From Snow to Spring Beauties

West Kill is a small town wedged in a wide valley in the Catskill Mountains. The houses nudge each other in the small town, then out route 42 the houses space out, become farms. I wonder about the brave farmers who first settled this valley.

“Do you think you would be lonely living out here?” I ask our car full of women, all dressed for a day hike up West Kill peak. I used to romanticize living far from everyone and everything, craved silence the way some people crave chocolate.  Mary responds quickly, “Yes.” I would be too, I admit.  Though I often spend long days alone I always see another person: the post mistress, or Mikee the baker where I buy a brioche on Wednesday mornings. In the bakery I’ll know someone, share a few words, a laugh. I may only talk to another person for five minutes in a day but that is five minutes of touching the world. I think of these moments as ballast, keeping me upright. This Catskill town’s emptiness feels vast. To add to it, there is evidence, deep, piled up, destroyed evidence of Hurricane Irene from this past fall. Some bridges have been rebuilt, some remain in progress. But the river bed is wide, wider than is needed for the stream that now flows through. The debris that lines the riverbank includes massive logs and piles of brush. Looking at it I sense the force of the water that swept through here, altering this landscape.

The trailhead follows a stream into the hills and to a series of beautiful waterfalls. The trail then shot uphill for two and a half miles. 

I am sure that I used to be a fun hiking companion to Mary and Connie, with whom I’ve shared many peaks. We would gab our way up and down mountains covering life’s most important topics: family, food and sex. Now, I have my binoculars strapped to my chest, eager to see what birds are living their lives on this snowy mountain. Rather than talk, I linger behind everyone looking for movement, or a small chip.

I am rewarded right away with a plump rusty Fox Sparrow. It’s one of my favorite sparrows and not just because we share a name. A Junco trills from the woods and further up the trail I hear a flock of Pine Siskin where they belong: in a pine tree.

Soon we are tromping through snow, and clambering over downed birch trees. We have had so little snow this winter that to walk through the soft layer pleases me.

A picnic on the summit offers one of the finest views from a Catskill Peak I have ever had. Often from these summits there is little or no view. In fact, you hardly know you’ve arrived at the summit. Here, we look into the valleys, the trees brown, but beginning to shade to green with new buds, the spread of the mountain range before us. We pick out other peaks: Plateau, there, Hunter, there, and share food.

view from the summitA Turkey Vulture soars into view. And then a Raven swoops past. I could hear—felt—its wing beats. Perhaps we were sitting too close to a nest.

The quiet of the woods is my company on the descent. Too soon we are out of the snow and back at the stream, the falls. And there to greet us is a patch of Spring Beauties.

Flow On

Water-side trail at Falling WatersIn the final chapter of The Hudson, Carl Carmer writes of how he imagines the Hudson developing, changing, flowing on. The book, published in 1939 as part of the Rivers of America Series, remains a wonderful resource about the history and quirky stories of the river and Carmer is a lively story teller. That Carmer chose to imagine the future is a wonderful task: what might I see if I squinted past tomorrow? It’s not something I have been good at in my own life. Never could I have seen myself living in the Hudson Valley and teaching writing. And yet that I am here feels most natural.

Bloodroot in bloomCarmer cheered that people, ordinary people, were gaining access to the land along the shores of the river, land that had for so long been the preserve of the rich. The rich included the Livingston, Astor, and Vanderbilt families, all of whom had many estates with views that spanned the river.

The movement from rich to ordinary involved an influx of religious from Father Divine and his cult at Crum Elbow to the Ursline nuns in Beacon. When Carmer wrote, of the eight country seats, thirty-three were no long operated as estates and nineteen were medical education or religious institutions. “Thus in a strange way the people have won the river,” Carmer applauds.

Carmer writes about John R. Stuyvesant’s home, Edgewood, three miles north of Poughkeepsie that was sold to the Jesuits and was renamed St. Andrew’s-on-the-Hudson. This Jesuit monastery has become the Culinary Institute of America (known to locals as the CIA). Could he have imagined how these properties would flow on to the next generation?

