Yuma Bat Treasure

As the 20th century was ending, a very long, leisurly road trip seemed appropriate. So I bought a sport model 2-Door Tahoe 4x4, strapped the well-worn DY Special to its roof rack, loaded the SUV with paddle, PFD, three weeks of clothing, food and camping gear including a little gin, tonic and a few limes, and struck out on a northwesterly vector. I had a week to get to my destination at Port McNiell on the northern end of Vancouver Island where I would spend a week kayaking amongst orca pods cruising for salmon in Johnstone Strait, leaving a full week to return to the metroplex where I had spent far too many years living and working.

Veering off paved highway just past Page, Arizona late in the afternoon onto dirt roads near Tower Butte, a beautiful little slough devoid of people appeared ahead. The lake was just a few feet below maximum level that year so I didn't have to drive very far on primitive dirt track to get to it. Almost sunset when I arrived, I built a small fire at the shoreline verge. I had a folding shovel with me but no bucket to hold water, so having the fire right beside the waterline covered the rule requiring campers to have water handy nearby.

After a meal and a hot drink as dusk settled over the land, I decided to practice playing pennywhistle a bit. I had recently obtained a beautifully crafted Copeland D and it sounded glorious in the slough's natural reverberatory acoustics. Working on an original tune I have never given a title to, I entered that zone where time no longer matters and the vastness of space is intoxicating. First pass through the tune was as close to perfect as I've ever played it before or since. The place. The emerging stars in a cloudless sky. The mysterious aromas of lake and desertland. The solitude. All of this came together with the sweet sounds of the musical piece emerging from the pennywhistle in an alchemy defying description or repeatability. I knew I was experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime mix of sensations. Then a swift airborne motion flashed past in the periphery of vision.

I kept playing the tune, only turning my head a tiny bit to look out over the water as daylight fled. The movement happened again and this time I saw what it was. A Yuma Bat swooping down closeby to catch minnows attracted to the light of the fire. It used its tail to scoop up a minnow as slick as a...whistle. Chills coursed up and down my spine as more bats arrived on the scene, all fishing for minnows drawn to the flickering light, those possibly feeding on even smaller creatures also attracted toward the firelight.

Only the third of seven days I had allowed myself to reach my northern destination, I was immensely grateful for the gift of the place, its creatures, and all of its aesthetic beauty–worth more than any material gain I could ever imagine desiring.