Just Over the Horizon

Sunday, March 9, 2008

The bluebirds must have been feeling pretty cocky. The pair sat atop nesting boxes in the middle of the big hayfield near the top of Moose Hill Street. They had their pick of over a dozen boxes and were hawking down into the stubble to pick up morsels I could not see. As I pushed my bicycle along the edge of the field heading for home, I imagined that they were dreaming of a happy and productive season as they perched in the bright spring sunshine. They selected just the right home, and thought of the limitless supply of insects that would soon be hopping around in the fresh grass. The small flock of robins that probed for earthworms in the soft soil along the edges of rainwater puddles presented no threat. They paid no attention to the loving pair of doves flying overhead. Could it be that they didn’t know what was approaching just over the horizon? At that very moment, millions of tree swallows were winging their way north like squadrons of dive-bombers, and soon dozens would descend on this field to swoop and squabble over nesting sites. Bluebird heaven would be transformed into a world of constant vigilance and stress.

I ride my bicycle because I can, not because I have to. Of course there were times when simply jumping in the car to run an errand was not an option. Simply traveling to work or to secure the things needed to survive was a chore, if not an ordeal. But in this age of wealth and luxury, biking and walking are things some of us do because we think them fun or good for us. Most adults who ride bicycles today, do so solely for recreation, exercise or sport. I suspect most of us, upon seeing a grownup riding a bike simply to get from point A to point B, wonder what’s wrong with them. Homeless? DUI? Broke? Unstable? I sometimes wonder if people seeing me returning from Moose Hill with my tattered clothing and backpack hanging from my shoulders as I struggle up Depot Street to the center of town might think perhaps I have a few loose screws, too. Surely, no middle-class, middle-aged American would ride a bicycle because they have no other choice. Well, the day may be coming when bicycling looks like the best choice of all.

One of my regular business chores involves a five-mile round-trip commute. Most days, I’m carrying tools, bundles or supplies, so I drive. I’m trying to arrange things so once or twice a week I can make the trip on foot or by bicycle. Sunday was one of those days.

I rode the touring bike to do my work and then took the long, scenic route home. This involved mostly climbing through the cool, very windy air to get to, and then over, Moose Hill. This was no race; I was just enjoying the feeling of the wind and sun on my face and the pulsing of blood through my body. I passed the Audubon visitor’s center where groups of young families were gathering to go see the maple sugaring demonstration. I coasted down the south side of Moose Hill and pedaled over to our local farm stand where I bought a muffin and had my vacuum bottle filled with fresh coffee. I packed these in my bag and headed back to the woods. I had a few things on my mind and wanted to sit and think for a few minutes.

I found the abandoned and barely noticeable old trail that leads to The Mikveh. This is the old stone-lined springhole I stumbled on early last winter when I was thinking about my recently-deceased high school buddy, Martin. (See “Living Waters,” December 17, 2006.) I guess returning to this spot was my way of acknowledging the 20-year anniversary of the tragic passing of another high school friend, Marcie. No new insights rose out of the crystal depths of that pool; only that even the most gifted, kind, talented and beautiful of us can stumble upon unimaginable misfortune. For the rest of us, life goes on and we should try to be better people in the time we have left.

Just beyond The Mikveh a bedrock outcrop rises above the surrounding forest and this is enhanced by a couple of granite boulders stacked on top in a way that makes me think of an alter. In the event I need to offer up any sacrifices, I’ll know just where to go. On this day, the only thing I was offering up was coffee and a muffin. I put on my fleece hat and jacket and put my little foam pad on the outcrop so I could sit in the warming sun and lean against the alter to get a little protection from the wind.

I shuffled through my thoughts and tried to pick one to focus on. My thinking sometimes gets stuck on a theme and recently that theme has been the grim prospects for our future as prophesized by James Howard Kunstler (See sidebar), with thanks to Eleutheros at “How Many Miles from Babylon” (Sidebar) for pointing me in that direction. I was even lucky enough to score Kunstler’s new novel, World Made By Hand, at the library and read it in a few short days. Kunstler has been preaching for years that, in a nutshell, the age of cheap oil and cheap credit that has made the unsustainable expansion of the suburban way of life possible is just about over. Recent events on the nightly news make it hard to dismiss his claims. He marvels at our collective ability to suspend belief about the impending collapse of business as usual and at our willingness to think that technology and casinos will save us.

The prospect of life without fossil fuels can lead to endless daydreams. Will we plan a wise and orderly transition to conservation and renewable sources of energy, or will we descend into chaos as we squabble over the last few drops of petroleum. In the future, after the oil fields have gone dry, perhaps every one of us will have fantasies about what we could have done with the gasoline burned at just one NASCAR race. Just the night before, I was listening to a friend describe his one- to two-hour (each way!) daily automobile commute to a new job. Maybe he is among those who think we will soon discover more oil and more hours in a lifetime buried under distant blood-soaked desert sands.

