3:00 PM Curse

Is it smart, in mid-winter, to set out for a hike in late afternoon? No, but Dave and I love our leisurely mornings, snug in a sunny spot on our green couch, sipping coffee while scrolling through emails or practicing Italian with Duolingo. Then, there are bills, laundry, projects, and phone calls, and time passes, ever more quickly the older we get. As a result, plans for a brisk walk around noon get pushed forward, and as dark settles in, we’re still out in the woods. 

So, I was mindful when we set out last month around 3:00ish. We should know, by now, to be wary of that time. 

But this is the winter I have been yearning for! Snow deep on the ground, trees black-ink-bare, and the tops of ancient thrown walls mere stepping stones through white-washed woods up to a ridge. Lasting cold that freezes ponds and rivers. Lacy patterns etched in the snow by deer, skunk, fox, and coyote searching for food. Icicle daggers glinting from gutters. 3:00 or not, we were bound to go. 

While we walked, Dave nibbled pistachio nuts and, with thumb and forefinger, flipped the shells, striving to land them on the yellow line down the middle of the road. “Yeah! Got one! Check it out!” 

As we approached a hill, we noticed tire tracks carved into the snowbank flanking the street; someone had parked there since last night’s storm. Thankfully, hunting season was over, and we were curious, drawn by the solid set of boot prints that led through a break in the stone wall.

“Want to follow them for a bit?” Dave asked.

“Sure. I’m up for it.”  

We’ve explored these woods before and know where the stream widens and splashes in a frothy tumble over a series of waterfalls before flowing into the reservoir beyond. The water was running fast and high after the autumn rains and recent snow melt, so we expected this jaunt to be quick, curtailed when we reached the stream. But after brushing through thorny brambles and clambering over fallen branches, we saw that someone – our boot-shod leader perhaps – had thrown down two wide planks to form a bridge. He or she had come prepared.

“Eleanor would love this,” said Dave as we crossed over. Our granddaughter is ever curious and loves an adventure. She’d be bright-eyed and animated as she postulated theories about Mr. Boots and whatever his hike might have held. 

Came a point where the boot prints angled toward the reservoir, and it was time to head home. We branched off in what felt to be the right direction. It was still light, but I was mindful of the hour as I recalled a walk on Jump Hill years ago with our wolfish Alaskan Malamute, Kodiak. I’d heard the trail there was about a mile long, just right since we were late in starting, again around 3:00. 

Turned out, I had the distance wrong, and when the sun set and the painted trail blazes on trees disappeared in the darkness, we were too far along to double back. We’d stumbled on, gingerly feeling forward with sneakered feet before each step in order to avoid rocks, wetlands, and downed tree limbs. Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are you nervous?” His reassuring answer always calmed me, but I was on the town’s Conservation Commission and kept imagining search parties and humiliating headlines in the Easton Courier: “Commissioner lost in the woods.” Ultimately, however, we were able to situate ourselves using Orion’s stars, our sense of where the sun went down, and Kodiak’s instincts. We vowed that from then on, we would bring water and a compass on every hike. 

That wasn’t the only time we turned a walk into a foolhardy adventure. Once while staying at the Mohonk Mountain House, Dave and I set out for a stroll. Need I tell you the time? Yes, around 3:00. Did we bring water and a compass? No. We skirted the lake, enjoying the sound of cheery youthful voices above us and out of sight beyond a wall of tumbled boulders. A painted yellow arrow on a nearby rock pointed upwards, an invitation. We grinned at each other: a short scramble would add rock climbing – which has a nice risky ring to it - to our list of Mohonk forays. 

For a while, it was fun, a wonderful challenge to find toeholds and reach for the next rock, always led upwards by occasional yellow arrows and the chatter of young voices ahead. But the afternoon was passing; it was dusky; we were relying more on feel than sight; and again, it was too late to turn back. Suddenly the kids’ commentary stopped short, and we heard a girl say, “No F-ing way I’m doing that.”

Not a good sign. 

By then, we’d been calling back and forth, and Dave yelled, “What is it?”

