Commentary: Natural Selection

August 16, 2013

We made good time that day. We left our campsite on Happy Isle Lake early, then carried our canoe and supplies across a short trail to Merchant Lake. Algonquin Provincial Park is a vast network of lakes, connected by short strips of land. Making headway means a significant effort.

We paddled across Merchant, its startlingly clear water giving us an alarming view of boulders at great depth. It made us feel as if we were suspended in the air, and about to plummet. We carried our canoe, for the second time that day, reaching Big Trout Lake before the morning chill had given way to midsummer heat. A short trip through the marshes at Big Trout's east extremity, and we hit the open water. By the time we'd reached an attractive little island in Big Trout, our goal for the day, it was barely past noon.

Our island had a tiny beach and a wonderful stretch of rock to sun ourselves. With dinner some time away, the four of us—me, my wife Heather, and our German shepherds, Lilly and Mel, spent the afternoon swimming and sunning and just taking it easy.

Or we would have, but for a local inhabitant objecting to our temporary occupancy. A loon paddled just offshore, voicing her outrage.

Loons are interesting birds. Duck-like. But you wouldn't mistake one for a duck; the low, flat back gives it a unique, close-to-the-water profile. The loon's voice, though, is even more unmistakable. I'm not sure I've ever heard an animal make a louder, more insane shriek. No mystery, once you hear a loon, why its name became synonymous with "crazy."

This particular loon must have had a nest nearby, we decided.

We'd have thought nothing more of it if Mel hadn't perked up.  She trotted into the water, paddling outward with little urgency and much confidence. In the way of her breed, she was very much a youngster at two.

The loon let her come almost close enough to touch, then dove underwater—in the way of her breed. Mel, puzzled by the strange duck's new trick, swam in circles for a while, perplexed. Until the loon resurfaced, a little farther out. Screaming, again.

Mel kept trying to reach the loon, who each time would dive, evade, and resurface a little farther out. We began to think we'd better call our dog back, before the bird drowned her.

But nobody ever accused Mel of being dumb. We could almost feel the heat come off her brow as, ears pinned back, she realized she was being played. Embarrassed, angry, she paddled back to us, too smart to be fooled again. Shook herself off. Trotted back to where we lay on the rocks, lay down next to us with a "let's not speak of this" air.

We couldn’t help but laugh, even though Mel, an extremely smart and perceptive animal, was all too aware that she was the brunt of the joke. And that observation, we realized, was a lesson in natural selection: and why there are no stupid wolves.  In the wild, when taking down large game, some wolves will be very brave, facing down much larger prey and allowing their packmates to attack rear leg, to take it down, and belly, to finish it off. But there are none who will take that kind of risk without commensurate payoff: no wolf would chase a loon in the water.

We imagined the long eons of wolf pups, encountering loons for the first time. Some, like Mel, would tumble to the con, and live to be embarrassed. Those not as smart, well—natural selection means selection of the fittest, and doom for the others. It’s harsh, but nature’s beauty is often a terrible one. As Robinson Jeffers said in his poem “The Bloody Sire:”

What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk’s head?