It was time to go, so I packed up and headed for the trail. I paused one more time at the springhole just in case there was new wisdom to be found there, but I saw only the same old bewildered face staring back at me from the smooth surface. I was worried about the troubles that may lie just over the horizon but I was also optimistic about the approach of Spring so I pedaled back up Moose Hill to see what was new in the big meadow.

Back to the Hill

I was finally able to repeat the trip that initially inspired this blog. A combination of work, personal commitments and about 10 inches of rain in the past few weeks has kept me from visiting Moose Hill aside from the usual drive-throughs, jogs and bike rides. I went to bed early last night thinking that if I got up early enough and the sun was shining, I'd bike back up there for breakfast. I was up in the middle of the night for an hour or so for no apparent reason, so I thought that once I finally fell back to sleep, I would sleep too late for breakfast on the hill. Thanks to a squirrel helpfully chewing on my house at 6:15 AM, I was indeed up early enough and the sky was beautifully clear.

At the top of the paved road, I continued onto the gravel road, past the 'no bikes' sign, and rode to the first meadow. As I hoped, a bluebird was there, warbling away at the tip of a tall dead pine. I found a sunny spot at the edge of the field and settled down with my back to the old stone wall. The bluebird flew off, but a pair of tree swallows was busily flying in and out of one of the two nesting boxes set up in this small clearing in the woods.

I was relaxing, having coffee, enjoying the warming early-morning sun glistening off the dew on the meadow plants and enjoying the show provided by the swallows. I was surprised to see the birds repeatedly landing on the ground, picking something up and flying back to the box. I was a little surprised, because I assumed swallows fed primarily on the wing. I was probably on my second cup when it dawned on me that they were not busily feeding a hungry brood, but were building a nest. For the most part, it looked like the female flying regular sorties from the box to a spot about 30 feet in front of me. She would select a short segment of bracken fern stem that had been chopped by the mower and ferry it back to the birdhouse. The male was supervising the proceedings from his perch atop the box. It was fun to simply sit there and enjoy the moment.

Breakfast over and with a few minutes to spare, I walked up the road a bit to another clearing. I saw a few birds moving about and heard a few others, but things were quieter than I expected in mid-May. I saw chipping sparrows and phoebes and heard several red-eyed vireos. Deeper in the forest, I heard the eerily mysterious melody of the wood thrush. I'm not sure if I missed the peak of the migration while I was huddled inside to escape the rain, or if many birds were simply too busy nesting to make a lot of noise.

It was also great to see a few other birders. As long as there a people who appreciate these woods, they may be safe for future generations.

Just as I was getting ready to head home, I saw a small bird land among the electric-green leaves of a small birch at the edge of the small field. As I studied the picture-perfect scene of the fresh Spring leaves weeping over the lush green of the grass, backed by the bright white bark of the birch, I noticed the bird had landed on a nest. Fumbling for my binoculars, I was a little surprised to spy a vireo nesting only about 8 feet above the ground. It seemed to be putting the finishing touches on a nest that looked like an old gray sock dangling from the twigs.

With that, I hopped on the bike to coast down the hill toward home. In no more than 90 minutes, I had enjoyed an invigorating bike ride, had breakfast in the sun, and witnessed miracles of life. How cool is that?

Flying Tuxedos

There's a beautiful old field near the top of Moose Hill Street that is part of the Audubon sanctuary. There are about a dozen bird nesting boxes on posts scattered around the field.

Now, when I see bird boxes like these, I think of bluebirds. I've set up several boxes over the years, hoping to provide a home for bluebirds. I grew up on Long Island in New York, and while the bluebird is the state bird, I never saw one in my youth. I can still remember when I was a small child my mother reminiscing about the beautiful bluebirds of her childhood on her family farm in Hempstead, New York, and there has always been a special place in my heart for these birds. Bluebirds were not common in those days, especially on Long Island with it intensifying development, but I always hoped I would see one. I was in my twenties before I saw my first, and that was upstate. They seem more common these days, and here in eastern Massachusetts, I see several every year. I like to think that the efforts of those who set up nesting boxes have helped.

So, when I stopped by this field this morning, I was hoping to spot a bluebird, but it appears that every one of the boxes is occupied by tree swallows. These swallows are no great dissapointment. Now, house sparrows or starlings would promote some anger or sadness, but tree swallows are fun to watch. I do wonder, however, if swallows and bluebirds compete agressively for nesting sites. In any case, I've always thought these were sharp-looking creatures with thier trim tails, pure white bellies and sparkling iridescent purple-blue backs; a sharp contrast that always makes me think of flying dancers in little tuxedos.

And how they fly! Some birds - like the lumbering great blue heron I saw slowly flapping overhead - make flying look like a chore to be done to get from one place to another. But if birds can feel joy, these tree swallows are full of it. I watched as swallows (The males?) would launch from their perches on top of their boxes, circling the field as they climbed. In the air above the field they would swoop and zoom, at one moment chasing each other, and flying with each other the next. They seem to revel in the sheer fun their avian superpowers provide.

This exuberant display under a bright blue Spring sky offered a lift of spirits at the end of what was otherwise a difficult week.