Anna Lives! Breaking Through
Breaking Through the Ice and Wild Boar Snuggles
Anna Lives! If you read my previous post, you are eager to find out how Anna the Hummingbird weathered the ice storm. Well, I am pleased to report that she is not only humming about as usual but is potentially getting busy as well! This morning, I saw her with a male!
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On the way to the privy a few weeks ago, I heard Anna's voice (check out recording), which has a surprising and distinctive squeaky quality. I turned and saw two hummingbirds, one with a flash of iridescent purple (the male), whirring around each other near the base of Anna’s favorite bush. I took a slow step forward, hoping to see more and they were off! At the end of January? Do my eyes deceive? I excitedly texted Audrey, one of my birding mentors, and she confirmed that she has seen similar behavior, and that Anna’s hummingbirds, who do not migrate in the winter, may start their courtships earlier than other birds. I did a shallow dive into hummingbird factology and learned that these hummers live on average for eight years—what!? Compare that to common mice who live on average two years.
Incredible! And, incredible that I saw her flirting! This is the beauty of living ever so slightly closer to nature than the average modern human. If my bathroom were inside my home, I would not have witnessed this exciting development. I relish the way my house necessitates that I be connected to the daily weather, the goings on. Song sparrows are vocalizing again. New green buds appear on Anna’s bush, species still unknown. I am pulled out of myself, out of the matrix. I relish in the receive local downloads. Status update! Scrub jay, incoming!
On that note, I’d like to put in a word for seeking actual human mentorship when it comes to naturalism, whether your area of interest be ornithology, tracking, plants, fungi, etc. Here is one area where machine learning will never replace the human brain. Recently, I was using a birdsong app to help me ID birds as I sat on an old, metal-chained swing set, rocking back and forth as I took in the local soundscape. I looked down at the screen and realized the creaking of the swing had confused the app. ‘Mallard’ had appeared on my list of nearby bird species. When I looked around, not a duck in sight!
The ice is out of the cold plunge tub, and the grief has continued to flow this month. While I often feel like a fermented drink with too many bubbles building inside, I found a sure-fire emotional release valve this month. It goes something like this, and I urge you to give it a try:
Step 1) Gentle sunrise jog
Step 2) Five-minute cold plunge
Step 3) Self-pleasure
Step 4) Binge new season of Queer Eye (or any tear-jerker)
Step 5) Cry eyes out
Step 6) Hydrate and early to bed
I think the combination of physiological input (aerobic exercise, cold challenge, etc.) combined with emotional content is the winning ice cream flavor. Plug and play with this algorithm all you want.
The east coast vs. west coast cultural difference turns out not to be a myth. I often feel so socially dumb here in Oregon, like I’m trying to navigate the world while wearing potholders. I had such an endearing interaction yesterday that made me feel like I was back home. As I skirted around two grey-haired women taking a walk, I wished them a '“good morning!”
“It’s afternoon!” one replied. They noticed my slippers, took in my unbrushed hair, and then laughed good-naturedly, “you just got up!”
“In my defense,” I smiled back, “I’ve been at the hospital all night.” I walked away feeling warm and fuzzy. Normally people on the streets here are more introverted and passive. They don’t honk, and that’s nice I suppose, but they also don’t wave or acknowledge each other regularly. Reflecting later with my friend Jonathon, a Boston ex-pat, we agreed that to be heckled is to be seen. I’ll take it!
Coming up on my one-year anniversary in Oregon, the overwhelming awe and excitement I first felt in the PNW fills dimmer, replaced by a deep homesickness. I miss being seen by those who knew me as a snot-nosed kid, people who know my flaws but also my good intentions. I miss my dog who now lives apart from me, reigning from his doggy bed as my semi-retired parents cater to his every whim. No amount of Vitamin D seems able to overcome my S.A.D. feelings this winter. I feel like I am out on the ice and snow of a wide, unfamiliar lake, trying to find a landmark.
This line of thinking brought back an old childhood memory that I’d long forgotten. I’m at a friend’s house—circa elementary school era—and we are playing driveway soccer. Someone kicks the ball onto the surface of the pond and everybody hesitates. It is spring and the surface has that darkening hue that does not look to guarantee safe passage. I have been physically risk-adverse my whole life, but I look out on the pond and think, uncharacteristically, that’ll hold me! I’ve always felt unsure of my friendship with these girls. This is a chance to be gutsy and maybe cool?
Before anyone can object, I am out on the ice, walking gingerly and then whoosh! Down through the ice I plummet! Freezing water rushes through my clothes, right up through my midsection. Arms out like and awkward bird trying to keep the dry feathers dry, I waddle back through the reeds to shore. Maddie’s mom strips off my wet clothes and puts me in a spare pair of sweats before calling my mom. My cheeks are burning.
I look back and muse this is how children die, risking it all for belonging. But am I any more grown up now?