A property in Saugerties, a  town on the western short of the river just a bit north of Tivoli, has also flowed into the hands of anyone who wants to take a walk by the river. The northern end of the property belonged to Gilbert Spaulding, not one of the rich of the valley, but rather a veterinarian. He named the property Falling Waters, which remains to this day. The Dominican Sisters bought this property in 1931, as well as land where a former ice house operated, in 1932. And there the sisters had a summer vacation retreat. The sisters remain on the property, but they have opened up a portion of it for people to enjoy. Working with Scenic Hudson and the Esopus Creek Conservancy, the sisters have built a system of trails, with stunning views of the river. From time to time a bench invites walkers to sit by one of the two waterfalls. It is one of the few places along the river where you can walk in the woods and skip a stone on the Hudson River.

That is where Peter and I were headed on a drizzly Saturday morning. We had started our day at the Great Vly, a swamp just north of Saugerties, where we were delighted by Virginia Rail skulking its way through the reeds. Coots with their startling white bills hid among the reeds, and Tree Swallows, newly returned, swooped low over the water. Wood ducks took flight making their crying sound, while Horned and Pied-Billed Grebes floated on the placid water. Grebes are neat birds, with lobed toes that make walking on land difficult. So they mostly swim, float, and build floating nests (which I have never seen). The Pied-billed Grebe has a goofy thick bill that makes it one of the cutest birds on a pond.

We then drove to Falling Waters, cheered by our sightings. Had we stopped there, our day would have felt complete. But there’s a hunger that takes over after seeing a few good birds, all of these migrating through. Perhaps there were other treasures that had flown in through the night?

The trails at Falling Waters are gentle, winding through the woods, with strategic views onto the river, east to Magdalen Island, and north of that the Village of Tivoli. I always enjoy viewing my village from a different perspective, to see the crooked line of Friendship Street and the houses that open out to the water. But they are gazing across the railroad tracks. Here, no tracks ran nearby to jar our walk. We passed vinca in bloom and Bloodroot as well. Spring is here.

In the next two hours we had an assortment of ducks that had us grinning with excitement, above all the Long-tailed Ducks, with tails that look like they are a radio-receiver. There were Bufflehead and a Double-crested Cormorant. The Cormorants would stick around through the summer but the other birds were just moving through, all part of the cycles of a bird in migration.

The day seemed complete, but we couldn’t help ourselves; if these birds were floating through what other migrants might also be in the area? It was my first day of spring break, and I had promised myself a rest from papers and grades. So there was no reason not to head back to the water’s edge.

Our good luck continued with more Bufflehead on the water, joined by Green-winged Teal and to Peter’s disbelief five Red-breasted Mergansers. We stood on the edge of the river, which was at low tide, to get a better look. Indeed, the birds did have dark chests and wispy crests, unlike the more rounded head of the Common Merganser.

It was dusk when we drove out of the parking lot, tired from gazing onto the gray waters of the river, the light shimmering through thick clouds.

View North from Falling Waters“Let’s check the waterfront,” I suggested. Glasco has a small waterfront park, situated on the water in front of their water treatment plant. Birds often congregate there. My suggestion felt like greediness of another order.

“You don’t stop, do you?” Peter asked with a grin, turning toward the waterfront.

We pulled out the scopes, scanned the river.

“My god,” Peter said.

I peered into his scope. More Long-tailed ducks. I grinned.

We scanned some more.

“My god,” Peter said. He stepped away from the scope. “Just look.”

I looked, recognizing right away that we had some more Grebes. This time, Red-necked Grebes, a bird I had never seen before, bobbing in the fading light. Two neat birds with elegant flat heads, and red necks. They were making their way north, to breed somewhere in the Arctic.

Flow on. Flown on. Water, land and air: movement is inevitable. Land changes hands, birds fly north then south. Rivers are movement; this river carries birds and trash and once carried bricks and ice. Sometimes this flow is encouraging, sometimes unnerving, but always it is inevitable. To walk on some of the land of change, to see some of the flow in the fading light of a gray day makes me feel lucky. Flow on.   

