Wild America

Right now, I'm typing with a blister on the tip of my index finger, one that makes it look as though I have started mutating, Gremlins style. What actually happened is that I was making ice cream and, while carmelizing, touched the silicone spatula. The sugar practically melted onto my finger and it took a few seconds to get it off. I've been reading various internet remedies about blister-care, and each one says something different -- pop it. Don't pop it. Bandaid it. Ice it. Pop it and squeeze! So I've taken the only possible course of action in situations like these and done nothing.

Between "blister" "remedy" "how to treat" "finger" searches, I have been hiking and beaching. Mostly hiking, although I know of no better way to celebrate independence than to be crowded onto a beach with thousands of other people (and their dogs). Our dog obsessively chased her cat-sized rubber balls up and down the beach until she physically could not stand, an activity which is nil at all other locations and times, and let children touch her. CHILDREN! (aka, those who must be growled at.) Even this daft kid who was trying to squash her with his fists -- no bitey, no growly, just a ducked tail and sheer panic in Tanya's eyes. I see this as Russ and my good influence on her, although when confronted with a feral batch of kittens in the backyard yesterday, she actually caught one (with her teeth) and didn't let go until I screamed and our neighbors came flying out of their house, probably wondering whether I was, in some way, finally losing it.

On Sunday afternoons, back in the day, my sister and I would complain that there was nothing on TV and my dad would roll his eyes and tell us to go outside. After we'd hem or haw that it was too hot, too cold, we were too tired, there was nothing to do - the basic arsenal of responses - he would usually click around and land on old reruns of Marty Stouffer's Wild America. Even as a nine-year old, I knew it was in the super cheesy category, but I still dug the close-ups, the freeze frames, and especially the slow-motion action shots of exotic and not so exotic animals. I took bike rides and walked my dog for miles around our neighborhood, hoping to see something more exotic than a cardinal or Cubs fan, but there was nothing even minimally interesting about wild life in Aurora.

Now I live in the foothills of the San Gabriels, the gateway into the Angeles National Forest. And that's where I hike, in Monrovia Canyon and Chantry Flats and every time I set off, I always come across unexpected forms of nature -- the other night, while exiting the canyon, a huge coyote ran across my path and I watched him run until he disappeared behind a hill. Yesterday, Russ and I watched dolphins showing off right beyond the wake, jumping and splashing in criss-crossed aerial dances. You can't go very far in the canyons without seeing baby rattlesnakes these days (or standing adjacent to them, as Christina did) or deer grazing lazily on the slopes. A few years ago, I saw a bobcat and watched her run across a meadow in short, graceful bounds. And then, there are the animals right in my backyard -- the parrots that hang out in the persimmon trees and squawk at dusk; the neighborhood skunk that hides behind our daylilies; all manner of feral kitten; and the bats, which are my favorite to watch, soaring in their erratic flight patterns and letting out high-pitched exclamations from time to time. I love throwing pebbles up into the air and watching them descend upon it within seconds.

So I'm trying not to fault Tanya for embracing her wild side, which necessitates chasing and biting kittens. I'll keep embracing my own, too, including such daring feats as going toe-to-toe with snakes, but keeping my fingers off hot carmelized sugar.