Sailing on Ice, Walking on Water

Ice boat with the Kingston-Rhinecliff bridge in the backgroundAn ice boat is a beautiful thing. It glides across the ice on giant ice skates, propelled by a sail. Each boat can hold one, maybe two people, who crouch low, often using feet to direct the rudder. Some are wood, formed and stained over a hundred years ago. Some are sleek and modern. All require ice, thick ice. And wind.  Those two things came together today, March 1, on the Hudson River. It was one of the biggest ice boat events on the river.

From high at Poet’s Walk, just north of the Kingston Rhinecliff Bridge, we could see the boats skidding across the ice. In the not so far distance, an enormous tanker lazily crunched its way south in the open channel. The ice boats stayed away from that channel, zipping carefree north to Barrytown and south toward the bridge. Four or five boats were under sail.

Ice boats with tug and barge in the backgroundWhen we rounded the small promontory to a cove on the Rokeby property I wasn’t prepared for the sight before me: rows of cars and pick up trucks parked on the ice. So that’s how thick it was! People who grew up in this are describe driving across the river in winter. That is no longer possible because a coast guard cutter keeps the channel clear. But also—we don’t have enough cold to make the ice on the river solid enough. (No comment on climate change here. For now.)

People gathered about, preparing their boats for a sail. There must have been forty boats in all, small and large. A friend pointed out the stars in the pack, like the Rocket, built in 1888, which had not be on the ice since 1925. The Shrewsbury Ice Yacht Club had rebuilt this gem.  And if there were forty boats, there were hundreds of people, chatting, eating, drinking, finding old friends and making new ones. I have never seen so many men with beards wearing Carhartts. Every one of them looked like they could fix or repair anything. In the cold.

The RocketI have seen the ice boats but one other time, two years ago. In the quiet shallow waters of the South Tivoli Bay, the water freezes over quickly. It’s the safest place to boat. But on that day not a breath of wind emerged. We all stood around admiring the boats. And the next day the temperatures soared and the boats were plucked from the melting ice. To have enough cold days that the big river is thick enough and smooth enough is a rare treat. Ricky Aldrich, who owns the Rokeby property says he’s never seen ice so thick in all of his years living by the river.

It is just now, in March, that I start to miss the Hudson River, the wide expanse of sky over my shoulders as I kayak out to Magdalen or Cruger Islands, or dip into the North Tivoli Bay. I start to dream of long days on the water, exploring reaches to the north, where the river narrows. So I spent today on the river, though not in my kayak. I stood on the ice, then walked out and north, following cracks in the ice, and listening to the ice groan and buckle as the tide came in. At times I laughed a nervous laugh, worried that the ice might crack and drop me into the cold. As a boat sped by, further out on the ice, I heard the swoosh of runners against ice, a sound like an ice skater carving a hard, frosty turn, only amplified. As I continued north, walking on water, I looked out at the vast expanse of ice that covered what I think of as my reach.  

My reach, frozen

Morning on the River

Juvenile Bald EagleFall migration is underway. Lots of intriguing birds will pass through—although less brightly colored and less tuneful than in spring. What I hope for here in the Hudson Valley is the chance of seeing shorebirds. A few have been appearing—last weekend Black Bellied Plovers at Greig Farm. So as I headed onto the river this Sunday morning I had high hopes for what might be flying or floating through.

The weather report claimed rain and the sky over the Catskills loomed gray, but electric. I stroked to the Western shore of the river and wove through the water chestnut mat. A Spotted Sandpiper bobbed about and a dozen Great Blue Herons posed in the shallow water.

I pushed south, then back across the river to round the southern end of Cruger Island. There, like a giant loaf of bread, sat an immature Bald Eagle. It watched me as I floated nearer, then it took off to land at the top of a snag. There, it flared its wings, resplendent in the morning sun. In the sandy shallows of South Cruger Island a Lesser Yellowlegs tagged its way along the waterline, ignoring me in my pink boat. It wandered near my bow, then continued on its Yellowlegs way.

Lesser YellowlegsThe South Tivoli Bay is a wide open expanse, now clogged with water chestnut. The tide was heading out, so I pushed against the current to enter the bay. There, a half dozen Wood Ducks squatted on a log, then took off, crying like babies. In the distance I spied a white bird. A few weeks earlier I had found two juvenile Little Blue Herons on the bay. I stroked forward wondering if the birds were still around. One was. It poked about near my boat, caught a fish (lousy picture taken with a point and shoot as my good camera went for a swim). I floated and watched as I had a few weeks before, the bird insouciant. Soon, I turned to leave and to my left, a white bird flew toward me. “That’s a strange looking gull,” I thought. So strange it was another Little Blue. It landed near its pal and the two wandered off into the brown-green spatterdock.

I was feeling pretty cheerful about all of this, and the sun echoed that cheer by parting a few of the clouds in the sky. Things were now heading toward a fully beautiful day. I spied a kayak heading toward me, the paddler awkward in his boat, the paddles rising too high. “Susan?” I heard.

Logan paddling with his bikeIt was Logan, one of my wonderful students, who always has an adventure afoot. His odd stroke was because he had a bike wedged into his kayak. This is a kid who has biked across the country and plans to travel the world to bike, make bikes, fix bikes. He was heading south to pick up a sail boat he intends to live on this year.