“Ladders! A series of ladders up through a narrow crevice in the rocks! It’s pitch black in there!” 

“Is there another way around?” 

“Nope. We saw signs early on for the ‘Lemon Squeezer.’ This must be it. It’s gonna be tight.” As we clambered closer, we could hear the muffled grunts, curses, and exclamations punctuating their efforts.  

It was full-on dark when we reached the Lemon Squeezer, and the kids had kindly, wisely, waited above the crevice and shone their phone flashlights through the opening at the top to ease our ascent. 

The wooden ladders were steep and rustic. Head back, I gazed up the rock face; it would be quite a climb. Still, I knew we were closing in on the road near Skytop, a stone tower on the highest point overlooking the lake. The kids were waiting for us, and we would not spend a chilly night huddled in the shelter of a ledge, a recurring mental image I’d tried to block earlier. So, as I grasped the rungs and started up, I was exhilarated more than afraid. And you can imagine the triumphant babble of Lemon Squeezer survivors when we met up with our fellow adventurers and all but skipped down the dark road to the Mountain House together.  

So, on this recent January day, I was mindful; 3:00ish start times had proved tricky. Also, having reveled in spotting bobcats and bears in our yard, I had no wish for a close encounter, although these days, I worry more about dangers posed by humans than our woodland friends. Still, I picked up a sturdy stick to wield, just in case. 

Dave was confident we were on course to meet up with a familiar trail, but I thought we’d been angling too deep into the woods for that. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned that we’d brought neither water nor compass with us. So much for that vow.  

“If the trail’s not over that ridge,” I said, pointing to a stone wall that crested the rise ahead, “we should turn back so we can still see to follow our tracks.” 

The snow was deep enough that the uphill climb was laborious, and our exchanges were turning testy. 

Suddenly Dave said, “There’s the road!” and gestured to the left.

I scanned the expanse of snow, rock outcrops, and trees and saw nothing promising. “How do you know?” I said, my voice verging on snarky.

“I saw car lights.” 

Well, I hadn’t… but he was right. We tromped further, met up with the road, and were home before dark. Perhaps the 3:00 curse has been broken. 

     

 

Still Here

It is late August, and in the evenings, I smile to hear the summer serenade of cicadas, crickets, and a lonely owl. In 2025, few are given the blessing of Nature’s nighttime songs; they have been beeped, revved, yelled, and motored into silence… but blessedly, not so in Easton. 

In the ‘70’s, a time of honor-the Earth and do-it-yourself living, author and artist Eric Sloane was already wistful about what had been lost, what he felt made America great. In I Remember America, Sloane reminisces about the back roads, barns, swamps, fields, and farms where he had worked and painted since the ‘20’s. He tells of a developer gesturing toward a stretch of asphalt parking lot and remarking with satisfaction, “To think that was once just a marsh!” Sloane well remembered the place, alive with birds, fish, and “the guttural guitar responses of green frogs.” When he said he liked it better the way it was, the developer scoffed, “You… are old-fashioned.” (pg. 31)

I am too. I love my 18^th century house with its lingering scent of wood smoke, wide plank floors, massive beams, and soot-blackened fireplaces. There is a cozy warmth to old wood touched by generations of hands and by the aura of the lives of those generations. Once, behind a wall taken down to do some repair work on our fireplace, we discovered the imprint of fabric in the horsehair plaster. I could imagine a weary worker taking a break and leaning back, leaving the mark of his shirt there for over two centuries.  

Sloane is particularly nostalgic about old barns and noted that many portrayed in his paintings had been, by 1971, demolished. He depicts the beauty of decay in missing panels, gaping windows, and iron hinges black against red barn doors now faded and scratched.

... Like the barn across from our house. Moss and lichens creep across the roof, and the shingles, exhausted after centuries of resisting rain and snow, are caving in. The planks of the doors are gap-toothed and rotted where they meet the ground, and no doubt many creatures seek shelter there at night.

