Images of Eagles

I pulled out my camera to photograph the sixth bald eagle I had seen that morning on the river. It was a smooth gesture—the small camera sliding out of my life vest pocket. I hit the on button. As the lens emerged so too did a wave. I leaned, and with one hand took up my paddle that rested across the cockpit. Somewhere in those movements my camera flew out of my hand and landed with a definite plop into the water. I watched as it spiraled through the turbid water and out of sight toward the bottom of the Hudson River. I had owned the camera for less than a month.

Sigh.

There will be no photos for this blog post. No photo of the landing at Malden, where the water treatment plant nudges the town dock and a sign tells of the British who anchored offshore before burning down a few mansions along the river. There will be no photo of the abandoned ice tower, or the abandoned brick yard north of Malden, the beach a spread of bricks. And, there will be no photos of eagles one through five, three of them mature with their white heads and dark bodies and two immature, a more scruffy look.

But that doesn’t mean that the eagles weren’t there. I have to content myself with the images I hold in my head, the one eagle low in a tree, lurking, until I drifted too close. And the pair high up, sitting erect before taking flight across the river. Eagles have returned along the Hudson River. This isn’t news, as the return of the eagle has been celebrated by removing it in 2007 from the Endangered Species List. For a while, the situation for the eagle was dire: in the 70s there was one breeding pair in New York State; it wasn’t until 1997 that a pair bred in the Hudson Valley. Now there are over a dozen nests the length of the estuary. This summer it seems I can’t be on the river without seeing an eagle. They are always a welcome sight.

OK, I can’t help myself. Here is a photo taken by Peter of an eagle from the Saugerties Lighthouse.

Smaller, and less majestic, were the spotted sandpipers. They fly with a wingbeat that appears to hold a momentary hesitation. And once a sandpiper lands it walks about in sandpiperly fashion, while continuously bobbing its tail.

After my disappointment at losing my camera, I decided to head home. I was two hours north on the river and looked forward to an easy return with the outgoing tide. It was hot out, but with a breeze that kept me cool. I wanted to cross the river and head home on the eastern shore. The river is about three quarters of a mile wide at this location. A haze cloaked the far shore, and my view both north and south. The river seemed empty. But the river was not calm. The wind had really picked up from the southeast and that met the current to create big waves that crested mid-river. There were white caps. I decided not to cross, and hoped the river would calm before I had to.

I headed south clinging to the western shore. It’s remarkably green in this section, with houses that nudge the shoreline. But I wasn’t focused on the sights, only on my forward movement, which was painfully slow. I wished I had brought my anemometer with me to measure the speed of wind. I made a guess that we were at a level 5 on the Beaufort Scale, partly because that is my favorite level. A fresh breeze. “Small trees in leaf begin to sway; crested wavelets form on inland waters.” Actually, I thought it was more than a 5, as the cottonwoods on shore shook with the wind, a lovely sound, if only I did not have to fight the wind.  

At the Saugerties Lighthouse I pulled onto the sandy patch that appears at low tide. I slipped out of my boat, grateful for a rest. Two older couples sat on the benches under the mulberry tree. The one told me that this wind is a constant in the summer, “comes right out of the southeast every day.” Since I paddle the river every day I can say that the wind doesn’t come out of the southeast every day. Some days are dead calm. And rarely are the days as rough as they were this morning. Dock, who lives on the river in Glasco, was visiting the Lighthouse as well, and had arrived on his small sailboat (he seems to own dozens of boats, many with remarkable set ups that allow him to paddle with his legs). “It’s rough out there,” I said by way of greeting. He nodded. “They say it will be a ten today,” he replied. Dock knows the river. He is slender with a grey beard, that makes him look river-wise. So I didn’t doubt that ten, but I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. If ten miles an hour then that would make it a 3 on the Beaufort scale. A gentle breeze. No, this was stronger than that. And it couldn’t be a ten on the Beaufort scale, as that is a storm when trees are uprooted.

But--ten sounds big, and so were the waves.

