A Possum's Winter Lunch - A Nature Photo Essay
On a snowy February morning, I was at home, doing laundry, just pretty much minding my own business, when I looked out the window to see a beautiful snow shower dumping on us. Heavy snow, swirling and dancing. What a treat!
We hadn't been forecast as having more than a 30 percent chance of snow all weekend. But to my delight, there had been a couple inches of fresh new stuff awaiting me when I got up before dawn. It had just been sitting out there, waiting for my sleepy head to get out of bed and enjoy it. Now, here at mid morning, we had even more flakes coming down, seemingly being poured from some giant box of Ivory Snow way up in the sky.
Despite the enticing conditions afield, I had been resolutely working on my website and photography. But this snow shower, now that's just too enticing. I made a snap decision at compromise: to try out the video function of the pocket digital camera I had been playing with. It was a tiny instrument, about the size of a pack of chewing gum.
I threw on a light sweatshirt and plunged into the back yard without gloves or heavy coat, since I was only going to "take a few". Those of you who know me well are already smiling at what's likely to come next, because there is no such thing as merely taking a few photos when I'm out in the wilds.
I stepped over the rusty old barbed wire fence, near the corner where it had been pushed down a long time ago (no livestock to keep fenced in for many years now), into the adjoining field of corn stubble. The sweeping curves of the corn rows at the near end were a natural attraction to me. Then the streamside row of bare-branched hardwood trees (Osage-orange, cottonwood, walnut, and ash). With each "beep" after pressing the shutter button, I figured it would be my last. Let's try another. Oh, that one took, too. Let's try just one more. Hmm, still not saturated. Another? Sure.
I moved in close to the winding belt of trees and brush lining Poplar Creek, a tiny headwaters stream separating two big cornfields. Down in the snow, there were sets of tracks. House cats (they do get around, don't they?), then something else. Something odd. Not so linear and delicate, and a bit larger. Spread-toed, rather swaying back and forth. What? I searched my memory. Too small for coyote. Too side-to-side for fox. Whatever it was, it had cruised down the edge of the cornfield in the new snow, parallelling the brush that marked the outer limits of cultivation, under the wide crowns of the streamside trees.
Finally it dinged into my mind: A possum! The previous winter I had once come home in the early evening, looked down from my picture window at the tracks beneath the bird feeder, and been surprised to find something other than the usual network of cat and bird tracks. The characteristic paw prints of a possum were there, and very fresh. I'd gone out to investigate, following the tracks across the back lawn, across the back meadow and into the brush by the barn. So fresh, so fresh. I stopped and listened. A rustle, another, and there it was; the possum was gently crunching through the weeds, nosing around for its next meal. Reveling in the opportunity to watch a wild creature on its normal routine, I let it pass out of sight, into the brush.
Meanwhile, back in the present experience, that memory materialized in the tracks before me now. Those spread-out toes, the occasional drag of the naked tail. These tracks were so fresh, here in this whirling snowstorm, that I could almost hear the squeak of each footfall. I was close, but how close? A minute? Ten minutes?
The possum had swerved into the streamside brush, so I followed. There, under the trees, was a wonderful calm, a whole different world from the windswept expanses of the fields. Here in this narrow, wandering tree belt the little creek flowed to the east, clear of the muddy storms that had preceded the snowfall by a day. The softly brilliant light of the overcast sky made for a wonderful vision of pure white snow, dark brown tree trunks and branches, and water that served as a mirror to the arching tree branches above.
Before this latest storm we'd also had some ice storms and deep cold. The ground was frozen hard as iron, with polished ice patches underneath the new snow. Slippery.
The possum had gone down to the stream itself, and so did I. Except that my gingerly stepping down the stream bank turned into an inglorious windmill-style waving of arms that fortunately went unwitnessed.
At any rate, I landed in the soft, unfrozen gravel of the quietly flowing streambed, chargined but amused. It's a good thing I'm not following a deer, I thought. It would probably die of laughter.
The possum's tracks wound all around the root wad of an Osage-orange ("hedge-apple" as it's called hereabouts), and I wondered if it wasn't there almost under my nose, hunkered down wondering what in the world had been making so much noise. I eased up to the root wad, looking for more clues. Tracks on top, tracks going down below. I squatted on the ice, trying to squint into the dim light underneath the streambank-rootwad to see if I could discern a pair of nervous marsupial eyes peering back at me.
Nothing. No eyes, no sound. Time to look around a bit more.
It was then that I spotted the tracks climbing the opposite stream bank. Up and over the top. Well, fine. Given my slip-sliding trip down this side, I was rather unenthusiastic about clawing my way up the other bank of ice. Still, the mystery rankled. Where was it? What was it doing?
