Many smells encountered in the forest are expected: the smell of fresh, wet soil, warm and earthy, for example. Or the smell of the rain evaporating form warm surfaces, carrying with it the essence of the soil, the leaf litter and the vegetation. Often, walking on a trail, one encounters a perfume, a delicate scent of a flowering tree, usually hidden somewhere within the foliage, its perfume permeating a small patch, carried by soft, imperceptible breezes and diffuse air currents. Often too, the smells are more like odors, like the pungent, lingering tang of a passing band of peccaries, disturbingly close to the smell of ripe (very ripe) human sweat. Orchids produce aromas that remind us at times of bouquets, or a hint of vanilla, or perhaps a scent that seems familiar but that we can’t quite recognize. Ripe fruits carry with them sticky aromas, sugary or syrupy, attractive in a little sick way, like an overripe mango. These smells attract wildlife of all types, from mammals to butterflies, birds and flies.
Many smells are definitely not pleasant, like the unmistakable smell of decaying flesh, arising not only from dead animals (where you would expect this smell to come from), but often from flowers, or plant tissues, which attract flesh or carrion-eating insects and creatures that get fooled by this most unusual but logical adaptation. Smells like those produced by insects, like stinkbugs, can also be highly unpleasant, clearly geared towards interrupting a potentially deadly predatory attack from a bird, or a small mammal. Nothing like a spray of caustic, horribly smelling liquid into your mouth to take the hunger pangs away, completely.
And then, there are those unusual, unique, rare and often hard to explain smells, those produced by numbers, behaviors, or by processes. Like the overpowering smell of tens of thousands adult caddisflies emerging at once from a river and swarming around your head at a light trap. Or the scent (if it is even a scent) of pheromones produced by insects and other animals, that trigger behaviors in potential mates that take over their entire beings, a drive to reproduce at all costs. Or the often talked about “smell of fear” not really knowing what that smell is or even what it is like. I’ve felt it a few times, in myself and in animals, while in the forest, at night, often alone, exposed to a sudden other smell that trigger a fear reaction. Once I ran unexpectedly into a browsing group of peccaries in the forest while walking downwind of them. When they realized I was there, they went off into a frenzied and noisy scape through the understory vegetation, crashing and snorting, leaving behind a trail of runny feces and a persistent pungent smell, stronger and longer-lasting than what they normally produce. My reaction, also of surprise and no small amount of fearful shock , sent a sudden shot of adrenaline into my system, which sharpened my senses and prepared me to run, a typical fight-or-flight ancestral response.
But more poignant and effective, also in similar circumstances, was the perception of a smell that reached even deeper into my human condition. Working on a patch of forest, next to a small stream in the northern Costa Rican province of Guanacaste, distracted by the work at hand (picking aquatic insects emerging form the stream attracted to a bright set of fluorescent white and black lights) I suddenly detected the strong smell of a wild cat. Blinded by the hours-long staring at the white sheet illuminated by the lights, I turned towards the forest, stepping closer to my bubble of light, the hairs in my arms and neck standing on end, sweat beading on my forehead and dripping down my face; my armpits itched and sweated, my whole body flushed with adrenaline. Thoughts were not necessary. I didn’t have to think about what I was feeling or about what I was going to do. I wasn’t even thinking at all, just feeling the primitive thought of something out there that can kill me, something that thought of me perhaps as food, perhaps just curious, perhaps not, and the increasing desire to bolt. That something caused my ears to buzz, my heartbeat to accelerate and pound on my eardrums, my gut to soften (which, in retrospect, explains at least a little the physiology of the panicking running peccaries and what they left behind), and the unmistakable sense of being at a serious disadvantage in someone else’s territory. It was terrifying as it was thrilling, primal, atavistic, animal. My body reflected all of these sudden changes, quickly enveloping my senses with a different smell, one that mixed with the now fainting smell of predator. I smelled my own scent, pungent and sudden, the smell produced by a body in distress, a system on alert, a predator turned into potential prey, dread and alarm. The smell of fear.
I often think that our senses are puny compared to those of other animals. We don’t have a great nose, even though we can distinguish and discriminate subtle nuances in wines and perfumes. Many other animals can do much, much better. A moth can detect a single molecule of scent from a female of its species and follow it to its source; another can follow the plume of scent of a night-blooming cactus from over a mile away. Us, we’re nose-blind in comparison with these champions. However, we can still be overwhelmed, excited, paralyzed, enchanted, puzzled, scared, enthralled and delighted by the scents of the forest on a warm afternoon hike after a rain.
Carlos de la Rosa
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