Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

Each state has its own way of saying a thing. Colorado says “Open Range” where Idaho tells a driver “Watch For Stock” and Wyoming, to my great amusement, “Loose Stock”. Oregon has a sign that just says “Slides” which sounds fun, while elsewhere there’s simply a drawing to precisely differentiate what kind of slide. “Watch for Falling Rocks” is a real one. I’ve got a “Watch For Rocks” in my neighborhood—somehow less intimidating. Yesterday I passed a sign with a similar warning in Idaho. I don’t remember it precisely and I’m sorry about that because it was a worthy sign to heed. On a four lane mountain road with a speed limit of 65, I had to make a counter-intuitive decision in order to avoid the rockslide that had tumbled and strewn all the way across the road. Miraculously there was no oncoming traffic. The broad scattering was mostly of hindrances just smaller than soccer balls, and terrifying angular. As I neared the chunks of stone with my low-clearance front wheel drive, I realized my safe passage would be further across. Ultimately I drove diagonally over three lanes, all the way to the pebbles I could confidently cover. Once past the stones, I immediately hit the gas and scooted with haste back to my side of the mountain road.

Many miles later I was still in still in Idaho, along a not-dissimilar two-lane, 65MPH road. With the Salmon River on my right I spied another obstacle big enough to harm my car, way up ahead in my lane. It moved and I, still driving toward it, more cautiously now, assumed it bent to nibble carrion. There were two… oh! Not vultures with food, but geese! With goslings! Dead ahead. I braked hard, honking at the birds. The already uneasy group scattered confusedly, some into the opposite lane. I was stopped now on the river side and from the other direction came three trucks, the first and last of which were semis. These, I knew, could cause so much more damage in stopping for birds than if they didn’t, and I knew my standstill would cause some indecision. I was luckily alone in my lane, hazard lights on, hoping the birds would see safety to the river on my side. Somehow the first truck driver managed to slow and swerve just enough as it approached the feathered disarray, taking advantage of what shoulder was available. I watched as, from just beside that giant vehicle, all the little yellow babies went tumbling in its wake. They bounced and rolled back into my lane, where with my foot still on the brake I watched, enthralled by the chaos of fluffy goslings scattering across the pavement before me like a bag of new stuffed toys just shaken empty. Suddenly the goose parents sprang out of panic and into action, landing behind their babies to usher them. Wings wide, these two brave parents hastened their befuddled, but seemingly unharmed, brood. The last semi picked up speed as it straightened itself from where it had preemptively swerved, probably cursing the birds. In seconds, the whole fowl family was safely on the bank of the Salmon River. Wishing them well, I drove on. I don’t know any variations on, “Watch For Wildlife”, but I don’t mind making way for goslings.