“Can we talk about senior project sometime?” he asked.  Senior project is a year-long event for Bard seniors, and it brings out the best and worst in our students.

“Sure,” I said.

“When?” he asked.

“This seems a good time,” I said, and we rafted up. Work follows me onto the river, I thought, but this was certainly the best senior project meeting location I could think of. While Logan told me about his plans to look at homelessness and issues of sustainability in terms of housing I watched a snail work its way over his kayak.

I listened and gave advice as only one can in a kayak and told him to go and start writing. We soon waved goodbye and I took my own advice and headed home to write.

Little Blue

Mature Little Blue--seen in KansasI was birding the South Tivoli Bay with my friend, the biologist and ornithologist, Bruce Robertson. Birding with Bruce added another dimension to birding as he is filled with excellent bird information, which he gleefully transmits as we walk through the woods. He was describing shifts in gender roles for the Spotted Sandpiper, which we had just seen bobbing along the muddy edges of the bay. The females fight for territory, and to win the males. Once she lays her eggs, she leaves them for the male to incubate and to raise the young.

“Cool,” I said. I love it when nature confounds what is expected (and in the process confounds the biologists as well).

We walked in silence for a while, until we reached what is known as Buttock’s Island. It’s a sweet promontory with long views both north and south. The bay was choked with water chestnut, which covered the surface of the bay. Water chestnut is a beautiful plant, but it doesn’t belong here and has taken over the quieter parts of the Hudson. Except for pulling it out, no one has figured out how to contain it. I’ve mostly thought about water chestnut as hogging oxygen in the water, pushing out fish life. But as I scanned for shorebirds, I realized that their habitat was also being invaded by the water chestnut.

Paddling South toward Magdalen Island The South Tivoli Bay is isolated from the Hudson River by the train tracks, which slice off its western border. Three underpasses allow water to come and go. I scanned the edge of the bay, near the northern underpass where birds like to congregate in the deeper, moving water.  Immediately I spied a white dot picking through the water chestnut, barely visible through the heat haze of the morning sun off of the water.

“Not a Great Egret,” I said doing a little dance. That meant it was either a Snowy Egret, or a juvenile Little Blue Heron (a juvenile little blue is little white). Both were exciting birds for this area. A Little Blue appeared on Wappinger’s Lake this summer, but in the past in Dutchess County there were four sightings in the 60s, eight in the 70s, thirteen in the 80s, and three in the 90s. Where I had seen Little Blues in the past was Florida and Kansas.

We put up our scopes, but the distance and the haze left us guessing.  Bruce pulled out his iphone, and looked at photos of Little Blues and Snowys. He handed me his little screen with the photos, which I glanced at. What I saw there, in Technicolor detail, had little to do with the shimmering white thing in the distance. Bruce went back and forth, offering his ideas on what it could be then decided: Little Blue. It seemed a good guess, but to me was still in guess-land. I wanted to have more evidence.

The next morning at 5:15, I drove my kayak to the Tivoli launch and set out for the South Bay. I make it sound like I was on a determined quest. I was and I wasn’t—I had no real hope of seeing the bird or getting close enough to take a photograph. But I had to try.

I stroked past Magdalen Island and the entrance to the North Tivoli Bay, and continued another half mile south flanking Cruger Island. A mature eagle, its white head gleaming in the early morning sun, sat on an exposed branch, preening. An immature—perhaps one of the two fledglings from this year—let out its eagle yell and flew overhead. Cruger Island is one site where eagles have come to nest in recent years. There isn’t a paddle where I don’t see at least one.

Least Sandpiper working the shorelineAt the end of the island, I curved in around a rock outcropping toward the narrow passage between Cruger and South Cruger. It’s a quiet cove, and a great place to loiter for turtles, birds and humans. A few Canada Geese paddled the waters.  A Least Sandpiper worked the shoreline, exposed at low tide. Spatterdock stood tall in the shallow water, looking a bit worn by this time in the season. I pulled up my binoculars to watch the Least (can we change that name! this bird is small but it isn’t least anything) working its way along the shoreline. Binoculars focus the eyes, yet I still sensed something moving in my peripheral vision. I lowered my binoculars, to realize that my kayak was gliding in slow motion straight toward the white wading bird. It was not more than thirty feet from my bow.

My hands were shaking as I fumbled for the camera, wedged into a dry bag between my legs. I pulled it to my eye and snapped the first few pictures. Once I was sure I had something to work with I put the camera down and picked up my binoculars. Yellow legs. No other markings that led me to be sure of my bird. The Snowy and the juvenile Little Blue are maddeningly similar.

And then I decided that the ID mattered less than simply being there, enjoying this beautiful bird that was clearly not afraid of a woman in her pink kayak. We loitered there together, the bird busy wading thigh deep in the water foraging near the shoreline.  It moved with precision, and a certain nonchalance. From the spatterdock a second bird emerged, and the two worked together, wandering over toward the geese to find more food.

Juvenile LIttle Blue HeronI soon felt the need to head home and into my work day. I had dozens of photos and a sense of calm and I was calling them Little Blues. The birds, however, were not done with me. They flew over, and landed in front of me, emerging from the spatterdock once again to entertain me. But soon enough they wandered into the tall plants and vanished. I thought how if I had arrived at this moment, I never would have seen my Little Blue Herons.

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.