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 River at Night

Yesterday was one of those hot July days that keep me inside. Lucky for me I had the thrilling and heartbreaking women’s soccer game to watch. Then, I needed to be on the river. At ten at night, I drove across the train tracks and into the gravel space near the river.  There was a van at the launch and several people chatting on the make shift dock. They too were no doubt looking for cooler temperatures. The lights from Friendship street offered a little help as I unstrapped my boat, slid it off the car and walked it out to the water. It was low tide, the water lapping gently onto the rocks.

It’s a strange thing to launch in the dark. Usually I start my paddles in daylight and journey into the night. But to start in the dark felt a bit odd. What was I paddling toward but more darkness?

The water felt warm around my ankles as I stepped into the river. I twisted on my 360-degree white light that I stick onto the back of my boat. Immediately, bugs flew to the bright light, mobbing my boat. I turned the light off, preferring to move dark and silent through the water.

Though it was low tide, the water was still making a push to the sea. I shoved south with the outgoing current.

“You kayaking?” someone with a drunken slur called from shore.

“Yep,” I called back.

“You should use your light. I’ve run over boats at night,” he said.

I bet you have, I thought. I kept on paddling. The river was calm, empty, wide. The moon had yet to rise.

A mansion on shore—the Pynes—shone lights into the night sky, giving me a sense of life on shore. On the water, I felt the pinpricks of bugs, as I paddled in the shadow of the shoreline that rises to the east. White lights dotted the far shore, and a flashing green light indicated the channel for the bigger boats that move at night. In the distance danced the lights of the Kingston-Rhinecliff bridge (photo at left!)

Paddling in the dark disorients me in intriguing ways. Sounds are amplified and smells become acute. My sense of distance is altered as well as the depth of the water. I often imagine that the river—which is relatively shallow outside of the shipping channel—is hundreds of feet deep. In the dark, I skim the surface as if on a high balance beam.

Smack, a fish flipped just to my right startling me. My heart raced.  This smidgen of fear has always been a part of my outdoor adventures. It’s the fear that keeps me alert to all around me. It reminds me of the dangers, which are also the joys of outdoor adventure.

As I neared Magdalen Island, which lay huddled in the dark, the moon rose, a few days past full, a beautiful glowing orange-red lopsided ball. I heard voices from the island and wondered if someone was camping there. Or of someone might be there looting the island. But it was a canoe with a man and woman heading back to Tivoli. I saw their outline in the dark.

“Oh, there’s someone,” he said when I was about fifteen feet away.

“It’s pretty dark to be paddling,” I joked.

And we went our separate ways.

At the end of Magdalen a great blue heron croaked its discontent that I had disturbed its roost for the night. I slushed through the shallow, grass-filled water on the east side of the island. A fish flipped in the water and smacked against the hull of my boat. I let out a cry of alarm. Was it a sturgeon there, lurking in those shallow waters? I liked to imagine the long, primitive fish making its fearless way through the dark.

I chugged my way back north against the tide. A train passing interrupted the silence, blowing its horn, long and insistent. When I pulled out of the water an hour later, the river had worked its magic: the heat of the day was replaced with the lights on shore, the lopsided orange moon, and a rush of excitement at the slap of a fish.

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.