Animal Encounters

 "Be careful," the motorist advised as he rolled up next to me.  

"I'm not moving till he moves!" I replied with a nervous chuckle.  

The motorist waved and slowly drove on.  I straddled my bicycle, standing on the shoulder of the road on a self supported bike tour, descending down the east side of Logan Pass in Glacier National Park.  All had been proceeding smoothly until I rounded a corner.  There, on the side of the road, stood a gargantuan grizzly bear.  I grabbed the brakes, promptly halting my descent.  Mr. Grizzly grazed contentedly on the foliage at the road side, ignoring the sparse traffic that slowed and swerved around him.  His coat was thick and heavy, brown with tan shading around his shoulders and face.  The telltale grizzly hump rested between his shoulders like a bowling ball made of muscle.  The power in his body was palpable, coiled in his muscles like a den of rattlesnakes ready to strike.  He personified the easy confidence that only apex predators possess.  Occasionally, he raised his enormous head to glare at a passing vehicle, “Yeah, that’s right.  You better move over, bitch.”  A football field distance stood between the two of us and I had no plans to shorten it.  I continued to study him, prepared to stand on the side of the road for the rest of my life.  Eventually, the greener grass further down the hillside coaxed him away.  I waited another five minutes, then slowly coasted by, keeping my eyes peeled for him but not seeing him again.

Earlier that morning as I started my ascent up Going-to-the-Sun Road, I spotted a black bear standing on her hind legs scratching her back against the rough bark of a pine tree.  She emitted soft grunts and groans as she moved this way and that, scratching from various angles.  Slowly I pedaled on.  At the summit of Logan Pass, I came upon a mama mountain goat with her baby.  Mama goat was nibbling on some shrubs near the road while baby goat was bounding energetically here there and everywhere.  Baby goat looked delighted in discovering her pogo-stick legs.  Mama goat looked tired.  I smiled to myself and rode on.  

A few years ago, a friend and I were discussing all the animals I’ve encountered on my rides.  I’ve seen countless bears, a wolf, foxes, coyotes, deer, elk, moose, bighorn sheep and mountain goats.  “But,” I told her, “I’ve never seen a mountain lion or a wolverine.”  My comment set the universe in motion.  A few days later, I was descending from a mountain lake in the early morning.  As I rounded a corner, I noticed movement in the trees.  A four legged creature trotted down the hillside and up onto the road.  My brain began whirring, trying to reconcile expectation with reality.  Deer?  No.  Elk?  Nope.  Was it?  Could it be?  Sure enough.  It was a mountain lion.  She was a small adult, sleek and muscular, with a long powerful tail.  With every step, her muscles flexed and rippled like heat waves in the Sahara.  The power and strength of her tail made the tail appear as an entity separate from her body.  It followed along behind her as a tsunami follows an earthquake.  She glided across the road, down into the ditch, disappearing into the trees as an agile apparition.  I shook my head.  Did that really just happen?  Clearly the universe had heard me.

One of my favorite dawn patrol rides takes me up a winding canyon that follows a creek.  Often, I see an elk or twenty within the first four miles.  Encountering a herd of elk is a full sensory experience.  Their musty, earthy odor hangs heavy, replacing the crisp morning air with the aroma of freshly turned soil mixed with grass clippings and manure.  They talk incessantly.  The cow elk chirp and grunt at each other and their calves.  I assume they are catching up on the night’s gossip, making plans for day care, sharing which forage is the tastiest, and “OMG did you see Betty’s bed head this morning?  Someone needs to tell her to go down to the creek and fix her hair.”  They are large, skittish ungulates.  When one elk in the herd shouts “Danger! Danger!  There’s a bogie in sector six!” the entire herd joins in a collective stampede.  Heads held high, off they go, their hooves creating thunder on earth.

My favorite time of year to ride this particular canyon is in early June when the deer and elk start to bring their babies out into the world.  The fawns and calves covered in spots toddle about on their skinny legs.  Their fluffy faces and big brown eyes are almost unbearably adorable.  They race around, playing tag with the other babies or having contests to see who can jump the highest or run the fastest.  “Mom!  MOM!  Watch me!  Watch!  Are you watching?  WATCH!”  The moms all look like they need a day at the spa with their besties.  “Sharon, I told you not to trust that smooth talking Buck.  I knew he was nothing but trouble the minute I saw him.  And where is he now, huh?  Not here helping you, that’s for damn sure.  Can’t even take care of his own babies.”    

Riding this same canyon early one morning this past July, I had reached my turn around point and was heading back home.  The wind was at my back and I was cruising as I lost elevation.  As Chris Stapleton once said, “The road rolls out like a welcome mat.”  He didn’t mention the sandhill cranes.  Sandhill cranes are colossal, regal birds, standing shy of five feet tall, with a wingspan well over six feet.  If pterodactyls lived today, they would exist in the form of a sandhill crane.  Down the road I sailed, around a corner, and there they were.  Two sandhill cranes were standing just off the edge of the road, and I was within ten yards of them.  My brain only had time to register “cranes” as the smaller crane took a few steps away from the road.  The larger crane spread his massive wings and began to take flight.  Unfortunately, his flight path and my bike path were the same, and there was not enough room for both of us.  

Me: Shit

Mr Crane: Oh my.  This is quite the conundrum thrust upon us. 

I braced for impact as I started sprinting, attempting to get out of his way as he fought hard to gain altitude.  I knew if we collided I was going to take the brunt of it.  My skin tingled, anticipating collision.  

Me: Shit shit shit.

Mr.  Crane:  Perhaps if I chortle with bravado into the ear of this two legged wingless being, my exuberance will initiate maximum forward propulsion.

I braved a quick glance over my shoulder as the crane opened his mouth and screeched his deafening gurgling roar.  GGGGGGRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH.  All I could see was the inside of his neon red mouth and one of his giant wings stretched out to his side.  Was he going to bite me?  Beak me?  Smother me with his curtain of a wing?  Perhaps all three?  

Me: All the shits.

Mr. Crane: Up we go, old chap.  Up and over this ground bound being. 

I envisioned his enormous wing flapping into me and smearing me onto the pavement.  I sprinted harder, expecting at any moment to be sent to the earth by his body or his wing or his beak.  

Me: Shitshitshitshitshit.

Mr. Crane: Say now. I do believe we’ve done it.  Yes indeed.  We have circumvented an almost imminent collision.

Somehow!  Somehow I remained upright.  I pulled away from the crane.  He pulled away from me.  I glanced again over my shoulder and saw him land easily on the opposite side of the road.  

Me: Holy shit (long exhale).

Mr. Crane: That was a most unexpected turn of events.  I dare say I don’t need my morning spot of tea.  Margaret, no need for tea this morning, Darling.  I feel most awake now.  

I pedaled on, shaking my head at my very close call.  Then I started to laugh.  I laughed and laughed and laughed, laughed so hard I had to pull to the side of the road and regain my wits.  A crane.  A CRANE! I’ve pedaled past the apex predators of North America.  Not one of them gave me more than a solitary, uninterested glance.  Who would have thought it would be a sandhill crane that almost took me to the pavement.   

Alright, Universe.  Bring on the wolverine.