I’m constantly reminded that, as climbers, we’re guests in the mountains and wilderness. We encroach on the territory of innumerable animals and insects — not the other way around. In our hubris we tend to feel flummoxed, even violated, when we encounter wildlife in unexpected places — our places, so we think.

Like the time I grabbed an overhead pocket while climbing in West Virginia and I heard a disconcerting rattle. Pulling up on my arm I peered into the hold and saw a baby rattlesnake coiled, staring back at me.

Or when I was leading a sandstone crack in Zion National Park and my fingers touched something fuzzy yet unseen. My panic was quickly tempered by rationality: I shouldn’t freak out, not now, more than 200 feet off the deck, mid-pitch. Rather than flee, the creature scurried u

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