Right-Brain/Left-Brain

 

 

Red squirrels get a bad rap. But I’ll admit their reputation is somewhat justifiable. They steal seed from bird feeders, ransack garden sheds, invade garages and bully grey squirrels. I’ve also noticed they get kind of mouthy during deer season, pealing off shrieks of staccato chirps while I try to sit quietly waiting for deer. I can only imagine how many times they’ve blown my cover. They’re the whitetail’s narc.

 

But that’s just human perspective. For me, if the hunting day starts to drag after staring at the same landscape for hours on end, I can count on red squirrels for a pick-me-up.

 

Red squirrels are robust little eaters, especially regarding picnic-style nutrition. I watched one buzz through a pinecone like it was corn on the cob. Particles flew everywhere, pinecone shrapnel sprayed as if from a wood chipper. When the squirrel reached the far end, it sped back to the front end like returning an old-fashioned typewriter carriage.

 

During another sit, I caught sight of two red squirrels who got sideways with each other on a tree branch about fifteen feet up. They squabbled and slapped each other silly until they lost their grip and free-fell to the ground. Their bodies hit milli-seconds apart with two compact thuds. It knocked the wind out of me just watching it. I thought they’d be injured or dead. But neither broke stride and they chased each other over a log and up another tree.

 

When a day gets slow, every deer hunter has their own repertoire for passing time. I have a close friend who’s a wildlife biologist and seemingly a left-brained thinker. I’m fascinated with how his scientific mind works, especially regarding tedium. He also has a thing for databases. However, not all are exclusively for wildlife analysis. His level of sophistication encompasses spreadsheets for wines, cigars and Wisconsin supper clubs.

 

Having devoted most of his life to studying the natural world, his go-to resources for biding time in the woods are everywhere. He often deer hunts from a ground blind and sometimes he’ll text me photographs from his “classroom in a hut.” At the end of a hunting day we compare notes. Last fall he found two different aspen leaves on the ground, quaking and bigtooth. He arranged them on his thigh, snapped a photo and sent me the picture with an explanation.

 

His first response to doldrum opted for physical, scientific observation. My first response leaned toward behavioral potential and concocting a story. I texted him that the excitement of my sit included a couple of red squirrels who showed up at the entry flap to my blind carrying banjos.

 

The differences in our right-brain/left-brain relationship have benefitted me over decades and I take his tips seriously. On my next trip into the woods, I looked for quaking and bigtooth aspen leaves.

 

Arts and sciences aside, we’re on the same page regarding our desire for actual experiences in the outdoors. While nature photographs and documentaries are nice, they’re still virtual. They don’t sit us directly among real wild animals, float aromas of dew-drenched pines and expose us to whatever weather Mother Nature conjures. For both of us, the closer to firsthand experience, the better.

 

Through him—whether he’s aware of it or not—I’ve learned that knowing the names of species is an additional way of encouraging closeness. The bird isn’t just any bird when it’s called a “grouse.” The tree isn’t just another tree when it goes by “aspen.” Species also have names for their parts that makes them unique. “Quaking” aspen leaves differ from “bigtooth” aspen. A grouse has a “crop” where it stores food for later digestion, inside which might be “aspen buds” and “catkins.” Call these by their names and become more intimate with the woods and its inhabitants.

 

My hunting buddy has also stupefied me with physiological insights. For instance, the heartrate of thirteen-lined ground squirrels in hibernation can be as low as two beats per minute. Its respiration is one to three breaths per minute. At those rates, my right-brain would get bored counting so few breaths just for the sake of some science. It’s counterproductive to my woodland entertainment. But his method of teaching sticks with me in a way that classroom instruction sometimes doesn’t.

 

I sat on my hunting bucket for the last day of deer season, no ground blind around me. As soon as I had settled, snow came down in wet flakes. No complaints. Clothing was my shelter for the day. But unlike in my ground blind, I could see in every direction just by turning my head.

 

Without warning, a red squirrel unleashed a scream a few feet behind me above my head. It about knocked my hat forward. I spun and saw it: elbows back, chest thrust forward. Then it looked me straight in the eye and let fly another extended wail just to make sure there was no mistaking who done it.

 

Such was its chutzpah—or maybe curiosity—that it frittered around for hours. I think it was trying to figure me out. At one point, it came in so close I could have touched its nose with the tip of my boot. It froze at my feet. This time, though, I wasn’t interested in a banjo story. This felt like a microscope.

 

When it stood to examine me, I could see “it” was a “him.” His unblemished fur had a tight comb, short and well-trimmed like he’d just come from the stylist. The chestnut-red along his back blended downward into a rusty-grey from his shoulders to his chunky haunches. Maybe he was experiencing some anxiety with my presence. I watched his ribs lift and recede steadily with each breath. And I started counting.