A WEEK IN WATERFOWL

One thing about living along a river—no two days are ever alike; every day you see something new, often unexpected. The past seven days has been no exception. This is just a small segment—waterfowl—of what the passing parade served up. 

If there's ever a contest for America's prettiest waterfowl, the smart money might be on the wood duck. Just look at this pair I photographed a few days ago on the Cottage Pool. Especially the spectacularly handsome male—with his red eyes, green head, orange bill, turquoise wingbar, white chin and face pattern, and that ruddy-plum lower neck and chest. Talk about a feathered dandy! And those are just the highlights you can more-or-less see in this admittedly mediocre image. The female looks almost dowdy by comparison.

Although…the trio of blue-wing teal that stopped by briefly last week were also extremely attractive. And a few days before they dropped in, I looked out and saw two pairs of common mergansers feeding and diving about the pool. Maybe not pretty on the order of teal and woodies, but still nicely marked and quite attractive.

Of course there's always a mallard or two hanging about the pool and the stretches of slower water above and below the Big Riffle, which feeds the Cottage Pool and is almost high and steep enough to be called a falls—though I can never bring myself to tout it so pompously. Mallards are the common duck here along the river, as they are in most areas—wild or suburban.

The final member of this waterfowl report of the recently spotted is another common resident, the Canada goose. The river is home to countless geese. Honking all the way, they sail up and downstream all day—sometimes above the treetops, often barely a flapping wingtip from water's surface. A couple of months back the geese began pairing up, or at least loudly reaffirming their mate choices to all the interlopers who tried to offer themselves as preferable alternatives. The discussion were loud, angry, and not lack in regular goose-style fisticuffs. 

Such procreative shenanigans have their eventual consequences in the form of eggs which, duly and faithfully sat and incubated, hatch into fuzzy goslings. The same morning the teal stopped to visit, the pair of Canadas who've been nesting on the upstream tip of the island, paddled down to proudly show off their quartet of wide-eyed youngsters. 

I made a family portrait.

And that's the week in waterfowl. 

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DAFFODILS…I THINK

My first daffodils bloomed yesterday—though they could have been jonquils. Daffodils?Jonquils? I've never quite grasped the difference. I know that all jonquils are daffodils—that is to say they are both narcissus—but not all daffodils are jonquils. Which is which, I dunno. But my mother did. She always said her daffodils bloomed first. The ones she called jonquils sported smaller blooms than the flowers she identified as daffodils—and were very fragrant.

Whichever these are, they're located on the steep, rock-strewn hillside between the cottage and the road—a sort of tangled border, almost a thicket, with lots of trees, which I allow to remain wild and do nothing to maintain other than lop out some of the honeysuckle. A few bloodroots grow here, and even fewer jack-in-the-pulpits, along with the ubiquitous blue violets. But I wouldn't have expected these daffodils to bloom first. Instead, my money would have been on a small planting of the same species near the south side of the cottage. Usually it's these bulbs, protected from winter's winds and warmed by heat radiated from the cottage's stone wall, that poke up the first green shoots—sometimes amid patches of snow—and later, unfurl the first butter-yellow blooms.

This year, however, for whatever reason, the rowdy hillside bunch took the honors, gleaming like shards of sunlight come mid-morning. The laggardly cottage patch didn't show their yellow blooms until late afternoon.

We've had a a bit of rain before dawn, as well as a few light showers throughout the morning—though none in the last hour. In fact the sun is now out. I don't think we'll make it above 60˚F today; certainly we'll not enjoy a repeat of yesterday's 72˚F high. However, after a long winter—with rain expected for tomorrow and snow flurries predicted for Thursday—none of us riverbankers are keen on wasting such outside time. A song sparrow is whistling merrily. The squirrels are busy chasing about and squabbling over sunflower seeds. A couple of kingfishers are working the river. And just a few minutes ago a pair of Canada geese plucked their way through the corner of the yard visible from my workroom window.

I need to get out there and take advantage of whatever good weather the day serves up—doing more raking and clean-up in the back yard or in the small patch beyond where the drive slants down the hill, and which has been sorely neglected for too long. It's part of this year's yard plans to get this landscaped and planted. Who know? It might even happen.

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GOOSE FAMILY FLOTILLA

Geese must either be the world's most patient parents, or they're unsurpassed at instilling discipline in their offspring. Let's put it this way—would you willingly take your twenty-one kids—all the same age—out for an afternoon snack and swim?

