure, but she seemed purposeful, so yeah, although I don’t mean to traffic in gender cliches, she was probably she.

There were also lots of wild burros in the Nevada deserts. Good company, burros. Gentle. Curious. Polite.

We had one too-close encounter with a black bear, which is to say, she was close enough to acknowledge our presence. She stood tall. Did a thing with her right paw, so I backed the Big away. I assumed hers was an aggressive gesture, but in hindsight, maybe she was waving? As in, “Howdy, human. What’s that you’re straddling?”

Again, not to assume anything that isn’t in evidence, but she had the physical attributes of a female black bear, plus two cubs, so until she tells me otherwise, I’ll stick with she.

Impersonal pronouns seem poor tags for any living being, so I use the personal form for all who are. Or were. Bikes of peculiar character earn personal pronouns, too. I’m not saying you should do the same, but that’s what feels right to me.

There was a lone wolf lounging in a Tennessee field as the Big and I rolled by. Lone wolf is another cliche, so I’ll assume he was a guy. Stereotype or no, he was chill. Or full. Perhaps both.

Packs of domesticated dogs are a regular nuisance, though. When alone, dogs run along beside the Big, celebrating the chase, but packs, like human mobs, get carried away.

I met a cyclist in southern Illinois who was injured in an encounter with a dog. No, the dog didn’t bite him. Instead, the dog got tangled with the bike’s front wheel, and the cyclist did a spontaneous summersault over the handle bars, breaking his back upon contact with the ground. Had he not been wearing a helmet, the cyclist’s injuries might have been even more devastating. But that had been years earlier. The cyclist was again in riding form when he accompanied me into Missouri. The dog was not injured in the encounter.

Squirrels and raccoons are often opportunistic. Squirrels shredded a newish tent, but that was my fault for snacking on sunflower seeds while lounging. Unlike raccoons, squirrels have the decency to look nervous about their aggression, but raccoons will straight up stare you down as they challenge you over a near-empty can of cold beans.

At one wild campsite, I tried distracting squirrels and raccoons by leaving a sacrificial stash of sunflower kernels away from the tent, but a gray fox helped herself. Are there more graceful beings than foxes? And I wouldn’t have guessed foxes ate seeds.

Yes, I violated the don’t-feed-the-wildlife rule, but I haven’t repeated the strategy.

By the way, sunflower kernels are inexpensive but nutritious fuel for pedalers, too.

A squirrel ran into the spokes of the front wheel of the bike ridden by another cyclist whom the Big and I encountered. Bizarre, that. Gory, too. The cyclist suffered no physical injury, but I suspect he’ll never recover from witnessing that squirrel’s fate. It’s the only animal-bicycle collision I know of that caused grievous injury to the animal.

I met two bobcats at a New Jersey astronomical observatory while pedaling through that state. They’d lost their mother as infants, so were raised in captivity. The state forbid their astronomer-rescuer friend from releasing them into the wild, so he constructed a large enclosure for them. Both were gentle and playful, although one was a bit too intrigued by the scent of my feet. Ever had a bobcat’s whiskers tickle your toes?

One of the bobcats’ friends told me their whiskers were good luck, so an impressively long one is now taped to the Big’s down tube. No, no one — especially a friend — plucks whiskers from the cheeks of bobcats. Each whisker eventually falls out on its own, when a new one is ready to replace it. I was just lucky the bobcat left one on my foot.

I was awaiting sunset while wild camping, when a rabbit hot footed within six feet of me, followed closely by a coyote. Each was so focused on her or his respective goal, neither acknowledged my existence.

As I rested from a swim in a New England lake — seated on a boulder, feet dangling in cool, clear water — I noticed a semicircle of bream, also fascinated by my toes. They took turns darting in to nip, then rejoined their formation, and I thought, “Damn. No more fish and chips for me.” Nor flesh of any other being. They were that cute, those little bream.

There’ve been lots of mountain goats, antelope, deer, and elk, plus badgers, ground hogs, chipmunks, and such. Even some bison. All ignored me but the chipmunks. Inquisitive little guys, those. Or maybe I just reeked of sunflower kernels.