I scanned both directions through my binoculars, looking for a barge or tanker on the horizon. Two big boats had overtaken me on my return and I hadn’t been aware of them until they were abreast  (I was well outside of the shipping channel). But the wind had masked the rumble of the tug’s engines. I saw a boat in the far distance but was sure I would make it across before it arrived. Fueled with adrenalin, I dug into the water, shoveling my way across the river. My boat slapped down in the trough between waves, and water splashed into my boat. Twenty minutes later, when I slid onto the rocky landing in Tivoli I was grateful to be home. I had travelled two hours north and had taken three on the return.

The river had my camera. But I had sore muscles and this small tale after a long morning paddle.  

The "Wonderful-Pitiful" song of the Henslow's Sparrow

When I end up at a particularly beautiful spot, or see a particularly wonderful creature in the woods, I often think back on the series of choices that landed me there at that perfect moment. I had to head out at such a time. I had to turn left, not right. Sometimes it seems so random—how does one get to see that eagle or fox?—and always I feel lucky that I was there to see.

Last Saturday, what first felt so lucky was the black bear. Peter and I were walking a wide path in the woods of Partridge Run Game Management Area near Rensselaerville, New York. The trees are thin but dense, so we were in a cool shade, at a higher altitude; the sun sprinkled through the summer-green leaves. In the shape-shifting light, a galumpfing creature took shape to my left. I first imagined dog, then realized it was too big, and dark. “Peter,” I whispered, as he was just ahead of me. I scanned for the mother. “No mother,” Peter explained. “This is a first year bear.” That is, this was the first year that the bear was on its own. It didn’t seem to notice us, 150 feet away. He wandered into the woods, then turned, showing us its long muzzle framed with brown fur. Its dark eyes. It looked at us, then swung around and on its way.

We saw a few birds including several  more northern species, like the junco and white-throated sparrow, at this higher altitude. But the woods were quiet. Though a birder likes for things to be well, birdy, in some ways, I enjoyed the quiet. When we heard a song it stood out. I could be sure I knew what I was hearing: yellow-bellied sapsucker, rose-breasted grosbeak,  blackburnian warbler, chestnut-sided warbler (photo of chestnut-sided at left).

As hunger took over we packed up and continued our drive north. This was the second time this summer that we were taking mini-vacations, that is trips two hours or less from home. We would explore, find a place to stay but not go that far. Peter wanted to see the Upland Sandpiper that had been reported in a horse field near Ames. We drove north, spying many kestrels on the phone lines. I haven’t seen many kestrels this year so to see several of these beautiful, little falcons cheered me.

On west Ames road we scanned the fields as we drove slowly, the windows down, listening for birds. This area of New York is a gorgeous series of rolling fields,  some freshly mowed, but also lots of open fields filled with wildflowers, the wild parsnip that looks so like a yellow-green version of Queen Anne’s Lace. At thirty to forty miles an hour Peter can pick up sounds that erupt from the wide fields.  Bobolink. Savannah Sparrow. Meadowlark. “Stop,” Peter directed. He’s heard the Upland Sandpiper—really a sound worth listening to--working a field on the north side of the road. We get out and see the long legged bird—a bird I would expect to see trotting the sand of high tide line (though on this I am utterly mistaken, it is a “shorebird of grasslands”)—working through the tall grass, nicely camouflaged with its speckled breast and long straight bill. It seemed to be a mother and two young, though it was hard to tell as they kept well away from the road. It was wonderful to see these birds. Still, seeing them was not one of those moments of random encounter, because someone else had found them and reported them on the New York State bird list. We knew where to find them.

We folded back into the car, and decided to start looking for a place to stay. But a narrow country road that flowed uphill drew me in. “Mind if I just see what’s up here?” I asked as I turned south. These are the sorts of roads that would be paradise for a cyclist. Quiet, with endless skies and long views. Earlier we’d seen Amish buggies moving along such roads. The day was perfect, cool enough under a high sun. And here’s where the series of choices comes in. At the top of Mac Phail Road, at a level crest of the hill Peter asked me to stop. We didn’t even get out of the car, but just sat and listened. And then Peter’s face lit up. “My god, Henslow’s!” he said, throwing open the car door. There was no mistaking what Peter describes as the “wonderful-pitiful” song of the Henslow’s (a song I could easily have missed). Peter grabbed his camera and we scanned the field until the bold little bird perched up on the parsnip, singing away.