Yup, that's what I thought. Such an act is unimaginable. Sticking a burning splinter under each of your fingernails would be easier…and less likely to make you want to commit a felony. Yet geese do it all the time—take their whole brood for an outing, I mean—and never seem to mind or have any difficulties riding herd on their numerous fuzzy hatchlings. And the hatchlings…well, they swim or waddle in a mostly tight-knit group, and hurry to get back in place should they dawdle or become momentarily interested in something a few feet beyond the boundaries of family security.

Moreover, there's no squabbling among the ranks. Order is maintained throughout—and everyone seems cheerful and fascinated by the big new world.

Did you ever assemble even a handful of kids, take them on a walk, and not have to break up a fight or two and call them down repeatedly for becoming overly rambunctious? Well, of course you haven't. That's simply not possible…unless you're a goose.

Myladylove and I saw this goose family yesterday during our day of rambling. It took me a while to come up with a final head count (think of animated yellow tennis balls with webbed feet bouncing down a stairs) but after several tries, I settled at twenty-one; checking the photos later confirmed this number. I think that's a lot even for geese—but maybe not. I do know the parents were watchful of me, but not afraid; and the goslings were just adorable.

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WATERFOWL SMARTS

How long does it take to train a duck or goose? Not long—at least not when free eats are involved. For upwards of a month, I’ve been feeding a pair each of Canada geese and mallard ducks. Once or twice a day, I scatter a scoop of cracked corn along the top of the riverbank. My waterfowl quartet soon appear and take advantage, shouldering aside the doves and squirrels whom they see as uninvited interlopers. Mind you, these are not semi-tame citified birds, golf-course residents, or picnic area and park pond habitués, comfortably accustomed to people. Instead, they are wild born and raised right here along the river, intolerant of even the occasional summer fisherman or canoeist. Let them see so much as a movement inside the cottage and off they go, protesting loudly and flapping for all they’re worth. At least they were before I began my handouts. Now they tolerate me, and to a lesser degree, Moon. Anyone else and it’s a mad escape scramble, just like always. So they haven’t lost their fear of humans, just of one human. Which isn’t to say I can act too loud, too animated, too threatening around them. No shouting; no eye contact; no waving of arms. Unless the hand is holding the corn scoop—then I can give the feed a toss, nod their way, and tell them to “come and get it.” That’s okay. So they’ve learned to recognize me, learned I’m the source of their corn, and aren’t frightened by the act of tossing the corn out or motioning and telling them to come eat. But they’ve also learned to take turns, and worked out a schedule. Before nesting time, the birds began by appearing together—one pair or the other arriving first, to soon be followed by whichever pair remained. Now the goose and hen are on their nests. The drake and gander apparently aren’t into communal dining. Oddly, it’s the duck that eats first—within minutes after I toss out the corn in the morning. The goose might be paddling around the pool in front of the cottage, but he doesn’t come up until the duck has finished. When the duck departs, the gander takes his turn. The schedule is fairly rigid, too. Breakfast not too long after daylight, and supper a half-hour or so before dusk. In between, the midday hours are a catch-as-catch can potluck. One or the other—duck or goose—is apt to be waddling about looking for leftovers, but only one at a time. Should I be a little late in putting food out, especially in the morning, I’m soon reminded by regular bouts of quacks and honks, an impatient cacophony of loud, aggrieved reminders regarding my overlooked hospitality. More or less the same thing happens should I be caught sitting on my deck when feeding time rolls around—even if the food is already scattered. What they’re chewing me out about then is my not giving them their privacy. Eating alone means I’m not allowed, either. Just the other evening, the goose sat on the water ten feet out from shore, giving me the evil eye and bleating like a dump truck until I realized he wanted me to move elsewhere. Unwelcome on my own deck…the hand that feeds ‘em. Such audacity! Still, I’m impressed by how quickly they’ve learned, the way they’ve worked things out between them, their degree of discernment, and their cheeky behavior. Goofy as a goose? Dumb as a duck? Quite the contrary! That’s simply stupid as a simile.

