Bicknell's Thrush
“Do you realize that there are only a few acres in the world where we could hear this bird?” he asked.
The Bicknell’s thrush is a geographically particular bird, nesting only in the Northeast of this country, and only at higher elevations. For a while, some thought it lived only on the summit of Slide mountain, the highest peak in the Catskills. It’s a bit more adventurous than that, taking to a few of the peaks in the mountains, but always over 3,500 feet. The Bicknell’s Thrush winters on Hispanola (the Dominican Republic and Haiti). It’s range map is not a swatch, but a few dots.
Since the bird sings at dusk and dawn, to hear it’s song we had to either get up extraordinarily early, and hike up a mountain, or we had to have a little overnight adventure. We chose the latter. Camping is not allowed over 3,500 feet in these mountains. But clearly others had camped here before us—trees had been cut down, and a fire pit held charred logs. But I didn’t see this as camping but rather as a nap in the open air. After all, we had no tent or stove. We had packed sandwiches for dinner, brought water and our sleeping bags. The heaviest piece of gear was Peter’s 12-pound camera. (All photos of birds here are Peter's.)
The song of the Bicknell’s Thrush emerged from the spruce trees in the half light of dusk. I stretched out in my sleeping bag and smiled. Peter and I were on the summit of Plateau Mountain . I had a pad under my bag, to keep the damp cold away. Peter had travelled even lighter, and rested without a pad on the soft ground.
“Do you realize that there are only a few acres in the world where we could hear this bird?” he asked.
The Bicknell’s thrush is a geographically particular bird, nesting only in the Northeast of this country, and only at higher elevations. For a while, some thought it lived only on the summit of Slide mountain, the highest peak in the Catskills. It’s a bit more adventurous than that, taking to a few of the peaks in the mountains, but always over 3,500 feet. The Bicknell’s Thrush winters on Hispanola (the Dominican Republic and Haiti). It’s range map is not a swatch, but a few dots.
Since the bird sings at dusk and dawn, to hear it’s song we had to either get up extraordinarily early, and hike up a mountain, or we had to have a little overnight adventure. We chose the latter. Camping is not allowed over 3,500 feet in these mountains. But clearly others had camped here before us—trees had been cut down, and a fire pit held charred logs. But I didn’t see this as camping but rather as a nap in the open air. After all, we had no tent or stove. We had packed sandwiches for dinner, brought water and our sleeping bags. The heaviest piece of gear was Peter’s 12-pound camera. (All photos of birds here are Peter's.)
We had left the trailhead at the end of Mink Hollow outside of Woodstock around 4 in the afternoon, and followed a stream into the hills. To one side loomed Sugarloaf mountain, to the other, the long flat summit of Plateau. We were both moving slowly, stopping to drink water and talk. It was muggy-hot, and we were both sweating. At six in the evening we had arrived at a lean-to, occupied by two parties, and a sign told us we had 3.4 miles to the summit of the mountain.
(this photo is on the summit of Plateau)
The Bicknell’s is named for Eugene Bicknell who found the bird on Slide Mountain in the late 19th century (for a while it was thought to be the same species as the Gray-cheeked thrush, but it is a separate species). It’s an unremarkable-looking medium-sized thrush. It’s the song that makes the bird so special. John Burroughs, the early 20th century naturalist wrote about it this way: “The song is in a minor key, finer, more attenuated, and more under the breath than that of any other thrush. It seemed as if the bird was blowing in a delicate, slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute-like and resonant the song appeared. At times it was like a musical whisper of great sweetness and power.” For describing bird song, Burroughs can not be beat.
In June 2009 I wrote a blog post about trekking up Slide Mountain in the Catskills in search of the Bicknell’s thrush. That I heard the bird but did not see it left me disappointed. Some birders are happy with just a sound (and check off a bird in their life list). I need to see the birds that I hear. Early in the evening a bird perched on a limb, not more than twenty feet away. It has that characteristic plump chest of a thrush, and eyes that look big, startled. It’s throat was speckled brown. To see such a secretive bird is thrilling.
