Alone on a somewhat remote hill farm means less conversation and more listening, which leads to more hearing. This is my report:
Remarkably, this old house does not creak, not even in a roaring wind. Nor do the windows rattle. She is solid. This fact came as a very welcome surprise when I arrived here and began to divine her secrets. There are strange and mysterious noises sometimes, most of them under cover of darkness, and most traceable to the animal kingdom.
I prefer to have as thin a membrane as possible separating me from the natural world, both day and night. I would sooner sleep under a tree most nights, if the alternative was to be cooped up in a modern dwelling. All in all, I prefer the out-of-doors wildness to modern comforts, which feel to me like a barrier hindering connection to the natural environment. I want to hear, feel and see the world around me.
The animal traffic that passes through here by night is silent for the most part. The skunks, whom I love, snuffle around looking for grubs, ants and seeds. They are perfectly quiet. They never disrupt anything or get into any sort of mischief.
There are mink who live across the road near the brook — they come to the brook on this side of the road occasionally, always at night, but never enter the barn or shed. They are interested in frogs and leave beautiful footprints in the mud on the edge of the pool near the bridge to the upper field.
There are bears here, a number of them. Neighbors, both north and south, have lost chickens and had coops torn apart. I know they pass along the tree line at the bottom of the field and in doing so, spook the horses. Any lingering bear scent will rile the horses up; they have a great fear of bears. I haven’t had any losses due to them aside from their unsolicited help harvesting the corn one fall. Actually it was a community effort between the bear, the raccoon, the squirrel, the turkey and the crow. Great teamwork — they left nothing in their wake, and they took the lot. I missed the party entirely, hearing nothing.
It is the raccoons, of course, who are the most trouble, the most disruptive, and I might add, the most entertaining. They are so curious, and they get into everything — crash, bang. They’re always bickering amongst themselves in such an operatic way, and they break things.
Most people would think nothing of shooting them, but, lacking any feelings of supremacy, I hesitate. I’m a decent shot, and the old .22 stands at the ready next to the dish cupboard in the dining room, but I haven’t had to use it in the six years I’ve been here. A farmer occasionally has to put an injured or sick animal out of its misery; beyond that I try to leave well enough alone.
In the late fall when all creatures are bulking up for winter is when the raccoons are the most insistent and troublesome. And noisy. Thankfully there’s nothing they want in the garden.
They would much rather come into the house. They’re always trying to, attracted by the smell of an apple pie or the chance to swipe an egg. They clearly understand something about human life, and until winter descends definitively, they try every possible way to get in. It’s not in my DNA to dislike someone who wants what I have. I find it an intriguing problem and it makes me think existentially. We are in this together, and I try to navigate gently.