On the Road Encounters

The Jogger

Back in the spring, I was driving to work one day and saw what looked like a tall person moving at a pretty good clip on the left-hand shoulder of the road, going the same direction I was. But when I overtook the jogger, I saw that it wasn't a person at all: it was an ostrich on a mad run. This is North Carolina: ostriches sure aren't native to this state, and I've never heard of any ostrich farms in the local area (it was only about ten miles from home). I wondered where it came from. And where it was going.

Pursued

Once, years ago when my sons were small, we made a trip to here from New Jersey, where we lived then. We'd been on the road all day, but when we turned off the blacktop onto the dirt road, the kids perked up, eagerly drinking in the sight of the dark woods growing on both sides of the road, impatient to see the huge expanse of water that would appear when we rounded the last curve. It was getting late but was still light.

Just before the last mile of our journey, the road forked to the left. At that time there was one family living on that road, the Bumpers. They owned all manner of unpenned animals: pigs and cattle and chickens and ducks and geese, a horse or two. It was not unusual to come upon flocks of chickens or a cow or some other unexpected animal somewhere on the road, not all that close to their home.

We passed the fork and left it behind us. We couldn't travel fast because the dust billowed up around the car if you did.

Suddenly Steve said, "Hey, Ma, slow down."

"Why?" I asked.

Steve answered, "There's something following us, but I can't tell what it is yet. It isn't very big."

Well, curious myself, I slowed down some but didn't keep an eye on the rear-view mirror, being more concerned with avoiding some holes in the road.

Suddenly all three boys began to laugh.

"Ma! Look! Can you see them? Slow down some more. Let 'em catch up."

We were being madly pursued by a puppy and a piglet that belonged to the Bumpers, both very small, yapping and oinking. They left a narrow dust wake behind them.

In this area, many household dogs believe that they were born to chase cars, so I suppose the puppy was in training with the piglet for fun days ahead. We laughed about that all week.


Cujo

And there was Cujo more recently, so named with the aid of a friend who was amused by his behavior when I told him about it.

When I first moved to this area and began a 106-mile round-trip commute in to the nearest town that had work, I became acquainted with a car-chaser/tire-biter of great skill and spirit.

One day soon after I'd begun a job, weary from the work and the hour-long commute back home, I was on the blacktop about two miles from the dirt road that leads here. There were only a few scattered houses on the road. I was lost in thought and was startled out of my wits by a horrible apparition that suddenly appeared by the passenger side of the car.

I saw only a black head that seemed to levitate from below the window. It had wild glaring eyes, only one of which I could see because it was travelling in the same direction that I was. As it rose higher beside the window, I saw fierce teeth and saliva flying backwards. This apparition was a silent snarling thing, terrifying to see. It sank below my sight beside the car and suddenly rose into sight again, keeping up with me, even more fierce. I swerved to the left, trying to avoid whatever it was, and jammed my foot on the accelerator to outrun it.

That's when I heard loud barking and realized that it was a dog.

As I sped away with a pounding heart, the large black dog sat down in the middle of the road and panted, then got up and trotted into somebody's yard.

The next day, I'd forgotten it, and the same thing happened when I arrived there on my way home. My reaction was the same: a few brief seconds of terror and a stomp on the accelerator to get away from the beast.

Well, eventually, I grew to expect this stealthy attack on my way home each day. One day I saw the dog before he had a chance to rush the car. He hid under a bush, and as I approached, I could see his hind end quiver in preparation for the charge. Then the lunge. That dog was diabolical.

It became a game every evening at about the same time. I'd look for him, and he was almost always hiding under the same bush, crouched in anticipation. I laughed one day to see him on the other side of the road hiding under another bush. He didn't chase me but went madly after another car that approached from the other direction. I saw the driver grinning as we passed each other.

I played games with that dog. I fooled him if I could. A horn blown at him would make him even more demented, if that was possible. If I stopped, he would relax and become curious, raising his head to look at the car. Then I'd drive on slowly. When he finally gave chase, it was only half-hearted, not as energetic and obviously not as much fun.

