HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Wild sighting

The farm is bounded on the east by a stand of tall conifers. Beyond the trees, hidden from view is a level path that defines the property-line. It was once a narrow-gauge railway line, which is why it’s so level. I like going for long flat walks, so this path is ideal for me. It’s got medium-dense forest on either side of it and feels satisfyingly wild.

Bins comes along sometimes. He keeps his eyes peeled for antiques: he’s already filled his pockets with blackened, misshapen iron bolts, belonging to the old railway. “Can’t get these anywhere now,” he says. “Made by hand, not machine.” He’s enjoying Vermont more than he expected, he says. A little further down the path, he sees a movement. “Look, look — someone is climbing up that tree!” He always says ‘someone’ when speaking of animals. It’s a sleepy, slow-moving porcupine. We’ve never seen one in this vertical position before, hanging onto the side of the tree like a giant, warm-blooded pincushion.

New World porkies climb trees while their Old World cousins don’t. There’s no reason! That’s just the way it is. Bins goes up to take a closer look but comes away unimpressed. “Pooh. Not as pretty as our Indian ones.” I laugh at him. “You’re SO competitive!” I say, which makes him bristle of course, exactly like a porcupine. We continue arguing until the path we’re on wanders out of the woods, follows the road and ends at a sturdy barbwire fence. On the other side of the fence is a very large bird.

So large that it can look us in the face with an amused, worldly-wise expression in its beautiful orange eyes. Bins and I are so astonished that we stare slack-jawed at the creature. It stares right back at us. Several of its buddies come over to join the stare-fest. They have shaggy necks, bodies like mounds of straw and long, muscular mauve-grey legs. “Bongggg!” says the first one, with its beak shut tight. Its friends solemnly agree: “Bongggg!” Their call is so strange and soft it’s more like telepathy than normal sound.

It turns out the birds are emus. Some farmers in the area raise them for their meat, leather and foot-long sea-green eggs. These birds however belong to a reclusive lady who likes them for their own sake. Alas she does not permit visitors to enter the farm so, like the railway track, the story ends at the fence. Nevertheless, I walk over as often as I can, just to share a few friendly bonggggs with these friendly flightless giants.

One day, I am alone on the railway track, returning from the emus, when there’s a rustle and crash. A black, low-slung shape bursts from cover, jumps across the path and vanishes. All I see is the long bushy tail and a flash of ochre-yellow. Then it’s gone. Back at the house, Grace and I look at her book of local wildlife. Only one animal has that distinctive yellow stripe across the hips: a wolverine. Yow! Close encounter with North American Carnivore! Major thrill.

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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