Rufous-capped Warbler

Florida CanyonOn my first day in Arizona, my friend Deb and I went in search of a Rufous-capped Warbler, a bird that lives in Mexico but from time to time pops over the border. This bird had flown north, to Florida Canyon, a small canyon just north of Madera Canyon, one of Southern Arizona’s birding hotspots. The Arizona birding community was in motion to see this special yellow bird with its rufous cap.

That day, we had had no luck finding the bird. No one that day found it, not even the friendly couple who had driven down from Tempe. They helped us identify the Hammond’s flycatcher, and when I pointed toward the sky he was the first to call it: Golden Eagle. Later, we joined this couple sitting on a bench and watching one of the famous feeders in Madera Canyon as Lesser Goldfinch and Bridled Titmouse came and went. Everyone but me drove home disappointed. I hardly cared about finding such a special bird—I was still intent on orienting myself in this new birding landscape, on finding the usual birds. I was happy—no, thrilled--with my Black-throated Sparrow (not to be confused with the Black-chinned Sparrow) and with the Lesser Goldfinch, and the Bridled Titmouse birds I had never seen before.

Two days later, Deb and I left for Bisbee stopping at Patagonia Lake on the way there. As we left Tucson, a flock of Gambel’s Quail crossed the road. I had Deb pull over as I admired the plump birds that disappeared amidst prickly pear, and palo verde.

“It’s hard to get excited about them,” Deb said as I delighted in seeing the birds and mentally checked them off of my imaginary life list.  “There were half a dozen in my backyard this morning.”

Coot on Patagonia LakeI thought of the birds I saw every day in my tiny back yard in Tivoli. There were too many house sparrows at the feeder these days. They were joined by house finches. Yes, I was tired of both of these birds, and yearned for something a bit more special. But these brown little birds were not as cute as a Gambel’s Quail. How could anyone tire of them with their plumy bonnets? The Quail is named for William Gambel, a little known 19^th century ornithologist who explored the West. When he found the birds he wrote: “We met with small flocks of this handsome species…inhabiting the most barren brushy plains…where a person would suppose it to be impossible for any animal to subsist.” But here it was and here it has remained, flourishing in a hard place.

I wondered at how spoiled Arizona birders are. There are wonderful birds year round—they hardly knew the poverty of an east coast winter where we are left with silence and stillness and hope. And they have the luxury of becoming bored with an adorable bird. I was painfully jealous and spent the rest of my trip fantasizing moving to Patagonia, a sleepy, quaint town near the Mexico border with  a restaurant that sells great BLTs and amazing birding areas from people’s backyard feeders to Patagonia Lake. This is also the location of the famous “Patagonia Picnic Table.”

Deb and I spent a lot of time hopping across the maze of small streams that leak into the Lake, which is filled with Common Mergansers, Pied-billed Grebes and Coots.  Great blue herons poke the edges and somewhere in the sycamore trees lurked a Trogon. A man with a large camera ran up to us, his breath short, his heart racing. “Today I am the luckiest man in the world.” And he showed us a photo of the Trogon. I did not see the Trogon but everything from the Gambel’s Quail to all of the birds at Patagonia made me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Those Arizona sunsets!Deb and I spent several days driving through grasslands, hiking up canyons, tromping through high desert and swooning over sunsets. We saw 115 species of birds (not that I’m counting). Of these, 36 were new birds or me. I was now back in Tucson, tired and satisfied. That’s when Deb called to ask if I wanted one last shot at the Rufous-capped warbler.  This was purely a generous offer as she had seen the bird on a day I had visited Catalina State Park alone.

“I’d be up for it,” she said in her off hand manner.

“Really? You’d go down there again?” I smiled into my cell phone.

Deb was indefatigable. So off we drove on my last day in Arizona to find the warbler. We arrived at the lonely canyon around 9 in the morning, not exactly prime birding time. But the sun was just beginning to touch down in the desert canyon. We walked by a dry streambed where sycamore trees grew strong. We passed through a gate, and started up the dusty, rocky trail.

Coming out of the canyon was a trio of birders. They all looked glum, shaking their heads. “No warbler.”

This didn’t dull my enthusiasm, somehow I sensed that Deb and I were a golden duo. After all, we’d seen the black-chinned sparrow, hadn’t we?

