WORK
BY TOM FLEISCHNER
WORK
BY TOM FLEISCHNER
The Grace of Animals
ALL NIGHT LONG THE cold wind whistled through the nylon wall, and the sound of whapping cloth insinuated itself into our dreams. Before sleep we had all sprawled on the cold ground, in one of the darkest spots on the continent, dazzled by the spatter of stars. Now we awoke to an uncertain smudge-pot sky. We were camped in the open desert, just beyond the soaring Circle Cliffs, at the point where the dirt road crumbled into nothing. Our daylong trip had ended four miles before planned when we discovered the washed-out road in the dark. Now my coleader, Tim, and I rub the sleep from our eyes as we briskly walk past the dissolved road, seeking landmarks to align the map and the real terrain.
Here we are: the head of Horse Canyon. That gives us three choices. We can try forcing our way through the rough spot‹after all, we've got ten college students, theoretically all good van pushers. But with the clouds bunching closer by the minute, we're concerned that we might never get back out. On the other hand, retracing the long drive our sounds very unappealing‹ repacking all our packs, then meticulously tying them all on the roof again, listening to the grumbles as we crowd back into the van. So we opt for the middle way: we'll hike right here, where fate deposited us ‹ down Horse Canyon to the river. The only problem is that this is a much longer route, with no water for most of its dozen or more miles. It's time to rally the troops for a more challenging day than anticipated.
The moment we hoist packs, the rain begins. It is four days before fall equinox; this is no spring mist. A horizontal wind slaps wet against us, and the cold stings our faces. Other problems soon become apparent: crippling blisters, forgotten gear, lethargy. It's a long walk, much of it in loose sand. The group's mood is sullen as the sky. Concerned about water, I try to hurry them along, circling back with words of encouragement and offerings of dried fruit. They tolerate me‹that's all.
Then comes our first grace: at midday the clouds blow off, like the unfurling of a curtain. We have descended deep within the canyon of burnished Wingate sandstone. The students get their first look at the lovely juxtaposition of red rock and Utah blue sky. Yet if they notice at all, it's to report that they're getting hot. But shedding layers of clothing isn't a real option. The air remains sweatshirt cool even though the sun is out. Several days of rain provide a damp chill to the air. Fast hikers get stiff muscles waiting for stragglers, and slow ones get aggravated when everyone heads out just as they finally limp up.
It's now we receive the second grace of the day.
I round a bend to see one of the students running back toward me: "Tom! You've got to come here, quick!" She signals me forward and points at the wet clay in the wash bottom. Lying there, shivering on the cold mud, is a robin-sized slate-gray bird, with muscular black feet and a broad mouth. In all my years as a naturalist I've never had an encounter like this‹a bird on the ground, for the taking. Recalling handling techniques from banding birds two decades earlier, I carefully pick up the bird, nestle its back against my warm palm, and brace its head between my first two fingers. Its eyes glisten with vulnerability and attention, but it remains motionless in my hand.
For the first time all day each of us is transported into the realm of something larger and more mysterious than our own emotions. Thoughts of hurt feet, dry mouths, and martyred leadership all evaporate as we gaze, silently, at the creature in my palm. Though I have studied birds for over twenty years, I am disoriented‹who is this? The visceral connection between the bird's fluttering heartbeat and the nerve-tips in my fingers focuses me on this animal as an individual being, not a member of a species. This bird man or woman, stunned by the cold, stares back at me. For five minutes we all watch wordlessly. Then I feel power returning to its long wings. I carefully curl back my fingers and level my hand. The gray bird sits still for a few seconds then suddenly leaps off the ledge of skin and flaps its tall wings‹once, twice, three times.
The instant it's in flight I recognize it as one of my favorite canyon birds, a white-throated swift. It circles higher and higher above us. Then, from a nearby cliff, a second swift surges toward the first; they circle together, becoming smaller and smaller, and disappear against the red cliff. The individual being has disappeared completely back into the anonymity of the species. We humans look into each others' eyes, remaining silent for a few seconds, before the questions come tumbling out.
"What was it?"
"Why was it lying on the ground?"
"How did you know what to do?"
I answer as best I can. It's a white-throated swift. I don't have any idea how it ended up on the ground, but once there, it was stuck - swifts are among the most aerial of all birds; they can only take off by launching from a ledge. How did I know what to do? I just followed my instincts, remembering the proper way to hold a bird and watching its eyes very very closely.
We sling our heavy packs back on and resume our gradual movement down the canyon, toward water. But our eyes keep scanning the cliffs for that catapulting flight of swifts. The sky trembles with a new possibility. My fingertips still carry the lingering heartbeat of fear, and the joy of refound freedom.
(pp.44-47)