Ruminants
By Caroline Gibbons
This morning, I messaged a friend about the feeling of urgency I had been experiencing. It wasn’t the urgency of an impending threat or upcoming deadline, but an urgency that comes with the realization that I’ll never get to see all of the beautiful things in the world. I don’t have enough time to watch all of the movies that will make me cry or laugh. I can’t have all of the conversations I want to have with the people that I love.
So, after I had finished my necessary tasks for the day, class, homework, chores, I found myself driving to a trailhead in North Boulder to go for a walk, a place and activity I often return to when feeling overwhelmed.
This evening, the side of the hill is covered in dry, yellow grass. Blue grama and buffalo grass are two native species that grow on the hillsides and in the remaining prairie ecosystem. I'm facing north, parallel with the ridge above me. Behind me are views of Boulder’s Flatirons. The trail slopes gently but steadily up. The air feels just a few degrees shy of the temperature that Southern California is pretty much all the time.
My favorite old flannel, with its torn cuff and worn fabric, warms me just enough along with my 10-year-old scarf I got from my yoga teacher. It’s early November, so the sun has already gone down behind the hill, my path fully shaded. I've been a little nervous about how the winter will impact me but so far, prioritizing walks in nature and spending time with friends has proven to be quite an effective balm for managing the impacts of decreasing daylight.
As I walk up the trail, the quiet on the hillside feels different this afternoon. I realize that I am no longer surrounded by the droning lullaby of crickets.
A couple crows fly above me, surpassed in height by a red tailed hawk. The wind is just strong enough so that I can’t hear the whoosh of the crows' wings, but I can hear the dry blades of grass rubbing against each other in the breeze. The faraway hum of the cars travelling into the canyon reaches my ears as well.
For some reason, the quiet stands out to me more than normal. I've heard that when you're in the woods and, all of a sudden, the birds and the squirrels stop their chirping and everything becomes dead silent, it can mean there’s a predator around. I wonder if the birds are silent in anticipation of an attack from above, or if it’s just the time of day when things are at peace.
I turn the corner onto the trail that leads further into the canyon and I see two mule deer browsing quietly. One lifts its head in my direction, as if it hears me. I don’t think it can, and the wind is coming from their direction toward me so it can't smell me either.
As I walk, I wonder how alert these deer are. I wonder if it’s a burden or if they’re so well adapted to the fluctuation between levels of alertness that they are able to have a feeling of peace as they peruse the forage beneath their hooves. For their sake and to ease my own worry for them, I think that they must be so adept at switching from high alert, with ears at attention, back to peaceful grazing that their desire for safety does not feel like a weight to carry. The ease with which their bodies relax and settle after determining that a passing sound is not a threat is something to be envious of.
I sometimes experience levels of fear and vigilance that are disproportionate to level of actual threat in my environment. Sometimes, the remedy is simply to eat something nourishing, a reminder to the body that it is being cared for. Sometimes, and this can be most frustrating, I cannot identify a remedy for the anxiety. In these moments, I try to remind myself that sometimes my brain can act in ways that are not helpful for me.
I wonder if a deer's fear is ever irrational.
As I continue along the gravel path, another deer walks out from behind a clump of dead branches. I try to walk slow and quiet enough so that they know I’m not a threat. I hope I am not disturbing them.
Then, one sees me and stares directly at me. Her ears are tall and wide as I pause. I look around quietly, as if to convey a sense of casualness and to disperse my attention away from her directly. I suppose she determines that I am not a threat because she soon relaxes and returns to her foraging.
As I walk slowly along this trail, I do not have thoughts in my head. At least, not as many as I normally do. My gaze scans slowly around my environment, and I allow it to rest on any object that piques my interest. The gentle sounds wash over my ears. Perhaps this is what an animal experiences, complete presence.
This feeling doesn't last forever though, because, inevitably, a thought becomes needy enough to steal back all of my attention.
The thought suddenly strikes me, what if I were a hunter right now?
I've made my way within what has to be less than 50 yards of these animals, and they're allowing me to be here. Could I take a shot knowing I've deceived this animal into believing she is safe in my presence? Would it be different if I had snuck up on an animal without it sensing me?
Of course, I don’t have a weapon, and I’ve only shot a gun twice in my life.
If I were to scare these animals, even if I know that I mean them no harm, I would feel guilty. It would feel like a gift for both of us to pass by each other quietly, carefully, slowly, and sense enough peace to continue on with what we are doing.
While I have been so careful to not disturb the deer, another hiker suddenly comes into view from around the turn into the canyon. The man walks at a steady pace as he makes his way down the trail. I point toward the deer to alert him to their presence. I watch the deer, who remain totally unfazed, continue to browse as the man gives me a brief smile and passes by.
I think one of the reasons that being in nature brings me so much peace is that I am observing something outside of myself. I get to witness and be a part of a world that is totally detached from my own mental rumination.
Earlier this morning, I felt like I couldn’t go fast enough, can’t read fast enough, can’t say as many words as I want in a limited amount of time. I just ordered ten used books, but I haven’t finished reading the fantasy romance novel that I've been carrying around for months.
On this walk tonight, when I walked past those deer trying to be as quiet and as still as I could, to hear whatever sounds I might be missing, I couldn’t go slow enough. It was like I wanted to stop breathing, even though the sound of my breath was hardly perceptible.
As I turn the corner of the trail, into the forested canyon, it’s time for me to make my presence more known. I kick some rocks, make some silly sounds with my mouth, bang on my water bottle, and let my car keys jingle. Without breaking the silence, other animals might not know I was coming because the wind is still masking my scent, and the sounds of the cars cover the soft crunch of my footsteps.
I wonder if a mountain lion has ever seen me. I imagine it perched up in the trees above me, on guard.
I decide that I'm ready to go home. I turn around and stop to pee before beginning my trot back down the hill. As I'm rounding the corner, the trail opens up to the view of Boulder. I pause suddenly, with a soft intake of breath. The full moon hangs low above the horizon.
Caroline Gibbons is a writer based in Colorado. She draws inspiration from the natural world, the human experience, and the changing relationship between the two. Outside of writing, she enjoys spending time outdoors, songwriting, and playing with her cats, Tulsi and Ollie. Caroline occasionally shares personal essays on her Substack.
