Of wilderness, springtails and Donald Trump

Long ago, I discovered that trips into “the wild” help to take me out of my head and ground me in the present moment; to be more mindful, more aware of my surroundings, my relationships with place and people and the other life forms with whom I share the world. At the same time, I become more attuned to what my physical senses and emotional body are experiencing.

This can be true even on short walks into the “nearby wild,” for instance local parklands. But the effect is deepened by longer stays in more remote wilderness, particularly on solitary sojourns.

I was recently reminded of all this during a 10-day solo adventure in Alaska’s Brooks Range wilderness, within Gates of the Arctic National Park.

Dropped off by floatplane at a place called Summit Lake, I chose to explore the Arctic landscape in modest fashion. Instead of backpacking or river-running many miles, I set up a base camp and did day hikes in assorted directions.

With an aging body and arthritic shoulders, this approach made sense. It also allowed me to move more slowly across the tundra and pay closer attention to my immediate surroundings and the multitude of life forms with whom I shared my temporary home.

Several days into my adventure, one experience in particular helped me to realize just how deeply I’d moved into a different—and I would say healthier—state of being.

It began with tiny creatures that are commonly called “springtails.” In certain circumstances, notably northern winters when the ground is covered by snow, these relatives of insects are also known as “snow fleas.”

There’s good reason for that: dark in color, and not much bigger than grains of ground pepper—small enough to fit on the head of a pin—springtails from a distance resemble fleas. And, like fleas, they hop around, though the mechanism of their movement differs.

I should also mention that while fleas have flattened and hard-shell bodies, springtails have more rounded, softer bodies that are easily crushed. And they don’t bite.

There’s considerably more to be shared about the nature of springtails, but for now I’ll end with this: when threatened, springtails jump away from the perceived danger by using a rigid, forked tail that folds under their body like a jackknife blade. A catch that normally holds the tail in place is released, allowing the springtail to propel itself into the air, out of harm’s way. Thus, springtail.

To see springtails leaping about the snow is an amazing—and to me, delightful—sight to behold, and this ability has contributed to my fascination with the species. But because they are dark and tiny and blend well with ground not covered by snow, I’d never noticed them in summer. Until my recent trip to the Brooks Range.

The springtails appeared following a stormy night in the mountains. Presumably seeking shelter from that storm, large numbers of them had begun crawling—or springing—from the soaked tundra onto my tent. And, eventually, into it, through a tiny slit that serves as an air vent along the tent’s bottom.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of them eventually infiltrated the tent and I wondered what the heck they could be, until I saw some of the dark forms jumping about.

Though I knew they wouldn’t bite or sting or otherwise harm me, I didn’t fancy the idea of them crawling all over my gear, not to mention my body. Softly blowing on them, I managed to keep most in the back of the tent. But some inevitably spread elsewhere.

One morning I simply sat in the tent awhile, observing the springtails and contemplating the remarkable nature of those miniscule beings, which move about the world largely ignored or unrecognized by our kind.

Eventually my thoughts turned toward the notion that all life forms have value in and of themselves, irrespective of their relationship to humans, an idea and attitude that I embrace.

I further reflected that, as far as I can tell, only one species inhabiting the Earth considers itself more important than all the rest. And as I considered the egocentric nature of Homo sapiens, Donald Trump slipped into my thoughts, he being the epitome of human narcissism, in my opinion.

And in that moment I realized I’d gone more than a week without Trump entering my thoughts. That, like the springtails occupying my tent, seemed a rather astounding—and wonderful—thing, considering his overwhelming presence in the “normal” world of American culture that I’d temporarily left behind.

I encountered many other wonders during my days in that Arctic wilderness, but the juxtaposition of springtails and Trump—or more accurately, “no Trump”—reveal, as much as anything I experienced, the marvelous nature of the real world we humans inhabit and are truly part of: the wild, wild Earth.

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