Animal Talk

Animal Talk

“Where did our greatest snake experience happen?” I call out to Dane. We’re trudging around Sidie Hollow, the morning sun beating down on our backs. Dane’s got Téte and Ruben’s leashes; I’m lollygagging behind with Finnegan.

We’ve just come up the small hill to the dam where there’s no shade. I’m behind because Finnegan, all 13 pounds of him, pulled me off the trail and toward the water. In he plopped, sat down, then lay down with a look that said, “I need a break!” By the time he was ready to continue, Dane and the big dogs were almost to the top of the dam.

“Washington Island,” Dane yells back, “at that one hotel.”

“There had to be a hundred snakes!” I holler.

“At least,” Dane says.

Not everyone has the opportunity or ability to get off the beaten path. At times, because of his heart challenges or my hip problems, Dane and I have been unable to explore as far as we’d like. Today, though, we’re taking advantage of our relatively good health.

I’m overheating, but Finn is cooled off and skipping along when I ask, “Where did we have the best-ever blue jay experience?

“That’s easy: Rock Island.”

“What about the best indigo bunting experience?”

“Devil’s Lake.”

“Okay, best eagle experience,” I say, as we push on into the woods, where the temperature drops ten degrees in an instant.

“Minnesota.”

This is a new game we’re playing. Even when we can’t remember shared experiences, we’re in tune when we talk in animals: sightings between his house and mine, or whenever we’re driving, vacationing, bicycling, hiking, or sitting in the backyard.

Once, as we walked on a Washington Island beach after Sunday brunch, there were so many water snakes that the shoreline itself appeared to be moving! From what we gathered, this was a fluke. The snakes had only appeared that weekend. Lucky us!

Years ago, when camping on Rock Island, we took our favorite trail between campsites 21 and 23 that leads out along a narrow peninsula. Near a particular tree, there was a deafening chorus of squawks, and hundreds of blue jays flew out of it. As we stood and watched, they settled back into the tree, only to rush out again when we tried to take another step. Eventually we let them have their peace and retreated to our campsite.

Soon after the devastating floods of 2018, we went to Devil’s Lake. It was a mess, with pools of water everywhere and big fish struggling, stranded in small shallows caused by the flooding.

Suddenly, the sky filled with indigo buntings! They must have been migrating. It was a welcomed sight in contrast to the depressing flood damage.

We often see eagles, but we saw about 20 at once on a drive along the Mississippi River. Dane hit the brakes as I leaned forward and started counting.

Picking our way today through the wooded area, still playing this game, I think of how crucial our walks are. Nature has been an integral part of our relationship. We relish our animal encounters—best when shared.

“Where were we when we had the best ever monarch experience?” I ask.

“Rock Island, the same year we saw all the blue jays.”

We’d just gotten off the Karfi, which brought us over from Washington Island, and were dismayed to see children catching monarchs with butterfly nets. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they were studying and releasing the butterflies, but they were putting them in jars. Our hearts sank.

The minute we started hiking to our campsite, though, we rejoiced. Hundreds of monarchs! Everywhere we looked. It seemed surreal. Later, I was able to have a quiet conversation with two of the moms whose kids were collecting monarchs.

Dane suddenly raises his hand, meaning shush. I slow down and he whispers, “There’s the blue heron again.” We’ve already seen two on this trip around Side Hollow, and this one hasn’t moved. We’d love to see it catch a fish. We’ve also spied seven painted turtles sunning themselves on logs in our two miles around the lake.

Later, as we drive home, the game continues with fox, turtle, beaver, otter, bear, and so on. I decide I should write these experiences down before we forget them. The other day, when Dane couldn’t remember a trip we’d taken, I teased, “Why do we even do anything? You never remember.”

But when it comes to our animal experiences, we both remember!

We know we can’t predict the next wildlife encounter that will get our adrenaline pumping. We can’t take those moments—or our health—for granted. But soon, we’ll be married and have the rest of our lives to explore and talk animals with each other.