A WET-BUZZARD DAY

It’s a “wet buzzard” day here along the river. One of those drippy, drizzly, dark, damp, dreary days that I find delightful, though the aforementioned turkey vultures who roost on the island across from the cottage don’t look nearly so pleased. Rainy days aren't good for soaring, so a hungry buzzard looking for a tasty bite of breakfast roadkill sometimes has to sit idle and soaked, hoping for drier times. While the majority of their dark-robed clan have taken refuge by huddling on limbs of various large sycamores, close to the trunks, a handful of birds have found perches in the tops of a tree or two. Since these trees afford a good view to the west, maybe the birds are supposed to be acting as lookouts, scanning for a glimpse of clearing weather. However, they’ve all turned their backs toward the prevailing winds, which is also the direction of any possible storm relief. Rather than attentive, they simply look miserable. The rain began yesterday evening around 8:00 p.m. with a lot of lightning and thunder histrionics, which continued throughout the night. But the drama was more flash and sound than actual substance. A dawn inspection of the river revealed no more than a 2-3 inch rise in water level, though I expect that to increase some as the day progresses and the rain that fell north of here gets fed into the mainstream by the tributaries. When you live on a river, you have to remember it doesn’t matter how much rain falls on you and your portion of the drainage area—it’s the upstream rainfall that counts. Sometimes the water rises several feet here, although we’d never received the first drop of rain. Frankly, I’m glad to have this rain. The moisture will help bring out the wildflowers—of which, there’s been a dearth so far—and might, with luck, induce the delectable morel mushrooms to begin popping up in the greening woods. Most of us hard-core outdoor foragers rank these “sponge” ‘rooms near the top of our list for toothsome wild treats. The rain’s one downside is that I’ll probably have to buy that new lawnmower soon. My pair of Canada geese are doing their part, and they’ve even sublet a couple of corners of the yard to some noisy mallards…but the grass appears to be winning. I had high hopes [here] but the female Canada is now nesting over on the island, so her contributions to keeping my grass in check have been greatly reduced. Still, a bit of spring rain is a good thing…unless you’re a buzzard.

ONE MORNING'S BIRDS

Call this the morning’s photographic bird report. All the images in this posting were taken within the space of perhaps thirty minutes. (You can double-click to see them larger, of course.) The session began when I stepped outside to scatter cracked corn for my geese couple who—barely past dawn—were already standing in the yard, impatient to be served. You can’t keep geese waiting. Naturally, the untrusting Canadas flew off the instant I opened the door. These are wild birds, more or less, though they seem to be learning to tolerate my presence. Instead of flying across the river or even farther, they simply glided over the bank to the water, where they bobbed on the current, honking loudly, while keeping a watchful eye on my corn tossing. I pitched out a scoop of yellow grain and picked up my camera for a quick shot. Before I could frame and shoot the geese, I heard a duck quacking upstream. A female mallard was standing on a rock, calling to the drake to get over there and keep her company. I snapped her portrait first, then turned and took a shot of the geese. Looking around, I noticed a few turkey vultures sitting in the tops of some trees across the river beyond the island, testing their wings, waiting for the climbing sun to warm them up before they began their day's scavenging flights. The big birds were located perhaps 250 feet away. Much too distant for more than a mediocre shot. The buzzards are only recently returned from their winter vacations in the South. In fact, these birds are just the early arrivals, a fraction of the 175—200 number of the spring-through-autumn flock that typically roosts in the tops of the island’s big sycamores. The full group won’t manage to get themselves assembled for several more weeks. After a few additional shots—of sunlight on trees, a cloud or two, and crocus biding their time until a higher sun triggered their opening—I figured I’d go back inside and let the geese have at their breakfast. So I headed down the hall to my workroom to check e-mail and upload my photos. I hadn't yet plugged the camera into the computer when I looked out the window and saw a Cooper’s hawk sitting on the stump end of the old Christmas tree, which I recycle as a handy refuge for just this reason: when the hawk suddenly appears, the ground feeders—sparrows, wrens, doves, etc.—have a nearby hidey-hole. (I posted about this in January, REFUGE…NOT REFUSE! here) Some days, when I’m working long hours at my desk and happen to look up at the right moments, I watch the fleeing birds use this hideout tree two or three different times. The wily hawk makes regular rounds and repeats its visits throughout the day. Most times, the tree-hidden birds outsmart the Cooper’s, flying out one side while their would-be killer pokes his hooked beak in the other. A few days ago, though, I saw the hawk plunge into the Christmas tree and come out with a titmouse in his talons. Still, the recycled Christmas tree saves a lot of lives—and I’m glad I didn’t decide to move it yesterday when I spent a few hours giving the yard a spring raking. The final shot, taken perhaps two minutes after the hawk’s (victimless) departure, was of a perky cardinal at the feeder just beyond my workroom window. Here along the river, the redbirds are whistling longer and louder with each passing day: “Spring is here, the sun is shining, and all you lucky ladybirds can’t possibly fail to notice what a handsome fellow I am in my bright scarlet feathers!”

