Panic is a funny thing, it pushes me further into the forest. It pushes me until I am out of breath, until I taste blood in the back of my throat. I am a runner when the circumstances call for it. Not your Sunday morning, bright apparel runner, perhaps, but given the choice between ‘fight’ and ‘flight’ I will always choose the latter. I am not a fighter, not like the stranger seems to be.
I wonder why he comes to mind now?
There is a great crashing in the woods behind me and I start running again. My backpack swings wildly and catches on every branch. I twist my arm back to check the hole that the radio wore through it, the hole I inexpertly patched once the radio was mounted on the bike. It’s holding, I think. That’s good.
Littering would probably make this worse.
‘There is a long list of rules governing the ‘Yellow-Throated Songbird Reserve,’ a list that is not done justice by the weather-worn sign at its unattended entrance. ‘Be Respectful’ is where many likely go astray. ‘Respect’ is a broad word, a word that is better suited for guidelines or polite suggestions. Rules should be specific and carefully worded if they are to be enforced in a way that is meaningful, but the ‘Yellow-Throated Songbird Reserve’ posts general rules and enforces them with a terrifying authority.
The Yellow-Throated Songbird is protected, it says so very clearly on the sign. ‘Protected,’ in this instance, is like ‘Respect.’ It might be understood a few different ways. In visiting this reserve, it would be best to assume the worst of anything that appears under-defined. It is better to not have words defined for you.’
Yeah, so the author’s coy ‘find out for yourself’ shtick isn’t really doing it for me this time. I zig-zag through a few close-grown trees and up over and behind a few boulders and I break again to see how I’m faring as the hunted. The forest is quiet except for the cheerful twitter of the Yellow-Throated Songbirds in the branches above. One flutters to the ground nearby and I press myself against the stone behind me.
I give the little bird a slow, careful thumbs-up. It turns its head to the side and hops away, secure in the knowledge that it is ‘protected.’
When it has hopped out of sight I turn and quietly lower my bag to the forest floor. A strap has torn loose, the buckle pulled away and lost somewhere behind me. I undo the other straps and tuck the buckles into folds and pockets. I remove my belt and my pants sag.
I have been losing weight.
I pull an old ring off my finger and shove it into my jeans. I dirty the metal on my shoes, pull my shirt down over any obvious buttons.
I have 17 cents in assorted coins in my pocket. I pull them out and give them a quick, discrete polish.
‘The nest of the Yellow-Throated Songbird is often littered with small, shining objects. Why, I’ve probably collected enough change out of abandoned nests to buy myself a cup of coffee! Some watchers have even sighted wedding rings among their collection. Try explaining that one to the missus!’
An excerpt from an online bird encyclopedia I pulled up for a picture before I got here, not Autumn by the Wayside. It’s too informative to be Shitholes, too applicable to the task at hand. If I was writing a travel book I’d take a page from the bird encyclopedia. Make entries relevant and personal. Spell out what happens moment to moment so that the reader understands what it means to be in a place and doesn’t have to guess at the consequences.
A pebble skitters down the boulder in front of me. I look up and find a few of the songbirds there, perched and attentive to my work. Two are small and brightly colored. Another, duller bird keeps its distance. They eye the coins.
The bird encyclopedia again:
‘Reddish-brown feathers on the belly of a Yellow-Throater signify a female while the slightly smaller, but pure yellow birds are your fellas. The female Yellow-Throaters generally ‘rule the roost’ and males win her over with trinkets during the mating season. Don’t let my wife read this, don’t need her getting any ideas!’
A nickel, a dime, and two pennies- this is exactly what got me into trouble the first time. If there are three birds on a rock, and one demands more respect than the other two, it would make sense to offer the dime to the female and a penny each to the males (fair is fair).
Of course, that’s assuming the birds understand the value of money.
The nickel is the largest of the coins and it shines more brightly than the dime, which I found on the road several days ago. One of the pennies looks like it rolled out of the mint yesterday. The other is hardly recognizable as currency. Would the birds prefer the three shiniest, regardless of their value?
Something in the forest groans like an old house in the wind. I look around me and see nothing. Even the birds are quiet now.
If the birds understand the value of money and shininess as equal they might be upset if I offered them anything less than the three most valuable, most polished coins. Perhaps the males don’t mind different offerings; they’re all going to the female anyway. Maybe the birds have no conception of fairness, maybe they will be slighted if I keep even a single coin for myself.
It is safe to say the birds don’t understand the concept of biding one’s time. My phone, connected to its network with just a sliver of a bar, finally pulls up my location relative to the highway.
I throw a handful of change at the birds and I run again, this time in the right direction.
Whatever it is that protects these birds does not appreciate the turn of events. I am pelted with dirt and debris as something explodes into or from the ground behind me.
I run with rocks in my boots.
I hold up my pants with my hands.
-traveler
