"I don’t buy the basic premise of that movie. The notion of somebody going off alone into the wilderness for a few days and suddenly finding wisdom or new insights about themselves and then coming back a changed person is a lot of bull," Pete asserted as he opened a can of cola. He and his sister Andrea had just finished watching a movie on TV. They were relaxing on the patio, enjoying the balmy night air and full moon. "Real insights and lasting personal change don’t happen in a day or two," he continued. "It’s a long, laborious process. These sudden conversions you hear about, ‘seeing the light’ or ‘suddenly understanding my true purpose in life’ or ‘confessing my sins and giving myself to God,’ don’t produce real change. As soon as the emotion wears off, I’ll bet those people go right back to their old routines and their same old behavior patterns."

Andrea disagreed. "I think real insight and real change can happen suddenly if the person is ready for it. Sometimes people struggle with a difficult personal issue for years. They may turn to self-help books or maybe consult a minister or therapist. They come to understand their problem better and they may even work through some side issues, but nothing they try resolves the central issue. Something is missing, perhaps a crucial bit of information or some kind of connection they can’t see. These people need a spiritual catalyst to ignite their insight and start the process of change. When they finally find that catalyst, insight seems to come in a rush and real change follows almost as quickly."

"I still don’t believe those people truly change, at least not in a lasting, permanent way," Pete said skeptically. "Do you know any real people who made a major personal change this way?"

"Well, it happened to me," said Andrea. "I went through this experience in my mid-twenties." She inspected her empty glass. "Pass me a soda and I’ll tell you all about it." Pete fished a can out of the ice chest and handed it to her. Then he settled comfortably into his chair and waited for Andrea to begin her tale.

The cool air smelled fresh and clean after the heavy rain the night before. I pulled off to the side of the dirt road and climbed out of the pickup. I pulled on a jacket against the predawn chill, then donned my binoculars and field bag. Another day of work was beginning.

I walked briskly through the desert scrub toward the beginning of the first bird census route. The clouds were breaking up now. It promised to be a beautiful day, but I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I hardly noticed. I had spent the long drive brooding over my chronic problem with low self-esteem. It had plagued me since high school or maybe longer. I often felt inferior to other people, but I could rarely pinpoint why. When I made a mistake or failed to perform up to my own expectations, I would mentally beat myself up for it. I sometimes wondered if I could do anything right and even questioned whether I deserved the space I took up on this earth. Over the years, I had pondered and puzzled over my lack of self-esteem many times and I had developed a certain amount of insight. Some counseling had persuaded me that I was as good as the next person, objectively speaking, but this belief was mostly intellectual. Deep down, I still suspected that I was the most worthless person on earth.

With an effort, I forced my thoughts away from my personal problems and toward my work. My task this morning was to census birds in the woodland along Tonto Creek, just upstream from a reservoir known as Roosevelt Lake. There were plans to raise the dam and expand the lake, which would flood this area and similar areas around the lake. It made me both sad and angry to think about how many animals and plants would be lost if the lake was enlarged and it flooded the surrounding habitat.

I had cared deeply about other living things for a long time. My feelings developed and matured during high school and college as I studied biology during the school year and worked with wild plants and animals during the summers. My study of vertebrate anatomy and physiology revealed the remarkable similarity between myself and other animals, despite the obvious differences. From the study of evolution, I learned about my common ancestry with other species. I realized that we are all cousins, however remotely. From ecology, I learned that people are part of nature, not separate and apart from the natural world, nor stationed above it with a right to subdue it. The field of animal behavior opened the door to realistic understanding, appreciation, and sometimes even empathy with my animal neighbors. The more I observed and learned, the more I appreciated how wonderful and precious other species are, not just for food or other human needs and wants, but possessing an intrinsic value that transcends human materialism. I began to think of them more as extended family than as just raw materials for people to use.

I had to admit that feeling kinship and appreciating intrinsic value came more easily with cute, furry mammals than with irritating or potentially harmful species like mosquitoes, tumbleweeds, and disease organisms. And, of course, I still ate some of my "cousins" and used others to meet my basic needs. That was an unavoidable part of my animal lifestyle. But I deplored the wanton killing of organisms that are not needed for survival and pose no threat to anyone’s safety.

As I approached Tonto Creek in the dim morning light, something out of place caught my eye. A lizard lay on its back at the bottom of a dirt bank. It was unusual to see a lizard this time of year. They had been hibernating for a month or more. Besides, lizards don’t lie on their backs unless they are too sick or injured to turn over. The lizard didn’t move when I approached. As I stooped to pick it up, I noticed that it was lying on a pile of loose, damp soil. I raised my eyes and scanned the face of the nearly vertical bank. Evidently, part of the bank had sloughed off during the storm last night. I could see a small hole in the bank about a foot below the top. The lizard must have been hibernating in the burrow and was caught in the landslide when part of the burrow broke away along with the cliff face. The lizard barely moved in my hand, clearly too cold to function. In this condition, it would be an easy meal for the first carnivore that wandered by.

