THE BLACK FOX — What is your most life-changing experience with a wild animal?

About the Author

Richard Louv is Co-Founder and Chairman Emeritus of the Children & Nature Network, an organization supporting the international movement to connect children, their families and their communities to the natural world. He is the author of nine books, including "Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder" and "The Nature Principle." His newest book, "Vitamin N," offers 500 ways to build a nature-rich life. In 2008, he was awarded the Audubon Medal.

John Berger, in About Looking, wrote: “With their parallel lives, animals offer man a companionship different from any offered by human exchange. Different because it is a companionship offered to the loneliness of man as a species.”

A few years ago, at an isolated Alaskan fishing camp on Kodiak Island, I was walking along a path between the cabins. Brown bears – grizzlies – are common there, even in the camp. I was not paying full attention, as I should have been. Needing to tip my guide at the end of this visit, I was counting my money. Looking at the wallet, I could see only the path directly in front of my feet.

The black fox 3
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And then I saw the brightest, most piercing eyes I have ever seen. They shined like stars.

A black fox stood in my way. The foxes on Kodiak are among the largest in the world. This one was the size of a coyote. It was standing three feet from me. Its gaze was disconcerting. And it wasn’t budging. I wondered: was it rabid? We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds.

That same year, on the volcanic ledges of the Galapagos Islands, I noticed how aquatic iguanas and sea lions basked within inches of each other. I asked a Lindblad Expeditions naturalist how each species perceived the other. He said, “To the iguana, the sea lion is just another part of the landscape. That’s all.”

To the fox, was I another part of the landscape? Did the fox recognize me as a fellow passenger, or as a simple food ticket?

For such a social animal, Homo sapiens is, as Berger wrote, a lonely species. We recognize our isolation and mortality while other species move within their own nations, unaware of our predicament. Except, perhaps, for dogs. We have shaped them to be aware of us, to know us, to worry about us.

I have often wondered why the eyes and expressions of most dogs seem so familiar, so similar, as if there exists an over species called One Dog. Perhaps when dogs look at us they see One Human, and then looking deeper, they detect a degree of individuality.

In a sense, we have created a species in our own image, re-created from grey wolves. Either that, or, as another theory goes, dogs created themselves in our image for their own convenience. When we human beings look at one other, we look first at the left eye of the other person. We do this reflexively, instantaneously, and then we look at the rest of the face. Of all the other animals we encounter, only dogs look first at our left eye. Only dogs. Wolves do not do this with us. Nor do foxes. Only dogs see us as we want to be seen.

But we want more. Deep down we know we cannot make it in this world only in the company of humans. Recent research suggests that the urban parks with the most biodiversity – the highest number of species – are the parks that have the most positive influence on our psychological health. So, at our best, we surround ourselves with kin of another kind, domesticated and wild.

We seek companionship even from plants.

I am plant blind. I pass by these other nations. I have seldom learned the names of proximate vegetation. Until recently. Kathy and I installed two window boxes, one under each bedroom window, and we filled them with geraniums and Icelandic poppies. The poppies reach high up, on stalks with what could pass as human hair – like the hair on a woman’s legs a week past shaving – and the blooms have personality, character. They express, move, nod, turn one after another and I am fascinated, now caring as I have not cared before about their health, about a plant’s aspirations. They too are companions. Friends with limitations.

And yet, plants and dogs and deer and hawks and mushrooms and songbirds, and even an occasional mountain lion passing through, are not enough for us. We search the sky, other planets and beyond, for new company, entranced with the idea of other beings in our universe, like us. Or not like us. Despite the risk that would come from a visit by strangers.

In the Northwest, fraying men move through forests searching for a being that looks like us, but is covered with long hair and stench. I have met these hunters and seekers. Some of them cannot give up that search. They become obsessed. Some of them lose their human families as they search for the others.

So yes, we look for companionship. But we also search for something more. Looking into the eyes of a dog, I see someone I know. The black fox that I met on the path was from elsewhere. I saw – or wanted to see – kinship, but in its eyes I may have glimpsed only the suns of a parallel universe.

It held perfectly still. I stepped forward and it stepped aside and continued to watch me. I lifted my hand and said, “I’m going to the lodge. Would you like to come with me?” I began to walk, and the fox followed me toward the building. Veering off a few yards from the door, it dissolved into the high grass.