In the morning, inspired by Sloane’s paintings, and the shadows, angles, and crevices that attracted him, I grab my phone and wander about the barn knowing the neighbors won’t mind. I am newly fascinated by the muscular roots that snake through the soil to the stonework of the attached garage. I love the shaft of sunlight on the dirt floor glimpsed through a crack where wood meets stone. I kneel on the earth to click a white aster blooming against the faded red stain of the barn door.  

And I am grateful that this barn still stands, as does our ancient house when so many like it have been torn down by those who value the new over the old. I am grateful for the swamp that abuts our property, where the frogs bellow in the spring, and the raccoons go hunting. And I am grateful that we live in Easton.

Eric Sloane was heartsick over the triumph of development, cars, and cash over landscapes he’d held dear. He mourned the passing of America’s agrarian past, the demolition of its remnants, and the destruction of natural ecosystems.   

Yet… we have them still in Easton. 

Thousands of acres of forest, swamps, meadows, and fields preserved. Historic homes. Farms and barns passed down through generations of Easton families.

For all of this, I thank our Commissions and Boards, Citizens for Easton, and the Aspetuck Land Trust for upholding our zoning and their vigilant stewardship. And many thanks to our farmers, for the work they do, the food and Christmas trees they provide, and the agricultural heritage they have upheld. 

Eric Sloane would be proud.  

 

 

Sloane, Eric, I Remember America, Ballantine Books, New York, 1975             

  

Woodland Neighbors

The bark of the fox was loud, close, and strident. Was it distressed? I ran downstairs to check, unsure what my next step would be if I discovered an injured fox. I looked out the front window and scanned the road. No fox, but a bobcat sauntered down the path through the garden. I knocked lightly on the window, and he glanced over his shoulder, his face maned, wild, and beautiful. He might as well have shrugged, he was that uninterested in me, but the fox barked again, and he took off. 

 

During the winter, two red foxes frolicked in the snow as I watched, breath held, from my bathroom window; a tiny bonus earned during one of my many middle-of-the-night pee-breaks. It is my habit to scan the yard as it slopes along the stone wall to the edge of the woods. Is that shadowed form a stump or a bear? The stump has been there for decades, yet still, I check it nightly for signs of life. Slow learner. 

 

But one morning last May, Dave called softly, “Lea. You might want to see this.”

 

I was still abed, sleeping, and just barely registered his voice. Sometimes my petulant streak emerges, and I ignore the call for a time or two. Thank goodness, however, I responded and joined him in the bathroom where he stood in the tub, phone upheld and filming. A black bear, sleek, handsome, and mighty, was enjoying a birdseed snack at the feeder in the yard below.

We watched as he climbed the stone wall, lifted his nose to the air, sniffed, and returned to the seeds. Annoyed by the paltry sprinkles released by the pat of a paw, he stood on his hind legs, knocked the feeder down, and sat on the grass for a picnic. 

 

Dave and I were captivated by the bear’s every action. The ripple of muscle beneath glossy fur.  The ease with which he moved and took care of his feeder frustration. His relaxed approach once seated for his meal. 

 

When he’d had his fill, he ambled around the side of the house. I scampered downstairs and into the front hall to watch through the window. He stopped at the road, looked both ways, turned right, and lumbered off.

 

After that visit, our son gave us a movement-sensitive night camera, and we have enjoyed watching our nocturnal visitors: coyotes, fox, possums, skunks, and raccoons. During the day, turkey families periodically parade through our yard as well, their heads swiveling on necks that stretch and contract like rubber bands. We don’t see deer as much as we used to, not since hunting season was expanded to four months. Weary of my animal-advocacy, people explain with earnest patience that if not for the compassionate culling of herds by hunters, deer would suffer and starve. My protests about habitat loss and predator populations diminished by hunting are met with eye rolls and head shakes. I push back when some complain about chomped flowers: we have Stop & Shop; the deer and bear have our gardens and feeders.

