Wildlings tell their own stories

“There are a million stories in the naked city.” Truer words were never spoken than those in the 1948 Academy Award-winning movie, “The Naked City.”
The city in question was, of course, New York City. While I agree with the reference to New York, I would have to say that in my mind there are far more than a million stories told in the wild outdoors wherever one roams.
When it comes to seeing or touching something that brings on a million stories, I also can’t help but think of the late, great improvisational comedian Jonathan Winters who could look at any object and tell a hilarious story about it.
This thought of Winters popped into my head the other day as I listened to tales being told by fellow outdoorsmen who swore they were, without a doubt, 100% true.
Myself, being an upright moral being, unable to tell an outright lie about anything concerning my exploits in the outdoors, knew they were exaggerating, while knowing that my own tales are irrefutably true.
I may, from time to time, inject a little humor into the stories I tell while in the company of characters whose character is suspected to be, or is factually known to be, shady if not outright outrageous, but I never tell an outright lie. Just ask me and I’ll swear to that statement on my honor — such as it is.
Now, you won’t find much of any comedic value in my stories—since they are all factual and true. As everyone knows, I opt to relate my experiences with nothing but the truth and the whole truth contained within.
That said, as I walk through the forest several times every week, I look all around seeking to find something worthy of writing a complete thesis about it, or at least a term paper of some substance.
On my walks during the last few weeks I asked myself the eternal question, what in blue blazes does one look for that would be worth the time and effort of putting it on paper?
Could it be a gnarled and twisted remainder of a tree trunk long fallen? What made it fall? Was it a tornado, an ambitious beaver or perhaps simply old age? I contemplated working up something on gnarled and twisted trees for this treatise, but without the sharp wit and improvisational skills of Jonathon Winters I came up with a blank.
Then, as I walked slowly along the shores of a long-favored lake of mine, I realized that there are thousands of stories in the forest just waiting to be told.
They might not be worthy of an A-plus on a term paper, but all are, and long have been, meaningful to me.
Take for instance, the feathers and other remains of a wild turkey I found that met its maker on a recent day. What kind of critter slew that magnificent bird? Tracks were scant, but the few still showing in crusty snow looked like those of a coyote.
What story could be told by the path of strewn feathers, the foot-long end of a wing torn from the turkey’s body, or the still visible path of blood drops leading into the surrounding woods?
It would be the age old story of the wild, one species relying on another for food and survival. It would be the story of the predator being successful, maybe after several other unproductive attempts.
Whatever the full story was, it was just another story of survival of the fittest that the wilds all over the world tell on a daily basis.
Along a hiker’s path the woods can tell many other stories. The human interloper can stop for a few moments simply to watch chickadees flit from branch to branch.
A human may wonder how such a tiny, fragile looking little creature can survive all the rigors of winter Mother Nature can throw at it. How does it know what seeds it can eat and how to find them? How does it keep warm on nights when the temperature sinks far below zero?
This wanderer of the woods has watched chickadees and their fellow feathered friends for many, many decades, and there is still wonder and appreciation of their abilities to survive where, given the same circumstances, a human would never live a fortnight.
Be it red, gray and black squirrels, deer, ruffed grouse or any other wildling of the forest, this spectator of the wild is forever amazed by what they do to live in an environment that can be harsh and cruel to the strongest of them all.
Tracks, sounds and sights in the forest all tell their stories. I like nothing better than to wander through their “home,” listening to all the stories they have to tell.
Would it only be that I could tell their stories as well as they do.