I tucked the lizard inside my shirt to warm it up while I followed along the bank, looking for a place to climb up. I found a break in the vertical face and climbed to the top, then followed the top of the bank until I judged I was near the lizard’s burrow. Knowing that the old burrow was no longer safe, I searched for another one. The lizard wiggled against my ribs as it warmed up. I found a small burrow that looked adequate. Hopefully the sleeping owner wouldn’t mind a roommate. I retrieved the lizard from my shirt, gently positioned it with its head in the burrow entrance and smiled to myself as the lizard scrambled into the darkness.

The sun was rising. I would have to hurry to finish my bird census on time. But first I took a moment to admire the rosy eastern sky and enjoy the warm satisfaction that was my reward for helping the lizard.

An hour later, I finished the first bird census and headed through the trees toward the beginning of the second census route. The sun was out and the day was warming rapidly. I removed my jacket and put it in my field bag. My thoughts returned to their earlier theme. Why did I feel like such a bad person, even after doing good deeds? If I believed in my head that I was a good person, why was it so difficult to convince my heart? I had puzzled over my feelings and tried to analyze them for years. I still had no convincing explanation, at least nothing that would convince me. Maybe my mother’s criticism while I was growing up had something to do with it. Maybe it stemmed from my conflict with that girl in the ninth grade, the class bully whose hostility, heckling, and venomous gossip had destroyed my self-confidence and poisoned my relationships with my classmates by the end of the year. But why would experiences so long ago continue to dictate how I felt about myself now, as an adult? I must be overlooking something, some missing piece in the puzzle of my psyche.

As I strode across an open area near a boulder pile, I felt something soft and squishy under my foot, followed a split second later by a light blow to my lower leg. Startled, I turned and looked back, expecting to see a crooked stick and a fresh cow pie with a footprint. Instead a rattlesnake was coiling itself defensively and starting to rattle. I must have stepped on that snake and it bit me! I reflexively jumped backwards away from the snake. It responded with a long, buzzing rattle.

I moved a safe distance away, sat down and raised my pant leg. I could feel the adrenalin pumping through my system and starting to cloud my ability to think. Sure enough, there was a pair of tiny fang holes. Real fear seized me, then anger. How dare that snake bite me! I could be permanently crippled by the tissue damage from its venom. I could even die out here alone. More adrenalin gushed into my veins. My heart pounded. My mouth went dry. I wanted to act, physically do something, maybe run to the safety of the truck or bludgeon the snake to a pulp. I knew I should sit quietly to slow the spread of the venom through my body, but it was difficult to be still when every sense and every muscle was primed for action.

It occurred to me that I didn’t know what kind of rattlesnake had bitten me. The doctor would want to know. I started to jump up to find out but caught myself and sat back down. Instead, I used my binoculars. The pattern on the back of the coiled snake suggested either a Mohave or a Diamondback. I needed to see the tail to clinch the identification, but it was hidden by the coils, except for the rattles at the end. After several minutes, the rattlesnake slowly uncoiled itself and crawled away. I studied its tail through the binoculars. The white bands were wider than the black bands. Bummer! A Mohave! The deadliest rattlesnake in North America. Even young, healthy adults like me could die from its venom if not treated with antivenin. My fear mounted even higher, along with my adrenalin level. I fought for self control.

It was time to invoke the Survival Plan. A few years before, when I began my career as a biologist in the field, I had read up on the accidents and injuries that seemed most likely to happen to me on the job. I developed a plan for how to handle each one, including dealing with fear and panic and the effects of adrenalin on my ability to think clearly. I visualized myself having each accident or injury, calmly evaluating my circumstances and options, making wise choices and acting on them. I went over each situation in my imagination until I could picture myself controlling my fear and handling the problem calmly and rationally. The Survival Plan had helped me avoid panic in other emergencies. Now it was time to test it with a rattlesnake bite.

I quietly talked myself through the steps. First, move away from immediate danger. Done. Second, minimize physical activity. Done. Third, assess damage. I looked at the bite again. Nothing had changed. I was fine otherwise. Fourth, give first aid as needed. What I needed was antivenin. What I had was antiseptic. With trembling hands, I swabbed the bite marks. At least I would die infection-free. Fifth, evaluate circumstances ... the effects of adrenalin were making it hard to stay focused. I tried to relax and clear my mind. Okay, circumstances. I was out in the wild alone, with no one expecting to see me before evening. It was a 1-1/2 mile walk to my truck. Walking that far ought to thoroughly mix the venom with my blood. I might not even be capable of driving by the time I got to the truck. Or I could sit quietly and wait to be rescued. I had a liter of water, lunch, and a snack with me. I had a jacket but it was probably not warm enough for the cold night. Hypothermia was a possibility. Search and rescue were unlikely before morning. However, quail and dove season were open and maybe deer season. A hunter might come along and render aid. A rancher was another possibility. Sixth, identify options: 1) Sit and wait for rescue, minimize the circulation of venom through my body and keep the damage local, but no medical treatment until tomorrow and I must survive the cold night. 2) Walk to the truck and drive to the Emergency Room if still capable of driving, get antivenin sooner but suffer greater damage from the venom to my whole body on the way there.

