ESTESBOG

SOMETHING WENT BUMP IN THE NIGHT

By Peter Walker

The human brain is a complex organ. There is still so much about this natural computer with its enormous capacity for data storage and retrieval that is a mystery to science. Obliquely, my story today is about a little used function of the human brain stem.

Evolutionists believe the human brain stem represents the original brain possessed by our reptilie-like ancestors millions of years ago. As such, it was not capable of very much thought, but it served to keep body functions like breathing and heart rate steady. It was also capable of conducting certain instinctual reactions to external stimuli – reactions like fright response.

Scientists today tell us that this thickening of the nervous tissues at the base of the human brain still serves these same functions. The brain stem tells the heart how fast to beat and maintains our breathing without our having to think about it.

But what about instinctual behavior? Is it possible to react to fright without thinking about it? Can the brain stem, in response to certain strong, primitive stimuli, take command of our bodies and attempt to deal with a situation while bypassing conscious thought? I’m here to tell you that it can.

For more than 30 years I have worked in a wildlife agency field office in one place or another. Members of the public are always bringing in injured critters for us to take care of. Sometimes they make ill-advised attempts to adopt wild animals and birds and make pets of them. Sooner or later, whether voluntarily or by confiscation, we end up in possession of them.

I first moved from a Maine fish hatchery to a regional fish and wildlife headquarters in 1974. During my first week there I learned an important lesson. Never open an unmarked box or sack without nudging it first to see if anything nudges back. The very angry great blue heron that narrowly missed my face when I opened a burlap sack left in the hallway taught me to be more careful.

On the other hand, curiosity can overcome even the most important lessons in life. I once returned from the field to find a hand-written sign taped to the bathroom door in the Brush, Colorado office that said, “CAUTION. LIVE BOBCAT. DO NOT ENTER.”

I, of course, just had to get a look at that bobcat. Who would have thought that a bobcat kitten could actually transform itself into an out-of-control electrical appliance? But, I digress….

One of the laboratory analytical processes that I performed years ago as the Maine State Fish Pathologist involved the screening of trout and salmon kidney tissues with a special microscope that used a black light to make treated pathogenic bacteria glow in the dark. I therefore had to black out the window in my small laboratory and spend several hours at a time working alone in a nearly pitch black room.

On such days I hung a sign on the door asking my colleagues to stay out. I usually cranked up the radio for company.

One day in 1982 I was sitting in my darkened laboratory with my eyes in the microscope when I was aware that the door had opened for a second or two. That was not unusual. Frequently Bert, our mailman, slipped my mail in onto the end of the counter. I kept on working without looking up.

A minute later while buried in some sort of thought, I felt something gently press on the top of my right thigh. Keeping my eyes on the illuminated microscopic field, I absentmindedly reached down with my right hand to brush away whatever it was. Instead, my hand closed over a softball-sized furry head with stiff whiskers.

That’s when my reptilian brain stem high-jacked my body. It may be the closest thing I will ever have to an out-of-body experience. Completely beyond my conscious control, my body sprang back and took me through the narrow darkened room out into the bright hallway. From somewhere deep in my chest a most piteous deep roaring and howling burst forth, all entirely beyond my control.

After several seconds the noise subsided and I was able to shut off the autopilot and regain control. It was then that I began to hear the rib-splitting laughter of the fishery managers and game biologists that worked down the hall. When I switched on the overhead light in the lab, a 25-30 pound beaver balanced on its haunches with both paws on the seat of my chair staring at me as if it, too, thought the whole episode was hilariously funny.

It turned out that a couple had hand reared a beaver kit until the living room furniture and the bedroom set came under peril. After making friends with the not-so-little guy, my buddies down the hall thought I might like to meet it, too. So, one opened the door while another shoved the beaver into my darkroom.

If anyone ever leaves off a healthy badger, or perhaps a mountain lion at the Brush DOW office, I will give serious thought to catching the next flight from DIA back to Augusta, Maine.