Learning to Journey Through the Seen and the Unseen

 In a previous post, I mentioned that one day I hope to see a bighorn sheep. The quest began years ago during a trip through Yosemite and down into part of the Eastern Sierras. As we passed through Yosemite, all who travelled in a vehicle passed by a windowed kiosk with a ranger inside. I suppose he was passing out a brochure with a general map; my memory here is not at all clear. However, what is clear is that we all received a warning, and what I heard was "Watch out for big orange sheep." After we passed through, I asked Tyler about this creature that I had never heard of but was already beginning to loom large in my imagination. He replied, "Bighorn sheep. Horn, not orange." We both laughed and comismerated with a ranger who had to repeat the same phrase over and over as travellers passed through, receiving a map they may never use.   

As often as we could, we looked upward, but we never did see a bighorn, orange or otherwise. However, the orange sheep took on mythic proportions and became part of our travels, as a symbol of a delightful, but unattainable goal. Last year when we journeyed to Joshua Tree, I thought we might see a bighorn there, but again, the creature was not to be seen. As we began our return trip to Desert Hot Springs where we were staying, I just had to stop at the gift shop. There I found a nice grey hooded sweatshirt that had a small image on the left front of the chest - a nice drawing in black ink of a road that leads to a mountain, and above the mountain are two male bighorn sheep, heads colliding in the quest to prove their prowess. In the spirit of supporting our national parks and my love of grey zippered sweatshirts and of gift shops, I bought the jacket that I found to be so discreet.  

However, it was not until I reached our car did I look at the back of the jacket. At that moment I realized that the back was not nearly as subtle. There I found an image of a really large bighorn, and on its body was the same image that was on the front, only much bigger and done in several more or less desert colors. For a moment I thought of returning the jacket, but I decided not to. Why? Well, to return it just did not seem to be in the spirit of supporting the national parks. In addition, it would remind me of Joshua Tree, an area I had grown to like very much. It would certainly remind me of our trip, which I was enjoying. Why, the jacket just might even be a reminder to maybe look at things a little more closely. It has proven to be a conversation starter of sorts, one that often begins with "What is that thing on your back?" I usually forget about it until that question comes up, and more than once I have jumped to the conclusion that a large spider had hitched a ride with me.  

I am reading once again a book that has stayed with me for many years: The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen. First published in 1976, my copy was published in 1987. It is the story of the difficult journey that he and field biologist George Schaller undertook to study the snow leopard in Nepal. Such a goal meant a long trek of traversing on foot high passes in the Himalayas in both rain and snow. 

It is known that the favorite fare of snow leopards is the Himalayan blue sheep, also known as bharal. When I read that, I became concerned that I would become possessed about seeing yet another elusive sheep, blue no less, but that is not the case. As much as I love tales of the Himalayas, I shall stay focused on a sheep that I just might be able to spot without a passport. 

If I am remembering correctly, on this particular journey of Mattheissen's, not one snow leopard was ever seen. I think this memory is what has kept the story alive for me all these years. We humans undertake all kinds of journeys, and the Western mind can easily get caught up in the duality of declaring a journey a success or non-success. I remember reading the last page of the book, surprised that I had just read 321 pages about the quest to see a creature that never appeared. Yet, Matthiessen was a student of Zen Buddhism, and he was a great chronicler of the subtle "in between". I did not realize it at the time, but I think he was one of my early teachers. I am grateful to return to this book once more. 

          

       

“The typical snow leopard has pale frosty eyes and a coat of pale misty grey, with black rosettes that are clouded by the depth of rich fur. An adult rarely weighs more than a hundred pounds or exceeds six feet in length, including the remarkable long tail, thick to the tip, used presumably for balance and for warmth, but it kills creatures three times its own size without much difficulty (page 153)."

   

When this book was written not much more about this predator was known. I pray they have been able to stay at least somewhat elusive. The world is encroaching on too many of the beautiful creatures. They need the space of the mystery of the unknown (to us) to survive, and so do we.