Safety

Therese, Arctic GuideWe all find safety where we can. During this trip to the Arctic, when we went on shore, three guides and one husky dog preceded us.  Together, they marked out a triangle-shaped piece of land where we were allowed to walk. Two stood with WWII era wooden rifles and binoculars scanning to the horizon. In this way, as we doddled about the beach or hiked a hill in the snow, we would be safe from an unexpected arrival from a polar bear.

Of course, we all want to see that polar bear, but not one walking toward us. So we were all grateful for the protection even if it seemed a bit restrictive. Even if all I wanted to do was walk into the horizon, bear or not.

Male Common EiderMy journey into the Arctic began in Longyearbyen, the biggest town in Spitsbergen, an island that is part of Svalbard . It’s a town of 2,000 filled with people who like to drink whiskey, a fantastic museum that tells the story of airships trying to fly to the North Pole, and many shops filled with great outdoor gear. Like most northern towns, it looks like a mining town (which it is) with all of its plumbing above ground. It’s not the prettiest place. But it is surrounded by very pretty: mountains covered in snow, and a harbor filled with ships of all sizes. And of course there are great birds everywhere—a special Svalbard ptarmagin, Arctic terns who have just finished their journey from the Antarctic, and Common Eiders galore.

Eiders on nestsOn the edge of town rests a pond filled with the plump black and white Eiders, and their brown mates.  The lady Eider were sitting on their flat, ground level nests. The males busied themselves as males are wont to do (ie: getting into skirmishes with each other). It was a most glorious sight, and all within feet of the road. These Arctic breeding ducks felt safe to sit there because within feet of the pond rest the cages of several dozen husky dogs. From time to time they took up a howl. But most of the time they were quiet. Quiet or not, the huskies provided protection for the ducks: no fox wants to come near them with so many dogs at hand.

Glaucous Gull eating an Eider Egg

It was wonderful to see the birds so relaxed, sunning in the Arctic sun, waddling about, crossing the near-traffic-less road.  Then I noted a fluttering at the edge of the encampment. There, a Glaucous Gull—one of our largest gulls—had taken an egg from a nest. The female tried to protect it, with no luck. And there was the gull, egg cracked open, feasting on the yolk of the Eider egg.

Maybe even the safest spots are not really so safe. 

Hooded Crow in Oslo

Black-headed GullThe black-headed gull I passed on the way to my hotel in Oslo looked spooked by its own shadow. So too was I as it was 9:30 at night—not a time when shadows lurk. But here in the north, the sun doesn’t look like it’s going to set anytime soon.

I arrived in Oslo this morning from the States. The first bird I saw (besides a pigeon—they don’t count) was a Hooded Crow. A few years ago a Hooded Crow—a decidedly European bird—appeared near a dumpster on Staten Island. There was enough excitement that I picked up and drove down to pay it a visit. Like many twitching events this one was a bit of a disappointment. The bird was mobbed by big lenses and crowds. The setting was potentially beautiful—the beach was right there—but overlooked in favor of focusing on the dumpster that the crow hoped might provide a meal. After I saw that one lone bird I wondered a lot about it. How had it arrived on our shores? Seems doubtful it flew. So perhaps it was trapped in a container ship and spent a week at sea. No wonder it had attached itself to the dumpster.

Hooded CrowTo see the Hooded Crow where it belongs is another experience. First, they are everywhere. There is no celebrity status to this bird. Second, little kids like to chase them around the parks of Oslo. This means that they are near tame, or at least not particularly afraid of little kids or American women with cameras eager to take a photo. They hop away in their insouciant crow-like manner.

One of the many great pleasures of travel—besides the light at the tops of gleaming modern buildings, the water thrashed by the almost Arctic wind, the blond children jumping with glee into the cold water, the tall sailing ships in harbor—are the new birds. Every bird is new, a rarity, a treasure.

I walked the city today, through the park by the Imperial Palace (complete with guards), where Chaffinch greeted me. At the waterfront, there are many gulls—Herring, Black-backed, Black-headed. There are the numerous Pied wagtails that hop between tables as I share a dinner of moules frites with David Freese, a photographer who will be a part of the expedition I am about to embark on with the Arctic Circle, an organization that brings together a range of artists, photographers, writers and scientists to journey on a ship north from Spitsbergen. To call this an expedition might be the wrong word, but as I travel I am trying to imagine myself back about 120 years to when Fridtjof Nansen made his journey north, toward the pole, toward a northwest passage. . Like with the Hooded Crow, I spend a lot of time thinking about how Nansen got where he did. Nansen had intriguing ideas on how he was going to get north—by freezing his ship into the ice, and allowing the ocean currents to pull the ship north. (did this work? No)

But really, what I am asking is, how do any of us end up where we do?  How is it that I am here in Oslo hoping the sun dips just a little further so that I can sleep? How did I get so lucky as to be heading toward a ship and ice and who knows what adventures? 

Snapping Turtle Tradition

We love traditions: Thanksgiving dinner, or that annual trip to the beach, or the first trip to the ice cream stand in summer. For me, the annual events that I look forward to are Christmas Bird Count, the salamander big night, and the week in early June when snapping turtles lay their eggs. All of my traditions involve preparation and excited anticipation.

I prepared for snapping turtle week by buying a fishing net. As I left Gander Mountain someone called to me: “butterflies?”—those would be some butterflies!

