Squirrels in Leaves

Squirrels in Leaves

Squirrels still get me. Years of running in the woods, my conscious brain hears rustling leaves and thinks “Bear.” There’s no panic. I don’t stop running. My brain simply says “Bear?” then apologetically goes “Oh, my bad, squirrel.” Years and years, my brain still hasn’t learned.

But the fascinating part, is when it is a bear. Half a beat after hearing the leaves shuffle a certain way, the lizard brain kicks in. Before the little guy behind my eyes registers anything, a primal moment from humanity’s evolutionary past surfaces. Statistics can be cited, but deadly black bear encounters on the East Coast are essentially zero. Still, my body drops from DEFCON 5 to 3. It knows. And it makes sure I feel it before I know it.

Joel, a neighbor down the mountain, killed a 50” timber rattler the other day, and it reminded me of the firt time I ran into one on a trail. Running southbound on the AT, just north of Rockfish Gap, the trail descended. My legs felt strong, easy deep breaths—I was in flow, completely absorbed in the moment.

Then my body stopped. Not me, my body. It stopped dead in the trail. A switch—faster than I could react—flipped. And a beat later I realized it had seen the rattler sitting in the middle of the trail. The subconscious yanked control away, like a driving instructor grabbing the wheel, making sure its charge didn’t barrel into death, all while I was going “Huh, what’s that?” It made me doubt free will.

The snap of a twig, the amorphous shadow, the half hint of a smell—part of you is always paying attention, waiting for danger, the thing that doesn’t belong. The lizard brain doesn’t care how safe civilization is. It remembers when we shared top billing for apex predator. That Nature is dangerous, and things want to eat us.

Week’s Mileage: 18

#globalcowpie