What a set of options! A real lose-lose situation. My adrenaline level was low now and so were my spirits. I looked at the bite wound again. Still no change. I pulled my notebook out of my field bag, checked the finish time for the first bird census, checked my watch and made a few estimates. It had been about 20 minutes since I stepped on the snake, I figured, and still no symptoms. Maybe it was a dry bite! My heart leapt at the thought. I decided to wait another 10 minutes to be sure that the snake really had failed to inject any venom.

As I mulled over my interaction with the rattlesnake, I remembered wanting to kill it for biting me. In that moment, the snake had seemed like a vengeful enemy. Now that I was calmer, I was appalled by my reaction. After all, I had hurt the snake first by stepping on it. How could I have wanted to kill it for defending itself in an emergency? Where had my ideas about the intrinsic value of living organisms gone when put to the test? I finally decided that the rattlesnake still had intrinsic value even though it had tried to injure or even kill me. I was no longer angry with the snake. Now I felt guilty about having ever wanted to destroy it. Only a cruel, uncaring person would feel that way, I told myself. The familiar feelings of worthlessness returned.

Thirty minutes after the snakebite, there was still no sign that the rattlesnake had injected any venom. Relieved to be alive and well, I decided to do the second bird census. I finished it without incident, although my eyes remained peeled for rattlesnakes as if it was a warm summer night instead of a late fall morning.

In warm weather, I normally counted lizards while I followed the same census routes in reverse. The lizards were hibernating now, so I was free to enjoy a pleasant walk through the woods on my way back to the truck. As I retraced my steps along the census route, my thoughts drifted to back to the problem with self-esteem. No matter how much I excelled, no matter how many good deeds I did or how many friends I had, I harbored a lurking suspicion that deep down I was no good and someday, someone was going to find out. All my accomplishments and awards, all my efforts to be kind and helpful to others, and the acceptance by and esteem of my colleagues, family and friends seemed like a candy coating that hid a basically rotten person.

When I tried to think about it objectively, I knew this wasn’t true. The way I lived my life was as good and virtuous as the next person. I knew I had made some real contributions to my community and my profession. But the feeling that I was worthless as a person persisted deep in my heart, and I didn’t know how to rid myself of it. It tainted my pleasure in life. I couldn’t enjoy the awards and honors I received, because something inside of me insisted a mistake must have been made; I couldn’t possibly deserve to be praised. I couldn’t bring myself to let even my friends and family know me much beyond the surface because I worried that they would find out what an awful person I really was.

A barbed wire fence crossed the narrow path. I lifted my field bag over the top wire and dropped it on the other side. "Why do I feel so worthless? Am I really that much worse than everybody else?" I asked myself silently. I bent forward, grasped the lower wire and lifted my left leg through to the other side. "Why can’t I care about myself the way I care about other people?" I flattened my back and slipped between the wires. "I manage to care about other living things, even those that can harm me like spiders and rattlesnakes, even the snake that just bit me...." I paused, halfway through the fence, as my mind made the connection with my recent experience. "If I could forgive that rattlesnake for trying to kill me, I ought to be able to forgive myself for my own mistakes. I still believe that all living organisms have intrinsic value. I’m a living organism," I reasoned. "Therefore, I must have as much intrinsic value as a rattlesnake or any other living creature." I remained motionless, frozen between the wires by this revelation.

My feelings began to change as acceptance of my own personal worth slowly sank in. Feelings of worthlessness melted away. Fears of being found out evaporated. My tears moistened the damp ground as I silently repeated to myself "I have as much value as a rattlesnake." It sounded crazy, but I knew what it represented and it helped to keep the process going.

The ache in my exhausted leg muscles finally reminded me of where I was. I emerged on the other side of the fence and stood for a few minutes, pondering my new insights. I felt lighter. I felt relaxed and free in the interior space formerly occupied by feelings of worthlessness. There was a new warmth and comfort in my heart and the beginnings of love for myself. I had discovered and accepted my value as a person, an inherent value that depended on no one else’s opinion and that no one could take away from me.

I picked up my field bag and headed down the trail with a light heart. I knew that my feelings of worthlessness would try to return, as old habits do, but I had new insights and my rattlesnake analogy to protect my newfound self-esteem. Today was a turning point in my life, and this walk in the woods was a journey I would never forget.

Pete was silent for a long time after Andrea finished her story. He had known about the rattlesnake encounter, but the rest of the story and what it told him about Andrea, was new. He believed her; she wouldn’t lie to him.

"So what do you think now?" Andrea asked softly.

Pete stood and stretched while he thought about his answer. "I believe it happened to you. I noticed the change in you and it does seem to be permanent. So I suppose it could happen that way to other people, too." He gave her an affectionate hug and walked her to her car. "Drive carefully and watch out for rattlesnakes and barbed wire."

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