Skunk Skool

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

What can we learn from a skunk?

And do you really want to get close enough to learn?

We all know any skunk encounter risks the potential for malodorous consequence, aroma therapy of the most aversive sort, the perfect example of how not having a dog’s sense of smell can be a good thing.

I like watching those TV nature shows. Celebrated experts lead intrepid camera-toters to the far reaches for wildlife encounters, a chance to take us places most likely will never see for themselves, a wonderful way to learn about the critters who share our increasingly overlapping world. The better programs sneak in for a privy look. The worst barge in for a titillating daredevil encounter, preaching safety while teasing poison tentacles and snapping jaws just inches away: Look at me aren’t I brave don’t try this at home I’m an expert!

I’ve been known to induce friends to trek near and far for observatory encounters, not just with animals, but with the beauty of nature manifest in all its forms; so in this spirit many years ago I found myself driving with two urbanites to the farthest reaches of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for four days of camping, canoeing, hiking, and (not exactly the plan) feeding live human flesh to swarms of black flies on the Lake Superior shoreline.

We pitched tent as the only visitors at a rustic campground adjacent to a small lake nestled in old-growth forest, a short jaunt from the big water. Our first evening found us around the fire roasting marshmallows, the background an atavistic cacophony in SurroundSound from the blackness enclosing our flickering yellow corona, the urbanites having settled down after some initial apprehension about potential attack by marauding gangs of snakes or bobcats or bears or worse.

That’s when the ’coon showed up.

She appeared at the far end of the circle of sites, then methodically worked her way around, checking trash barrels, smelling fire rings, and scavenging the fringes where grass ceded its buffer to dense woods. She skirted our area, careful to keep some distance, yet eyeballing everything, confirming potential after-fire largesse with some highly targeted sniffing. Assured that raccoons are never known to pounce upon humans and gnaw about their noses and ears, my friends watched, enthralled, rapt, amazed, and generally fascinated by so mundane an encounter.

Still, it was cool.

Better yet, having ascertained the lack of danger, our ’coon disappeared for a moment, then returned with two tiny coonlets and commenced supervising while they performed their own inspection. My friends quietly debated how “natural” this behavior was, finally agreeing with me that it’s as natural as teaching any youngster how to thrive in whatever environment he finds himself.

Long after the raccoons had moved on, the midnight shift came aboard: one large skunk. Yes, a white-striper, Pepe LePew without the French accent, a mega-stinker.

He worked the far side of the campground, then headed straight for our site, seemingly uncowed by the presence of people, the two-legged species that, presumably, had never proven aggressive in all his skunkly experience. My friends fled to the car. Wimps. Skunks don’t jump on people, either.

So I sat on the picnic table and watched as he examined our property, his nose eventually pointing toward the food stacked right where I was practicing my skills at being very still. He inched closer, then placed his paws on the bench and proceeded to sniff my shoes and legs. I could hear my friends in the car some hundred feet away freaking out behind sealed windows and locked doors—their assumption being that skunks don’t carry master car keys. That’s when the most wonderful act of friendship occurred, my buddies transcending their own fears to put my well-being ahead of all else:

The jokers started honking the horn and flashing the headlights to startle the skunk.

Ha ha ha. Oh, Wouldn’t that be a hoot? they must have thought, apparently not thinking far enough ahead to imagine sharing a tent or car-ride home with a hapless soul who had been, well, skunked.

But I knew better, and so did the skunk. Bearing no malice toward me, and finding no threat in them, he ignored the goofballs.

Instead, he eyed the food, and I knew this encounter wouldn’t end until he enjoyed a snack. Now, I normally discourage feeding wildlife, but this four-legger had already made the campground part of his circuit, and he was already comfortable with humans without posing any real bodily danger, so I casually placed four graham crackers on the bench in deference to a situation over which I had little control. He made four quick trips to carry them into the woods, then came back, stopped before the table, and looked at me as if to say thanks. He turned to look toward the pranksters, who had finally settled down, their faces pressed against the glass. I swear in my head I could hear the skunk asking, “So what should we do about them?” I wanted to hand him the keys and tell him go have some fun, but he had nightly rounds to finish, and I’m pretty sure they would keep relocking the door before he could get it open.

So he disappeared into the woods. Figuring he would make another round after we’d crashed, I left a slice of bread out, which was gone in the morning. He did return at the same time every night, and my friends retreated to the car every time, both sides of that detente being something I enjoyed watching.

A bit short of sufficient material for an hour-long documentary, this encounter still begs the question: What can we learn from a skunk?

This funny feller boasted quite a weapon, and my friends proved quite wary of it. Still, their behavior showed that they wrongly assumed it likely to be used for offense. It seems this difference of perspective is one that impacts global geo-politics rather poignantly. Skunks do have a rather distinctive defense, but they are not known for initiating pre-emptive strikes. It takes actual injury or genuine fear for a skunk to unleash its scent. While it is good to know approximately where that threat-threshold lies, deliberately provoking him was not likely the best way to build a foundation for future anthropo-skunk relations. If our mere occupation of his world had come to mean presumption of attack, his understandable use of defensive capabilities would have encouraged us to assume he might well attack us first. Gosh, that kind of scenario could spiral out of control.

And make it difficult ever to put the balance back where it belongs.

Another lesson we might note is how the skunk never lost sight of his own mission. Provoked by interlopers, he proved sharp enough to understand that I was not in cahoots with the enemy. Had they cornered him, he surely would have unleashed, but he harbored no animosity toward me, purported no alleged link borne of expedience or politics, had no constituency to appease.

It’s good that skunks reserve such powerful chemical weapons to protect themselves. Within the forest there lurk many dangers, so natural selection gave rise to this uniquely effective survival strategy. Knowing our skunk’s mere willingness to use it became our deterrent. Counting on his measured reluctance became the basis for him and me to develop a rudimentary trust, to share a campsite in his neck of the woods.

I’d like to say we all became buds, he and my friends warming up to each other, the four of us sitting around the fire roasting marshmallows and regaling ourselves with scary stories of woods-prowling monsters: axe murderers, slimy mutants, flesh-eating flies, and the dreaded (shiver!) perfume-manufacturer sales rep. But no, the skunk stuck to his own plan while we stuck to ours, which after all had brought us here to cross paths with nature, to engage some informative encounters with the wild, to simply observe critters doing their critterly thing in our critter-filled world.

So, can we learn anything from a skunk?

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