Late yesterday afternoon I heard a loud bang. I first thought it might have been a firecracker or large-caliber pistol shot—though the noise sounded too close to have come from any of the rather distant neighbors. As the day was rainy, dark, and cold, I doubted it came from someone float-tripping the river. An exploding electrical transformer was another possibility, though the nearest box also seemed too far away for the sound I’d heard.
The answer turned out to be directly across the river from the cottage. A familiar snag now lay parallel along the edge of the bank, its tip almost touching the water.
Oddly, only a day or two before, I’d looked at the old snag—its bark long since fallen off, with not a single limb left to protrude from its smooth gray bole—and wondered how much longer the aging giant could remain upright. So I can’t say the snag’s demise was unexpected.
Yet neither can I explain why it fell on this particular late-March afternoon. In spite of the steady rain, the day hadn’t been windy. Perhaps the porous wood absorbed too much moisture and the added weight brought it crashing down. Or maybe ever-increasing rot caught up with the structural integrity. Doubtless the unrelenting pull of gravity had a hand it its collapse. In the end, it was most likely a combination of factors—or you could just say a tired old tree’s vertical ghost simply gave up.
Nevertheless, I hated to see the dead snag succumb. The standing stub—perhaps 25 feet tall and 30 inches in diameter—was a favorite woodpecker meal-spot. Downies, red-bellieds, and hairies worked the decaying trunk from sunup to sundown. The big pileateds found it especially appealing, stopping by on their foraging rounds several times daily to give the venerable snag a thorough going-over. This often provided me with an unobstructed and fairly close view of these magnificent birds, as the stump stood at the edge of the island’s wooded cover, 60 feet from my great room window. Regularly throughout the winter, I’ve sat in the rocker beside the fireplace, warmed by a crackling blaze, with binoculars in my left hand, meal tray on my lap, and enjoyed a leisurely lunch while watching one of the pileateds hammer about the trunk, busily seeking their own meal.
The old snag also served as a sleeping den for the island’s fox squirrels. Several holes could be seen around the stub’s upper section. Often, as dusk gathered, I’ve watched a portly fox squirrel return to the tree and disappear into one of the openings. The depths of the interior cavity would provide a safe and comfortable refuge for a night’s snooze.
Last spring, a pair of flickers decided the snag offered a good nesting site. And the spring before that, the tree hosted a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers. I’d been hoping the pileateds might one day find it suitable.
Alas, the old snag has fallen. What’s left of its massive trunk now lies on the ground. I don’t even know what kind of tree it was—though a reasonable guess would be sycamore. There are hundreds of big sycamores along this portion of the river.
And yet…somehow the snag never quite looked like a sycamore to me, at least not during the cursory examinations I made through binoculars from this side of the stream. Something about the shape and proportions seem wrong, and there’s the lack of swelling or bulging where the stump enters the ground. No, I really should wade over to the island for a closer look before it’s too late, because there’s a good chance the first high water will sweep the fallen snag away forever.
Not that it really matters—except to me. I’d like to know how old the tree was, too. How long has it stood on the island? How many spring floods swirled around its roots? Was it here when the nearby feeder had a grain mill at it’s mouth? Did it stand while the squeak of the turning wheel and harsh grinding of the stones blended with the sweet song of orioles in their hanging-basket nests? I wish I knew.
The old snag has fallen. There’s an unfamiliar gap in the bankside cover. An emptiness in the landscape above, and the new clutter of a massive log below. Change happens; life and landscape are all process, ongoing, never static. Rivers run and trees tumble.
Still, I wonder where the woodpeckers will go for lunch…?
Showing posts with label flicker nest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flicker nest. Show all posts
Monday, March 30, 2009
AN OLD SNAG SUCCUMBS…
Late yesterday afternoon I heard a loud bang. I first thought it might have been a firecracker or large-caliber pistol shot—though the noise sounded too close to have come from any of the rather distant neighbors. As the day was rainy, dark, and cold, I doubted it came from someone float-tripping the river. An exploding electrical transformer was another possibility, though the nearest box also seemed too far away for the sound I’d heard.
The answer turned out to be directly across the river from the cottage. A familiar snag now lay parallel along the edge of the bank, its tip almost touching the water.
Oddly, only a day or two before, I’d looked at the old snag—its bark long since fallen off, with not a single limb left to protrude from its smooth gray bole—and wondered how much longer the aging giant could remain upright. So I can’t say the snag’s demise was unexpected.
Yet neither can I explain why it fell on this particular late-March afternoon. In spite of the steady rain, the day hadn’t been windy. Perhaps the porous wood absorbed too much moisture and the added weight brought it crashing down. Or maybe ever-increasing rot caught up with the structural integrity. Doubtless the unrelenting pull of gravity had a hand it its collapse. In the end, it was most likely a combination of factors—or you could just say a tired old tree’s vertical ghost simply gave up.
Nevertheless, I hated to see the dead snag succumb. The standing stub—perhaps 25 feet tall and 30 inches in diameter—was a favorite woodpecker meal-spot. Downies, red-bellieds, and hairies worked the decaying trunk from sunup to sundown. The big pileateds found it especially appealing, stopping by on their foraging rounds several times daily to give the venerable snag a thorough going-over. This often provided me with an unobstructed and fairly close view of these magnificent birds, as the stump stood at the edge of the island’s wooded cover, 60 feet from my great room window. Regularly throughout the winter, I’ve sat in the rocker beside the fireplace, warmed by a crackling blaze, with binoculars in my left hand, meal tray on my lap, and enjoyed a leisurely lunch while watching one of the pileateds hammer about the trunk, busily seeking their own meal.
The old snag also served as a sleeping den for the island’s fox squirrels. Several holes could be seen around the stub’s upper section. Often, as dusk gathered, I’ve watched a portly fox squirrel return to the tree and disappear into one of the openings. The depths of the interior cavity would provide a safe and comfortable refuge for a night’s snooze.
Last spring, a pair of flickers decided the snag offered a good nesting site. And the spring before that, the tree hosted a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers. I’d been hoping the pileateds might one day find it suitable.
Alas, the old snag has fallen. What’s left of its massive trunk now lies on the ground. I don’t even know what kind of tree it was—though a reasonable guess would be sycamore. There are hundreds of big sycamores along this portion of the river.
And yet…somehow the snag never quite looked like a sycamore to me, at least not during the cursory examinations I made through binoculars from this side of the stream. Something about the shape and proportions seem wrong, and there’s the lack of swelling or bulging where the stump enters the ground. No, I really should wade over to the island for a closer look before it’s too late, because there’s a good chance the first high water will sweep the fallen snag away forever.
Not that it really matters—except to me. I’d like to know how old the tree was, too. How long has it stood on the island? How many spring floods swirled around its roots? Was it here when the nearby feeder had a grain mill at it’s mouth? Did it stand while the squeak of the turning wheel and harsh grinding of the stones blended with the sweet song of orioles in their hanging-basket nests? I wish I knew.
The old snag has fallen. There’s an unfamiliar gap in the bankside cover. An emptiness in the landscape above, and the new clutter of a massive log below. Change happens; life and landscape are all process, ongoing, never static. Rivers run and trees tumble.
Still, I wonder where the woodpeckers will go for lunch…?
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