One day some people were in the yard. I didn't see Cujo. I decided to stop and ask about the dog. Just as a young man arrived at my car window, which I'd rolled down, there was a whuffling sound, and Cujo appeared out of nowhere, with his paws on the window-edge, his huge head poking in the car. He sloppily licked my arm and panted madly as I talked with the young man, who said the dog's name was Sam. And yes, Sam certainly loved to chase cars. As we talked, Cujo/Sam was trying to get in the car through the window, enthusiastically licking my shoulder, arm, and once, my face, whining with eagerness. Blew his demon-image, I must say.

A few weeks ago, I had to stop in the neighborhood because the car was overheating, needed water. The same young man came over to help me. I asked about Sam, whom I had not seen in several months, fearing that he'd been hit by a car, done in by his enthusiastic tire-biting efforts. The young man said that Sam had died of old age several months ago, and his father had cried like a baby because he loved that dog so much. Sam is buried in their back yard now, and if there's any justice in life and death, he's still chasing cars someplace.


The Toilette of Her Highness

One day I was on the way out the dirt road and when I rounded a curve, I slowed down. It looked like a vulture in the middle of the road, though this thing wasn't consuming road kill. I crept closer, thinking that a vulture would move, but this very large bird either ignored or didn't notice my car approaching.

When I got close enough, I saw that it was a wild turkey-hen taking a dust bath. She was scooping the dust high into the air and fluttering her wings vigorously as it drifted back upon her. She seemed to swim in the dust as she moved from place to place, crouching and ruffling her feathers, shoving her beak forward into small piles of the fine dirt to toss it up. She took a long time to finish her toilette as I waited.

I never thought of turkeys having this barnyard fowl behavior, but then I've never known any turkeys, domestic or wild, very well. Mainly for Thanksgiving dinner, to tell the truth.

She finally completed her bath and stood up. She gave a last body-shiver and walked with dignity to the edge of the road and disappeared into the underbrush.


Fornicating Ducks

Many years ago, Junior, one of the Bumpers mentioned above, married and moved to a farm house on the black-top road, not far from where the dirt road begins. I associate that family with wild and domesticated animals.

Junior was also a fisherman and was always in trouble with the Marine Fisheries folks for violations of marine law, which didn't exist in current profusions when he was growing up. He was not above stealing other folks' fish from their nets or crabs from their pots, either.

He was, in fact, incorrigible. He'd been jailed a couple of times for disobeying fishing regulations--he refused to cull his fish, for one thing. That means he wouldn't throw the undersized fish back in the water to grow bigger: he kept them to either eat or put in holes around his garden plants as fertilizer. Most area people understood: that family generation had gotten started during the Depression years, and he'd learned that you didn't waste anything if you wanted to survive. When he fished with nets, he'd put them in illegal places. He was quite experienced in surviving by his wits.

Junior's fishing boat was once confiscated for a year because he'd been convicted of violating marine fishing law so many times. It should have made him mend his ways: fishing was his livelihood. But he just shrugged and went to work for somebody else on a fishing boat that year.

Eventually the local judges became desperate about Junior. No punishment seemed to affect him. His last punishment for an infraction was set by a frustrated judge who had dealt with a recalcitrant and unrepentant Junior for literally decades.

The sentence: Junior had to go to church every Sunday for a year. Everybody knew he would have preferred to be fishing or hunting and certainly saw no need to go to church.

Area people, knowing that such a punishment would have been thrown out by a higher court, were vastly amused and often gleefully mentioned how well (or poorly) Junior was doing in church. He didn't know the words to any of the hymns. He could hardly sit still during the sermons, glared and frowned at people all around him. He hated Sunday clothes and sometimes wore his rubber fishing boots (often called "river Rebocks" in this area) as an accompaniment to a wide-lapelled and baggy suit that must have been his grandfather's. He rudely farted, burped, blew his nose, did all manner of things intended to annoy the pious. But he stuck it out, only to go about his nefarious fishing shenanigans once again when his sentence was over. He was either incarcerated, being punished, or on probation nearly all of his adult life.