Cold but serene in the streamside shelterbelt, I decided to stay on my side of the creek. I climbed the stream bank, aided by a tree branch or two. I pushed through the brush on the field's edge, the thorns of blackberries sinking into my thighs all too easily through my blue jeans. Ouch.
I walked the field edge until I found a swerve in the brush line. I call this spot "Deer Alley", because they like it here. The natural bend in cover allows them to move between the corn field and the adjacent streamside cover, slipping away if danger approaches.
But on this snowy morning, the Alley was deserted. Exploring further, I noticed a spot in the fence that I'd not seen previously. The wire strands was bent down, stretched, really mangled. A major deer crossing, between the two fields, across the stream, a serious travel zone. Nice. I would have to visit this place again.
Turning toward home, I followed the brush edge back toward the west. For some reason, I noticed a break in the cover that seemed to indicate an easy passage back down to the stream. It beckoned, I responded. The approach to the streambed was indeed much more easy, and when I got there I also saw a gentle bank on the other side. Why not? So up I stepped. The opposite fence line was tight, in good shape, but a sagging spot allowed me to cross without too much trouble. I walked out into another field of corn stubble, following it west, toward home.
Sure enough, I stumbled across the possum's tracks again. It had crossed the creek and veered out into this cornfield. It might still be out there. Since I had nothing better to do at the moment (except for laundry), I followed. Out into the field, looking, looking. Where was it? Had it given me the slip? I'm not very fast, but neither are possums. I was trying to move quietly, not so much that I was afraid of startling it into a high-speed escape (it simply couldn't), but I wanted to see what it was up to. What it was finding to eat for its lunch, so to speak?
Looking out across the rows of corn stubble, it seemed like it should be easy to spot that light gray colored critter, especially with a decent amount of snow cover between the rows. But I couldn't, so I kept following its tracks. I came upon where it had found several complete ears of corn somehow missed by the farmer's combine. It had feasted on them, scattering corn kernels around. Good: it was pausing due to finding things to eat, while I was not. I should be gaining on it, and fast.
Finally, not far beyond the corn feast spot, I could see it wandering around out in the middle of the cornfield. I increased my pace as much as I dared, curious to see at what point it would detect my presence. Closer, closer, and still it went about its business. I got within perhaps ten feet of it before it slowed and stopped, looking up at me. I moved in closer, talking to it in a comforting voice, like you would a pet. Couldn't hurt, I thought.
The possum looked at me, sideways. I looked back at it, snapping pictures, rather amazed that the little digicam hadn't exhausted its memory yet. I moved in closer, and closer, talking soothingly all the while. At last it let out a low growl to let me know it was getting uncomfortable. How amusing.
QUICK QUIZ:
If you were a possum out in the middle of a bare cornfield, with nowhere to escape to, and a six foot tall human towering over you that could kill you, what would you do? Would it be to:
A) Remain still, hoping the threat would go away?
B) Find something to eat and enjoy it right then and there as if nothing was wrong?
If you chose Answer 'A', then I hate to break it to you, but you are not sufficiently dumb to be a possum. At least not this particular possum. Because after maybe a minute of hesitation, this one poked its sensitive pink nose into the snow at the base of a root wad of corn stubble, then reached in with it's pink paw and slender toes, grabbed something, and stuck it in its mouth, crunching away on its latest meal. Something dark gray, small, furry, and tailed. It looked to be a meadow vole. Yum! It must have been dead, because there is no way that a possum could capture a live mouse. We're not talking about cat-like quickness by any means. But it had smelled the dead vole, turning up yet another vital chunk of protein to live on. Low carb, too.
Crunch, crunch chewed the possum, breaking down the skull and bones of the meadow vole as it feasted away, still eyeing me. Maybe it was showing off, daring me to find something on my own.
After watching the possum for a few more minutes, I turned back toward home. I did not want to bother it any further. It had been a fun adventure and learning experience, and besides it was getting close to time for my own lunch. Call me picky, but frozen dead meadow vole and dried corn kernels would not be on the menu. Hot soup and a fresh salad would be more to my liking. To each their own.
Still, I marveled at how a seemingly daft creature could survive down through the eons. Slow and short sighted, it must be less than palatable to most predators. The well-known tactic of "playing possum," in which the animal either fakes or actually goes into a state of shock so as to appear dead, would have very limited value if you actually tasted good. Because if a predator actually dismembered your body and swallowed the chunks, no amount of trickery could bring you back from that. The lowly, common possum must be one of the stale crackers of the animal world.
It's fun to think about how the wild things live their lives. Unlike us, they need no clothes, no heat, no money. They are free.