We dozed off near 9:30 and an hour or so later, the light of the moon shining in my eyes woke me. I listened to the wind in the trees, and hoped to hear an owl—a saw whet, in particular. The temperature dropped, and I hunkered down in my sleeping bag. The smell of spruce snapped the colder air and I thought it was fall, could hear winter coming on. It’s June, I reminded myself.
The first sound I heard on waking was a white throated sparrow. Then a winter wren, its cascading song the most beautiful in the woods. They were soon joined by the Bicknell’s flute. We sat up, a bit groggy and pulled off the slugs that paraded across our sleeping bags.
(a blackpoll warbler)
The walk along the summit of Plateau mountain is long and flat. In the early light we saw and heard the yellow-bellied flycatcher, a small bird with an olive-yellow breast. Then a blackpoll warbler. “If these boreal species are here, where are the other ones?” Peter asked. That is, where was the boreal chickadee? Or even the black backed woodpecker? One more mystery of bird life. For all that we know about birds, it seems there is infinitely more unknown. The unknown makes me happy.
Back in the parking lot at noon, we admired the butterflies—red spotted purple and white admiral—whispering along the edges of the woods before packing up and heading to town to eat ice cream.
How I came to write MY REACH
There are a few reasons why I did not write that book. The Hudson—perhaps no river—is particularly straightforward. As it sloshes in and out with the tides it is hard to grasp. If I had to pick five words to describe the river I would choose playful, dangerous, solitary, complicated, and unknowable. It turns out that I love these qualities of the river, particularly that it is unknowable. That keeps me coming back, trying to figure it out. If the river’s unkowableness makes for intriguing kayak outings it also creates an impossible writing task.
I am not the first writer to struggle with getting to know the Hudson River. The early twentieth century naturalist John Burroughs lived for a time on the banks of the Hudson. Though he wrote many essays about the Catskills and the Hudson Valley region, only one of his essays directly discusses the river. Clearly he found the Hudson an ungraspable subject and soon enough he moved inland to his house, Slabside, buried in the woods.
In that one essay, “A River View,” Burroughs writes, “The Hudson is a long arm of the sea, and it has something of the sea’s austerity and grandeur. I think one might spend a lifetime upon its banks without feeling any sense of ownership in it, or becoming at all intimate with it: it keeps one at arm’s length.” In a sense, Burroughs set the tone for Hudson River writing. The Hudson has kept writers at a distance and vice versa.
I was able to find my way into this mass of history by entering the river. Stroke by stroke, I took in the smells and sights, and the creatures and history that appeared before me. Though I have paddled the length of the river, there is no way that the story I tell of the Hudson could be comprehensive. I limited my scope by claiming a section just off of the village of Tivoli. I called this section MY REACH. In this way I was able to develop some intimacy with the river.
The information on the Hudson in this book imitates my own experience in learning the river: it is a bit impressionistic. There’s natural history, some social and environmental history, a dash of local lore and, it turns out, a lot about me.
I did not intend to write about myself. But both kayaking and life conspired against me. Kayaking is walking on water, with a few extra skills thrown in. Walking or kayaking, I move about three miles an hour. That means that along with seeing eagle in flight or honeysuckle in bloom in my kayak I have plenty of time to think.
I thought about loss, about what I’d left in Arizona, an airy, colorful house, a long and complicated relationship, a life that I found lovely. I was naïve, imagining these to be the greatest losses. I moved about the river alone wondering what was the opposite of loss and hoping I might find it out there in an inlet or in the choppy waves left by a tug and its cargo.
As my thoughts ranged from the small to the large, I saw how the river highlighted certain aspects of my life: how I pursued fear and that, mid-age, I was very much alone. These thoughts took me by surprise because I did not head out in my kayak in search of myself. I thought, simply, that the river might be a great place to relax or to burn off a little energy. I might get to see some interesting wildlife and I might in poking about the river lay down my own roots, commit myself to a place.