 

Given the increase in wildlife sightings overall, I’ve wondered if our woodland neighbors were emboldened when Covid confined us, the marauding humans, behind closed doors. But we were set free months ago, and our quiet country road has again become a speedway for neighborhood kids on motorbikes and quads. I hope our fellow creatures are cautious: we live in the woods after all, and this is their dominion. We are the crooked cog throwing off the ecosystem, and if we are to survive, we must learn our place.   

 

  

Note: in our area, we are fortunate to have Wildlife in Crisis, an organization knowledgeable in caring for wounded wildlife: 203-544-9913   

  

Glacier National Park: Park Stars

After a glorious scenic overnight train ride through the Columbia River Gorge, Dave and I arrived at the tiny depot in West Glacier, Montana. Early the next morning, we drove our rental to the Apgar Visitors Center, parked, and asked a ranger for suggestions given our lack of rigorous hiking experience.  He directed us to a series of shuttles that would take us up the Going-to-the-Sun-Road to the Hidden Lake Trail.  

My, what a mixed crew marched this accessible route with its enticing name and a trailhead conveniently located above the visitor’s center and restrooms! Seasoned hikers wore safari hats and leather boots and carried walking sticks. Dave and I carried no poles, but wore sensible layers, sturdy sneakers, baseball caps, and fanny packs stocked with sunscreen and water. 

Teens, nimble and spirited, scampered along, shrieking with glee and tossing snowballs scooped from patches of snow.  Some sure-footed souls had opted to wear flip-flops and sandals. Amish nature enthusiasts wore flowing dresses, aprons, and bonnets, and an Indian contingent breezed along in elegant saris. Parents trucked babies in backpacks and held the hands of little ones clutching just-purchased stuffed grizzlies and mountain goats.  

Alpine meadows swept to the foot of striated, craggy mountains. Swaths of snow and stony soil alternated with grasses awash with yellow wildflowers. Towering clouds, puffed and important, mounded overhead. And look!  My God! Look!  A mountain goat! Soon after, we spotted a shaggy mother nuzzling her baby, a snoozy goat under a scrubby pine, and a herd of seven picking their way across a snowfield high on a peak above. Like the bison of Yellowstone, beasts at first remarkable to those accustomed to squirrels and deer, the goats soon became an expected, marvelous, part of the scenery. 

    

Every wildlife sighting spawned a gathering of pointers and admirers, so no passers-by missed anything. I loved the wish to share wonders, and the elevation of animals to Park Stars.  They aren’t “game,” a nuisance, or something to “harvest”; they are the rightful, extraordinary inhabitants, and all humans trooping the Hidden Lake Trail joyously celebrated them together. 

But often, when it comes to nature, many people seem to have lost sense and instinct. At one point, the trail narrowed and climbed, with steep drops to left and right. It was one-way only, and slippery with smooth, hard-packed snow.  Crossing required caution, so lines formed on the ascending and descending sides as patient hikers awaited their turn to inch forward. 

Suddenly, a young father with a babe in arms and toddler in tow started to run down the path.  A cry went up, and we stretched our arms, as did everyone else down the line, to catch and steady him and his children as they slid, tottered and careened.  Maybe he was trying to be thoughtful by rushing to spare those waiting, but seriously?  Strangers’ arms prevented a terrible fall. 

Joy, awe, and effort combined to steal breath as the trail wound on and up to the overlook with its spectacular vista of Hidden Lake and Bearhat Mountain. A thin rope prohibited access to the next leg of the trail down to the lake.  A sign meant to instill a healthy keep-away response read, “Entering Grizzly Country!  DANGER.” If that weren’t clear enough, it went on,  “This Trail is Closed Because of Bear Danger.”  Of course two teenage boys sat smirking, bold in their bravado, just on the far side of the rope. 

“A bear!” someone called, and every head swiveled.  The two boys lurched to their feet and scrambled under the rope in a hurry. All eyes followed the pointing finger, and scanned the shore of the lake far below. Far, far below. We searched, and then strained, to better see a tiny blotch at the distant end of the lake. It could have been anything. Several brown stumps had already ramped my heart rate with a confusing mix of joy-fight-or-flight, but this blotch was moving, and safely distant.  