Junior also had feuds with people and always carried a gun, often fired it, but never killed anybody. There was a stop sign where his road entered the main dirt road. Every single year of my childhood it was pocked with shotgun blasts, and usually the pole to which the sign was attached was leaning one way or another. It looked like a truck had run into it, just for fun.

He was a devious cuss. A lumber company owns much of the local wooded land to harvest from time to time. Every autumn, the land is posted with frequent signs: "No trespassing. No hunting. Violators will be prosecuted." The woods still teem with deer and wild turkeys, as well as bears and other wildlife.

Junior was never one to be swayed by such warnings.

He would watch the road during hunting season, and if he saw non-local hunters enter the road, he'd get in his truck and follow them. When they stopped, he'd get out and advise them that he had permission from the lumber company to hunt on their land (he didn't--he was specifically warned that the signs applied to him), claiming special privilege and swearing that nobody else was allowed to hunt there. He'd talk the hapless hunters into being his "lawful guests" if they'd each pay him $100.00 a day.

Junior pocketed a fair amount of money this way, though he was convicted several times of trespassing and illegally hunting, while his indignant and bewildered "guests", who were also hauled into court when caught with him, protested loudly that he'd lied to them, that they'd paid him so they could go too, and weren't to blame for believing him. He could be very convincing. They were usually given warnings, chastized, and sent home.

Well, to balance the picture, Junior was not all bad, not by any means. He was fearless of storms in a boat. One year my cousin's husband's boat went down in the Pamlico Sound when an unexpected storm came up. He and another man were sure they were going to die when the boat capsized and sank. It was a terrible storm. They'd radioed an SOS to the Coast Guard as they were going down, but the Coast Guard thought it was too dangerous to send anybody else out after one rescue cutter had been nearly swamped during their efforts to reach the two men. Junior didn't think so. He also heard the SOS, and went out to get them. He found them clinging to two feet of mast, still holding on in spite of the wind. He saved their lives.

I heard somebody say later, "Yeah, Junior will save your life and then steal the drawers right off your butt when you're not looking."

As Junior got older and steadily poorer from all the fines he paid for violations of human laws, he took to other, less-costly ways of procuring food and income.

One year, he and his wife were given several white domestic ducks. They let the ducks run loose and fed them faithfully in anticipation of butchering them for food from time to time. They knew how to increase their flock: wild ducks are attracted to the noise of domestic ducks and will often join them to feed and socialize and mate if they are out in the open.

After a few years, they had quite a large flock, a mixture of breeds. The majority looked like mallards or black ducks of varying sizes and some odd color combinations. There were some geese mixed in the flock, too.

Most of the time, you'd see the ducks and geese in a field that was across the road from Junior's house. But a couple of springs ago, they were all over the blacktop road itself in March. Maybe the road was attractive because it was warmer from the sun's heat than the earth.

At any rate, every day for a couple of weeks, there were literally hundreds of frenzied, mating ducks in the middle of the warm road, honking and quacking, making an awful din, males rushing females and mounting them, fornicating like mad, totally oblivious to everything. You could pass right over those mating honking ducks and they didn't even notice your car.

I didn't want to kill the ducks when they were so earnestly participating in that particular life-activity, as funny as it was. So I drove slowly and carefully, laughing at such exuberance and the hilarious sound of their quacking.

Others were not so tolerant or careful though. I overheard a man in the general store bitterly complaining: "That Junior and them damned ducks, screwing all over the road! If he wants 'em to stay safe, he oughta' build a pen for 'em. We had duck soup last night because I killed two of 'em trying to get through the other day. Took 'em home, my wife dressed 'em, and we ate 'em. Junior don't want his ducks in my pot, he'd better keep 'em off the road."

Junior died not long ago, having lived a quite colorful life somewhat disturbing to others. And a hero to part of my family.


Pronking Fawns

I brought the boys to this place every summer of their youth, as I had come in mine. It was a ten-hour drive from New Jersey, and sometimes we arrived after dark, depending on when we started out and what kinds of stops we made during the day.

At that time I was not aware of how frequently deer run in front of cars on the road.

