Ditched in the Desert

People don’t usually think of bat watching as a sport, but certain nature lovers think of it as a wildlife watching adventure. I was lucky enough for it to be part of my job as an environmental educator and all-around nature promotor at an agency that managed wildlife. Environmental education can be an important role if you are trying to teach children about nature awareness and appreciation, so that they can later carry those values into adulthood. But many at the workplace disagreed, thinking the job a frivolous pursuit of ‘tweety birds and guppies.’ Nature education and wildlife watching were not part of the primary directive at this agency, so I was surprised when one of the bosses decided I should go with her to check out a bat watching site she had heard about. She wasn’t sure of the exact location, so we would go scouting it out. People in search of treasure of any kind in the desert don’t want anyone else to know about their secret stash, whether it’s old mines with some tailings left, dinosaur prints, or bats in caves. It’s the same with anglers having a special hole or a couple with a favorite secluded spot.

I had done all the research, including trying to find the approximate location of the cave site on a map, which was difficult, as these things are not marked. And I learned proper etiquette for being around bat roosts, such as staying at a distance and avoiding the bats’ direct flight path. The tips on turning off lights, being quiet, and not pursuing the little animals seemed like common sense. It was interesting to find out the number of species in Nevada, and which ones we were likely to see at this location, as well as the best time of year and time of day for viewing. I was as prepared as I knew how to be. I had a headlamp, binoculars, camera, extra clothes for layering, even a blanket for sitting on the ground. What I didn’t know that I would need was a whistle, strobe light and flare. I’d find that out later.

As we drove the lonely highway through empty Great Basin desert, we spied for any signs of caves. Finally, she pointed and said, “Do you think that might be it?” And I said “Yes, maybe,” as we pulled off. Going down a side trail from the highway, she said, “Jump out and have a look,” and stupidly, I did. When I turned back around, she had her foot on the gas and shouted out the window, “I’m just going to turn the truck around.” Well, she had already done that and was headed back out to the main road. What the heck, I thought.

Twilight was quickly fading into total blackness and the first thing I told myself was don’t panic. I’ll just take some deep breaths and figure out the best course of action. I didn’t know where I was, other than the middle of the desert somewhere in central Nevada. But after all, we took a road to get there. The road! I’ll just follow the road back out to the highway and hitch a ride from there. That is, if anyone would actually be on the highway. This was nowhere, middle-Nevada. Not to mention that in the dark it would be difficult to see a person on the side of the highway. I thought the risk of getting run over would be pretty high, but what were my odds of making it out of there anyway? Time passed – it must have been over half an hour. I was walking slowly and deliberately, lamp aimed at the ground beneath me so I could see the gravel path. A couple of times I lifted my head and made a sweep around me with the headlamp, to see if any nighttime creatures were about. I quickly shut down that line of thinking, though, knowing that the last thing I needed to do was scare myself any more. The paved highway had to be just a bit farther, but before I got there, miraculously I saw her pull up the road at an embarrassingly slow crawl. I thought to myself, “Damn! You could be arrested for reckless endangerment of an employee! Never mind I might have wound up dead.” But no, I was so livid, and she was doing such a pathetic job of making up excuses, that I just zipped my lip and held myself in a tense ball, not blinking the whole way back to our lodging. I should have been holding onto the door or something, because on the pitch-black road, she just about hit a cow elk right in front of us. She swerved crazily and I ended up on the floor. “Oops!” she said. I wanted to vomit. At the motel, I was shaking all night, just wishing I could get home safely.

I never had any respect for this person after this. I came to the conclusion that the ditching at the cave site may have been a practice run for getting rid of me once and for all. Weeks later, the woman said she was leaving her job and on her last day she informed me that my position was being eliminated. Me and my stupid tenacity – I should have taken the hint and quit then and there right after the dumping incident. I never did get my outdoor blanket back, and the only bat watching I’ve done since then has been in the safety of my own backyard.

 

Margie B. Klein has been a freelance nature writer for 35 years. She writes natural history features, as well as poetry and prose that have found publication in Orion, Cosmic Daffodil, Closed Eye Open, High Shelf Satire, and others. Klein is retired from a long career in natural resource management and education, and enjoys sharing her adventures through writing.