On a deserted mesa dirt track just up from where I live, I saw something that I may never see again. It’s where I always go to walk, up to a certain overlook and then back down, with the mountains and a 90-mile view in front of me. Today, though, the miracle was at my feet.
I’d decided not to take my camera for a change. Its absence would at least provoke a bear sighting, I thought. But I’ve seen bears, so maybe something radical. Something outrageously special. And all because I’d left the camera at home. Boy, was I right.
About halfway up the hill, something wriggled in the road 20 feet head, then got still. As I came up on it, it wriggled again: a horned toad trying to get traction in the fine brown sand! But what was wrong with its right hind leg? My God, there was a baby horned toad riding on its mother’s (?) back! I honestly couldn’t believe it. The two lizards stayed frozen while I squatted down beside them, and then I saw a second baby in the dust behind the first two. The baby on its mother’s back was spotted like she was, while this one matched the color and the texture of ground it sat on. The mimicry was utterly perfect. The late afternoon sun illuminated the camoflaged tableau with golden yellow light. My camera, if I’d had it, would have been 18 inches from the horned toad family, who stayed holding their position until I stood up. It would have been a photo to end all photos.
I got to see lots of horned toads in Abilene. I learned how to pick them up, lightly scratch their bellies, and put them to sleep. In junior high school, we’d anesthetize a couple and lay them on their backs inside a girl’s desk before study hall. After a few minutes (after the desk was occupied), the lizards would wake up and start to skitter around. The resulting scream when the desktop was opened was always worth the trouble.
But never have I seen baby horned toads, much less one riding on its mother’s back. (I didn’t know they did that.) As I stood up, the critters acted restless but pretty much stayed put. They were in the middle of a path where a passing ATV could hurt them, so I tried to shoo them across the road with my cap. This almost worked, except that each one took off in a different direction: the mother shook off her rider and scooted across the road, one miniature dragon ran between my legs, and the other one decided to finish my hike for me.
Ignoring the mother, who hadn’t gone far, I quickly captured the two little ones, who were amazingly stupid and practically ran into my hands. I walked back to where the mother sat and laid the itty-bitty horned babies less than two feet away, then hurried out of sight. If they can’t get back together after that, it’s their fault, I told myself. But mostly I was just stunned by the privilege I’d been granted.
I’ve been walking this earth for an awfully long time, staring down at the creatures by my feet, and I can count the horned toad sightings since my teenage days in West Texas on the fingers of one hand. But babies besides, and camoflaging themselves to boot. Up close, in perfect lighting, and me with no camera so I’d pay attention.
No related posts.
