Baby Beaver

Horned GrebeI am an optimist. But on Tuesday morning as I launched my kayak onto the Hudson River at 7:30 in the morning I was not filled with my usual sense that just around the corner was the next glorious sight. I wouldn't say I was feeling pessimistic, but rather more grumpy. And I was grumpy because the height of migration has passed--it comes and goes so quickly it is excruciating. I decided that nothing special could come my way ("all the best birds are gone" I said to a friend, sounding like a twelve year old having a tantrum). Armed with this bad attitude, I stroked south under a bluing sky toward Magdalen Island and the entrance to the North Tivoli Bay.

Map TurtleJust to prove me wrong, the river first offered up a Horned Grebe, in elegant breeding plumage, floating placidly at the opening to the North Tivoli Bay. It bobbed along, as if it belonged there (it doesn't--it should be in Canada somewhere far north). I scooted down the main waterway, lined by cattails and phragmites. Red winged blackbirds sang their insistent conkla-dee, and marsh wrens trilled from the reeds. A Map turtle sunned on a log. Two Canada Geese crossed the channel, three babies trailing behind. Fifty yards later, a Mallard mother scooted thirteen young into the reeds. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. This was the most glorious day.

In the distance, I saw the tell-tale V of a beaver plowing through the water. In 1840, the beaver was a rare animal in New York State. Trapping had all but wiped out this large rodent, whose pelts were used for hats and coats. When trapping was finally prohibited in 1895, some claim there were but 10 left in the State. In the North Tivoli Bay, it is hard to believe this desperate history: I always see a beaver. Or rather, I hear a slap of a broad tail, signaling danger before the beaver dives below the surface.

So it came as a surprise when I spied a beaver snout moving toward me. About five feet in front of my kayak, the little beaver crawled up into the mud, and perched there, letting out a darling, but slightly heartbreaking mew. It then plunked back into the water and swam toward me, looping around my paddles and nuzzling the boat.

I guessed it was lost. Across the channel rested a stick pile, a beaver lodge. I moved my boat to the middle of the channel thinking the little beaver might swim to me once again and this would get it closer to home. It did. And I had the foresight to turn on the video in my pocket camera. And sure enough, after it rounded the stern of my boat, the baby beaver swam off toward the lodge. Watch the video here.

Full of optimism, I paddled home.

Snapping Turtle Rescue

The snapping turtle rested between the rails of the north bound Amtrak line that rims the Hudson River. If she stayed there, she would be fine, that is, a train would simply sail over her. It must have taken some determination for her to get over the railing—that is the biological willpower of a snapper who wants to lay eggs. But she now looked weary, as if she might not have the resources to get back out. If she loitered on the rails—she’d end up squashed.  Another turtle just twenty feet away, lay with its shell caved in, head severed.

Picking up snapping turtles has never been my specialty. I’ve saved many wandering across the road, and though I’ve prodded and coaxed with ranging success, I’ve never perfected my snapping turtle rescue technique. A few weeks ago an enormous turtle lumbered her way up a back country road. Another car had already stopped. I joined the two women as we debated best methods. Two men joined us and they searched their car for a bucket while their dog peered out of the window. Soon a mother and her son appeared from down the hill with a net. “We have them all the time in our yard,” she said. “They fall in our pool.” The net was a great tool—with a simple scoop, the turtle was up and deposited over the guardrail.

But Christina and I—searching for early morning birds—had no net with us there by the train tracks.

Christina suggested picking it up by its tail. That is the most frequent method of snapper removal, “but hold it away from your legs,” one friend warned.

“I’ve heard that isn’t good for the turtle,” I offered, while also worrying that the long neck of the turtle would swing around and snap her.

 “Getting killed isn’t much better,” she pointed out, too wise for a 21-year-old.

“I’ve heard you can get them to latch onto a stick and move them that way.” We offered a stick to the turtle who seemed dumbstruck with our idea. She didn’t snap.

We then did what all turtle rescuers do: we stared at the turtle. We took photographs.

“Isn’t it great to photograph something that isn’t moving?” Christina joked. We spend a lot of time together trying to find birds, then snap fleeting photos. This was a treat. We were able to analyze the turtle’s steady yellow eyes that held a bit of contempt for the world and for us in particular. There were little barbells on her chin, like fangs, and all of her skin was droopy. The claws on the front feet impressed me. Unlike other turtles that shrink into their shells when frightened, the snapper can’t retract its enormous head and legs. It remains vulnerable to the world. Or, thought of another way, ready to attack the world.

