Image Surgery

Indebted to the Retina

I originally wrote this piece in late 2007, but for some reason I never got around to posting it. Enjoy!

Last night I became incredibly thankful for the retroreflective properties of the retina, quality German engineering, and my firm belief that one must be highly focused during the task of driving.

Today I am comfortably holed up in the Deerhurst resort in ‘Northern’ Ontario. I haven’t yet ventured out, but I will shortly to find some food, and I’m sure I’ll find the autumn atmosphere crisp and pleasant. The leaves are many brilliant hues, and the sky is dotted with just a few puffy clouds. Supposedly I missed the early morning fog, but I might get that some other day. It’s my last weekend before I begin my job for the next few months, and although I don’t expect a crazy schedule, it’s still nice to have some time away from home.

Last night Mandy and I drove from Montréal to Hunstville, and with the setting of the sun coming ever earlier, it was dark for a good portion of the drive, including a small chunk of Ontario’s largest provincial park, Algonquin. It was here, specifically, that I earned my respect anew for biology, engineering, and concentration.

As soon as I entered the park, the frequent small towns gave way to retroreflectors of all forms, on barriers, sidings, in the road, on the paint, everywhere. Navigating the park in the dark is actually a fairly simple task, as you never have to guess which way the road turns or twists, the ample notice allows you to adjust your speed well in advance to handle these situations. And of course, I was well aware of the possibility of wildlife, so I kept my eyes peeled and scanned the edges continuously, knowing that you don’t always get much notice.

Twice before, both times this previous summer, I encountered animals in a too-intimate-with-my-car situation. The first was a moose heading happily down an embankment towards the road in the dusk hours on the northern shore of Lake Superior. I braked hard, but had sufficient time to do so without testing the limits, and the moose saw me and sauntered off the other way before ever stepping on the road. Jarring, certainly, but no harm done and not even that close of a call. And hey, I saw a moose in the wild for the first time, quite clearly, if briefly, and that was cool too. The second incident was on the Yellowhead heading into Edmonton, a little after midnight and after the longest marathon day I’ve ever driven without assistance. I was staring ahead on the divided freeway, aware, but not too aware that I was actually aware. I found out I was still quite lucid when two deer darted across the freeway just ahead of me, and this time I needed all of the brakes to help me out. Still, deer are fast and this time certainly fast enough, I hardly saw them as they leapt past the cones of light at the front of my car.

So last night, twisting and turning my way through Algonquin in the dark, I noticed some reflectors on the road in the distance that didn’t quite seem right. Then, without going around a sufficient corner or large enough rise, they went off. I went on alert, and as soon as I did so I noticed that the blue-green road reflectors were back, right in front of me, and quickly resolving into a black bear and her two cubs. I hit the brake as hard as I could, prepared to steer if necessary (though it wasn’t), and didn’t even manage to get the clutch down. I didn’t care. I stopped. Short.

I have never in my life had to press on the brakes quite that hard. I have, for sure, to test the car, because only in knowing limits can you properly use them. I’m glad I did that too. I thought of this like a grand piano hung from the sixth floor by a fraying rope; you have three basic options, and only two of those are likely. Most probably, you’re either under the piano, or not. It’s not really expected that you’ll be half-under, and it’s fairly improbable too. This felt exactly like that, either I would hit the bears or I wouldn’t, there wasn’t much hope of a ‘light tap’. And although bears are fairly massive, even when compared to a car, the two cubs were distinctly closer than their mother, and there is no hope that they would have stolen enough momentum to prevent me hitting the others. It was all or nothing.

I’ve only once before seen a bear in the wild, at quite a distance and with hordes of Japanese tourists chasing after it. I’ve never seen a mother and cubs in the wild, and in spite of the harrowing nature of the sighting, I am very glad I did. Although in the high beams they were only visible for a few seconds as they rushed away, I felt a such a strong sense of joy, one whose existence could only have occurred from the moment I saw the reflection, and whose chances perhaps stronger against than they were for.

And I treasure that joy.