Life, like a river, is not straightforward. I could not have anticipated the events in my life when I started to venture out and to write about those excursions. I could not have predicted how I would need the river to absorb loss, and to provide solace.
I set out to write a biography of the Hudson but have instead written a memoir set on the Hudson. MY REACH is a story of how I ended up on a kayak in the Hudson River and how I came to need and love the river in all of its playful, beautiful complexity.
I set out to write a book about a river. I had a good plan. I would drop my kayak in the waters of the Hudson, then poke my way either north or south and report what I saw and learned. I would get to know cement plants and abandoned brickyards, beautiful mansions and herons on shore. I’d have a few adventures and some misadventures that I could recount with bravado. It would be a personal book—the river and I would be one-- but not too personal; the river would pull me out of myself and keep my gaze focused outward. It seemed a pretty straightforward, even winning, idea. That is and is not the book I have written.
There are a few reasons why I did not write that book. The Hudson—perhaps no river—is particularly straightforward. As it sloshes in and out with the tides it is hard to grasp. If I had to pick five words to describe the river I would choose playful, dangerous, solitary, complicated, and unknowable. It turns out that I love these qualities of the river, particularly that it is unknowable. That keeps me coming back, trying to figure it out. If the river’s unkowableness makes for intriguing kayak outings it also creates an impossible writing task.
I am not the first writer to struggle with getting to know the Hudson River. The early twentieth century naturalist John Burroughs lived for a time on the banks of the Hudson. Though he wrote many essays about the Catskills and the Hudson Valley region, only one of his essays directly discusses the river. Clearly he found the Hudson an ungraspable subject and soon enough he moved inland to his house, Slabside, buried in the woods.
In that one essay, “A River View,” Burroughs writes, “The Hudson is a long arm of the sea, and it has something of the sea’s austerity and grandeur. I think one might spend a lifetime upon its banks without feeling any sense of ownership in it, or becoming at all intimate with it: it keeps one at arm’s length.” In a sense, Burroughs set the tone for Hudson River writing. The Hudson has kept writers at a distance and vice versa.
Few Hudson River books take a personal approach. What most writers focus on is the rich natural, environmental, political, social and economic history. There’s the role it played in the Revolutionary war, and in the birthing of our modern environmental movement. There are the wealthy families—Roosevelt, Vanderbilt, Rockefeller among many—who have made the banks their home. There are the range of fish that have been a source of livelihood and the subject of scientific study. All of this deep, often complicated, history adds to the difficulty of being intimate with the river.
I was able to find my way into this mass of history by entering the river. Stroke by stroke, I took in the smells and sights, and the creatures and history that appeared before me. Though I have paddled the length of the river, there is no way that the story I tell of the Hudson could be comprehensive. I limited my scope by claiming a section just off of the village of Tivoli. I called this section MY REACH. In this way I was able to develop some intimacy with the river.
The information on the Hudson in this book imitates my own experience in learning the river: it is a bit impressionistic. There’s natural history, some social and environmental history, a dash of local lore and, it turns out, a lot about me.
I did not intend to write about myself. But both kayaking and life conspired against me. Kayaking is walking on water, with a few extra skills thrown in. Walking or kayaking, I move about three miles an hour. That means that along with seeing eagle in flight or honeysuckle in bloom in my kayak I have plenty of time to think.
I thought about loss, about what I’d left in Arizona, an airy, colorful house, a long and complicated relationship, a life that I found lovely. I was naïve, imagining these to be the greatest losses. I moved about the river alone wondering what was the opposite of loss and hoping I might find it out there in an inlet or in the choppy waves left by a tug and its cargo.