“Look!” An even smaller brown speck had appeared by the side of the blotch.  A cub!

Kind onlookers who’d had the foresight to bring binoculars shared this treasure, and we, at the guardrail, were united in our oohs and ahhs in confirming the momma bear and her cub ambling along the shore. 

Yes, mountain goats are marvelous to see, but bears are the beast most feared… and sought. Over our three-day visit, every conversation included bear cautions, sightings, and close-encounters. Many visitors, certainly those embarking on longer hikes or deep-woods camping, carried bear spray, and a number of signs advised this. Dave and I did not, but we learned that if we did have some, we were not to spray at the bear, but in a swath between us and the animal. Good to know. 

We also learned to make a lot of noise while walking, which we did, although we did not jingle like those who carried “bear bells” to add to their clamor. Later, Peggy, our Red Bus tour guide, told us, “Mmm.  Bear bells. More like dinner bells. The bears learn to associate that sound with humans and their food. Some say you can tell the scat of black bears because it’s small and full of berries, while grizzly scat is large, scented with bear spray, and full of bells!” 

Whose Space?

Tentatively, I opened the door to the shed and stood, listening.  Silence.  Silence for a while.  And then… a sigh.  A drawn out sigh of resignation that ended in a snuffle. The sigh was deep, both in its melancholy and in conveying a sense of size: something was in the Have-a-Heart trap in the loft, and it was no mouse.

Whatever it was, I knew it was trapped, so why was I too anxious to climb the ladder to the loft and look?  The creature could not hurt me, but maybe guilt was nibbling at me some.  Why is it always animals that lose out?  Why are they always the ones trapped, killed, and removed?  Who is really in whose space?

This is an ongoing discussion for Dave and me… as the groundhog parades her annual litter of three into the yard, as deer browse the just-about-to-bloom flowers in the garden, as something tears down insulation and knocks over stored jars to make his new residence in our shed more comfy.  Dave growls in frustration while I side with the animals.  We live in the woods; we made that choice.  The creatures belong here; we are the ones who moved in. 

When first we heard heavy thumpings in the eaves of the shed and saw the type of damage inflicted, we were pretty sure our new tenant was a raccoon.  A month before, soon after the snow thawed, we’d seen a large, snoozy fellow at our bird feeders.  It was early in the day, unusual, so, concerned the raccoon might be sick, I contacted our town’s Animal Control Department.

The uniformed Animal Control officer arrived within half an hour.  She was soft-spoken and seemed knowledgeable.  Together we stood on the back porch in watery sunlight that held no warmth and watched as the raccoon spotted us and lumbered down a slope and out of sight.  A minute later, he peered over the rise, and seeing we’d come no closer, returned to scavenge for fallen seeds. 

The animal was thickly furred, steady in gait, but wary. “Looks healthy, “ said the officer.  “Just hungry.  Might be a nursing mother desperate to build up calories.” 

I told her I was happy to share seeds, and just wanted to make sure rabies weren’t an issue.  The officer was surprised I wasn’t more adamant about removal.  “Most people aren’t so tolerant or understanding.” she said.  Sad news; I hadn’t thought I was being particularly tolerant and understanding, simply cautious and rational.  “Most people just want to get rid of them,” she added. 

But now, a large something was making a mess of the shed – the shed that holds our garden tools, coolers, vases, portable chairs, and assorted summer-type-stuff – so we had to take action. 

Dave turned to Google, typed in “raccoon in my shed,” contacted the first company listed, and made an appointment.  “Before this guy comes over,” I said, “make sure he plans to release the animal, not kill it.”  Glad I asked.  When Dave called back, he was told that by Connecticut law, “nuisance animals” removed from a property must be exterminated. 

What???

The justification given was the need to curb the spread of rabies, but how many healthy animals snuggle their families into what they think is a cozy little den, except it’s someone’s attic, chimney, or shed?  The creatures are trapped, removed, and often needlessly killed…sometimes leaving behind babies to starve.

