Eric Frydenlund
We live on the edge of nature. Our house in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin, sits in a coulee of the Mississippi Valley, its foundation tucked into the base of the Mississippi River bluffs. All manner of wildlife encroaches on our yard and daily lives. Not long ago, a bobcat sauntered past our back window, nonchalantly glancing at us through the glass as if window shopping.
My wife has a trail camera by which we can track the movements of deer, coyotes and also two bobcats that have a den nearby. Moles tunnel their way through our backyard, constructing a subterranean subway system with numerous metro stations in our yard.
On some nights, coyotes can be heard howling their territorial rights, a forlorn sound that echoes throughout the valley and through my body. Our dog Gil barks a reply while a tingling sensation shuttles its way to my core. The bark and the tingle have a common origin in our evolutionary past.
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Living on the edge of the woods allows nature to puncture that imaginary boundary and impact our lives in ways we cannot imagine. We are, after all, sons and daughters of nature. Our family tree extends far back in evolution and explains our basic instincts -- made manifest in tingles and trembles. We are shaped by our instincts but not beholden to follow them.
The common expression “survival of the fittest” has been used to justify our most abhorrent behavior in warfare, politics and society. Yet the expression, coined by philosopher Herbert Spencer, was not meant simply to describe our capacity to defeat an enemy, but rather our ability to adapt to our environment.
Despite our longevity as a species, humanity has not adapted well. A long list of physical and verbal violence against our perceived enemies displays our inclination to ride our emotions rather than our intellect to confront problems, all of which complicates our chances of survival.
Character matters in both nature and humanity. Author Rick McIntyre describes the social interactions of wolves, reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park during the 1990s, in his book “The Rise of Wolf 8.” He chronicles the survival of wolf packs through the sharing of hunting and pup rearing duties by its members.
“For most predator species," he writes, "the normal behavior for a new male would be to kill the young of the prior male, breed the female, then help raise the young he sired ... . In all cases I later witnessed, new alpha males helped raise the pups born to the previous male.”
To be sure, wolves do exhibit what we might consider abhorrent behavior. Yet in thousands of hours of observation, McIntyre describes a sociability and cooperation among members that we humans can emulate.
“Nearly everyone knows of a family with a big male dog who is gentle with toddlers and young children, even when they tug on the dog’s ears and tail," he writes. "That tolerance, along with the dogs’ desire to play with kids and protect them, comes directly from their wolf ancestors.”
For us, that big male dog is Gil. Our golden retriever, blessed with a golden personality and depth of character, teaches me tolerance and other virtues on a daily basis. In his sincere eyes we find honesty -- though on occasion he might trick you into thinking he’s going to give back the stick you threw. And when he places his head in our laps, we find unconditional loyalty.
As humans, we learn from our encounters with nature in all its forms. We feel the tingle of fear from predators. We experience joy from our animal companions. We sense anger from our human adversaries.
We can learn from these experiences to project our best selves, a nurturing self as deeply rooted in us as any emotion. We answer a fundamental question with our response: Do we surrender to our baser instincts, or do we use our intelligence and self-awareness -- unique to the human species -- to rise above our predatory ancestors?
We all live on the edge of nature -- with the capacity to decide which qualities we gather from that relationship. The answer can be found somewhere beyond the tingle and the bark.
