Hello, mountain range. Hello, lifesaving shade beneath rocky overhang. Gratitude for whichever law of nature renders the sun a blockable entity. It is my new favorite law of nature.
I am sheltered by the quiet shadow of a kindly cliff face. Coolness washes over me. There’s steep terrain left to climb to get to the other side of the range—to the next unknown—but I can’t go anywhere until evening, when the sun dies down, and so this still canyon is my home for a while. I don’t think it’s even afternoon yet.
My phone is dark now. It died on the way. Now there’s no chance of map or contact, and I am truly vanished—transformed by the wild and battery death into a nonentity (at least in terms of cellular communication). I don’t know if the search for me has begun. I don’t know if they’ve even thought about looking. I will know when I know, when they find me (or I find them), but until then, I could make myself crazy wondering. It has to be none of my business.
So what is my business? For one thing: rabbits. Little desert cottontails popping their heads out of holes in the dusty ground, then popping back in. There’s a whole party of rabbits living right in this tiny canyon, which tells me that there must be moisture around here somewhere. Rabbits need to drink.
Maybe they’ve found the mythic seep or spring: a whole rabbit bar deep underground, a sweet little lair, where they are safe from vultures, hawks, and other predatory beasts; where the temperature is even cooler than up here under the overhang; where nothing turns to vapor and there is so much potable water they can stay there for days. Center-of-the-Earth Bar. Hare Central Station.
I imagine they have delicious snacks down there, delivered from above by a conga line of rabbit gatherers: chaparral toasties, Joshua tree leaf wraps, flora mille-feuille, and other vegetal delights. If I pay close attention to the comings and goings of the rabbits on the surface, I may discover which water-bearing plants are safe to eat.
But the rabbits are not in the mood to come out of their holes, or they can’t come out while the sun is so high, or they refuse to come out because of me, the human interloper in their midst. Too risky. The most I get of any one rabbit is two pink ears, a velvet head, and a dark, suspicious eye, before the creature pops down again—back into its nest beneath the sun-bleached surface.
I must convince the rabbits of my good intentions. Pay my respects. Offer them gifts (which will double as bait—not to hunt the furry souls, but simply to lure them from their holes so they can show me which plants are safe to eat). What can I offer that’s not already on tap at the rabbit bar? I have one and a half blueberry muffins. I have the small box of Frosted Flakes. I may want them later, but right now water is the priority. Still no appetite. Hunger eclipsed by thirst.
I begin with half a muffin. I break it up into little nuggets, then dot the crumbs Hansel and Gretel–style in a line from a burrow hole to an agave-esque plant. My plan is this: Rabbit smells muffin bait. Rabbit eats muffin bait. Rabbit craves more, and so fully emerges from hole, tempted by the farther reaches of the crumb buffet. Rabbit finishes buffet, but wants to keep eating. Rabbit is met with agave-esque plant. Rabbit then either (choose your own adventure) eats plant, and I know it’s safe, or does not eat plant, and I assume it’s poison.
I repeat the same method with a handful of the Frosted Flakes—snaking a trail from a different burrow hole to a patch of indigo blossoms with luscious-looking leaves. Although I haven’t eaten since yesterday, I am repulsed by the flakes. But I want to gobble up the leaves.
Then I sit back on the sand and wait. I have nothing to do but wait. Minutes go by (or what I assume are minutes—without my phone, there is no way to measure time). This is the rabbit life in all its sameness.
To the rabbits, I suppose there’s no such thing as sameness. For them, and their heightened olfactory consciousness, life is probably a stream of new and exciting fragrances. But for me—senses dulled by a constant deluge of opinions and judgments—every moment is a house of oppressive thoughts to be escaped. This is human life in all its strangeness.
Action at Burrow Number One. Out from the hole come two big ears, a buttermilk head, a black marble eye. Intrigued by the scent of baked goods, the rabbit’s nose twitches like it’s on a motor. One little paw emerges, then another. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen (and worth my desert death to watch this rabbit eat a blueberry muffin). I hold my breath, awaiting a bite. Go on, take it, eat. But the rabbit hesitates. Then votes against it. Paws withdraw. Ears vanish. The rabbit is gone, back into its hole with nothing.
But lo: action at Burrow Two! Another head pops up, bigger than the first. This rabbit is the color of cinnamon and sugar, a breakfast bun, primed for breakfast. The rabbit susses out the Frosted Flake bait. Its nose goes wild, like it’s trying to snort cereal cocaine. The flake is just out of reach. The rabbit stretches its furry neck, and on its throat I see a beautiful marmalade-color patch. On the side of its head, one eye gives a quick blink.
Mr. Blinkers, yes, this is the rabbit’s name. Mr. Blinkers seems crazier than the first rabbit (I relate). Also, more brave (I do not).
A decision is made. Air bun! With a spring, Blinkers is out of the hole: all white fur belly, tan poof tail, legs like chicken drumsticks. He moves in quickly for the flake, and swish! I give an inner cheer. Blinkers chews contemplatively. I can actually hear him crunching. Then, a double hop, and it’s on to the second flake. Swish! Second flake gone: hoovered inside a little anchor-shaped mouth.
Another hop. A third flake. If Blinkers senses my presence, he gives no indication. I feel proud of my invisibility. I feel like rabbit Jane Goodall. Blinkers is getting closer to the test shrub. Soon, I will know what the rabbits know.
But the meal is interrupted by a sound: pebbles falling from the overhang. They land in the thicket beneath. Blinkers stops, hind legs contracting. He looks alert. His whiskers tremble, and he sniffs the air wildly.
Our eyes meet. I lift my good hand and whisper, “It’s okay.”
Blinkers bolts. On all fours he goes zigzagging back to the burrow. Then he disappears into the earth.