We cancelled that appointment, and I called a wildlife organization for advice.  When I described the nature of the damage and the raccoon we’d seen in the yard, the representative at the center also believed the shed-invader was a raccoon, and likely, a nursing mother.  He was well aware of the Connecticut law, but gave me the number for “the only organization we recommend and trust” that might be able to help.  The rep also added, “If it’s a mother and she has babies, it’s really best to leave them in place until she takes them out herself.”  While I was quietly thrilled at hosting this little family and helping them survive, Dave was less so, but resigned to doing the right thing.

When I spoke by phone to Phil, the individual recommended by the wildlife center, he reviewed various removal strategies at length.  Should the raccoon be male, Phil would trap and release it elsewhere.  If it were a female with babies, the first option would be to release her from the trap, sprinkle the area with male raccoon urine, and hope the mom removed the babies herself.  Apparently male raccoons sometimes eat offspring, so females are rightfully cautious.  If, however, Phil found the occupied space to be too large, the urine plan would be ineffective.  “And if we can’t locate the pups,” he said, “I’ll have to release the mother on your property.  You don’t want the babies dying in the wall.”  Definitely not.

The next day, Phil and his associate, Jeff, came by to scope out the scene and set the trap.  Phil walked briskly around the perimeter of the shed, pointing out numerous openings and the smooth hollows in the dirt before them where animals had “bellied” their way in.  Then he went into the shed, surveyed the damage, and took pictures of the area beneath the eaves where Dave and I had heard the thumping. 

“It would be impossible for a human to climb in there to retrieve pups, “ he said. “And sealing all this off?  There are countless ways for animals to get in.  If you’re serious about it, you’ll have to build a concrete foundation around the base of the shed.  For the time being, though, we’ll set the trap and see who shows up.”     

And so, the next morning, I stood in the shed, just below the loft, listening to those sighs, and wondering who had shown up.

Phil and Jeff returned in the early afternoon.  Before we opened the shed door, Phil bid us be quiet so we could listen for the whimpers of hungry babies.  Again, I stood in the entrance to the shed, listening, along with these two kind men.  Shhhh.  Listening.  Shhhh.  Still listening…

Nothing.  If there were babies around, they weren’t giving anything away.  Maybe their Mama had warned them to be quiet until she returned.  

It was time to rescue the poor trapped soul in the loft.  With a gentle voice and soothing sounds, Phil climbed the ladder and confirmed that we’d caught a raccoon.  Jeff called up to him, “male or female?” 

“Male,” said Phil. 

“Are you totally sure?” I asked Jeff.  I hated the thought of stranded babies.

“100% sure,” he assured me.

It was a big trap and a big raccoon, and it took both men to lower the captive over the lip of the loft and down the ladder.  The raccoon turned and twisted, trying to gain footing, but he did not scrabble or hiss.  I felt an odd mixture of relief and sadness; this raccoon had chosen our shed, and we were sending him away.

I followed Jeff and Phil out to the pick-up truck with its bed filled with cages set on end.  Five of them held furry bodies curled within, each with beautiful masked faces that turned to look at me.  One stretched a foreleg up the side of its cage when Jeff lowered my raccoon in beside it.  “Look at that,” I said.

“Sometimes they hug each other,” Jeff remarked as he gently sprayed my raccoon with water.  “In case he’s overheated,” he explained.  “He’s been in that trap for a while.”

Phil had mentioned that a nursing mother and her babies were slated for removal from another property on the same run as mine, so I asked if they’d picked them up yet.  He nodded, led me to the cab of the truck, and bent to pick up a small cardboard box on the floor on the passenger side.  He began to open the flaps of the box, then paused and said quietly, “don’t touch them…” 

Nestled in a soft cloth were four tiny raccoons.  Perfect, fuzzy, eyes closed, and masked.  I wondered which of the captives in the back was their mother.  “They’ll be hungry soon,” Phil said, “so we’ve got to get going so we can give them back to their mom.”

