Mission Log 2

Mission log, day 47

I believe there is a higher predator on this planet. Very advanced, and possibly undetectable. The primary bipedal species seem to be aware of it, but I am not sure whether it is a conscious awareness, or merely a general sense of imminent mortal danger. Until recently, I had believed the bipeds were dominant, because their works are the most common, but I have since concluded that many of their efforts--especially the tall buildings of metal and artificial aggregate stone, and the blockier metal conveyances--are in fact defensive efforts against this higher predator. Is it possible that the pressure of predation has elevated a minor species to relative dominance through forced technological development and social bonding?

Naturally, with a creature imperceptible to the naked eye and which remains undetected by any of my devices scanning across all known frequencies of the electromagnetic, visual, and auditory spectra, it is extremely difficult to collect any information on this terrifying new species. I felt that I might have to forego efforts to catalog this beast until I remembered how I first detected it, and remembered the words of one of our own great thinkers: If you wish to know the size of the stone, watch the ripples. After all, I did not learn of the predator by finding any direct evidence of the creature itself, but by observing its impact upon the environment.

Throughout my visit, I have watched the bipeds engage in a variety of activities, and have carefully documented and analyzed many of them. One of these activities continued to baffle me. Individually, in pairs, or in larger groups, I had seen them running, without any discernable reason. They were not hunting prey, or pursuing potential mates, and until recently, I could not fathom why they would so frequently be in such a rush. The only conclusion that made sense was that they were attempting to evade some unknown attacker. I had seen them engage in this behavior in a variety of costumes and weather conditions, and in many cases there could be no other rational explanation. These attacks must have come at random times, without opportunity to prepare, for I frequently saw them running with their pair-bonded quadrupeds, or with their own spawn in wheeled carts; surely, no responsible being would willingly subject their young to the danger of a higher predator which they seem unable to even detect. The likelihood that they would endanger their quadruped, prized for its organic deposits, is even more remote.

As I considered this hypothesis, several previous observations began to make more sense. The thick walls on their largest buildings, high fences in apparently peaceful residential areas, and the unusually large vehicles used by many individuals for even the shortest trips (often, but not always, the bipeds traveling in this manner appear to be physically ill-equipped to survive a chase on foot). Bipeds who travel mainly by the curious open-air two-wheeled carts, powered by their own bodies, have a distinct mechanical advantage over the runners. They may not be able to traverse the same variety of terrain, but the speed potential is certainly higher. However, they also sacrifice maneuverability in tight quarters.

I have not determined why only some of the bipeds are hunted, though I suspect that they carry a protein or other factor critical to the health of the higher predator, and whose presence is immediately detectable to that predator, so that it only needs to chase those bipeds which would provide this rare benefit. The bipeds themselves seem as incapable as I am of detecting the predators directly, at least on a conscious level. Clearly, some instinct drives them to evade capture, and they will occasionally glance behind them, as if they know that something is there, even if they cannot perceive it. I have seen many, though not all, of the running bipeds checking devices on their arms or wrists, and some wear devices with aural outputs plugged directly into their auditory organs; these may be part of some sort of warning system, but if that is the case, then why wouldn’t all of the threatened bipeds be so equipped?

Whatever this predator is, one thing is clear: it completely devours all of its prey. I have yet to find any remains of these kills, which I had hoped would at least provide tooth or claw marks so that I might begin to develop a better hypothesis on the size and nature of this invisible threat.

Nocturnal auditory signatures

While I was home helping Dad cut down everything murdered by the ash borer, I noticed something that I really liked. The sound of Dad's yard is unique to me.

When I was in junior high, I spent the night at a friend's house. He had a tepee in the back yard, and after a few hours of bonfire, we crawled into it for the night. Things slowly settled down (teenage boys are biologically incapable of settling down quickly. If you think that we have, we are fooling you), and eventually we were ready to actually sleep.

Then I heard the roaring.

"What the hell is that??"

"The neighbor's lions."

"...When you say 'lions'..."

