Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Desperation is rarely a pretty sight: two birds are dive-bombing me--a pair of swallows, I think--in their excitement and desperation to drive me away from their nest. I, too, am feeling frantic because the narrow goat trail I'm stumbling along offers no refuge other than the lone bush which obviously houses the swallow family. So I am relegated to shielding my face and hair with my water canteen. On my right is a steep, jagged rock slide. On my left are dozens of potential hiding spots for the rattlesnakes that the trail signs have warned me about. My situation is beginning to provoke an uncontrollable anxiety and brings back ugly memories of those twenty years of my life when bondage to the bottle created similar unmanageable feelings. I begin to run, probably as much of an attempt to out-distance these uncomfortable emotions as from my desire to avoid being a target. Finally, as I escape the attacking birds by racing around a high mound of rocks, my irritation at the swallows turns to admiration--protecting your offspring is a noble reason for desperation. Going to any length to get your next drink, as I frequently did, is not so noble.