A GANDER TAKES A GANDER

One of the benefits of living beside a river is that you never know who’ll drop in for breakfast. This morning it was a Canada goose. Actually, it was the male of a pair of Canadas which lately have been hanging around the pool directly in front of the cottage. There are lots of geese on the river, but now that the nesting season is here, territories have been chosen and are being ardently protected—particularly from other geese. The female of the cottage pair never actually came up on the bank this time around—at least she didn’t while I was watching. So I snapped only her handsome and vigilant mate’s portrait. They do visit as a couple most days, though the male is always the first up the bank—acting as scout, looking around, making sure he and his lady love can dine on the scattered cracked corn in peace and safety. He may take half an hour before giving the all-clear sign; sometimes he simply stands around and looks about, then goes back down to the water without taking more than a cursory peck at the available food. Obviously, something about the situation this time around failed to meet his approval—though whether from a security standpoint or simply a matter of current dining companions, I’m never quite sure. The geese and squirrels are, at best, uneasy meal-mates…squirrels being a bit too frolicsome and irreverent for the more stern and haughty Canadas. I have no doubt the geese couple be back sometime before the morning ends. They usually make at least one feeding excursion early in the day and another in mid-afternoon. Last spring, a pair of Canadas—perhaps even these same geese—nested on the lower end of the island next in line as you travel upstream from the cottage. There are three islands in a row along this section—sometimes four, depending on whether a certain cut in the downstream-most island, separating the two portions of river, has washed out or filled in following the most recent bout of high water. All these islands are long, narrow affairs—a hundred yards or more in length and perhaps twenty yards across at their widest, and covered with timber. The one located across from the cottage is either the first or the first and second, depending on the state of the above-mentioned cut. This spring, the cut is open and water is flowing between the two stream arms. But last spring the cut was filled and closed with debris. I’m sure all this is confusing. Perhaps I should have exercised literary license and eliminated this on-again, off-again island count. But, if I’m going to be honest and accurate in these reports, I thought it necessary to include something about the changeable nature of even the land itself. A riverside life is never static. Given a bit of luck, and judicious bribing with cracked corn, I’m hoping my Home Pool Canadas will select a nesting site within easy watching distance…a back corner of the yard would be great. I always get a kick out of seeing the fuzzy goslings. And between now and then, while the eggs are being sat, I’ll do what I can to provide the parents-to-be with a safe, comfortable home…a well as a good place later on for raising their brood.

A HIGHWATER PERSPECTIVE

Do you see the great blue heron? Look close—the big bird is standing on the edge of the far shore, right at the point where the leaf-covered bank meets the water…almost smack in the center of the photo. The distance is a bit over 200 feet, across the river from the cottage, beyond one of the islands whose lower tip you can just glimpse peeking above the water to the right. The area where the heron is standing would normally be dry ground. Between the melting snow and a number of rains, the river is up a good 6-7 feet; not yet at a worrisome height, but fast expanding in width, as the shallower stream section between the island and the far bank merges with the mainstream portion on this side of the islands. Okay…I’ve enlarged the shot as much as I can without making it too grainy. Now the heron is easy to spot. I can’t imagine the fishing over there would be easy. When a stream is in spate, running high and fast, minnows and many fish seek shelter on the bottom. The hydraulics down at stream-bed level are different than that of the water higher up. Bottom water moves slower; the slower current delivers a lighter pressure or "push" against the fish. So a little minnow doesn't need quite the strength and effort to hold itself in place against the flow. Of course it also puts the minnows below the sharp eyes and vise-like beak of a hungry heron—good news if you're a fish, but a bummer if you're a feathered angler looking to score a meal along the shoreline. Yet what are the alternatives? The bird’s usual shallow riffles, where it normally wade-fishes daily, are temporarily buried deep underwater. There are no small feeder creeks nearby, no ponds that aren’t themselves now flooded. Sometimes a bad choice is also the only choice. Besides, high-water days are nothing new to the river’s residents. Inconvenient, maybe, but not critical. For the Canada geese, it may even be enjoyable. All morning I've watched them appear in noisy flocks, twenty or more birds at a shot, honking like about-to-be-late commuters stuck in a traffic jam. The clamorous clans set down on the backwaters above the island just upstream from where the heron in the photo is fishing. There the gregarious geese—still honking—mill about for a few minutes, paddling to stay in their flooded landing zone. Then they suddenly allow the river to take them—and as they come to the upstream end of the lower island, they divide into two groups. Downstream they go, lickety-split, speeding on the fast current, freewheeling along like kids at a waterpark. They honk back and forth across the narrow ridge of dry land, keeping in touch, maybe checking their pace against that of their fellow float-trippers. When they meet a half-minute later where the divided river's two streams merge into one at the island's tail end, they commence honking excitedly, almost in glee at the fun they’ve just had racing downstream. Then, after a brief rest, they flap back up to their starting point and do the whole thing over again. I don’t care what anyone says, I think those birds are playing. The river continues rising, another foot overnight. High water brings bad fishing for the heron, furnishes makeshift amusement for the geese, and now makes me watchful. Still, like so many things in life…what it boils down to is just a matter of perspective.