We crossed over a dam, water trickling over the edge, green algae lacing the edge of the spill. Then we tromped by a narrow stream, thick with brush. Above us white-throated swifts soared. A photographer passed us, also looking discouraged. “It’s not here,” he declared.

“OK,” I said, remaining confident.

He headed downstream, while Deb and I climbed a bit higher.

Deb on a warbler huntDeb perched on a rock, small binoculars to her eyes.  “Got it,” she said, all confidence and some glee in her voice.

I snapped my binoculars to my eyes and there it was, the yellow warbler with a striking brown cap. I motioned to the photographer, and he ran back, camera at the ready. The bird flit from one bush to the next, escaping any but the briefest looks. But this small chase delighted me. Deb and I hopped along rocks by the streambed, emerging scratched and my pants ripped.

We returned to Deb’s car, the trip ending on a high note, thanks to Deb’s persistence and generosity. 116 birds, 37 of them new for me.  But everyone one of them a special bird.

Black-chinned Sparrow

Sandhill CranesI like a bird that announces itself: the Vermilion Flycatcher that I saw on my last morning in Tucson or the Acorn Woodpecker with its familiar cackle and flaming red head. The more subtle birds become, but are not as immediately loveable. I learned on this trip to Arizona that the flycatchers that don’t vocalize are maddening—did the tail flick up or down? It matters. Sparrows also fall into this category of work to love. You have to pay attention to the details. The mustard eye line. The streaking on the chest—is it fine or splotchy? The rufous patch on the wing.  On this trip, I was ready to give sparrows all of my attention.

Learning my ducksJanuary 18, 2012, my friend Deb and I drove from her place in Bisbee, north to Whitewater, a series of ponds and grasses, an oasis in the desert. The Sandhill Cranes were landing at Whitewater. This is an event. A large bus was parked in the lot as people walked out to peer at the mass of elegant, tall gray birds with their red crowns. Watching Sandhill Cranes land and take off is a dizzying experience. They flail toward the earth, all legs and wings; at times they seem to stall mid-flight, plummeting to earth. At the same time, others launch toward the air, two birds on a near-collision course. But here’s the thing: you never see two birds collide.

We walked out a breakwater and saw the silhouettes of two roosting Great Horned Owls (satisfying an unending need for owls). A Greater Yellowlegs waded in the water and a Killdeer called as it flew by. There were lots of ducks to enjoy in the impoundments around the cranes. We ate lunch and perfected our duck identifications: there was a Cinnamon Teal with its elegant cinnamon colored head, there were Gadwall, with their black butts, and Pintails with long necks, a white stripe snaking up from the chest. There were rumors of a Sora, which a small army of cheerful photographers waited to document.  

The sun beat down on us in the exposed grasslands. Mid-afternoon I was tired so we headed toward home. I was dreaming of a nap.

“Want to go look for the Black-chinned Sparrow?” Deb asked.

I felt my heart flutter.

“We could walk up M Canyon and look for one,” she said, her eye trained on the road.

I pointed to a red-tailed hawk on a pole, peering out at the vast desert, raw with overgrazing.

M Canyon isn’t really M Canyon, but I don’t want to tell anyone where this is. It’s a secret spot, the sort of place locals keep to themselves.

“Of course,” I said.

We drove to the end of the Canyon and set out, passing a range of make shift homes. A copper-colored dog joined us on our walk, cheerfully bounding ahead, then rejoining us as if we had always belonged to each other. There were stone walls flanking the trail and amidst the grasses mesquite trees. We saw a few Vesper Sparrows in the bushes, but not much else. We pushed on into the Canyon, where it became fantastically quiet. Not a bird in sight. We enjoyed the sense of calm, the shifting, dropping light, the cooler temperatures after a hot day in the sun. But I was starting to feel discouraged.

We headed back downhill to the point we had last seen a bird. We stood. We pished. We gazed into desert brush, at rocky small cliffs.

“There it is,” Deb said with confidence.

I put my bins to my eyes. And there perched the elegant compact gray bird, with a faint black splotch on its chin, announcing itself to the world: Black-chinned Sparrow.