The Poetry of the Beetle

Last weekend, we took the young men camping in the sand dunes. It was a perfect pair of days for the dunes. The temperatures were moderate, kept that way by a blanket of high clouds Saturday morning. The crowds were tolerable—plenty of ATVs, but not so many that you feared for your life. The wind was breezy at most. And at about 9 p.m. a large orange moon rose out of the juniper that decorated a low hill to the east.

The boys had a great time. We had about 20 or so 11-15 year olds there, with one 16-year-old thrown in. After the sun had set, by the light of the full moon we played capture the flag on an ocean of sand—red glow sticks marking the midline across wave and trough; silhouetted bodies standing, now lying flat on the sandy surface, now running, chasing up and down and up and down the swells.

In the morning, after a hurried eating of breakfast and taking down of camp, the horde moves back to the dunes. They create a slope and jump for their sand-skate (a cousin of the snowboard); they make trails and tunnels for golf balls to traverse; they dig holes in which to bury each other.

As I walk from the sand-skate run across the crest of a dune to the golf-ball course, I observe a curious track through the sand. Tiny footprints have created a half-inch wide trail that looks like a miniature version of the ATV tire tracks so prevalent here. At the end of the trail I see a black beetle. We've seen others like this; the boys call them stink bugs, and the previous night I observed a group of boys as they watched, provoked, feared, and then squashed one as they set up their tent.

This particular beetle is moving peacefully southward, and I let him go on his way as I join some of the young men in digging holes in the sand. I first watch them in their play, then I join in, attempting to dig a really big hole on my own. Sand flies as my hands fling it out of the way. Soon my hole is large enough to attract attention from a 12-year-old, who joins me. He fetches a shovel and the hole size increases rapidly. Others join the quest to make the hole deep enough that I can stand in it and just see out. We take turns digging, and soon I leave the hole in their hands altogether.

Some time later, I wander up the dune to find other boys, and I notice the beetle's track, heading southward down a long slope of dune. I follow it, slowly down the dune and into a small valley, then up another dune, across the crest, and back down to another valley. Halfway up the next dune, I find the beetle, laboring up with the same difficulty we humans face when climbing these sand hills—two steps up, one step sliding back. I take note of the beetle's legs, one of which is missing, and I wonder if the lost leg is due to one of our young men. The beetle's track, I now notice, is asymmetrical due to the missing leg.

I ponder the beetle and his surprising journey. Where is he going? Who knows, but he is going—remarkably straight, and steadily onward over hill and vale, despite the raucous teenage play around him. It's a different world down there where the beetle crawls. A different dimension.

For me it's a poetic moment. I find pleasure and poetry in this beetle's journey, and I want to share it with someone. But I look around at the sand-boarding, hole-digging, friend-burying young men, and I decide to keep it to myself. The poetry of the beetle might not appeal to all and might be destroyed by some. I retrace the beetle's steps and look back over my shoulder as he climbs his dune, his mountain, on his way somewhere. I wish him well.