The metaphysics of wildlife underpasses

Before things get out of hand, let me state unequivocally that I support wildlife underpasses (and overpasses, fish ladders, canopy bridges, and all other infrastructural devices that unite wildlife populations across man-made barriers). They have been shown many times in many places to work effectively in reducing roadkill numbers. This means, of course, fewer humans (and fewer insurance company dollars) in automobile accidents on our highways.

In other words, it’s good for the critters and it’s good for us critters who zip around lickety-split in big metal weapons qua vehicles.

It was recently brought to my attention by our lead researcher here at ScholarDay that there is a wildlife underpass not far outside of Boise, Idaho on Idaho Highway 21. I went to investigate, camera phone in pocket and eyes in the dirt. Here’s what I found.

What is a wildlife underpass?

First, it is a drama in three acts

On the highway, which is a stage, I found myself a beautiful protagonist. She had a beginning, a struggle, and an end. In case you don’t have time to read the next few captions, I’ll say now that it was a tragedy.

Act I. A Stranger in a Strange Place. Although it should be clear from the Rolling Rock bottle and Pepsi Cola fountain cup that this area is for human use, a rogue mule deer bursts onto the scene. She leaves footprint-pollution in her wake, an unwelcome intrusion.

Act II. The Struggle. The doe, still on the wrong side of the fence, struggles against the order imposed on her by the metal fencing. Shortly after this photo was taken, the doe jumped repeatedly into the fence, panicked and not getting through. Like many great plays, Act II is a superb metaphor for the Sisyphean futility life shoves in our face, sometimes on a daily basis. (Forgive the poor quality of this photo. If we must cast blame, let us cast it upon Steve Jobs. Or possibly on my string of low-paying jobs and the skewed priorities that have kept a nicer camera out of my hands.)

Act III. The fall, Death. She does not, cannot, make it through to her rightful side of the fence. Not a bit less tragic than the untimely male gaze thrown upon Eurydice which sent her flowing back to Hades.

Second, it is time travel

Perhaps you prefer metaphysics to the arts.

I don’t know the consequences of hopping two sets of concrete barriers after looking both ways (twice) to avoid becoming the subject of my own investigation. I don’t know whether Idaho 21 is some kind of temporal threshold. I would tend to say, of course, that it is not.

But I cannot argue with what I saw. The doe, trapped on the human and metal side of the fencing, struggled to jump through the fence, which she could not do. I did not see her again. What I did see, as you have now too, was a near-bleached rib cage, on the other side of the road, still on the human and metal side of the fence. What can I do but assume that the rib cage is hers?

By crossing that highway, I must have jumped downhill (which is forward) in time.

The Future. Time, which is Mores Creek in this part of Idaho, gathers ominously just below the wildlife underpass on Idaho 21. A flowering saskatoon may be our only hope. Saskatoons and more wildlife underpasses.

Third, it is a crystal ball

Alternatively, if you do not or cannot believe in time travel, you must believe in clairvoyance.

Perhaps what I saw was a vision. Maybe it was not the same doe, still trapped, now dead, inside the fencing. It was merely an insinuation, a ripple of possibility, a small tear in the veil of the present, offering a rare panoramic glimpse down into the valley which is the future.