I recall few significant details about most of the people I met at that Alaskan camp that summer.

But the black fox’s eyes are still watching.


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Richard Louv is chairman emeritus of the Children & Nature Network and author of “The Nature Principle: Reconnecting With Life in a Virtual Age” and “Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. 

Follow Richard Louv on Facebook and @RichLouv on Twitter


Note: Have you had a life-changing or transcendent moment or experience with another animal, wild or domestic? Please share it in the comments below, and/or send it to



  1. Your observations touched me in a new way about animals.

    And I want to tell you about a woman in San Jose del Cabos who is doing astonishing work for birds at San Jose Estuary and in Baja. She is a trained guide, knowledgeable about birds, history, culture and avid follower of the principles at engaging children (and adults) with nature. The tourist culture in Cabos needs nurturing in order to get the “where’s the action?” crowd to slow down and help protect the few areas where, among other birds, the Belding’s yellowthroat makes it’s home.
    For the last 10 years some one , as yet unknown, is trying to burn the estuary, render it free of birds, so he can build some monstrosity there.
    There are Mexican organizations who are doing some good work to save it, but more needs to be done.
    If you have time you can read about the estuary and Birding-Los Cabos and a little about Maria Elena Muriel. Among many other connections, we share “Last Child in the Woods”
    I am a writer and I will be helping the estuary and Maria from Montana.
    Perhaps you might have an idea about places to send information about the estuary.
    And one last note – about flowers…my husband and I have a wildflower hike website for the Bozeman area. My first love is surrounding myself with wildflowers. Then I slow down enough to watch for who ever else shows up. We are blessed to live near Yellowstone National Park.

  2. After a major detonation to the very foundation of my life, I lived with my children in a little bowl of a mountain. I had crows who lived in the woods near me. They would follow me on walks, once alerting me to bears around the corner. One day, I was sitting on my porch, my little dog lying in the sun nearby. I heard my crow friends screeching in alarm. I looked up to see a falcon dive-bombing towards my porch. Then the most remarkable thing occurred. A sortie of crows targeted the falcon, sending it careening into the hillside, about 15 feet from where I sat. It finally was able to gather its bearings, and flew off. But those seven crows perched themselves all around the porch railing, so that the falcon would not think of trying to attack again. I recently walked the mountain roads in that neighborhood, and I swear my crow friends followed me the entire way.

  3. In an isolated area in the Southern California desert near Mexico and after a morning of an intense yoga practice and meditation sit, I went outside to contine to sit on the deck and saw a lizard. I said to myself and I guess to the lizard, “Will you come over to see me Mr. Lizard and give me your company?” Like a dog would do, the lizard came right to me and stayed at my feet. In that moment I felt a part of everything in the lizard’s natural desert environment and the little fella felt safe to come to me. It was, to say the least, sublime.

  4. I once walked up on a mountain lion in the woods.

  5. I have two 12 year old semi-feral cats. Every day they share their food and water with a racoon. Even though they are within a few feet of each other there is no conflict. They have an unspoken agreement that I am not party to and I stay out of the way. I know that my presence could upset the balance of this interesting relationship.

  6. What if the black fox did see you, Richard, as an individual? And if he also sees you not only as a member of the domineering human race, but as a man who is part of the effort to re-kindle our connection to the natural world, to his world? This could explain why he accepted your invitation to walk down a path together, and why you feel that his eyes are “still watching,” even a few years later.

  7. Even though its not actual wilderness, I remember one encounter with a possum back some seven years ago. I was at my high school campus early in the morning. There’s barely anyone around being 7 am ish in the morning. As I sat there on a cement bench, out the corner of my view I show movement. A white gray body was crawling along the fence and enters in the main quad space. It was headed right for where I was, since a trashcan was right now to me. Three feet away from me, it stopped and looked at me. I was already looking at and I said good morning to it. The little eyes that were staring at me. I just felt very peaceful being by the possum. It finally jumps into the trashcan to look for food most likely. When it comes out, a few people across the quad space start to notice and start yelling and pointing at it. Still three feet away, it looks at them then at me, then back and forth several more times. The possum had this expression of humor like “seriously?” I remember just saying, “yeah, humans are kind of weird”. It precedes to look at me one last time as if to say “you’re not” and runs off using the same path to it before. I still remember those eyes. I love those eyes.


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