Edge
The Edge. That small habitual strip that lays on the boundary between the salt sea and the arid landscape of the Galapagos. Perhaps it was the nature of the expedition itself, the well-intentioned program designed for the protection of the park that leaves the intrepid explorer to follow the guides on slow plodding tours, restricted to only a few hours of predetermined pathways that kept us from seeing more. What we saw was mostly the edge. Rocky, dry, little shelter, less water, a tough place to live.
What lived on the edge was a tough bunch. You do not get to live on the edge unless you have passed the harshest of tests. A few could swim there. They hangout on the beaches, ever ready to disappear back into the surf. But for the most part, the few that make their living are survivors accompanied by the desert adapted cactus and succulents.
The weak were washed out before they even arrived. The process of selection started long before they even reached the shores. An accidental journey courtesy of the rivers that empty the coastal jungles. Watch the Rio Guayas traversing Santiago de Guayaquil, Ecuador, with drifting clumps of branches, floating root balls bobbing down river. Sometime in the past hapless creatures were caught unaware as their perch was undercut, falling into flowing waters. A direct journey to the Galapagos is over 1000 Kilometers (~646 miles). No power engine, perhaps a makeshift accidental sail of branches. No guarantee of a direct route, more of a wandering direction. Weeks if you are lucky, more likely months just floating. Food supplies limited to the greenery of the raft and maybe other fellow travelers. No fresh water. Food for the meat eaters would be gone quickly. Not much chance of making the journey, it appears only the vegetarians might have enough. Iguanas and Tortoises.
The edge, for those who live there, provides plenty – if you were designed to live in its harsh quarters. If your ancestors passed the test in the first place. For the most part tough enough to endure the paucity of fresh water. Some learned to migrate up the slopes through the microclimates to make their living in the lushness of the established mountainsides of greenery, but still returning to the edge for nesting. Just the edge.
Read MoreWhat lived on the edge was a tough bunch. You do not get to live on the edge unless you have passed the harshest of tests. A few could swim there. They hangout on the beaches, ever ready to disappear back into the surf. But for the most part, the few that make their living are survivors accompanied by the desert adapted cactus and succulents.
The weak were washed out before they even arrived. The process of selection started long before they even reached the shores. An accidental journey courtesy of the rivers that empty the coastal jungles. Watch the Rio Guayas traversing Santiago de Guayaquil, Ecuador, with drifting clumps of branches, floating root balls bobbing down river. Sometime in the past hapless creatures were caught unaware as their perch was undercut, falling into flowing waters. A direct journey to the Galapagos is over 1000 Kilometers (~646 miles). No power engine, perhaps a makeshift accidental sail of branches. No guarantee of a direct route, more of a wandering direction. Weeks if you are lucky, more likely months just floating. Food supplies limited to the greenery of the raft and maybe other fellow travelers. No fresh water. Food for the meat eaters would be gone quickly. Not much chance of making the journey, it appears only the vegetarians might have enough. Iguanas and Tortoises.
The edge, for those who live there, provides plenty – if you were designed to live in its harsh quarters. If your ancestors passed the test in the first place. For the most part tough enough to endure the paucity of fresh water. Some learned to migrate up the slopes through the microclimates to make their living in the lushness of the established mountainsides of greenery, but still returning to the edge for nesting. Just the edge.
