The chickaree, or Douglas Squirrel, is a year-round resident in the Pacific Northwest. Smaller than most squirrels, it has huge beady eyes, gray fur, a reddish-gray belly, and a short stubby tail. It is typically found in evergreen forests, often simultaneously shucking Douglas-fir cones into its fur-lined cheeks and into big piles on the ground below. And, of course, watching and waiting for poor, unsuspecting naturalists or outdoorsy-type folks to wander past just so that it can emit its terrible cry and take its revenge on humans for all that we've done to its home. The chickaree. Just writing about it causes my muscles to tense and my face to grimace. I can hear the sound playing in my head, over and over like a broken record, as one barks from its post, stubby little tail punctuating each shrill emission. If animals really are helpless against humans, then this creature is truly the great equalizer, for there is no way to stop it. Much like the dreaded Energizer Bunny, it keeps shrieking and shrieking and shrieking. The only recourse is to run away, and even then one has to run rather far before the sound is out of earshot.
What was the Creator thinking when inventing this pint-sized pipsqueak? It's like the younger sibling that never leaves you alone, or the screen door that just won't stop flapping on a windy day. They're not like other squirrels. They don't just make a loud chitter and a few barks like the gray, red, or kaibab squirrels. Unlike those species, which have Attention Deficit Disorder in comparison to these squirrels and will shortly forget about you once you leave, the chickaree just doesn't quit. You would think that they would have better things to do, that they would run out of air or come down with the squirrel equivalent of laryngitis, but no! It's like their sole purpose is to endlessly nag you. Eating? Forget it--taking 20 minutes to scold you is much more worthwhile and productive.
I have dealt with this scenario time after time during my life in the Pacific Northwest. Several years ago I was studying to be a naturalist, with an emphasis on indigenous survival skills and awareness. As part of my study, in addition to having taken numerous primitive skills workshops, I was enrolled in a year-long correspondence/mentorship program which incorporated all of these aspects. Ethnobotany, tracking, understanding bird language, and survival skills were taught, as were the art of stalking, camouflage, and moving through the woods unseen. Each week I would be out and about in the woods, observing, practicing, and studying. Things would be nice, peaceful, and serene, until all of a sudden, from out of nowhere came the dreaded holler: squawk, shriek, yelp, chirp (multiplied by 96, on a good day). Surely, I thought, there had to be some way to stop them!
This happened every time I went out into the woods, and every time it was all I could do to keep from picking up the nearest stick or rock and chucking it towards this foul-tempered beast, fantasizing about a direct hit and shutting one up once and for all. To me, other creatures of the forest were reasonable; they'd sound their alarm for a short amount of time, and soon go back to their business after I passed. Not the chickaree. At this point, I was determined to master the art of invisibility in the woods if only to never have to hear that high, piercing sound again. Forget being able to sneak up on other people, forget being able to eventually come up upon a more elusive creature like a bobcat, forget being like one of the ancient scouts; the thought of never having to hear that sound again was motivation enough for me.
I practiced and practiced and practiced. Getting past the birds was comparatively easy. If I made a mistake practicing, my ears wouldn't suffer for very long, so I could spend more time working with them. Gradually, I learned what made them nervous and anxious. I learned how to move, how to hold my body, and how to balance my mind so as not to cause them to stir, or eventually even notice that I was there at all. During this period, I also became more acquainted with the chickaree; I learned where they liked to hang out, what caught their attention, what threatened them. Unlike birds of the thicket, which have a relatively small territory and serve as the primary alarm system for ground-dwelling animals, the chickarees spend more time in the trees and keep watch over a larger area. Even if one is at somewhat of a distance they'll give off the alarm, so one must be observant of a greater area than is necessary for most birds. As I became more familiar with the habits of the birds, I carried my skills over to the chickaree, and gradually became more and more successful, eventually mastering the skills necessary to prevent further suffering and torture by the vocal chords of this furry behemoth.
The year came and went, and I completed the course. I met with my mentor, who read through all of the notes and journal entries I had written over the past year. He commented here and there, noting things that stood out to him in my accomplishments. When he was finished reading, he made a remark about my "medicine teacher." I knew that a medicine teacher was one who passed on a special and powerful gift to a student, but I asked him to clarify exactly what he meant. As you probably guessed, he was referring to my old buddy, the chickaree.
I was stuck! Here I despised this creature, cringed at even the thought of one, and now I had to acknowledge how valuable and important it was to my growth? I told him how much this animal had driven me crazy, how I had wished that even for a second I could get my hands on one and scream "vengeance is mine" right into its face over and over again until it was deaf, and now I was supposed to honor it! Never! "Well," he said, "Look at how much it taught you. This squirrel initiated you into the woods and the world of the scout. It taught you how to move invisibly, unnoticed. It helped you learn to balance your mind under unpleasant circumstances. It encouraged you to persist in your practice, and to respect the homes and territories of all forms of life. Without it, you may never have learned these skills." It was true, of course. I had no retaliation, no choice but to recognize how a seemingly adversarial being had ultimately contributed to my growth and development in a special and unique way. I was humbled. Ultimately, I couldn't fault this being, because it really had given me a precious gift. In a very roundabout way, it had served as my "hidden mentor."
Today, years later, I still admit that even the thought of the chickaree isn't exactly a soothing one. When I go into the woods with friends, I am reminded of the consequences when people move too loudly or too quickly, previously unaware of this hidden menace lurking in the trees, biding its time, watching, waiting. Yet, now I also must laugh, recognizing the abundance of irony found in nature and how the earth teaches and shares her secrets in mysterious ways for those with the patience to listen. Who ever said that the Great Spirit doesn't have a good sense of humor?
David Franklin is a professional Life Coach, writer, and teacher who works with people interested in personal growth and development, spirituality, and living their vision. He is currently working on a book about Environmental Psychology. For more information, visit http://www.NautilusLifeCoaching.com , or call David at (360) 867-1933.
©2001* Talking Leaves
Spring/Summer 2001
Volume 11, Number 1
Tools for Sustainability/Eco-Humor