Olé, Toro!

by Madeleine Kando

I am walking in the forest, enjoying a typical fall afternoon in beautiful New England. It’s the best time of year around here. I am listening to the soft crunch of my steps on the carpet of multicolored leaves. Red, brown, ocher, yellow… Since my friend Mark took me on a nature hike last week, walking in the woods has acquired a multi-dimensionality that I didn’t know existed. Why all these colors? How did a Maple leaf decide to turn red, an oak leaf brown and a chestnut leaf yellow? Even in death these leaves insist on shouting out who they are, just in case you mistake them for something else. I am ruined for life now that I have been initiated in the intricate world of plants. Gone are the days of innocent walks to exercise my dog. Gone are the days of blissful ignorance. Now I can no longer see the forest through the trees. I am now stepping on an Acer Tataricum leaf and on my right I am passing a Quercus Alba. Gone are the days when it used to be a simple oak tree.

Ah, yes, and here is a Rhamnus Cathartica, the common buckthorn, which is an invasive species. It doesn’t belong here. It has the audacity to grow in the midst of a New England forest without having been invited. Mark is working hard at identifying invasive species. He has turned into an ‘Invasive Species Ninja’, determined to root out the intruders and return the New England parks to their original pristine, uncontaminated state as native habitats. On last week’s hike, as we passed a large patch of daisies, we saw a miniature bug the size of a pinhead hover over the flowers. ‘Oh, look a cute little baby bee’ I shouted to the group of nature lovers. ‘It’s a fly’ said Mark unperturbed by my ignorance. ‘It has camouflaged itself as a bee complete with black and yellow stripes. You can tell because if hovers like a helicopter, suspended in the air.’

As I continue on my solitary walk through the forest, a faint sound of children laughing and calling each other mixes with the sound of my steps through the rustling leaves. Cute, look at that: a farm stand with a long row of big yellow pumpkins. Moms and dads taking pictures of their brood in front of the barn, its deep red color fitting perfectly in this Indian Summer landscape. How idyllic, how New England.

Mmm. What’s that standing there? I am not wearing my glasses but it looks like a horse. Oh wait, horses don’t have horns. Must be a nice cow. But cows don’t have a hairy, pointy contraption sticking out from their underbelly. The crunching of my steps has drawn the attention of the large animal, which I know have identified as a bull. He looks in my direction and starts to snort. Thank God they tie up these monsters, I think to myself. But the bull begins to move towards me, the rope either being extremely long or non-existent. Some parents have noticed the bull’s agitation. They now spot me on the path, but I don’t see any sign of concern amongst them, just curious amusement, as if they are thinking: ‘He, I wonder what he is going to do now? Is he going to charge that lady or what?’

My God, I am wearing a red jacket. Bulls… red color… Isn’t that what the little boy was wearing in ‘Song of the South’, that terrifying zip a dee doo dah movie in which he is chased by a bull? Not only did Walt Disney manage to scar me for life with his bizarre mix of animation and real life characters, he also managed to imprint in me a terrible fear of bovines.

The bull starts to trot in my direction. I quicken my step. Is he just curious or is he ready to charge? What do I do? How many years has it been since I climbed a tree? Should I just run? Dial 911 on my cell phone? Should I take off my red jacket and throw it at him? They say don’t run from a charging bear, or is it dogs? Does that count for charging bulls too? I am petrified. I didn’t know the meaning of scared until now.

There is an iron gate ahead and beyond it the road. I have an image of myself running out into the road chased by a bull, cars honking and coming to a shrieking halt. Someone will know what to do, right?

A man in blue overalls and rubber boots has suddenly materialized and is calling out: ‘Brutus, here!’ There are no dogs anywhere, so I gather he must be talking to the bull. I have now created enough distance between me and the place of my imminent death by impalement that I can finally take a deep breath. Brutus has gone back to the barn and I continue my journey with wobbly legs. Who would have thought that an innocent walk in the forest would turn into an encounter with a 2,200 pound piece of meat? On my way back home I pay little attention to the details of plant life around me for fear of not seeing the bulls for the trees. leave comment here