The Perfect Spot

Sunday, February 3, 2008

It’s not as easy to find a good spot to sit in the woods as one might think. A good place would be sunny in cool weather and shady when it’s hot. Sometimes I like wide open spaces with sweeping views of sky and fields. At other times, I prefer to keep my view – and thoughts – close, so I look for a spot where the forest is thick. I usually look for a large rock to sit on. It should be large enough to have a place to set down my binoculars and coffee cup and I usually look for one that is elevated above the surrounding forest so I can hope to see passing wildlife. Oh, and no ATVs.

Sunday morning it was sunny and warm for early February, so I took the touring bike and rode up Moose Hill Parkway and down Moose Hill Street toward Walpole Street. My plan was to walk into the woods and find the back side of the hill I was looking for a few weeks ago. (See “Finding the Way”, January 16, 2008) Just before the big hayfield near Walpole Street, I walked the bike into the woods far enough that it couldn’t be seen from the street. I took a quick look at the topographic map and saw that if I walked around a large kettle hole I had seen once before I might be able to find an old trail the map said should be there. Looking for an old trail was tricky because the oak leaves were all matted down by the recently-melted snow and the over-abundant deer have made trails everywhere. I’ve been told the sanctuary people intentionally abandoned some trails to discourage unauthorized uses that they couldn’t control, and I was thinking this might be one of those trails. This part of the sanctuary is far from the visitor center and close to a neighborhood, so youngsters might be inclined to party here.

I didn’t take any compass bearings, so my casual wanderings took me near that neighborhood and I saw plenty of beer cans and old mattresses that seemed to indicate the sanctuary people were right. The map confirmed that I had missed both trail and hill, so I adjusted course and headed deeper into the woods.

As I came over a rise I heard a motorized vehicle. It’s seemed out of place because I thought I had moved away from the neighborhood. I soon recognized the sound as the putt-putting of an all-terrain vehicle. There’s an old woods road in the area and that might be an appropriate place to drive a four-wheeler, but this guy had left the road and was driving off-road through the woods. I guess if you’ve invested thousands in a toy like this you go to the woods you have and not the woods you wish you had even if those woods happen to be an Audubon sanctuary. I’m inclined to mind my own business so I said hello and went on my way. This seemed to be a one-off Super Sunday internal combustion joy ride, but if I thought this was a regular event that threatened to tear up the woods, I would have notified the Audubon people.

At this point, I was getting my bearings and spotted the hill I was looking for and headed north. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk was circling and shrieking in the clear blue sky above the tall pines as if sharing my annoyance at the motorized invader. I found a place to hop over one of the headwater branches of Beaver Brook and started to climb. I found a faint trail running along the north-south axis of the hill, but Hobbs Hill is to the northeast of this unnamed hill so I didn’t think it was the trail I was looking for.

I walked back and forth along the hilltop a couple of times looking for trails and a place to sit with my coffee. Unlike Hobbs Hill, I couldn’t find any large rocks to sit on here, leading me to think this was a glacial deposit whereas the larger Hobbs has a heart of bedrock. Every time I tried to explore the south side of the hill I heard and saw the ATV driver and I certainly didn’t want that sort of company when I was hoping to sit quietly and just think. I finally settled on the northeast side of the hill where I leaned against a tree. The warming sun was just over my shoulder and I had a nice view of another Beaver Brook tributary. The gentle babbling helped me to forget the drone of the four-wheeler. The brook tumbled over rocks and formed small pools under the roots of trees growing along the bank. I remembered the thrill of finding small trout in places like this but I’m quite sure this creek is too dry in summer to sustain fish.

Movement caught my eye, and I saw robins flying like silent ghosts low through the forest. I’d seen them along this brook before, but robins deep in the woods always seem out of place to me. I wonder if it’s the running water or the rich soil of the small alluvial flats that attracts them. The robins were quiet, but I heard the deeee-dee of a chickadee and the tooting of a titmouse, making me hope that winter was loosening its grip on Moose Hill.

Time was growing short and my seat was not as comfortable as I like, so I dropped down to the brook and followed it up to the road where I walked back to my bike. I was a little surprised at how far my wanderings had taken me.

