January 25th, 2019
I’ve finished work and decide to set out on the trail once more. Again, I’m serenated by winter bird-song. Familiar sounds I grew up with and associate with a crisp winter day-especially when wondering by water. Here there is an influx of activity, where vegetation and lake collide in a rich riparian zone. The Marsh wren dart to and fro, their tiny yet remarkably strong feet grasping the dried vegetation, their toes wrapping around each individual stalk in a confident grip. To the human eye they appear to be perched precariously, as if defying gravity- but for this bird it is pure instinct. Their weight means nothing to this plant, they are but an evening breeze.
This day I walk the trail in reverse. I stop and sit to watch the Mallard ducks dabbling as they do. Its calming to see them bob about- rear ends pointing upwards and heads submerged down under, all joined in a goofy water ballet. I’m excitedly interrupted as an impressive hawk cuts through the bare-branched trees to my left. My attention is immediately taken by the brilliant auburn-feathered chest and astonishingly regal face. A white band of feathers encircles Its brim- reminding me of an owl- a stark contrast to the russet waves of dark cheek plumage. Its brilliant- I’m dazed as I watch it steadily glide by, so close that I can pick out individual feathers and details easily missed when soaring on currents far above my head. I notice the white rump patch, the immense spread of its wings, the sharp hooked beak. The overall coloration is most surprising, this is no Red-tailed hawk- this creature seems a gem amidst the dull winter colors. I continue to watch it as long as I possibly can- staring, staring as far as my eyes will allow- until I can see it no more. Now it is but a dot in the distance. **
Around me the red-winged blackbirds continue their song, seemingly unbothered by the intrusion of this winged predator. A Varied Thrush flies by, inches above the calm water- a reflection of the clouds mirrored in its steel surface like a watercolor painting. One dainty foot skims the water’s edge, breaking the tension. My ears are on overload as "chirps, chirps, chirps" are heard all around me. As I look up to find the owner of this shrill voice I’m blinded by the setting sun. This is evening at its finest. A gray and cloudy day finally giving way to blue skies.
By this point I’ve stared at the sun a little too long- my eyes aren’t yet adjusted to the dimming light around me as I begin to walk onward- deciding to call it quits for the day. I hear the crunch of the gravel as I scuffle my feet along. Suddently I’m completely caught off-guard and utterly startled as an intense SPLASH is produced directly to my side, inches from my foot. It’s a beaver- thrashing its tail in alarm- though I was momentarily blinded and had no awareness of my surroundings. Collecting my senses I’m immediately excited, I can’t believe the luck I’ve had this week. I assume I’ve disturbed the beaver and it won’t come back, but I’m pleasantly surprised when it emerges a few feet away, stares at me, and begins to swim very slowly back and forth. Back and forth in front of me, just its head visible above the water, with a line of movement barely noticeable as its body trails behind. It takes its eyes off me to scan the horizon, appearing nonchalant- but absolutely deliberate it its movement, turning around to look back at me once again. It doesn’t seem bothered by my presence, beyond the original unintentional scaring. This continues for several minutes while I sit absolutely silent-fearful that if I move an inch I’ll scare it away. I finally decide its best to move a few feet down the trail to give it space. It eventually swims beyond my view, around the corner of the dry vegetation. I’m still convinced I might see it again. I sit, waiting a little longer- greedy for another peek and hopeful it will return. Bubbles emerge here and there from the depths of the water, and I wait, thinking it’s the beaver. But its not. I imagine the bubbles belong to small critters settling on the lakebed, shifting in their tiny underwater homes.
**When I got home (mine is not underwater) I cross-referenced my field guides [Peterson; Field guide to birds- Western North America & Liguori; Hawks at a distance, identification of migrant raptors] the Audubon website and an avid ornithologist friend to determine that my hawk encounter was likely a female Northern Harrier, and a juvenile at that. These hawks are common in South-West Washington throughout the winter months and residents in Washington State year-round.
Comentários