The Roadrunner
Sometimes, it’s the smallest things that change us — a strange object we find lying on the street, a chance encounter with a stranger — brief moments of surprise, and suddenly our world will never be the same. Or maybe those small things simply solidify how we’ve already been changing. They serve as reminders to listen to ourselves. I have been changed by small things.
The first time I saw a roadrunner, it changed me. It was a hot desert morning only a week after I moved from the great plains of northwest Iowa to the small town of Silver City, tucked in the mountains of southwestern New Mexico. I had been to the southwest before but had never encountered a roadrunner, and I had few expectations of seeing one that July day. While I was now a local, I assumed such sightings were rare–the iconic bird’s appearances few and far between. Contrary to the understanding that everything is easier in the twenty-first century, moving in the summer of 2022 seemed like one challenge after another. By the time my family and I, along with our two dogs and strange Siamese cat, made it the twenty hours from our old hometown, we were exhausted, not just in body but in spirit. The first few days at nearly six thousand feet elevation were so draining, it almost didn’t feel worth doing anything at all, never mind unpacking our whole lives. So, the brief forays we took into the surrounding wilderness were both beautiful and exhausting amidst the upheaval.
One morning we took a hike in the local open space park, Boston Hill, where I encountered my roadrunner. Boston Hill sits between the town of Silver City and the desert beyond, its wild terrain boasting a combination of desert and mountain wildlife. The morning sunlight that lightened the hilly slopes welcomed our tired souls and washed away our weariness. Energized, we climbed the twisting trail, rocks crunching under our dust-coated shoes. And it was then that I saw her–a beautiful bird: long, lanky, bright blue crest raised on her feathered head. The bird paused for a second upon a stone, then dashed off, flashing though the desert undergrowth and out of sight under a distant tree. I saw her for only a moment, but it was long enough. I realized I had never encountered something so wild, so free. I know I really saw her. But to my eyes she appeared almost supernaturally, like no wild animal had before. For the first time in my life, I understood the splendor of nature that inspired individuals across human history to believe in the divine–and something greater beyond.
But that’s not how the roadrunner is culturally perceived. We recognize the roadrunner — they appear in our cartoons, in our nature shows, on merchandise from the southwestern states — but the roadrunner depicted here is a caricature, awkwardly comical with its strange lanky body and unusual gate. They are something outlandish, seen dancing across a picturesque desert. By creating a mythos around the roadrunner, we remove them from their actual context–the complex desert ecosystem, as harsh as it is beautiful. The animal we’ve memorialized is more symbol than bird. The real creature is wildly different: bright, frightening, reminiscent of their ancient dinosaur cousin, strong and full of a hidden grace. They are large birds, a kind of ground cuckoo that, while capable of flight, prefer to run across the ground. They are children of the desert, and the greater roadrunner — the kind I have encountered — is native only to Mexico and the southwestern United States. Roadrunners are omnivores and turn the desert into their buffet, eating everything it offers, from lizards to prickly pear cacti. In person, the roadrunner reminds me of myself: I am tall, thin, and flat-chested, something that, in my adolescence, made me feel awkward and unbecoming: when, in reality, I am like the roadrunner, gracefully lanky and strangely free. Encountering the roadrunner marked the moment New Mexico welcomed me home. She was my hearkening. The desert greeted me. And it took me completely by surprise.
The second time I met a roadrunner was one month later. This encounter took place in a completely different part of my new town. We had moved to Silver City for one main reason and that was the local college, Western New Mexico University. My father is a college professor, and, because of this, my family has moved multiple times. While moving was a familiar routine, this change, however, had additional meaning because I would now be attending as a dual enrolled high school senior. It was a warm August afternoon. I was headed to class, climbing a wide stairway surrounded by an intricate terraced garden, tidy university landscaping consisting of mainly mown grass and raised flower beds. As I climbed, I was met with a surprise–a vivid flash of turquoise. I watched as a roadrunner rounded the edge of a flowerbed only fifteen feet from me. He appeared suddenly. I was stunned. If at all possible, this second bird was more majestic than the one I’d encountered before. He paused: his body rigid, his beak pointed purposefully ahead, his feathers a mix of browns, reds, and golds, like someone had rolled him in the desert’s paintbox. He stayed there for a full moment, perfectly still, and I examined him; for all I know, he examined me in return. Then I stepped toward him, hoping for a closer look. But he had other plans; I had overstepped our moment of silent comradery, and he disappeared off the edge of the grassy lawn. Once again, I was alone, surrounded by sleepy flowers and dancing sunlight; the only memento of our chance encounter was a warm glow that filled my chest. After a moment, I started off again.
It was a brief encounter, but it struck me. That second roadrunner highlighted and solidified a change taking place inside me, a gradual shift that I didn’t know how to express. I was struggling with fear of the unknown. Since before we were born, my parents planned to give us a nontraditional schooling experience, with a focus on exploration and application. My family refers to this as unschooling, although I find the term “self-directed learner” easier to explain. Whatever term is used, however, the important takeaway is that I have been raised nontraditionally, with experience and the world around me as my main teachers. And, because of this, I struggle to find the value in a rigid school system that teaches only what is deemed “necessary” to learn. I could find no motivation or justification in forcing myself to consider college; the idea of higher learning seemed too strict, too unapplied. A college-level drawing course I took, however, changed my mind. Over the course of the semester, I found myself reaching for new levels artistically, mentally, and socially. I realized that attending college was not about economic success or a fancy diploma: instead, it was the opportunity to focus on learning and exploring with engaged peers and professionals. I wondered if I had convinced myself the school system was negative in an attempt to shelter myself from a world I didn’t know. But the point of an unschooling philosophy was to be open to the unknown–somewhere along the way, I had forgotten to fully live by this creed. And then, like a direct example of the power of experience, there was the roadrunner. It came as a surprise, but it didn’t hurt me. Instead, I found myself full of delightful wonder. I needed a reminder. And that was exactly what New Mexico’s wildest bird provided for me. The roadrunner was changing me.
The most recent time I encountered a roadrunner was only two months ago. We had become fairly settled into our new home and hiking the local wilderness was a regular activity. We were headed for one of our favorite local trailheads and, in our dust-stained white minivan, we bumped down a broad country road. Suddenly, with the same supernatural grace as before, a roadrunner appeared out of the tall grass along the side of the road. However, as hard as I try to remember, I can’t quite place what happened next. Did the roadrunner cross in front of us? I think so. But maybe it hesitated and turned back the way it came. Either way, my third roadrunner didn’t seem to carry any philosophical advice or spiritual greeting. In fact, it was just a normal animal–confused, rushed, operating on animal instinct. But maybe that was what that third roadrunner came to show me–that I had become accustomed to the creature which initially had so surprised me. After all, I was no longer a newcomer to the southwestern desert. It seems I grow familiar with a place much faster than I ever realized. Maybe I have come to belong.
While I have become familiar with these unusual creatures as I am now a part of this strange land, I am still struck by their beauty and individuality. I find the similarities between these birds and myself almost uncanny. And, while what they have come to represent varies and changes with time, I am grateful for the messages the roadrunner has given me. To me, they are my teachers and my messengers. They have led me forward, and they will lead me on.
Natalee Drissell is an artist and writer currently attending Western New Mexico University majoring in Art and minoring in English. Since she was very small, Natalee has been passionate about all forms of storytelling, and that passion continues to this day. Natalee lives in the little town of Silver City, New Mexico, tucked in the arms of the beautiful Gila Wilderness. When she isn’t writing or creating art, she can be found wandering the mountains.
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