The Bog Baby

The picture you (hopefully) can see above this is, and I know it may be hard to make out at first and I understand why, the youngest porcupine I have ever met in my life. I met this little person on May 27, 2012, as I sat on the remains of what was a woodshed thinking of anything else but meeting this little person, who was accompanied by her or his parents as she or he investigated the terrain and trees and other difficulties of the bog, about twenty feet from me, near dusk.

This is one of the clearest pictures I got of the kid; other than some extremely grainy video (among my most loved few seconds ever even slightly caught on any camera I was holding) this is the only picture, really.  But a good writer can fill in details. Mark Twain could. Stephen Crane could. You didn't need to see the miners in "Roughing It" nor Scratchy in "The Bride Comes To Yellow Sky" through photos; you saw them completely and clearly in some other way. And while I insult those two men and myriad other provably capable people by attempting this, I will risk the failure and go ahead.

May 27 that year was dry; that is about all the details I have regarding the weather or almost anything else that day. I was at camp and am sure I had a great day, not because there might not have been some annoying intervals but because in hindsight when we can improve our memories by adjusting, limiting, adding, remembering, and forgetting, they almost every one of them become great days at camp.

It was getting close to dark, maybe a little after seven or so, when I saw the platform and decided to go out and sit and stare into the woods and think.

I should add that this is one of my favorite ways to spend time; I have surely spent thousands of hours doing seemingly nothing but sitting and staring into the woods and thinking. Said sitting, etc., also often includes talking to myself about seemingly irrelevant things sometimes, not because I think it's the place to be doing so but because they come up and I think I'm by myself and there's I guess no better place to stand or sit or walk and be discussing things amongst yourself than in the woods. I can't say I've come to too many definitive conclusions when I've practiced this, but I sometimes have, and either way it gives you a little more clarity on whatever you talk about, which I don't think can hurt. An added benefit is that there's a chance no one who might actually consider you crazy for doing it would be anywhere nearby to hear you. I highly recommend it if it's something that sounds like the right thing for you. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother.

But, to get back to wherever I think we were: it's near dusk in Moose River, New York, and I am sitting on a piece of plywood with big holes sawed into it, the whole thing supported by drums filled with rocks or concrete below which lies what I imagine to be Adirondack solidity, though I have no way of knowing because I've never checked. Near me were the ever-rising remains of some long-past regime, whose remnants we attacked and removed with pride and valor years ago but which seem intent upon lasting forever, in some strange legion with Earth, who (I say "who" because I am convinced Earth possesses all traits necessary to personality) pushes up ever more Gennesee Beer cans year after year, their outsides coated with paint Ralph Nader's ghost will be chasing down for damages in the afterlife, if it can, alongside pieces of chairs and pipes and the occasional tire. There's work to be done yet, is my point, and though we try to forget that as we sit outside or even when we try to accomplish some of the work, it remains that in this goal, as in all others, we shall never live half long enough to finish.

So (as they say and I do here, too) I'm out there, sitting on the drilled-up plywood floor of a former woodshed, forgetting about the emerging next mess just off the starboard side and thinking of the place next door. It had been owned and operated by a man I can honestly call a hero. He had been there long before my family showed up; he loved cats; he loved the Yankees and good music (if his radio can be trusted); and in the 14 years we were occasional neighbors my interaction with him had amounted to a series of shared waves.

If you are reading this from The Lower 48, as I call the places details like this are often misunderstood, you might be inclined to think we were cold to each other, or off-putting, or selfish, or uncaring. I don't know that there's any way to explain that the distance we kept was a terms and signs and showings of massive respect. If someone up there needs help, you absolutely do everything within your power to help them. Otherwise, if they are doing great and showing no signs of being desirous of company, you leave them alone. I can't begin to explain to you how much I love the people up there, and much of it is because of things like this. This isn't because they don't love friends and relatives; many of the people I know (including the man I am talking about) have many of them and no doubt love them dearly. I also don't mean they are unapproachable hermits; first of all, almost all of the people I think of as I type this have or had jobs where they interacted with other people all the time; secondly, I am convinced by personal experience that unless you try very diligently you will never meet a hermit who doesn't long for occasional company. And the more "reputable" a hermit, the more likely you will have to give him the big "get out," and though you won't like it, at least you'll be able to say you threw a gen-you-wine hermit out of your place, and although you were absolutely right in doing so you will feel slightly hurt at having to do it, but the hurt will be combined with wonder at the thought that you had to do it, which will eventually grow to a tiny bit of happiness that you did and eventually slight pride when, years later, you can make an offhanded remark like "I once told a hermit to go home" and enjoy the thought because you did, and you meant it. For the record: I did, and I meant it, and it makes me smile to think about it. PS-These hermits don't hold grudges. I'm not sure if that's good or bad (depends on how often you want to send them away). 

Anyway the next-door place was not owned by a hermit, so what's the difference?


Back to business: I was out there thinking about the neighbor's now just-slightly-former place, staring into the Bog when I noticed a few things moving. At first it was the sort of movement you might attribute to breeze but soon it grew too organized to be such. And at that moment of organization, though it never is clear at the moment it occurs, was showtime.

Down below me, a dozen yards away, maybe, were first two, then a few moments later three blackish forms. At first I thought they were raccoons (another species I love to see and meet up with when I can) but soon, as the tall Bog grasses separated and the cattails did the same, it was obvious: a baby porcupine accompanied by a parent. And then two parents.

I don't know how long I sat there watching, it couldn't have been more than half an hour before dark and maybe much less than that, but I forgot all about the neighbor's place and hermits and the Genny cans and everything else and just watched. I probably teared up a few times because I tend to do that when emotional things hit me by surprise. I'm sure the hair on my arms stood up as best it could because I remember it doing so.

I know it wasn't a play because none of it was made up by any human or porcupine, but it seemed that way as I sat there in the almost dark watching the baby learn the trees, climb, get confused (I suppose) when the end of a branch showed itself, sit and think a while, turn around, and try again. Mom and Dad P. were right there, and though I couldn't hear anything they said the kid kept trying out new approaches to things so they or someone must have been saying something to the babe. It was a fantastic chunk of time and space to be a witness to, and as the darkening skies made it to black I sat there watching until the light gave out, then stayed until my eyes could pretend to see them no more, and then still longer until my imagination lacked the chance of convincing me they were still there and that a stray bit of moonlight might illuminate them for just one split second more.

Then I went inside after navigating the hole-filled plywood above the rock-filled drums, all of us above whatever. And I don't remember what happened next but I'm sure I thought about it for quite a long time. I still am thinking about it, so who knows how long? 


 MJ