This particular year, we were about 20 miles away on a very dark road. There were no homes in sight, no lights, certainly no street lights.

Suddenly a doe appeared from out of the woods, nearly running into the back fender of the car. The boys shouted with surprise and I stopped. She ran around to the front of the car, a VW bug, bounding silently. And from out of the woods came two very small speckled fawns, also leaping, following her. They bounced as though suspended from rubber bands, pronking stiff-legged, back and forth over the hood of the car, probably confused by the headlights. We all sat there in the darkness after I turned them off. We listened to the doe and the fawns jumping for a few minutes, though they never hit the car. Eventually all three of them moved on into the woods on the other side.


Idaho Echo

My first year out of college was spent in Challis, Idaho, a small town high in the Rockies, where I taught music and high school English. Just to the west, there was the then-wilderness area of the Sawtooth Mountains that I loved, unmapped, though certainly not unexplored by locals or adventurous people who would come in from the outside.

I tried to go out into that area as long as the jeep trails were passable, before heavy winter set in and in the following spring.

I learned to watch for avalanches from the mountains (the tops were white all year round, and there were some high passes blocked by snow even in July).

Rock-slides could occur with no warning if you were on the northern side of a mountain. The southern sides of the mountains were more verdant and had fewer rock or snow-slides-vegetation grew better with more light. You could face west, and to your right, the southern side of the mountains was green with spruce and other evergreens. To the left though, the northern side of the mountains was often bare, almost desert-like, blotched with old copper mine castings. People gave directions by the sun: "Go east for two miles beyond that mountain, and then turn south." Left and right had no meaning in that place, probably because mountain roads twist and turn so much. The unfailing sun was a much more reliable fix on direction.

When it was warm enough to rain instead of snow, desert-flowers that survived in the cold winters would burst into bloom, though it lasted for only a day or two. People rushed to the northern sides of the mountains after rain to just see them.

Many people gathered the rolling sagebrush in the fall, uprooted and dry, to put on their porches or inside and decorate later with Christmas lights.

One day I was driving a borrowed jeep in town and passed one of the two small grocery stores. The bread man had just arrived in his truck and was unloading flats of bread-loaves, stacking them on top of each other so he could carry them inside.

As he turned to take another flat from the truck, a small dog walked by, paused, and then trotted over to the stacked bread. He lifted his leg and peed all over that bread. Unable to stop, I drove on.

The cattlemen and the sheepmen were in full feud while I was there. They hated each other and often exchanged gunfire: pasture land was the prize. Neither cattle nor sheep were penned and roamed free all year long. The two groups could not get along at all. The sheep were more annoying, in my experience: I was caught several times on the highway south of Challis by herds of milling sheep, packed so close that all you could do was sit in the car for an hour until they were driven on by the sheepherders.

That year the May queen in the town where I taught nearly missed the May Dance. She and her brothers had accompanied their dad on horses as they drove their cattle into the higher mountain valleys for the summer. She made it to the dance, where I was a chaperone, about a hour late, with her proud boyfriend. She was beautiful in a long gown and with her hair shining, but she whispered to me, really embarrassed: "I smell like a horse." I assured her that she didn't.

I once went for a drive into the back roads and had to turn around and come back home because the entire road was buried in rock. The mountain side just above the rock and dirt on the road was scarred and pale in the afternoon sunlight where the mountain had sheared off.

I visited several ghost towns, copper mining camps that were abandoned when there was nothing left to mine. The huts were still standing, and the walls were covered with newspapers giving news of the first World War. Once I was startled by a thumping sound under the floorboards of one hut. When I went outside, a fat woodchuck came out of a hole that disappeared under the building to investigate what was going on. He quickly fled back under the hut when he saw me.

Hunting was the most pleasurable male (and sometimes female) past-time for those mountain-folks. Another teacher and I went on one of the day-long jaunts that I loved so much and stopped when we came upon a breath-taking view of the mountains, waves of them stretching to the north.

Suddenly remembering what I'd read and known about echoes, I told Joline that I was going to listen to an echo that would surely be out of this world. (It seemed that we'd left the world because we were so far from any other humans.)