The Henslow’s Sparrow doesn’t belong in this part of New York State. It’s range ends west of us, and even there it is, according to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, “uncommon and famously inconspicuous.” If I’m honest, it’s not a particularly interesting bird to look at, with its light brown breast and streaked upper parts. What was most distinctive was the big bill on such a small bird. But what was completely intoxicating was Peter’s thrill at finding this bird.

Sun-cooked, elated and exhausted we were on a bird-high. When you find one special bird, you want a flock of special birds. It’s an odd greed, but it seized us both. We drove toward Root, hoping to see the Mississippi Kite that had been reported earlier in the spring. Was it still around? But our greed was not fulfilled.

We now had to find a place to stay for the night. We wanted a pool to cool off in. And we wanted something a lot less ragged looking than the motel off of route 90, which blasts across the northern part of the State. After an hour of calls, and hesitation we had the good luck of landing at the B&B A White Rose in Fort Plain. The owner Melissa was welcoming but not over-bearing. The rooms reflected her: comfortable but not overdone.  

On our return the next day, we stopped at the Mine Kill Falls. A young man was peering into the trees, but without binoculars. I wandered over to ask what he was doing. Listening and looking for the Canadian Cicada. Okanagana Canadensis, he told us. He had driven up from New York City to find out how far south the Canadian Cicada travels. He was thrilled to have found them. We listened with him. Peter and I both immediately recognized the sound, one we had heard many times before.

We were an odd bunch, standing looking into the trees. And a lucky bunch. I thought about the choices this young man had made to land here in this park to find his Cicada. And the choices we had made to see a black bear, or to find a special but ordinary-looking bird—up MacPhail Road, and a stop by that wide, green field, just when the bird wanted to sing.

(There really is a bear in this final photo! Photo of the chestnut-sided warbler and the Henslow's Sparrow are by Peter. This photo and finding this bird generated a lot of interest in the birding world--people drove from Manhattan the next day--four hours--to see it.)

Goosebumps

On July 11, the local papers reported a boating accident on the Hudson just north of Tivoli. At 4:30 in the morning a motorboat crashed into a cement wall, killing four. Two made their way to help and were in intensive care. These boaters were all in their twenties, except one who was 41 years old. Young people, from Kingston, the city south and across the river from Tivoli. The reports were quick to note that alcohol might have played a role in the accident.  They also noted that no one was wearing a life vest.

I knew that there would be a storm of response, a sort of "blame the victim" and then a call for regulations on boaters. But my first response was to wonder what the boat had hit. I paddle this stretch of the river regularly and I mentally scanned the shoreline for a cement wall sticking into the river. None came to mind. So I needed to go out and see what had led to this sad accident. I suppose too that seeing the site was part of what we all do, witness in order to understand the many ways that we can die.

I’ve thought about death a lot while paddling on the river. Not the expected thoughts of going over in my kayak and drowning. I’ve thought of the deaths of my parents, the death of turtles and sturgeons, and once when I saw a dead body on shore of the life and death of this person I did not know. I do not think that I am morbid; the river forces these thoughts in its endless flow in and out with the tides. The river gives and it takes away.

It was eight in the evening when I slid my boat into the summer-warmed water. Cicadas were buzzing their song on shore, letting me know of the heat of the day. The river was a shiny black surface. I stroked north, as the sun spiraled toward the west, leaving an orange-pink glow behind the Catskills.

I soon realized that I wasn’t alone on my paddle. A group of people talking loudly were walking the shoreline, that gravely space between the train tracks and the shrubs that line the river. Through the shrubs I caught sight of them, most dressed in black. Several carried twelve-packs of beer. And I knew right away what this group of 12 were doing. They were on a pilgrimage to the site where they had lost their friends.

Since kayaking is walking on water, we moved at the same pace, those trudging on land, making calls, laughing, swearing. I rarely caught what was being said except  for the louder curses. There was a sense of jollity and outrage. I stroked north, keeping pace, as the Saugerties Lighthouse appeared to the west. I kept away from the shoreline to allow the mourners their space.

I was a good mile north of Tivoli then I saw the cement wall, not but fifteen feet stretching into the water.  It must have been the remains of a dock. Those boaters were too close to the shoreline, I thought. But in the dark that shoreline, the shadows and eddies can be deceiving.  I knew this from my nighttime paddles, how disorienting the river can be in the dark. It’s hard to gauge speed and depth, it’s hard to know where the shoreline is. And, throw in a few beers and it could become even more complicated to read the water.