While we loitered there, I hoped a train would not come swooshing by. I don’t like walking the tracks (and, it’s not legal), but sometimes I do to get to those special spots on the edge of the North or South Tivoli Bay. The tracks have severed both of these bays from the main body of the Hudson River, and they exist as their own special places.  The gravel that covers dark soil bordering the rails is a favorite for nesting snapping turtles. On this morning walk, we stumbled upon twelve turtles, all dinner-plate sized digging in the soil or enroute to do so. We also saw dozens of nests, dug up, the eggs shredded and curling white against black soil. Near them we could see the soft, small prints of raccoons. It’s a rough life for a turtle. If you add Amtrak to the expected predators—that seemed too much. We had to save this turtle.

We both found flat boards. From one side, Christina pried under the turtle and I did the same on the other side. Balancing, we lifted in unison while the turtle let off a musky pee. We stepped the turtle down the gravel embankment and into the shrubs lining the North Tivoli Bay. For the moment, the turtle was safe.

Perfect Timing

Garbage CrewIt takes a while before we start to see the garbage. A bottle here or there rests at the edges of the still-brown cattails and phragmites that line the waterway that meanders through the North Tivoli Bay. When I pull the canoe up onto the mucky embankment Susan Lyne gets out and from her standing perspective locates a half dozen more items that don’t belong, items made of plastic or Styrofoam,glass, metal. She scoops them up, along with a plastic turkey, and we jam everything into two bags, one in front of her son, Emmet, the other behind him. Emmet is our youngest garbage collector and while he showed a real talent on land, grabbing things with the garbage picker, he’s less excited about being in the canoe. “It’s dirty,” he explains.

Susan with treasures from the Bay

It’s hard to find a kid—a boy—who doesn’t like mud. But he’s right. The mud is dirty. Besides the fact that it is gooey and brown it smells slightly, that fermented pond smell that makes me so happy. But who knows what else is laced into that mud? If I thought too much about that, I wouldn’t get out of my boat. So the truth is, I’m happy Emmet is a young neat-freak and keeping his hands and feet inside of the wide metal canoe.

The sun beats down on us as we gather more things. We watch as Sheri takes on an enormous plastic tarp and drags it behind her kayak. Emily has a bag stuffed into the cockpit of her kayak. The Bland family—Avis, Celia and Alex—have scooped up a refrigerator. It’s hard to tell who has the best booty.

We are all cruising the North Bay on a Saturday late morning in search of garbage. It’s a great treasure hunt  And the more we find, the more we find. It works like that. Our eyes adjust so that a glint is a bottle, a bump the edge of a barrel. There’s a general sense of excitement and an extreme sense that we are doing good work. Knowing that in the South Tivoli Bay, a group of Bard College students are cruising those waters Bard College students, gleefulcollecting their own garbage adds to the collective sense of purpose. And in a few weeks, with Riverkeeper's River Sweep, groups the length of the river will clean up. We will make this Hudson River cleaner. One small thing in a world that needs lots of small things.

Soon enough, Emmet doesn’t want to be on the water any longer. I’m impressed he made it as far as he did, but I’m sorry to lose my canoe partners. Just then, my phone rings and my friend Georganna calls to say she’s a half hour away. Perfect timing.

I drop off one set of partners and all of our loot and scoop up the next. That George is still fresh helps to give me some energy. We work our way around the circuitous water paths of the north bay, until we reach the wide bay by the railroad underpass. Everyone seems to have vanished, though I know Emily and Sheri are out here somewhere. We poke along, past the docks that washed into the bay after Hurricane Irene. Then we meander down one of the alleyways that run parallel to the train tracks.

I glance over my shoulder and see a plant I have never seen before. “What’s that?” George asks as I’m about to exclaim, “Golden Club.”

Golden clubThough I’ve never seen this plant before it is so distinct I know right away what it is. Brilliant yellow prongs, like a riding crop, emerge from green leaves. It’s a plant I have been looking forfor years.

I first read about Golden Club in Ester Kiviat’s book about the Tivoli Bays. She goes in search of this rare flower, with no luck. Her quest sent me on my own searches and every year I have come up empty.

What surprises me is how beautiful the yellows are in this flower. Practically neon in their brightness. I jump out of the canoe to take photographs of the flower. I’m dizzy with excitement. A golden club at last. And what are the chances? It’s a flower that blooms but a week every year—usually in May. Here it is, early in the season, and without searching, I found it. Perfect timing.

Georganna with a canoe-load of garbage

Before I get back in the boat, I pick up a hunk of Styrofoam and a can of soda, dented and filled with mud.

Beautiful, Until it is Not

looking north; the barge is on the horizon!When I talk about kayaking on the Hudson I am always sure to add a cautionary note: look out for the big boats. Tankers, barges pushed by tugs, and container ships all ply the waters of the Hudson. The river is theirs, and it’s important to stay out of the way: boats can’t brake or swerve. They need to stick in the limited shipping channel. I have heard that the captains of these big boats refer to kayakers as speed bumps; most of the time they don’t see us at all.