And so at the top of that mountain, I called, "Hello…. Hello… Is anybody there?" And sure enough, my echo came rolling back: "ello…ello…ere?"

And then another voice, male and angry, called from somewhere: "Shut the hell up, wherever you are. You just scared my damned elk away!" A hunter whose day I probably ruined.


By the Dumpster

One summer when my friend, Carole, came for a visit, we stayed busy the entire week. For such an isolated place, there is plenty to do if you like the outdoors. She'd brought her boat, which was a cross between a canoe and a kayak. We spent many hours on the water. My son, David, had also come for a visit a few days after she arrived, so their visits overlapped. I had to work a couple of days that week, so the two of them explored all the waterways within miles of here in her boat, which David thought was incredibly neat.

When I was here one day, Carole and I decided to go to the wildlife reserve not too far away at Lake Mattamuskeet, while Dave went fishing. It's also a bird sanctuary, so we thought there would be plenty to see.

Just as we were leaving, I remembered to take the trash so I could put it in the dumpster where the black-top met the highway on our way out. When we arrived, I told her to just stay in the car and I'd toss the trash into the bin.

I had just tossed the third garbage bag into the very tall dumpster when I was startled by a large canine head that poked around the side of the bin. As I do with most dogs, I conversed with it:

"Hoo, boy! You scared me. I know why you're here. You smell all this garbage. Shoo! Go home and get some food there."

I finished tossing two other garbage bags into the bin, watched by strange yellow eyes and a body that was standing chest-high in weeds. Just before I turned to go back to the car, I flapped my hands and said, "Shoo! Go on back home." An obedient turn of the head, and we both parted ways.

As I got into the car, Carole said, "Who were you talking to? A cat?"

"Nah," I said. "A big old black dog. Really weird yellow eyes."

We pulled out onto the highway, and suddenly Carole said, "Anne! Is THAT what you were talking to?" She was pointing to the soybean field to our right.

A rather large black bear was loping along parallel to us in the field, and I recognized it then.

"Oh, Good Lord!" I said. "I was talking to a bear."

She burst into laughter.

That taught me: never make assumptions about anything that you see; it might not be what you think!

We saw another bear that day when we were on the highway several miles away, a small one. It had come to the edge of the road and was standing on its hind feet, peering at something on the other side. It dropped to all fours as we approached and ambled off into the woods.


Other Bear Sightings

Black bears are pretty common in this area, though they aren't seen often because they really are shy of humans. Parts of the woods are brambled with blackberries and blueberries that have grown wild, and the bears love them.

I've seen several on the dirt road, as have my neighbors.

The two guys who live next door told me about a spring day when they drove out in their truck to go to the store.

They said that not far down the road a female bear ran across in front of them, so they slowed down. She was immediately followed by two very small cubs. There are deep drainage ditches about three feet wide on each side of the road.

The cubs made it past the first ditch but got stuck in the second ditch, trying to follow their mother. The two guys stopped. They said those cubs were scrambling like crazy, bawling and struggling, thrashing around in that ditch-water. They could hear the female still going, crashing through the bushes and getting farther and farther away.

They carry a gun in the truck all the time, as do most area people, so one of them held the gun in case an enraged mama bear returned. The other one got out of the truck and gave the floundering cubs a boost out of the water and pointed them in the direction that their mother had taken. They said that they waited until they couldn't hear the cubs bawling any more, pretty sure they'd find mama.

Ditches and bears. Just last year I was on my way out early one morning and passed a bear cub sitting in a water-filled ditch, probably cooling off--it was already hot and humid. It looked very small and lonely sitting there, but I'm sure its mother was closeby. I didn't stop but drove on with a lighter heart.

But one day on the way home, I HAD to stop. There was a huge male, probably a six-hundred pounder, smack dab in the middle of the dirt road. He sat there like a massive dog. When he spotted the car, he didn't run but instead rose to his hind legs and lurched several steps toward me. He peered at the car for several minutes and finally dropped to all fours to casually stroll off into the woods.

Lotsa' bears around. Sometimes in the spring you can see the females up in trees with a cub or two just below them.