A Rodent Speaks to the Manager
The roar of machinery ripples through the dense coastal fog that blankets the hillsides. In the middle distance, the silhouette of a monstrous beast glides like a whale through the mist. The earth shakes as it passes. Had I not grown accustomed to the scrapers, earth-moving machines with wheels twice my height, the experience would be otherworldly. What would this experience be like had I not grown up in an industrial society? I entertain an interpretation of them as megafauna, but find it difficult in that I can anticipate their path, recognize the mind behind their movement. Once that happens, they are no longer monsters.
It is somewhat ironic that I am here to mitigate the accidental discovery of fossils by machines powered by fossil fuel. Then, where I had not been able to trick myself into a sense of wonder before, the incredible scale of this planet completely awes me. This is just one job site out of tens of millions; these massive machines are incalculably small compared to the system that supports them. It’s amazing that the combustion of long-dead organisms can even power something with the ability to tear so effortlessly through the earth, and that as long as there is potential, they’ll keep burning fuel and moving earth. The thought of a beast this massive, the global economy, is truly terrifying. I feel powerless to stop it, escape it, or even see it in its entirety.
I find a bed of fossilized marine invertebrates and begin removing them between passes of the scrapers. Noticing my activity, a site supervisor comes by and begins assisting with honest excitement. I mean, it is pretty fun work, right? -The thrill of paleontological discovery minus the tedium of recording everything as you go or generally being careful. (I am recording geological and positional information - just in a hurry and between passes of the scrapers.) Suddenly, as we are piling sandstone blocks out of the scrapers’ path, a small gopher joins us, fleeing the path of destruction. Visibly agitated, it clambers up the bank of dirt and into the dusty grass, now an island surrounded by excavated soils. Seeing the site supervisor, it stands on hind legs, directing its attention upwards, and it begins to chatter angrily. The supervisor says something along the lines of, “Hey! It’s not my fault. Don’t be mad at me.” The scrapers pass again. The protesting rodent scurries in front of the supervisor’s car and burrows into the grass, hunkering down into a small depression as it chatters away. Failing to affect change through speaking out, it seems to settle for direct action, blocking the path of the vehicle.
I consider the ways in which I might help it escape, but I end up calling the biological monitor - the person who is responsible for protecting the living creatures as much as I am responsible for the dead ones. I have already done this for two snakes that I found earlier this week. One was bravely fleeing the destruction, headed directly towards immediate danger. The other curled up in a ball to hide, right where it might get run over. What a traumatic time it must be for the wildlife. When the monitor arrives, I walk her over to the location of the protest, but the rodent is already gone. She explains to me optimistically that these rodents have hundreds of tunnels both beneath the surface of the earth and in the grasses, like little secret garden paths. Looking all around us at the torn up earth and cut grass, and up towards the burnt hillside from an accidental fire the project started, I wonder where the brave little rodent actually went and if it will find a way to salvation.
The scrapers pass again and I return to salvaging fossils. After all, who is going to stop work for a rodent? Charmed though we may be, the scale of the operation is too big - it has too many moving parts. We can all say, half-true, “Hey, don’t look at me. It’s not my fault.” But the truth is we’re all the rodents and snakes helpless as our home is forever altered.