It would seem that staying out of the way of a big boat would be easy. They take up a lot of room; they are visible. But it is not that simple. This morning as I slipped my boat into the water at the Tivoli landing, the water was lightly feathered.  At 41 degrees, I urged the sun and its promised warmth as it peaked over the eastern shoreline. A faint rumble emerged from the north. I scanned the river and saw nothing. But the noise wasn’t going away. It had to be a boat. I looked more closely. There, on the horizon, was a double barge, pushed by a tug. It was enormous. And it was almost invisible, thanks to my angle, the angle of the sun, the height of the barge. It all worked against me. I hugged the shore until it chugged past, then I made a dash for the western shore.

one way to feel very small On the western shore I was looking for sunshine and ducks. Ducks tucked in near shore south of the Long Pier. The tide was out and the water so shallow my paddles grazed the muddy bottom. I couldn’t get in close enough to identify any of the ducks, just dots on a shoreline. And the sun hid behind thick white clouds, a light breeze pushing me from the north. I wished I had brought my gloves (which I left sitting on shore to be sucked out with the tide).

I looped back across the river cutting across the rocky prow of Magdalen Island. The North Bay sucked me in. A calm draped my shoulders, as I pushed back in my seat, my feet still a bit damp and cool from getting into my boat. The energy of the big river left me as I drifted with the incoming tide. I put my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the mudflats, exposed at low tide. I  landed on the foraging movement two compact shorebirds, which I realized were Common Snipe. Why are they called Common? There is nothing common about a Snipe. Their long bills dwarf their pint sized bodies. And it’s a rare event to see one so clearly, the streaked back and short legs. Usually they skulk in tall grasses and take flight in a blur. Just as these two did, wheeling into the air.

I stroked into the bay, Common Mergansers taking flight in objection to my presence. Again: why Common? They are big ducks, with those great white bodies, tufted heads, long bills. Yes, common in that they are present, and so perhaps not so special to see. But once seen, they are remarkable birds. Perhaps we should get rid of “Common” attached to any bird. I count fifteen “Common” birds including the Common Murre, Common Pauraque, and Common Poorwill,  three birds I have never seen. Let’s change them to Special. The Special Raven and the Special Grackle, like the ones feeding like crazy at my feeder this morning.

The calm of the North BayA very special Pied-billed Grebe foraged in front of me. Not wanting to disturb the little bird, I turned around, heading back toward home, toward mid-term grades.

The bay before the railroad tracks let me know I was in for a ride. Wavelets formed, ruffling what is almost always a placid body of water. The wind of last night had awakened, and I could see the trees on Magdalen Island bending in the breeze. How fast the river changes. What had been a gentle morning was now a windy challenge.

I steeled myself for getting under the railroad bridge, bracing my legs and shoveling the water with determination. Once on the river the wind hit me. It took my boat broadside and pushed me south before I came around and pointed my nose north.  My hands, which had been cold, now were really cold. My body was cold. I stroked into the wind, the waves sloshing over my boat.

I like wind. But I don’t like wind when I am cold, when the water is cold, when the wind is moving one way and the current another, forming frothy white caps. The wind made this big river appear enormous. I thought: I am not going to make it home.

It’s a sad thought to have.

I then did the unthinkable: I rode my boat onto the rocky shoreline. I pulled it out of the water, and above the high water mark. And I walked back to my car. It was the coldest, longest mile-long walk of my life. Leaving my boat felt a kind of betrayal. As I walked, I went through all of my options. I would drive home and pick up the wheels to attach to the back of my boat and wheel the boat back to my car. No. I’d drive down the rocky path beside the tracks (no doubt illegal), then walk on shore and float the kayak north. No. I’d drive down the tracks as far as possible then paddle the boat to that point. No. I could see there was no getting back in my boat.

What I did. I drove down the side of the tracks, where people in pick up trucks drive out to fish, drink or make out at the abandoned stone dock to Sycamore Point. I gave thanks to Subaru as the gravel spit beneath my tires.  I kept on past the dock, the gravel less packed down, the passage narrower, until a large log blocked my way.

I jogged the 200 yards--which felt like 2 miles--to my boat, relieved when I saw its pink body resting on the gravel.

My boat weighs 46 pounds. This means I can carry it from my car to the water, and that I have a system to get it on the roof of my car. 46 pounds is not bad, until you have to carry it several hundred yards. Because the 46 pounds are spread out over sixteen and a half feet, it is an awkward 46 pounds. I hoisted the boat on my shoulder and looked forward. I wished I could see my car, which I had tucked to the side in the bushes that line the river, in case a train swooshed past. I could feel my shoulder begin to sag. The wind grabbed the boat and swung it away from my body. I staggered a bit, caught my foot on a rock. What are you doing out here? I hefted the boat more securely on my shoulder, and marched on. Keeping moving, I told myself. My hands were freezing. Don’t stop. My shoulder ached. Don’t put the boat down. I knew if I put it down, I wouldn’t pick it up again.  Just keep walking, keep walking.