A red shape flashes in the corner of my vision. I turn away from my students, and see a red fox lightly pitter pattering across fresh white snow. Everyone get up right now! I exclaim, abandoning my dry erase marker at the board and practically knocking over a chair to press my face to the icy window. The kids and I all watch in silent fascination as the fox walks right through campus, leaving our vision as swiftly as it came.
Later that day, while exploring the woods on our cross country skis, I find tracks. I immediately know who it is. The fox. We change our route to follow the tracks of our mysterious visitor, and notice how the tracks stop at every bush and tree. They zig-zag in a way that only an animal on a mission does. Eventually, we find what I was hoping for. I feel warm with the confirmation, and for a brief moment I believe that this find brings me closer to this elusive being. The tracks are disrupted by a hole in the snow that pierces down into the subnivian zone, a place where a little mouse or weasel might be holed up, escaping the chill of the sub-zero air. Closing my eyes, I can picture the scene playing out. The fox, listening intently to the movement under the snow, bracing its paws, then propelling itself into the air and diving headfirst into the deep snow. I have a photograph of this very act pinned to my wall. Did it find what it was looking for? We don't know. For some reason, the lack of resolution makes me smile. The fox is not the visitor, we are. We can try and deduce what goes on in the life of a fox, but we will never truly become privy to its inner workings, especially when we are just visitors.
When I first came to Jackson, WY, I remember slamming on my breaks when I saw my first moose. Now, I look at them in gratitude but do not stop. This morning I saw a coyote, running through a group of trumpeter swans. The swans didn't even ruffle their feathers as the coyote passed through, as quick as the fox. I soak in every second I get to look at those furry little creatures, maybe because I know it won't last forever. You can look at a moose for hours, and it usually looks past the spectator with indifference, especially if its one of those celebrity moose that stand at the entrance to the Grand Tetons. Coyotes, foxes, and wolves - They will look right back at you and see you. The wild foxes will give wary glances and disappear, and the ones that lurk around trailheads will hope to be fed. The beautiful tragedy of foxes is being their fear of us, how they use us, but never trust. Maybe that's why I find them so fascinating. Their brief appearance captivates my whole being, and my eyes keep searching theirs, hoping for some sign of trust or warmth, that hasn't been earned by me or humanity as a whole.
Bodies don't writhe in blue lights here. They move with wild freedom or close precision in tones of warm orange and carnal red. Live country music fills the bar, and folks of all ages fill the dance floor. My favorite are the older couples. The men dress up in their finest button-downs and a crisp cowboy hat, so crisp that you know that it has never tasted dirt or harsh sun, but it sits on a hook in a large ranch house that claim every mountainside around town. Shirts tucked into well-fitted jeans, and a woman in their arms who you can never quite get a good look at because of all the twirling. One thing that you can always see are the eyes and the bright smiles. The determined eyes of the man, and the elated smile of the woman. The dance that they know so well, the dance that is automatic at this point. Their union is so all-encompassing that if every single person dropped away, they would dance on, the strength of their fluid movements never wavering. Then there are folks whose heads are tilted up to the invisible sky, their eyes closed, and their union is with the music. Dirt might be under their fingernails, evidence that the earth is still with them, which enhances their formlessness. Their bodies are like liquid, completely tied to the fingers that pluck each string on the guitar, like the puppets of country music. It's the opposite of precision, it is wild movement governed by not the brain, not even the heart, but the soul.
I pull back for a moment, and look around. There is connection everywhere. Heads bent together, trying to exchange a few words over the thundering voice of the singer. Laughter emerging from groups as frequent as an exhale. Hands touching hands, either in dance or just to further connection. It is beautiful in its own way. A different beauty from a fox, a sunrise over the Tetons, or a cup of tea, but beautiful nonetheless.
I lead my students with their eyes closed down a dark path. We walk in silence, I say as they grip each others hands and shuffle in single file. I am leading the line, and I grip a girl's hand in mine. The night air is so cold that every breath feels sharp, and I feel the air touch every crevice of my lungs. My students, who have been complaining the whole week about the bone-chilling cold, surprise me when they stay silent. Maybe they can feel the intense energy that only belongs to a quiet night. We reach a clearing, tilt your head up to the sky, I say. They do. Open your eyes, I say. They open their eyes, and they are quiet for a few breaths. Then, almost all at once, they murmur words not directed at any ears, but as if spoken to the stars themselves. This is the moment that makes my whole week with them worth it. These kids, many of them who have never seen a night sky like this, in awe of something not created by me, society, or mankind. These kids, in love with something that does not have to try to be loved, it is loved simply because of what it is. Raw, unfiltered beauty like a wild fox, or hands touching hands in the dark.
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