First Place Nonfiction Prize
by Joyce Deming
In 1994, PBS aired a documentary about flamingoes in the Great Rift Valley of East Africa. Every year, the birds gather in huge numbers to feed, lay eggs and raise their chicks near the caustic waters of Lake Natron.
As the season progresses, the lake dries up leaving a thick, brackish sludge. The adult birds fly to other water sources, but the chicks, not yet fully fledged, must be herded on foot across the salt flats by a few remaining adults. Occasionally, the chicks’ legs become encrusted with the sticky, alkaline mud, making it nearly impossible for them to walk. The film ended with one such chick, trying desperately to keep up with the adults, but unable to do so. A slow death by starvation or dehydration seemed inevitable. Or, if it were lucky, a predator would find it first and put a quick end to its suffering.
A postscript to the documentary revealed the filmmakers caught the chick, chipped the dried mud away from its legs and released it. They acknowledged that ordinarily they would not interfere with natural events while filming, but they could not just walk away and leave the chick to face a certain death. I could almost hear a universal sigh of relief from PBS viewers across the country. We all know that in nature things die, but sometimes we just don’t want to be reminded about it. And, we like to think that sometimes it’s okay to interfere with natural events.
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It’s early morning and the air is still cool, but we’ll have to hustle if we want to make the top before the heat sets in.
Buddy trots ahead, glancing back occasionally to see if I’m still coming. If I lag too far behind he waits for me, head cocked, goofy Border collie grin on his face. He seems to know that while he outnumbers me in dog years, he can still out hike me any day.
I plod up a particularly steep section of the trail, concentrating on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, a loud buzzing noise jerks me to attention. I freeze midstep. My eyes dart from side to side, trying to locate the source of the sound. I’d been warned about rattlesnakes on the mountain, particularly at this time of day when they like to sun themselves on the trail.
I look down. About two steps from my boot, I finally discover the source of the buzzing. It is not a rattlesnake at all, but a large black and yellow bumblebee caught in a spider’s web. I crouch down to get a closer look. The bumblebee is stuck by its feet, wings beating furiously as it tries to launch unsuccessfully from its sticky prison. The spider, a black widow with a body the size of my thumbnail, dances on the web like a fencing master, lunging forward, then darting back, trying to avoid injury to herself or damage to her web as the bee struggles to free itself. Aghast, I watch like some rubbernecker at a grisly traffic accident.
Buddy comes back and sits quietly by my side. I pull him close to me. Should I try to release the bee? I think that would be the humane thing to do. I start to reach forward when my biologist training kicks in. It might be humane for the bee, but certainly not for the spider. Like every other creature on this mountain, she needs to eat, too. I sit back on my heels and stare at the opposite ridge.
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I’ve lived in the shadow of this mountain for over 20 years, but had never spent much time exploring it until recently. It always seemed too familiar and too pedestrian. I would rather drive 80 or 100 miles to hike in “real” mountains. Now, a busy schedule and high gas prices have made me appreciate this small, flat-topped mountain so close to home. Ten minutes from front door to trail head. I’ve hiked it in all weather - rain, snow, mist - and glorious spring mornings like this one when the air smells of damp earth, the vegetation shiny and green. Later in the season, the mountain takes on a parched look, the verdant hillsides turning tawny and tinder dry. But today, the mountain is replete with all the promises of spring.
My husband and I nicknamed this particular route up the mountain “The Carcass Trail” because of the large number of deer remains in various stages of decomposition we’d discovered the previous winter. We’re not sure how the deer died, but the Open Space folks have erected a sign at the trailhead warning hikers about mountain lions in the area. I think, however, that a brutal winter and endemic disease in these deer herds may be the more likely culprit. I do know there are coyotes on the mountain, as I’ve seen them trotting along the hillside, heads erect, intent on very important canine business. They stop every so often to raise their muzzles and scan the air for scent and to look at me looking at them through binoculars. Even when I don’t see them, I know they see me. From what I understand, though, they prefer smaller prey such as rabbits and the occasional neighborhood cat.
I’ve never seen a mountain lion up here on the mountain or even their tracks, but they are stealthy and elusive creatures so I’m not surprised. The idea of sharing the mountain with a large predator that can eat me certainly imparts a special sense of adventure to day hikes not often found outside of grizzly country. One morning as I headed up the trail, I suddenly realized I wasn’t seeing any deer. Normally, I see at least a dozen or more of them grazing contentedly, their fluffy white rump patches betraying their otherwise well-camouflaged presence. Buddy, who usually trots confidently ahead of me, had velcroed himself to my side and was looking up the trail nervously. Usually this behavior means “hiker with large, scary German Shepherd coming down the trail,” but I glanced ahead and saw no one. “Buddy,” I scolded him, “you are such a wimp.” But the hair on the back of my neck started to prickle and I shuddered. We cut the hike short that day.
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The life and death struggle continues on the web at my feet. I wonder why I am so quick to come to the defense of the bumblebee. I’ve watched spiders wrap up other insects in tidy silken bundles in my garden and cheered them on. I know that life feeds on life. But, bumblebees are fuzzy and gentle and, well, bumbly-- quite lovable as far as insects go.
Black widow spiders, on the other hand, are the epitome of evil with their glossy obsidian bodies, eight menacing legs, and red hourglass belly tattoos. Even their name is synonymous with sinister behavior. What redeeming qualities can a creature have that eats its partner after mating?
I watch the spider dancing around the bee and wonder – a creature’s lovability shouldn’t make any difference as to whether we root for it or for its dinner, should it?
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My Uncle and I have a long-running argument about the reintroduction of wolves into Yellowstone National Park. He sees them as vermin that kill livestock and compete with hunters for game animals. I see them as an integral part of a healthy ecosystem. But we agree on one thing. Wolves killing their prey are not a pretty sight.
I often chuckle to myself when I see beautiful color posters of wolves or fluffy, huggable stuffed wolf toys for children. No longer the “big, bad wolf” of fairytale fame, wolves are often depicted as affable and lovable creatures with strong family relationships. Their behavior is so familiar to us, so family-dog-like we sometimes forget they are an efficient and ruthless predator. I wonder if the poster and stuffed-toy purchasers would feel differently if they actually watched a wolf pack take down a deer or an elk. Wolves, unlike feline predators, do not kill their prey with a quick bite to the neck, but essentially eat their victims alive. That’s quite unlovable behavior if you ask me, yet we revere the wolf and its role in nature. Not so the poor, unlovable black widow spider. There are no organizations to save the black widow spiders nor do we put up their posters or buy cuddly replicas for our children. Why does one predator evoke such admiration, the other such loathing?
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The bee is starting to tire, its buzzing becoming less frantic. In spite of the highway and train tracks in the valley below me, all is quiet except for the bee and periodic “scree, scree” of a spotted towhee. The bird bustles about below me, oblivious to the drama playing out on this late spring morning.
My legs are starting to cramp. I glance up the trail. Clouds are already building in the western sky. I look back down at the web, take a deep breath, and stand up. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s get going.” We continue up the trail. A lone raven rides the thermals above us as we hike. We sit for a while at the top, drink a little water, watch a coyote trot off towards the west. On the way back down, I see no sign of the web, the bumblebee or the spider.
Then again, I don’t look very hard for them either.