My greatest animal nemeses, by far, are ants, especially in fire-ant territory. Which seems to be expanding. Ever dressed after a shower and discovered your underwear were covered in fire ants? Maybe I should revert to white briefs, the better to spot ants sooner. Anyway, I’ve never danced with more enthusiasm.

I can keep bears from a bag of food by hanging it beyond reach from a tree limb a couple of hundred yards away from my tent, but ants will find their way in, if the bag is not perfectly sealed. And clear nights when its rainfly is not needed, I still have to sleep inside a mesh inner tent, or ants will find me, too.

I was ambushed by how swiftly moose can navigate thick forests despite their wide racks. They’re also more territorial than I expected. I’ll be more vigilant when the Big and I are next in moose country.

I was pedaling a gravel road in western Kansas shortly after dawn, when I happened upon what I estimate were a couple of dozen vultures perched on fence posts, long wings fully extended to soak up warmth from the rising Sun. They stared at me in unison, shades of Poe, so I quickened my cadence.

Speaking of carrion eaters, most of the wildlife I see are no longer alive, this vast nation’s roadways being literal meat grinders.

In the central plains of this country, where corn is subsidized for the sake of caucus votes, the roadsides were especially gory. The kernels are allowed to dry on the stalks, then harvested by mammoth combines, which separate them from the cobs and husks. The kernels are transferred to large tractor-trailer rigs for transport to storage facilities, but much of the yield is spilled onto roads along the way.

Small rodents and birds are squashed as they feast, while large birds of prey attracted to the scurrying rodents are killed, too. Plus, coyotes and foxes, and yes, vultures. I can’t explain the countless desiccated salamanders and frogs I’ve seen on roads, but they were right there with the other mangled masses.

Along with mutilated deer and bunnies, plus the occasional skunk. Some domesticated cats and dogs, too.

Oh, and turtles. Not many snakes, but hords of flattened turtles.

So many scenes I can’t unsee.

I don’t see as many live birds as I hoped — certainly not as many migrating flocks as I did in my youth. Nor bats. I guess wind turbines account for some of those who are missing. We could design more efficient machines for exterminating flying creatures, but the towering turbines do it well enough. I’ve read that the critters’ little brains hemorrhage as they transition too quickly between the low- and high-pressure zones in the wakes of the spinning airfoils. I assume the birds and bats just kind of blink out, so I guess it’s a humane method, if your goal is extinction of flying beings.

One of the many benefits of bicycle travel is that the Big and I are of little threat to wildlife. I inconvenience flying insects at her 10-15 miles per hour, but they bounce off of me rather than splatter, and despite my poor vision, I still see well enough to avoid most creatures who crawl about on road surfaces.

Well, there might be occasional ants I fail to detect. Sorry, ants. If it’s any consolation, I’d likely flatten even more of you if I walked. I suppose I could stride on stilts for the sake of ants and other tiny beings. That would minimize my literal footprints, assuming the stilt ends had less surface area than the soles of my shoes. And stilts would be almost as much fun as pedaling. But the Stilted Astronomer?

A lot of wildlife allow me to get surprisingly close when on the Big. I guess she and I are not as threatening to some when combined? Horses seem to hate us though. Well, one horse and rider on a public road through an equestrian village in Georgia. I imagined her name was Karen. The rider, not the horse.

Our automobiles, much like our housing, isolate us from the larger, more immersive environment. Bicycles reconnect travelers to the outside world, but at the cost of confrontation by the unfiltered devastation automobiles leave behind.

When I met the fellow who inspired my bicycle journeys, he promised, “You’ll see more from a bike.” And I have. I still do. But he didn’t clarify that seeing more would be both a blessing and curse.

There was one day when the roadkill I encountered were so numerous, I started photographing them. Lest I forget.

So. Much. Death.

No, I won’t subject you to those images. Just know, it was in that moment when I felt well and truly ashamed I’d ever driven an automobile. The horrors we so casually inflict on this world’s other creatures are of incomprehensible scale.

Before vision loss ended my driving career, I’d piloted a series of automobiles about 1.5 million miles, oblivious to the carnage caused by my actions. Now that I no longer drive, I’m fond of claiming there is something more human about the pace of a bicycle.

But it’s also more humane.

Clear skies.

Gary