BEGUILED BY GEESE

I am beguiled by geese…mesmerized, enchanted, bewitched—and in no small way, smitten. For me, the sight of flying geese is a natural magic, a cast spell which instantly transforms both moment and mood.

Mostly I’m talking Canada geese. I’ve seen a few snow geese and blues, but was so thrilled by their rarity that I can’t say one way or the other whether it was the geese that caused my reaction, or the unexpectedness of the event.

Not that today’s ubiquitous Canadas were always so common. In fact, I can remember a time when a flight of Canada geese was a rare sight, so noteworthy that it would be talked about for days thereafter among neighbors, recounted at the hardware store, market, and café, and might even make the local paper.

When I was a little boy, Mom or Dad would sometimes call urgently for me to dash outside—“Hurry, Son! Hurry!” they’d cry. “The geese are coming!”

These exciting moments usually took place in spring or fall, when the birds were heading north or south in migration, following their ancient flyways, likely traveling high in the sky. Sometimes their ragged skeins contained more than a hundred birds. There wasn’t much traffic or noise back then, so you could hear the cries of the oncoming flock while they were still a long ways off. Their cries would float down as if from heaven, throaty, angelic, a voice all but disembodied from those moving cross-stitches which eventually appeared, flying almost in the clouds.

And we—my parents and I—would watch, transfixed by the sight and wonder of those passing geese…and we would continue standing there even after the birds had disappeared from view, listening, until the last sound of their passage had also faded into silence.

Perhaps that’s why I still prefer my geese to be flying. Oh, a goose on the ground is interesting enough. And I do like to see a parental pair of geese paddling around a quiet backwater, towing their little flotilla of fuzzy goslings.

But geese on the wing are what stirs my soul.

Come twilight, a ragged string of calling geese cleaving a painted sky is all the proof I’ll ever need of a creator God. Only a force far greater than man and more purposeful than chance could conceive and fashion so breathtaking a creature. There is something about those big birds on the wing that’s both holy and magnificent, a poignant glory that assails my heart like a sweet flame. I never know whether to weep with joy or shout in jubilation.

Lucky for me—lucky for all of us!—the modern history of the Canada goose is a tale of comeback. What might have been a story of unfathomable loss is now one of triumphant plenitude—too triumphant, some might mutter.

It is said Ernest Hemingway had a way with bears. He often admitted to liking bears, and bears seemingly responded in kind—at least so claim several friends who witnessed this reciprocal behavior. An Ojibway acquaintance once speculated that bears might have been his “totem animal,” a sort of kindred spirit that bridges the gap between worlds—animal and man, natural and supernatural, known and unknown.

That’s how it is with me and geese. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a string of geese veer my way, often turning from a different directional line and a fair distance away, to pass directly overhead. (And no, I know what you’re thinking…and I’ve never been “bombed” by an over-flying goose.) Sometimes they flew so low I could hear the rush of wind beneath those great heaving wings.

A skeptic might chalk such anecdotes up to mere coincidence or an overeager imagination. Could be, says the wry ornithologist, those birds were just curious as to why that burly fellow was standing on that riverbank looking up, mouth agape.

Perhaps…

But isn't it just possible all such matters can’t be explained by science or dismissed by skepticism? Much as we like to believe otherwise, we don't yet know it all; answers by the multitudes elude us every day. There is still wonder in the world waiting to be discovered.

I do know that if I believed in reincarnation, I’d like to come back as a goose. I like the way geese talk to each other as they travel, and the way they share the lead during flights. I like how they pick their mate and stick together. They're gregarious, adventurous, boisterous, and will stand their ground if challenged. They're also regal in a flat-footed, silly way—and I like the dichotomy of that; man or goose, we should never take ourselves too seriously.

But most of all, just once, I wish to know what it’s like to lift my wings and fly up there, alongside my brethren, above the trees, in the heady grace of a painted sky.