As the truck drove away, my heart was full.  Jeff and Phil were so kind, yet I was teary at the thought of this truck full of animals that had made the mistake of choosing a home in the wrong place; at the thought of other truckloads of similar sad cargo that would be taken away and killed.  And I was so grateful, so very grateful, that these raccoons, my raccoon, and the box of beautiful babies, would be treated with compassion and released in the woods.         

Note:   It is a sad statement that organizations seeking to deal with animals humanely must remain anonymous because of Connecticut’s heartless law, but so it is. I plan to write letters to my congressmen asking them to repeal this law, and I hope others will too.       

 

Woodchuck Dilemma

Frozen mid-nibble, dark eyes vigilant, the woodchuck took heed of me, but stood his ground as I passed. In that singsong voice reserved for innocents, I said, “Well, look at you Bold One! Out for a snack and some sun!”

He seemed neither charmed nor frightened, but returned to chewing the spent January grass. Smiling at my encounter with nature, I entered the house.

Shortly after, I heard the door open and close as Dave returned from chopping wood, bounty delivered when Hurricane Sandy swept through. “Steer clear of that woodchuck,” he commented. “I think it’s sick.”

Dave has little patience for woodchucks. Each spring, a rotund mother bears her litter of three beneath our shed, and while I love glimpses of those fuzzy little bodies warming on a stone in the yard, he sees only future garden ravagers. I remind him that we have Stop and Shop to soothe our hunger, while flowers on the verge of full blossom sustain our animal friends. “They are not my friends,” Dave replies with a snarl. (He really is a dear man, but this is a sensitive subject.)

When my husband and I stepped out on the porch to take another look, the woodchuck ignored us briefly, then hobbled away, weaving, and hitching up his hind leg.

“Rats, he’s hurt. I just thought he was brassy,” I said. I don’t know what my problem is; I love animals, but wounded creatures unnerve me. Even wild babies, birds fallen from nests, a fawn seemingly abandoned, helpless, adorable, leave me immobilized and anxious. I’m not overly afraid of being bitten, although that is part of it; I think I’m more afraid of their fear and pain.

My friend Joan once released a mouse caught, but not killed, in a trap she’d set. Mind you, both of us hate traps. As long as the mice confine their skittering behind the walls, we’re happy enough to host them, but when pellets appear in the utensil drawer, they have crossed the line. Anyway, when Joan described freeing the mouse - “Here was this poor little guy, and I was all he had” - I was in awe of her compassion. I would have been in a distant room, eyes squeezed shut, fingers in my ears to block out desperate squeaks for help, praying Dave would soon be home.

So, on behalf of the gimpy woodchuck, I called Wildlife in Crisis (WIC), a local animal rehabilitation organization and left a message. When I went outside, the woodchuck had charitably solved the problem by disappearing. Peter from WIC called back later with information and suggestions, but I hoped it was a moot point.

After Dave left for work the next morning, I headed out to the compost heap. As I crossed the yard, my thoughts focused on coffee grounds and eggshells, the woodchuck and I jumped equally when suddenly we met. As well as he could with a bum leg, he scuttled under the shed while I stood musing, green plastic compost bucket in hand, my mood downcast. Could I ignore him? Did I have a responsibility here? If Nature was taking her course, happy or not, perhaps I had no role to play.

The woodchuck peeked out from under the shed. *Sigh*

Then I noticed my neighbors’ car in their driveway. The woodchuck and I were not alone! My neighbors, Ed and Laurie, and their children Rachel and Eddie, are animal lovers and willing rescuers when needed. I went inside, called them, and soon five of us stood in the yard, studying the gap between the shed door and the ground.

“Maybe we could use the crab net,” Ed remarked.

“Will it be strong enough?” I asked.

“I think so. You’ll need something to transport him though.”

I’d brought out a Have-a-Heart trap earlier, but it seemed small, so I ran to the attic to get a bin, emptied it of my high school scrapbooks, and zipped downstairs, planning to poke it with air holes while waiting for the woodchuck to agree to his capture. I glanced out the back door to see Ed holding a long pole. At the end of the pole squirmed the woodchuck in the net, giving no indication that he’d agreed to this plan.