I floated on the river off of the cement wall as the friends, bathed in grief, gathered near the wall. At that moment a bald eagle flew over, and I pulled out my binoculars to follow its powerful flight. The group turned to watch the eagle as well, and they became silent. The silence stretched as the eagle disappeared over the ridgeline. Finally one young man spoke: “Goosebumps.”

I continued north a bit further, waiting for the moon to pop over the ridge. We were one day short of the full moon, the July full moon, the Buck Moon. This is when new antlers push out on buck deer. Bugs pricked my skin, as lights dotted the shoreline.

Through the tall trees that lined the hillside on the eastern shore I could see the deep glow of the moon. Slowly it rose, like a hot air balloon, silent but steady. And there it was, full and round, bathing the water, casting shadows from the shoreline, washing this sad spot in light. Goosebumps, I thought.

My Bats

I returned home after three days away to a note from a young friend who stayed in my house. “I had noticed and not been too bothered by one bat on the first night,” the inimitable Sasha wrote. I had warned her there were bats—usually they come winging in around 4 in the morning. They graze my head while I’m sleeping and if something wakes me up fast, it’s the breeze of bat wings. They so often come in pairs, doing an elegant swinging dance about my bedroom, as if they have come to perform for me. I’ve perfected my bat catching technique over the past month—once they land, take a towel, cover them, gather up gently but firmly. Lean far out the window and open the towel to watch the bat fly free.

 I’ve become fond of my bats, and think of them that way: my bats. I wonder a lot if they are the same ones, cycling through the house. Or do they get in and remember that inside is not nearly as fun as outside, which is filled with bugs and the dark night air. Inside is a woman screaming and ducking. Because though I say I am fond of my bats, I am still, hmm, I’m still scared when they come at me in that loopy, chaotic way that makes me think they will tangle in my hair and…bite me.

Sasha’s bat narrative continued: “But when there were 4 taking wing in the kitchen at 6 pm I had sort of a fright. And when I say sort of, I mean I was shrieking and ducking and diving behind furniture. [In this way, Sasha and I are similar.] I retreated to the guest room where I thought it was safe (I had kept the door shut all day). But after reading for about an hour another bat was charging about—finally landing on the bed, at which point I fled the house. This morning when I returned I found one snoozing in the bath tub. Thinking it to be deceased I removed it with a Tupperware [this is one reason Tupperware was invented] only to discover it was very much alive. It has been released and was unharmed.

Sasha goes on to tell me about a book she’s reading about the gentrification of San Francisco and decides that evicting the bats is more than she can do—it might, even, be morally corrupt.

I see getting the bats out as saving them. What, after all, can they eat inside the house. So on my return and after Sasha’s note, I went on a bat hunt. I found one in the curtain upstairs. Two in the silver pitcher on top of the book case. And one tucked on top of a book—the book being one written by my sister Becky. The two from the silver pitcher really looked bedraggled—skinny and incapable of moving. They lay under the viburnum in the back yard. I started to worry about them. Perhaps a neighborhood cat would get them. Perhaps they needed water and food. So I filled a paper cup with water, and placed it by the head of one of the little bats. It was half the size of the palm of my hand, its wings collapsed to the side, back feet sticking out. I brought the water to its face. It sneezed—too much water—then started to lick. And this is what I learned: bats have tiny pink tongues. It drank a bit, then I watered its pal. When I returned with more water, they were both strong-arming, or strong-winging their way over ground. They were revived. I watered another bat that sat cozy in the bat cloth high in the bushes (perhaps safer?). It was browner, more full-bodied, but also younger looking.

When I was a teen and went caving we were told that bats can’t lift off the ground to fly. So if we knocked a bat off the ceiling of a cave, we had to pick it up and put it on a ledge. Since I have seen bats lift off the ground I knew they could fly in this way. (Anyone reading this know about bat flight?).  Still, I was worried about my two on the ground. And then I saw one, half way up the viburnum, clinging strong to the trunk as if it has hands and feet. And I hoped that later they would wing off into the night. But not into my house.