As my thoughts ranged from the small to the large, I saw how the river highlighted certain aspects of my life: how I pursued fear and that, mid-age, I was very much alone. These thoughts took me by surprise because I did not head out in my kayak in search of myself. I thought, simply, that the river might be a great place to relax or to burn off a little energy. I might get to see some interesting wildlife and I might in poking about the river lay down my own roots, commit myself to a place.
Life, like a river, is not straightforward. I could not have anticipated the events in my life when I started to venture out and to write about those excursions. I could not have predicted how I would need the river to absorb loss, and to provide solace.
I set out to write a biography of the Hudson but have instead written a memoir set on the Hudson. MY REACH is a story of how I ended up on a kayak in the Hudson River and how I came to need and love the river in all of its playful, beautiful complexity.
Solstice on the river
I continued south, through my reach, to see what else I might see on this solstice day. The sun was low in the horizon, but already I could tell it was going to be a sunny, even hot day. I said my hellos to the bald eagle serenely looking over the landscape from Cruger Island (look closely at the photo—he’s there!). A pileated woodpecker cackled from the woods.
On my return I crossed the river, empty and wide. A few kayakers launched out of Glasco. I could smell their sun lotion over the smell of the turbid water. It’s the smell of summer, beaches and long days outdoors. It’s the smell of a paddle where little happens beyond my slow thoughts, the slosh of the tide, the call of a baby bird, the splash of a turtle, the wing beats of the mute swan taking flight.
The sound emerged from a hole in the dead tree on the end of Magdalen Island. A high screech, demanding. Food. A mother flicker flew in, leaned her red caped head into the hole. A wide-open beak stretched into view. I floated in my kayak below the tree and watched through my binoculars. Baby birds are everywhere these days, calling for food, getting ready for their first flight. But most of the time all I hear is the high pitched call emerging from deep in the woods, from a hidden nest.
I continued south, through my reach, to see what else I might see on this solstice day. The sun was low in the horizon, but already I could tell it was going to be a sunny, even hot day. I said my hellos to the bald eagle serenely looking over the landscape from Cruger Island (look closely at the photo—he’s there!). A pileated woodpecker cackled from the woods.
At the end of Cruger Island, I glimpsed the turtles on the slanted rocks, exposed as the tide went out. They were big turtles, the size of a dinner plate, and covered with muck from the bottom of the river. They had white noses. They saw me too and soon enough splashed into the water. Could these be map turtles? (yes, they too are in this photo!)
On my return I crossed the river, empty and wide. A few kayakers launched out of Glasco. I could smell their sun lotion over the smell of the turbid water. It’s the smell of summer, beaches and long days outdoors. It’s the smell of a paddle where little happens beyond my slow thoughts, the slosh of the tide, the call of a baby bird, the splash of a turtle, the wing beats of the mute swan taking flight.
Readers Respond to MY REACH
MY REACH is a book about the Hudson River as seen from the perspective of my kayak. It is an intimate book, as I take readers with me on my adventures, whether a day-long paddle in my reach (off of the village of Tivoli) or several days camping on islands. I wanted to share what it is like to be in and on the water--to encounter a snapping turtle, to see a great blue heron take flight, to smell the water, to explore an abandoned ice house. Interwoven with this natural and built history is the story of my parents.
I have sent ten bound galleys of the book into the world to willing readers. They will be writing in with their comments to my blog devoted to the book. To these readers: my thanks and more thanks.
In September Cornell University Press will publish my book, MY REACH: A HUDSON RIVER MEMOIR.
MY REACH is a book about the Hudson River as seen from the perspective of my kayak. It is an intimate book, as I take readers with me on my adventures, whether a day-long paddle in my reach (off of the village of Tivoli) or several days camping on islands. I wanted to share what it is like to be in and on the water--to encounter a snapping turtle, to see a great blue heron take flight, to smell the water, to explore an abandoned ice house. Interwoven with this natural and built history is the story of my parents.
I have sent ten bound galleys of the book into the world to willing readers. They will be writing in with their comments here. To these readers: my thanks and more thanks.