“Nope, Snapping turtles,” I called back, cheerful.

He rolled his eyes.

my finest rescue techniqueBecause snappers travel to lay their eggs, they cross roads and railroad tracks—and often are crushed. Already I had clumsily shoved a turtle across a road, the turtle snapping, four or five of us offering suggestions, stopping or slowing cars, and from time to time screaming in surprise when the turtle lunged with a snap.  The net was the solution to all of my turtle rescuing problems.

Last year, I stumbled on the maternity ward of snappers along the train tracks that slice the North Tivoli Bay from the main artery of the Hudson River. There, in the black gravel laid as foundation for the tracks the snapping turtles can easily dig, then the sun warms the eggs beautifully. On June 6 of last year, I saw dozens of turtles digging, and rescued one caught between the rails. The next day, dozens of turtles lay crushed, mangled by the trains barreling north and south. This year, I was going to save as many turtles as possible.

Snapper laying eggsAt seven in the morning, Christina, Kate and I tromped out Cruger Island Road under a gorgeous blue sky. Red-winged black birds showed off their velvet red epaulets, Willow Flycatchers called out fitz-bew, and the world seemed perfect.  When we arrived at the tracks, we spotted a turtle right away. Scooping up a turtle in a fishing net isn’t as easy as I imagined. Added to that, the turtle wasn’t happy with being displaced from there, between the rail lines. It hissed, and snapped at the net, while I looked cautiously over my shoulder for a train in the distance. With encouraging calls from Kate and Christina, I loaded the turtle and wobbled over to the edge. Untangling a turtle from a net is even more difficult, its long claws caught in the webbing. After a bit of work, I released it with a tumble into the cattails. There it looked at us in disgust before we walked off.

Further up the track it was a regular egg laying fest. Over twenty nests had been dug and raided—no doubt by raccoons. Shreds of the eggs littered the disturbed holes, the white so white against the black soil. But over a dozen lady snappers were still in holes, quietly laying their round, white eggs. Three had gathered near to each other, hind ends burrowed deep in the soil. When we returned half an hour later, one was gone—and her nest already empty. How quickly the thief works! 

And yet--though the raccoon was hard at work, we saw no turtles crushed by the steel wheels of the train. This, a small relief. 

We stopped for tea and sticky buns brought by Kate from the Tivoli Bakery—for any tradition to be a success, good food is essential—and watched barn swallows wing in and out under the underpass.

Kate & Christina with netted turtleAnother stray turtle on the tracks pulled us south for a second rescue by Christina and Kate. Here’s hoping these two we pulled from the tracks continue on their path and that some of those eggs escape the hunger of the raccoon. In August I’ll walk out, looking for baby snapping turtles.

Does saving two snapping turtles make a difference? Maybe, but maybe not. It is comforting but naïve to think that every little bit helps—because in the face of our environmental problems this doesn’t even register. What matters, though, is that saving these turtles is what I can do, it’s what I do. It’s one of my traditions. 

Baby Beaver

Horned GrebeI am an optimist. But on Tuesday morning as I launched my kayak onto the Hudson River at 7:30 in the morning I was not filled with my usual sense that just around the corner was the next glorious sight. I wouldn't say I was feeling pessimistic, but rather more grumpy. And I was grumpy because the height of migration has passed--it comes and goes so quickly it is excruciating. I decided that nothing special could come my way ("all the best birds are gone" I said to a friend, sounding like a twelve year old having a tantrum). Armed with this bad attitude, I stroked south under a bluing sky toward Magdalen Island and the entrance to the North Tivoli Bay.

Map TurtleJust to prove me wrong, the river first offered up a Horned Grebe, in elegant breeding plumage, floating placidly at the opening to the North Tivoli Bay. It bobbed along, as if it belonged there (it doesn't--it should be in Canada somewhere far north). I scooted down the main waterway, lined by cattails and phragmites. Red winged blackbirds sang their insistent conkla-dee, and marsh wrens trilled from the reeds. A Map turtle sunned on a log. Two Canada Geese crossed the channel, three babies trailing behind. Fifty yards later, a Mallard mother scooted thirteen young into the reeds. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. This was the most glorious day.

In the distance, I saw the tell-tale V of a beaver plowing through the water. In 1840, the beaver was a rare animal in New York State. Trapping had all but wiped out this large rodent, whose pelts were used for hats and coats. When trapping was finally prohibited in 1895, some claim there were but 10 left in the State. In the North Tivoli Bay, it is hard to believe this desperate history: I always see a beaver. Or rather, I hear a slap of a broad tail, signaling danger before the beaver dives below the surface.

So it came as a surprise when I spied a beaver snout moving toward me. About five feet in front of my kayak, the little beaver crawled up into the mud, and perched there, letting out a darling, but slightly heartbreaking mew. It then plunked back into the water and swam toward me, looping around my paddles and nuzzling the boat.

I guessed it was lost. Across the channel rested a stick pile, a beaver lodge. I moved my boat to the middle of the channel thinking the little beaver might swim to me once again and this would get it closer to home. It did. And I had the foresight to turn on the video in my pocket camera. And sure enough, after it rounded the stern of my boat, the baby beaver swam off toward the lodge. Watch the video here.

Full of optimism, I paddled home.