After setting up our tents, my fellow motorcyclists and I walked to the edge of the mesa overlooking the Serengeti-like plain west of the Songdog Ranch. Smoke from a distant grass fire blighted the peaked horizon, but as the flaming sun inched below the coastal range, the gray-brown cloud exploded in polychromatic shades of red, orange, yellow, and purple. We stood there mesmerized till the sky fell black.
Over our cozy campfire, we shared cell phone images and marveled at the sublime complexities of nature.
Early the next morning before anyone rose, I felt the need for a spin. Highway 33 beckoned with a generous serving of sweepers free of traffic – perfect for a spirited ride. I stopped at a scenic overlook to savor the view of a trickling creek far below and the giant canyon it had cut over the millennia, cloaked in greenery.
For no particular reason, I took a right turn at the next intersection. The road less travelled turned out to be a corrugated, dirt firebreak into the forest with a catchy name like N19N or something. Near the crest, a large raven came into view, dining on some unfortunate creature in the middle of the road. On my approach, it took to the air with strong sweeps of ebony wings, leaving his lunch behind. As I passed I thought to myself, “Poor little squirrel, annihilated in his prime by some careless driver.”
Later that evening, we were again ensconced in the warmth of a cozy campfire. With powers of perception enhanced by a generous portion of Scottish tea, it occurred to me that no more than one or two vehicles per day must use that road, yet this squirrel had managed to get smacked by one of them.
Evening at Songdog Ranch. Courtesy of B. Jan Montana.
“This couldn't have been the sharpest squirrel in the pack,” I mused. “Perhaps he’d misconstrued the road safety lessons of his youth, or he was the ‘rebel without a clue’ that squirrel mothers warn their cubs about…or maybe he got crushed because he was as oblivious to danger as a stone.”
My companions nodded their heads.
“His demise must also be part of nature’s sublime complexity,” I hypothesized, envisioning this squirrel's progeny into the future. “If he'd survived, each successive generation would be progressively more myopic. Imagine, if you will, the woods full of dim-witted squirrels playing chicken with the cars, trying to breed with porcupines, or falling out of trees, Hikers would have to carry umbrellas just to keep them off their heads!”
My companions chuckled.
“If natural selection was rendered obsolete,” I continued while taking another sip, “Young squirrels would feast on the generosity of tourists all summer long instead of honing their traditional survival skills. They’d soon take their abundance for granted and grow fat, lazy, and apathetic.”
My companions nodded again.
“After the tourists left and food became scarce, they'd blame their hunger on the hardworking squirrels who'd been farsighted enough to store nuts for the winter. They'd come to resent them for not sharing their stash and claim to be victims of their greed. Maybe they’d even justify fraud or theft under the banner of food equity.”
My companions were now exchanging puzzled looks. I wondered if this subject was too challenging so late in the evening, or if I was just being obtuse?
The next morning, we found our bag of breakfast bagels on the picnic table torn open and consumed. I could tell by the animated response of my companions that the sublime complexities of nature had instantly and unambiguously revealed themselves.
Courtesy of Pixabay.com/brigittej.
Header image courtesy of B. Jan Montana.
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