His neighbor across the road had a couple lions in a pen. "Across the road" sounds close, but my friend's house (and tepee) were at the far end of a half-mile long driveway through dense forest. I don't know how far away the lions were, but their growls carried through the night, the trees, and the thin canvas walls of our shelter. I wasn't afraid; I was fascinated. I was thrilled. Lions!! I fell asleep grinning after listening to them for ages.

In high school, we spent a week on Hilton Head Island in my great-aunt's time-share. We went out walking at night and heard the bellowing of mating alligators. We never saw them; we just heard them, the growls carrying far through the swampy areas.

I developed a useful skill in college. The campus was in an urban area near a hospital and railroad tracks. Occasionally, police helicopters with searchlights would fly overhead. Trains, sirens, and medical helicopters were commonplace. Now I don't hear any of those when I sleep. On several bike rides and a few hikes, we've camped near train tracks and everyone else will stumble out of their tents in the morning complaining about the trains all night long, and I never hear any of them.

Along the trail last year, I learned a few things about whippoorwills. They love to nest near shelters and tent sites, they are nocturnal, and they will inexhaustibly defend their territory by singing at it. For hours. One night, I set up my tent at a border zone between three whippoorwills, and heard them each singing at the others as I set up my tent, got water, stretched, made dinner, wrote in my journal, and read for a while. I met one hiker who said that he hated whippoorwills because his childhood bedroom had a nest nearby, and that he never slept at night when they were present. I loved them.

At Punchbowl Shelter, which was rumored to be haunted, there is a small pond full of singing frogs. My trail name was Treefrog; I fell asleep listening to the songs of my people. (peeple?) Later, in Maine, we camped at a shelter on a pond where I could hear four distinct species of frogs singing. It was fantastic.

In the south, I often heard owls. I could recognize the barred owl by its call because I'd done a lot of research on them after one of my training hikes. I'm not that good with other species, but at Overmountain Shelter (the Barn), I could hear four different types of owls calling out in the woods. One of them was barred. I can only guess at the others.

In the far north, we were occasionally lucky enough to hear loons. They will call throughout the day, but the sound is especially clear--and unsettling--at night, when their eerie voice echoes in the darkness.

Each place has its own night sounds. At Dad's, I lay in bed at night and listened to the very specific chorus of chirring bugs and singing frogs, and it felt instantly familiar. It was the same sound I listened to as a kid, falling asleep every summer evening. No other back yard sounds quite like Dad's, and as much as I love the sounds of all those other places, that's the place that sounds like home.

Yardwork

I know, I know. Yardwork is not an adventure, and does not warrant a post. But I can justify it! Plus, it's my damn blog, and I can write whatever I want.

I haven't had full-time access to a yard since I moved out of Dad's house. I miss it. I miss climbing in trees, chasing the dog, listening to the bugs... and sometimes, I even miss the yardwork. I discussed this with one of my aunts, who came over to help one afternoon. While we're doing yardwork, we just want to know when we'll be done. But when we finish, it feels good. All the leaves have been raked, the sticks have been mulched, and everything smells like fresh-cut grass. And I don't get any of that sitting in my apartment. No matter how much I work in here, no matter what I accomplish, I don't get that feeling of accomplishment that I get with yardwork.

Plus, power tools.

My hat is already covered in sawdust. The tiny person near my hand is Dad.

On this trip, "power tools" meant a chainsaw, Dad's mulcher (which will eat a 3-inch diameter limb as easily as you can chug a glass of water), and this sixty-foot articulating boom lift. We rented it so I could take down the trees from the top. Dad's yard has too many other trees (and the dead trees were too close to the house, the garage, and the dog coop) to just slice through them at the bottom and hope for the best. So I did what I often do when helping Dad with trees: get really far from the ground, and take a chainsaw for company.

Stay high, sweet chariot.

In the past, that's usually meant a ladder, or me clambering up the tree and dropping a rope to Dad so he could send me the chainsaw while I tie myself to the trunk. This time, I spent three days driving around his yard in something that handled like a tank. It took a little practice, but I got pretty good at getting the basket where I wanted to be, although my technique allowed for a little bit of banging into things I was going to cut down anyway.