“Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”
— Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I was walking by myself, as usual. The trail followed a creek to my left, and between me and the creek was a dense rhododendron thicket. Every once in a while, I’d hear a rustle from within the thicket — a bird or a squirrel, bounding through leaves in their crisp winter heaps.
One rustle seemed to drag low along the ground — psshh, pause. Psshh, pause. Psshh, pause.
…Is something following me? I turned and stooped to find the only visible break in the trees. A furry white body stood stark against the leaves and branches. As my gaze focused, I saw a small dog staring back at me, our curiosity mirrored through this small gap.
The animal sized me up first. It swiftly disappeared back into the brush while I remained, transfixed. Full minutes after it passed did I realize that the creature wasn’t someone’s dog, running off-leash through the forest — I had just stared down a coyote.
In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard writes, “There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises.” The narrator describes how as a young child, she would hide pennies in plain sight, in a crack in the sidewalk or crook of a tree, for passing strangers to find. She delighted in the thought of someone stumbling upon this surprise, convinced a copper coin could make their day.
“The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand,” she continues. “…[I]f you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then… you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.”
The coyote was my copper penny. Once I processed what I had seen, my eyes lit up in delight. I witnessed a creature that I’d only ever heard, cackling in the distance beyond my campsite at night. Yes, coyotes now prowl through many urban areas, making coyote sightings somewhat common, but seeing it in its natural context felt unique. The creature seemed more powerful there, keen and dangerous with its narrowed stare.
Not only did I see the coyote, but I saw it seeing me. For two brief yet full seconds, we locked eyes, two lone beings that traveled along parallel paths, suddenly brought together. The coyote quickly moved on, unthreatened. It accepted my presence in its woods, even as a lowly guest.
A delicious thrill ran down my spine. A tip of the cap from something wild told me that I belonged there. For someone who spends as much time walking by themselves in the woods as I do, this is the ultimate goal.
Was the world rewarding my quiet presence? If I passed through these woods differently — if I walked in conversation with a friend, if I drowned the world out with music or my own thoughts, if I walked too fast — I would never have noticed the coyote’s footsteps softly plodding alongside me. I wouldn’t have stooped to find the break in the trees, this tiny portal that transported me into another’s world. Because I walked softly and looked with curiosity, I stumbled upon a bright, shiny penny. I felt like the richest person in the world.
Dillard again: “You don’t run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled.”
For anyone who loves to read nature-related books, I highly recommend Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. A magnum opus, it celebrates the unfathomable amount of beauty and detail in the natural world. While it often veers on the philosophical side, Dillard still makes the book funny and approachable through personal observations of the creek that runs through her backyard.