My metaphorical lake is majestic, and I want to explore, want to track her animals and explore her islands. I’m not stuck on the edge, I’ve already dashed out toward the center, committed my weight with a job contract and apartment lease. But still, I fear this ice may not hold me. This feeling of vulnerability was temporarily assuaged by a well-timed trip to Austin to visit some dear old friends. I love auntie Jess time perhaps more than anything and look at the fun we had when I handed my camera over to the kiddos.
The angles, the candidness, the pedestrian subject matter…I had the same camera in the same environment, yet I know I would have never in a million years taken these photos, and that is precisely why I love them. Give your camera to children, turn a blind eye, and let them run wild. I adore the curve of the cat with toes sticking out, the pic of their mom on her phone, framed by items on her kitchen counter, and the way children are drawn to that ‘meta’ moment—photo on photo. Compare with my own self-conscious photography below.
What is going on with the piggy in the harness, I hear you wondering. Well, my friend Dustin rescued this wild boar, now aptly named ‘River,’ while kayaking near Austin. She was found recently newborn, umbilical cord still attached. She had been separated from her family, stuck at the bottom of a steep embankment at the water’s edge. Her mother had either been shot (it’s open season on invasive wild boars) or given up on recovering her piglet.
Now, not many people would have taken the same as road Dustin. If River were raised at the wildlife rescue and released back to the wild, she would have been highly socialized to tolerated humans and at risk of being killed by a hunter. Knowing this, Dustin has adopted this pig! I dare say that their relationship seems to resemble papa and child more than human and pet. For weeks, Dustin was bottle fed this little piggy through the night.
It’s incredibly touching to witness paternal instinct develop in a friend. “Is this what it’s like having a baby?” a sleep deprived Dustin asked me on the phone before my arrival.
“I think human babies actually sleep more and are less mobile.”
This pig is precocious. River roots in the dirt (or blankets and cushions) basically nonstop. She tries to nibble on shoes and laces but doesn’t have the same, ripping teeth as a puppy. Sometimes, if you try to snuggle her, she performs rooting ‘reps’ into the palm of your hand, pushing again and again with the top of her surprisingly soft snout as if to uncover grubs you might be hiding. When she’s hungry, she grunts and oinks at the top of her lungs until you pour her a bowl of milk. When she gets the zoomies, there is no stopping her. I can’t read her moods as well as I can with a canine, but there is no mistaking the glee of her wagging tail.
Dustin and I decided to take the piggy camping on the Pedernales River. Checking into the campground, my breath caught as the ranger asked if we had brought any animals? Surely, we would be turned away. “I actually have a pig,” Dustin offered.
“Two people, one pig,” droned the ranger, unblinking. Well, that was bizarre, but we were in!
After a long day of exploring outside, River finally settled down in my lap. I had sunk into a saggy camp chair close to the fire and had scooped River up onto my lap. After an initial struggle she quieted down and found a hollow between my thighs where she could rest, relaxing her snout forward onto my knees. I dared not move, but lightly stroked her soft, hairy neck as she rested for an hour. I felt as relaxed as she seemed. These were the snuggles I had been craving.
Is the moral of the story that when life gives you a wild boar, build a pigpen? Hard to say, knowing that this little piggy may eventually be two hundred pounds. Dustin reflected to me many times over the week that River has been such a blessing. Everywhere he goes, friends and strangers alike light up when they see her: "look, I told you that was a pig!” bystanders exclaim to each other. It’s almost a human universal, the delight in connecting with animals, especially those in that liminal territory between wild and domesticated.
Dustin does seem to be a bit concerned that he might get mired in a muddy hollow of round-the-clock pig care just as I fear I may have charged out onto the ice a bit haphazardly. But what can you do but roll with it?
I began this post in the time of Imbolc, and ancient Celtic holiday honoring Brigid, an amorphous goddess of fire, milk, fertility, and new life. Indeed, it’s been a time of grieving, letting go, and clearing out the cobwebs in anticipation of spring. And I can say for certain that there have been many more bowls of milk this month than I was expecting. The ice is thawing. My internal season shifts slowly. I’ll have another update headed your way before long. I look forward to sharing that spring enthusiasm and vibrancy as she gets her tendrils in me.
Jess’ Favorites Post-Script:
Toni Morrison: The Pieces I Am ~ Documentary on the life and writing of the Nobel Prize winning author. Too moving for me to put into words—maybe you should take in some of hers…
‘The Sunday Story: The Gun Machine’ from NPR ~ How did guns become so tied with American identity and industry? The answer might surprise you
Ancient Earth Skills with Len Mackey ~ Nature connection teacher and kooky friend truly living the lifestyle in upstate New York has released some fabulous courses recently
Merlin app ~ Remember Shazam? It’s like Shazam for bird songs and calls
Vegan chocolate pudding with frozen cherries ~ Just try it and tell me I’m wrong
My badass friend Sarah Kunz surviving in Tobago on Naked and Afraid
Writing from Kaia Maeve ~ mother of the young photographers featured above
Miss Piggy a.k.a. River the wild boar rescue a.k.a. @piggystardust is on TikTok
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