Too Close to Nature

This past weekend Annie and I went camping with the Unitarians.

Because this is not a blog about humans, I won’t explain further, nor will I go into detail about our experiences—I’ll just say that overall we had a very nice time. And, really, that’s saying something, given that I take as my own motto the statement emblazoned on a magnet that Annie gave me: “I love not camping.”

Let me be clear: I have a great fondness for nature, and I think it’s both foolish and dangerous for humans to pretend that they’re unconnected to the rest of the natural world. This does not mean, however, that we have to abandon the habitations and facilities to which we’ve become habituated and invade the wilderness, which already has plenty of well-adapted species living in it and doesn’t need us to join them.

Luckily for me, this was not true camping: only those who chose to do such a thing slept in tents, while the rest of us were provided with cabins and even a communal washroom (with hot running water, no less). The only thing that truly reminded me of our precarious position as soft creatures pitted against the inimical wilds was the warning we received in our information packet, asking us to make sure we took plenty of bug repellent and checked for ticks, since people in past years had gotten Lyme disease. (I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as paranoid about my encounters with greenery as I did this weekend.)

I had plenty of lovely nature sightings, though; the camp is on the Chesapeake Bay, and so I spent a lot of time hanging around by the water and watching birds soaring overhead. There were a number of vultures gyring around the camp (making me wonder just what they knew that I didn’t), and it was a pleasure to sit on a dock and observe them gliding effortlessly overhead.

As I was sitting by the Bay, I heard a strange call; a high-pitched twittering, plaintive as a gull’s cry but more clipped and frenetic. To my surprise, it was a bald eagle. (No majestic cry for them! And actually, their almost hesitant-sounding chirpings make them much more appealing than a harsh call would.)

I don’t see bald eagles very often, so this was especially exciting, and I spent a lot of time attempting to take pictures of them—partly for the pleasure of taking them, partly to have proof of my sightings, since I always anticipate skeptics saying, “There were a lot of vultures around; the sun was probably in your eyes…”

A number of species were about, from blue herons to ospreys to cedar waxwings to chipping sparrows, but the bald eagles were definitely the highlight of the trip, bird-wise.

The low point of the trip, and the reason for this post’s title, came on our drive home. I had just made the mistake of writing a friend (via email on my phone) that we were looking forward to seeing her and were “probably tick-free.”

Now, I was raised secular, and I find theological questions less than compelling. The existence of an overarching divine spirit or presence is something about which I have no opinion.

I am, however, firmly convinced—from much unfortunate personal experience—that lurking in the ether are myriad malevolent sprites just waiting for you to make an overconfident or self-satisfied statement so that they can punish you for your hubris. Announce, “I never get colds in the springtime,” and you’re almost certain to be hacking and sneezing through April. Announce that you’re tick-free, and…

Well, it’s just as well that I put in that “probably.”

I was glancing idly at the fields we were passing on our drive, only to have my eyes struck by a vision much closer and infinitely more horrible. There, on the inside of the window, was an eight-legged creature with a shape I had come to dread.

“Annie!” I said with a sort of strangled urgency. “There’s a tick on the window. What should I do?”

“Kill it!” she advised sensibly.

This is more easily said than done, even if you are fueled by terror and wielding a Kleenex. I watched in horror as the tiny creature continued struggling irritably even as I attempted to crush the life out of it against the window pane. Finally I gave up, scrunched the still-wiggling thing up inside the Kleenex, and threw the whole thing out the window, thus compounding cowardice with irresponsibility and littering. It was definitely not my finest hour, and I felt crawly all the way home.

And that is why I say to you: if you are thinking of spending a contemplative weekend amongst beautiful woods and around congenial people, reconsider.


[I jest, of course; if you live somewhere like DC, you can contract Lyme disease without going anywhere--so why not have fun while flirting with debilitating illness?]

{A note: I do write all text and take all pictures. Please do not reproduce either without my permission.}

Wild Wildlife: Dirty Birds

I was at my computer, minding my own business, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge dark shape gliding over the bricks of the apartment building opposite mine.

It often happens that I’ll see the shadows of hawks and crows as they fly overhead; sometimes swallows dart among the buildings, and once a mourning dove landed on the air conditioning unit just outside my window and took five minutes, in typical ditzy-dove fashion, to realize that, OHMIGOD! There was someone ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GLASS!! and fly away, wittering in alarm.

But this time the shadow I saw was that of a black vulture, and the bird wasn’t just passing by, soaring majestically on a thermal—it was landing on the chimney of the building across the way. A moment later, another black vulture landed next to it.

I gave up on minding my own business and ran for my camera.

[I'd like to say that images were blurred
to protect the birds' identities, but really my old camera
just ain't what it used to be.]

For a while the vultures just stood there in their characteristic, hunched, vulture-y way, but then they became more agitated, pacing back and forth across the chimney top and flapping their wings. And then It happened. Yes, that’s right—right in front of all those apartment windows, right in front of the world, the vultures engaged in the behavior that is referred to by ornithologists as the “cloacal kiss.”


They didn’t even have the decency to the do it behind closed doors—no, they were visible for all to see who were leaning out their windows with a zoom lens trained on them.

Have they no shame??

{A note: I do write all text and take all pictures. Please do not reproduce either without my permission.}