This is Carl. Carl the Caterpillar. Carl wandered into our camp while we were on our Devil’s Kitchen hike. No, we don’t know his true gender, but Papa suggested that Carl would be a nice moniker for M.’s spiny, spotted new friend. She was content to observe for a few minutes, but then couldn’t resist extending a finger and allowing Carl to crawl up. “I know he’s wild, but he likes me! He really does!” said my besmitten three-year-old. Carl was the entertainment for the next hour and a half. He crawled up her arm and onto her shoulder, and M. would pluck him off her shirt and place him on various shrubs to see if he would eat. Carl’s lack of an obvious chewing effort would indicate a lack of preference for that species, and they’d move on to the next plant.
Carl somehow managed to survive the all-consuming attentions of my girl. When naptime came, she placed Carl delicately on a serviceberry shrub and said her goodbyes. By the time she awoke from her nap, Carl was nowhere to be seen.
Mama Bluefoot 