By the time I connected with Peter at WIC for directions, Ed had transferred the woodchuck from the net to the Have-a-Heart and placed both in the back of my car. “Already smells like roadkill,” said Ed. This did not bode well.

My car’s status did not bode well either, as her transmission was failing. As I drove, I hushed and crooned to soothe the woodchuck, the car, and myself. It was a sensory barrage of revving and knocking from the Caravan and the clack and scrabble of claws on metal from the prisoner in the back. I fought the image of the woodchuck’s appearance beneath my feet and begged him to stay calm and stay put. Every so often, all would be silent, surely not a good sign. I’d glance warily to the floor, and then over my shoulder. “Don’t die! Don’t escape! We’ll be there soon.” If he was at all sensitive to my mental state, as they say animals can be, I was not helping his agitation.

Hugging curves, struggling up hills, and gliding into valleys, we made it – Alleluia – to the wooded haven of Wildlife in Crisis. When Peter met me at the car, he opened the hatch and lifted the cage and its sad occupant from my care, lifting a weight from me as well. I had done my part and delivered the sufferer into knowledgeable hands.

“If you could go sign in at the office, I’ll take him out back and take a look,” Peter said, leaving me to let myself in to the single-story wooden structure to the right of the parking area.

“DO NOT LET THE DUCK OUT,” stated a hand-lettered sign on the door.

Carefully, gauging space for one woman to enter and no ducks to exit, I opened the door and slipped inside. And there he was, a beautiful wood duck, with his distinctive crest, iridescent emerald head, and white accents, waddling freely about the floor, chattering amiably. He was not alone in his wanderings; a seagull, too, eyed me upon my arrival.

Lining the counter along one wall was a series of cages holding tiny hummingbirds, a bluebird and a blue jay. “The hummingbirds were brought to WIC by homeowners after they flew into windows," Peter said when he re-joined me. “We’ll be able to release two of them in the spring. Cats got the jay and bluebird; both are blind so they’ll be staying with us.”

Swoop! On wings, a small hawk buzzed overhead and alighted on a cupboard. As a rule, I am not at ease with flying beings in enclosed places, but this was obviously the norm at WIC so I tried to appear relaxed.

Peter told me the woodchuck would be quarantined for a time until it was certain he had nothing contagious. “We’ll observe him for a while and treat him for roundworms and head trauma. Usually, we’d give him a bath first, but we’ll hold on that until we know more.” A bath. Yet another plan unlikely to please the woodchuck.

At my request to look around, Peter accompanied me outside to stand before a vast netted aviary. Inside, hawks, imposing in size and dignified in demeanor, perched on substantial limbs placed at varying heights. I noted one with half a wing. “Most were hit by cars.” Peter explained, adding that about fifty hawks were currently in residence. “Most are red-tailed hawks. The population has really rebounded. They were almost wiped out, the hawks and eagles as well, but once DDT was banned, they came back. That’s all it took; to recognize the problem and take action.”

In another aviary, I spotted two great horned owls. When I exclaimed upon seeing them, Peter said, “Yes. Also, struck by cars.” I asked who brought in the creatures nurtured here. “Mostly caring people who have seen them in passing and stopped. Occasionally state troopers bring them in.” Peter smiled sadly and said, “It’s rarely those who hit them.”

My impulse was to silently condemn those callous people, but twice, I have seen wounded animals in the road and, guilt-wracked and sobbing, driven on, paralyzed by my ignorance and fear, hoping someone caring and knowledgeable would follow soon after. For those like me, and the animals we are unable to help, Wildlife in Crisis is that someone.


Wildlife in Crisis (WIC) is a non-profit organization dedicated to wildlife preservation and land conservation. WIC rescues injured and orphaned wildlife and seeks to protect threatened ecosystems. WIC's habitat protection, wildlife rehabilitation and environmental education programs share the parallel goal of protecting wildlife while improving the quality of life in our community.

For more information, see the WIC website at www.wildlifeincrisis.org