#50 - A Rookery
My son, Lije, and I took the canoe and went fishing one fine Sunday in May. He had a new pole to try out and fishing seemed like a good idea to both of us. A spartan expedition supplied with little more than a can of worms and a few extra hooks, we just took off on the spur of the moment as the dog watched us through the kitchen curtains. We figured we deal with her hurt feelings later.
On the recommendation of a friend, we headed for a pond we had never tried before. He said we could see it through the trees from the road. What he didn't tell us was that the way in was through a thick, flooded stand of trees, many of them fallen, and, to spice up our carry-in, we had slash and brush up to our waists and clouds of black flies to keep us moving. It was fun.
We did at last get our canoe to open water, and except for the thought of having to go through that stuff again to get out, we made up our minds to make it a worthwhile outing.
The pond was rumored to have trout in it. If nothing else, we were told, there were plenty of bass, so we should catch something. We got a total of one good strike and one tiny fingerling. Though the fishing really wasn't very good, it turned out that fishing was only a small part of the day’s experience. We worked our way along the edge of the pond, trying to entice a good, pan-sized fish out of the weeds. There were several small coves where we put up pairs of wood ducks who hurtled off through the trees, but as the afternoon wore on, the fish persisted in ignoring our baited hooks, so we became more and more absorbed in simply exploring this secluded place.
A pair of loons was diving for fish at some distance. We watched them for a while. They came quite close to the canoe. I'm always impressed by the size of those birds and by their dramatic white necklaces and markings, but never so much as I am by their haunting, ethereal calls on a still morning or evening. We continued on after a spell and found a perfect spot to build a lean-to, should the need ever arise. It was at the opening of a stream issuing from a wild-looking swamp. We decided to follow the stream.
We saw a lot of signs of beaver, old signs, a dilapidated lodge and many pointed stumps – no beaver though. Their dam was still holding well. We climbed over it and found ourselves following a winding channel through an extensive flooded forest. Just about all the trees were dead, bare standing poles. The sun was hot. A muskrat glided ahead of us at the point of its v-shaped wake, and off to the side we saw a large water snake making its way toward a hummock of grass. We stopped to get a good look. It seemed unperturbed and quite at home in its watery Eden. There were fresh, new spatterdock lily pads everywhere, and many held their swollen flower buds barely below the surface, just a hint of yellow showing.
We then began hearing things, loud cracking sounds, almost like the crack of a 22-caliber rifle, and the startling, almost prehistoric croaking of large birds somewhere around the bend and out of sight. So, we paddled on. Little by little a dramatic scene surrounded us, one so strange it was as though we were under some sort of spell. High atop naked spars in the afternoon sun was suspended an eerie canopy – a colony - of many giant birds’ nests, dark silhouettes of bristling, stick platforms. Standing on every one of them was a tall, nervous and watchful heron. We had discovered the great blue herons’ secret rookery!
Lije counted thirty nests, each several feet in diameter. The cracking of branches we had heard was due to the constant hopping about of those marvelous, great birds as they adjusted their footing on their perches in the sky. Familiar as I am with these usually solitary creatures, I felt humbled in their presence on this occasion, having burst uninvited into this, their most private affair. Only whispering, we watched, spellbound, for long minutes, and then, respectfully, we paddled off again through the swamp, back in the direction we had come.