Roots and Branches: Wild encounters

I stir the sleeping embers from last night’s fire, then add kindling to bring them to life. Finally, a red hot flame starts to melt the morning hoarfrost from the windows. Just when I think I can stand this lengthy Oregon winter no more, a sunny day mysteriously appears, teasing you with the hope that even a single shaft of green grass will push its way through the white blanket.

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The snow has brought a menagerie of marauding varmints closer to the house. Coyotes howl only feet from our deck, their yips a rapid staccato, rising higher and higher then dying inexplicably away as suddenly as they sounded their first alarm. 

I am afraid the coyotes are hunting as a pack, calling out to one another. When their cries reach that high pitched frenzied crescendo, I fear they have taken their prey down. The complete silence that follows I imagine they are gorging themselves on a hapless rabbit or squirrel unable to escape in the deep snow. At daybreak, I see their tracks below the house, a jumble of paw prints, but no remnants of a fresh kill. Perhaps they were just howling at the magnificent winter moon that turned midnight darkness into light as it bounced off the snow covered hills and valley floor.

Raccoons sneak up on our deck and into the garage, the overhead door left open a sliver to allow the indoor cats a quick in-and-out to do their business. The space is barely three inches high, and the cats must flatten their bodies to crawl outdoors. I could see a mouse coming in from the cold, but a full grown raccoon?  

One such marauder startled me as I padded out to the garage to bring in some fruit. There, by my box of overripe Bosc, stood a masked marauder, his claws holding a mutilated pear in front of his chest, as if offering a gift to the gods. I must admit that at first glance, he looked adorable. But as I took in the scene, I saw he was not a neat eater, having ripped the cardboard box apart, gnawing deep gouges from the pear’s flesh, dropping pieces of fruit across the garage floor. I dared not interrupt his feast for even the sound of my slippered footstep on the stairs caused a hissing, snarling sound that warned of a possible attack. This was not a varmint who was going to play possum or go quietly into the night. So it was I who beat a hasty retreat into the safety of my home, leaving him to feast on his personal banquet of pears. 

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Speaking of possum, a winter white possum startled the grandkids a few days ago as they walked down the driveway to retrieve the mail. It lay in the tracks the truck had made in the snow, silent and unmoving. As the grandkids closed in to get a closer look at the carcass, the possum arose from the dead and lumbered away, waving its rat-like tail at the startled children. “So that is what it means when they say you are playing possum,” explained 8-year-old Aya as she recounted her adventure over a cup of hot cocoa and a chocolate chip cookie. “I really thought grandpa had run him over on his way down the driveway.”

The most dangerous encounter to date was not with a coyote, raccoon or possum. I was up around 4 a.m. one morning to get ready for an onerous drive to Salem when I heard a repeated thumping outside. It sounded like someone was knocking on the door with a broom handle. I turned on the outside light and gazed through the frosted glass. Nothing to be seen, and the knocking sound stopped. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen and plugged in the ancient percolator we use to brew a horrible cup of Hills Brothers’ coffee, the knocking started again. I peered out the window. There was no wind to blow the withering wreath to and fro, there was nothing to account for the mysterious sound.

Back to the bedroom I go to get my “go to Salem” meeting clothes on and once again that irritating knocking begins. I throw open the front door, and there on the step, directly in front of me is a huge ball of skunk writhing on the door mat. I close the door as swiftly and softly as humanly possible and rush to get a towel to put against the base of the door to keep any scent that might come out of this odiferous bundle of fur. I move to the side window where I have a clear view of the outside of my front door. Not one, but two skunks are locked in an embrace, rolling around in a black and white ball, hitting the snow shovel handle over and over as they thump their way through each ecstatic maneuver. I pray they won’t release their pungent spray when their passionate procreation has climaxed. 

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The only sweet encounter with a skunk I’ve ever had was watching 6-year-old granddaughter Kendra, swishing her adorable skunk tail seductively across the elementary school stage. This pair of skunks have a whole lot of stench beneath their swishing tails. I know from experience that the perfume of Pepe Le Pew is next to impossible to remove. Try explaining that to the state legislators I was slated to visit with later in the morning, ironically on the Clean Indoor Air Act.  

Then again, perhaps some of our legislators are accustomed to the pungent smell of skunk in their hallowed halls. It will take many strong hearts and hands to scrub that stench away.  The sooner we get to it, the better. For only then can we look into the face of an innocent child in a skunk suit and smile.