Camp Meeker Beat by Tom Austin - March 2019 2019
Well. That was a bit of a downpour, wasn’t it?
Though honestly, it would be a reach for me to try to guess the weather you’re sitting in as you read this. I write these words, generally a week or two before you read them. This entails what the financial world likes to call “forward looking statements.” There’s usually an extensive codicil of caveats in the fine print disclaiming all responsibility for any such forward lookers made which might turn out to be as good as a weatherman’s guess. Consider this opening paragraph my codicil of caveats.
I made some forward lookers in my last column, inadvertently. And really, these were more sideways looking statements. I was rabbiting on, pun very much intended, about the local wildlife of Camp Meeker. I speculated that if there were mountain lions, present, it was likely to be a solitary male, patrolling some fifty square miles of territory. It so happens that I was strolling about the Sylvania Heights neighborhood, admiring the Bigfoot statue and its seasonal floral display. There is an artist’s eye at work here, I don’t need to tell you, but I think I will tell you anyway. That artist’s eye is also at work in the splendid little jewel of a playground I found there behind the big fella. Call me late to the party all you want, but…you’re right. I am hanging my head in shame over here. I do need to get out more, and the good news is, I am doing so.
Ah, but I digress. While in this jewel of a playground (those SWINGS!!), I happened to meet a perspicacious young lass of four or five years, whose name escapes me. She is in the Occidental Towing familial orbit, of that I’m pretty sure, because she volunteered to educate me on the drinking fountain water policies (off in the winter because pipes might freeze) and the general state of things on the Morelli side. I had been strolling about following up a tip from the Union Café Regulars (you guys know who you are) that there are some old “Indian Caves” over on that side, and I asked her advice. She didn’t know from caves, but she volunteered that sometimes she and Mom go looking for arrowheads. I came up dry on the caves, but who knows? It’s probably behind a fence somewhere.
Yet again, I digress. I know this is a bit of a shaggy dog story. Or, as it turns out, a shaggy puma story. My charming young acquaintance also informed me that said puma has been sighted up and around the water tank on Morelli. She told me this with dazzling brio, but I sensed proper concern amidst her aplomb. Mountain lions are very serious business! That’s my lede, and I’ve done a proper job of burying it, haven’t I? Work with me on this. Follow my lede, so to speak. Our mountain lion – let’s dub him Monty – has been sinuously insinuating himself into the wilds above Camp Meeker the way he has this column. Forget Monty Python, the real master of Not Being Seen is good old Monty the Mountain Lion. Monty is as OG as G gets, and he knows that messing around with humans is not good for business. It’s nothing personal, folks: just business. Monty would like to mind his business and let us mind ours, and I do believe that he has earned the right to his turf. Follow the rules (the ones on the signs posted on some of the gates). Or go to mountainlion.org. They got some wonderful information on staying safe in Mountain Lion country.
It’s humbling to not always be at the top of the food chain. Embrace that feeling. It’s good for you. Respect it, and respect the OG out there in the bush.
And speaking of humble…I give you the possum. In my cataloguing of the Varmints of Camp Meeker, I completely overlooked him! I know this because I was pondering on my porch one recent eve, and one of those homely little critters overlooked me! I was there minding my own business and thought I saw a cat coming up on the porch to mooch a meal. Mooching yes – cat no! He or she was probably as surprised as I was, but to his/her credit the possum did not emit a girly little shriek like I did! The possum graciously acted afraid of me and scuttled off behind the garbage cans while I claimed victory. So yes, Mr. or Ms. Possum. Respect to you as well. Word to your Mother.
