Rain came one evening to soften the afternoon heat. I sat outside on my back steps watching the clouds grow ever fuller, swelling like gray balloons until they finally burst, spilling out across the high desert valley where I live. Down here, water streamed into the desiccated flower beds and patches of sunbleached soil that dotted my yard. The sun was going down and the sweet, earthy scent of petrichor filled the air. In the dim lavender of a Wasatch twilight, I scanned the ground for a certain kind of movement between the blades of wet grass.
As I strained my eyes, a patch of brown emerged against the field of green. It looked something like a dead leaf until it inched forward, revealing a round shell attached to a slick droop of a body, topped with a pair of eye stalks. A humble snail. I’d seen them hundreds of times before in gardens and on sidewalks. I’ve picked them up for closer inspection. I’ve stepped on them, by accident, horrified at the crunch of their shells beneath my feet. I’ve moved them from dangerous asphalt to the safety of a grassy median. But I’d never stopped to think much more about them. They were familiar yet unknown. Until this night, when I allowed myself to wonder.
Another snail joined the party. Soon two became three, then four. I saw baby snails and jumbo molluscs sliming across the lawn, and realized I had no idea where they came from. Where do snails go when the sun comes out and the rain dries up? Where do they get their shells? Do they communicate? How do they eat? How long do they live? These creatures are background characters to my entire life, so commonly seen but overlooked. I had so much to learn.
I have since discovered that snails seek shelter under rocks and foliage, or even underground, in the daytime or during the winter. They can hibernate. They grow their own shells. They communicate through chemical signals in their slime. They have tiny teeth for chewing and they can live up to five years. Snails are far more interesting creatures than I had ever believed. Most things turn out that way when you look closely enough.
Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I waded deeper into the yard to investigate further. The rain still pitter-pattered on the nearby pavement and the grass tickled my ankles. I couldn’t help feeling like a child again, catching lizards in Florida or marveling at the night sky from the back seat of my parents’ car, convinced the moon outside was following us. That awe for the unknown tends to fade with age, but as I knelt in the dirt hunting these little green gobs, it registered to me that childlike wonder is always a feeling worth chasing.
This story appears in the September 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.
Comments are closed.