Exploring new places is fun, but it’s also good to have a few favorite spots to go to. If I feel the need to disappear into the woods but only have an hour or so, I like to retreat to a familiar perch. I can get there quickly and spend more time quietly observing and thinking and less time wandering. I liken it to a musician having a repertoire of old standards, the angler having favorite fishing holes, or the hunter having traditional coverts. I can pick my destination depending on my mood. I like to go to a place I’ve been before and see how things have changed over the seasons. I sometimes find that being in a particular place reminds me of daydreams I had there before as if the thoughts wait for me there, waiting for me to return. I didn't find a perfect spot on this trip to Moose Hill, but I hope to go back soon to check up on some old dreams.

The Empty Nest

One of the advantages of being self-employed and working close to home is that I can usually schedule lunch at home. This is particularly advantageous in July when I can catch the finish of the daily stage of the Tour de France en vivo. Another bonus is that I can keep an eye on the robins nesting on top of the floodlights on the side of our garage.

I am quite certain this is the same pair I wrote about on June 7^th. They were nesting on top of a nest box on the side of the shed and two or three babies fledged on June 6^th. I was surprised to see them building a new nest only two or three days later about 10 yards away on the side of the garage. I never saw the little ones again. This new nest is in a great spot for watching since it is clearly visible from the kitchen and deck. I have to walk past it several times a day on my way to the shed or backyard. My casual interest became a little more focused in the past few days as I noticed the three little robins straining higher when the parents arrived with one of their regular deliveries of worms, and I started seeing them flapping their little wings, no doubt exercising them for what would soon be their big moment. It has been just about five weeks since nest building began, and I was sure they would be leaving the nest any day now, and I was hoping to see it. Little did I know.

They didn’t fledge at lunch time, or in the mid-afternoon when I stopped home to pick up a ladder, but when I got home at about 6:00 in the evening I quickly noticed that only two heads were peeking over the rim of the nest. Since I conveniently happened to be returning the step ladder to the shed I approached the nest and stood on the ladder to make sure one baby was missing. As soon as my head was within a couple of feet of the nest, the remaining two youngsters practically exploded in my face, launching themselves across the yard as the parents suddenly appeared and began chirping angrily and flying at me. I quickly put the ladder away and started looking for the fledglings, feeling a little guilty that I may have prompted a premature departure. I eventually found one quietly sitting in a shrub. I tried to photograph it, and then decided the best thing I could do was leave the area and let the parents locate and tend to their wayward trio.

I had the rest of the evening to myself. During the school year, I spend many evenings alone. Our daughter is living and working on the west coast. Our son is in college. My wife works or has meetings a few nights a week. I like the quiet time to do some slow cooking, go for a run, do a little reading, do a few things around the house, or – on a weak night – surf channels or the web. It's also a good time to think about where I came from, where I've been and where I'm going. Even though it’s summer, tonight was like that with my wife at a meeting and our son - home for the summer - staying in the city after work to meet a friend. I decided to make my solitude complete by packing a light meal and biking up to Moose Hill for dinner.

I rode to a new spot for me. I found a paved but gated road that allowed me to bike away from the main thoroughfare and quickly be alone in a nice stand of second-growth oaks and hickory. I parked the bike and found a nice rock that afforded a view down the hill and through the woods. It was warm and quiet and everything was soft and green after yet another day of rain. I came prepared for mosquitoes with long pants, long sleeves, bug spray and a hat with a bandana tucked underneath to protect my neck and ears.

I had a great view through the woods and I realized that was because there was almost no leafy vegetation from the forest floor up to a height of about five feet. The whitetail deer population is booming around here and in many places a clear browse line is visible where the deer have eaten all the twigs they can reach. It’s a good thing no one tries to manage any forests around here, because deer would make regeneration almost impossible.

Other than enjoying an hour of quiet and solitude, it was a pretty uneventful evening. Sitting quietly on my rock, I thought I had a good chance to see a deer or turkey coming up the hill, but it was not to be. I caught a glimpse of a hairy woodpecker and saw a couple of robins. I think of robins as regulars around the yard and on the roadside, but they often surprise me in the forest. I heard a nuthatch, and a couple of wood thrush were singing just out of sight down the hill.

I’ve written about the wood thrush a couple of times before. There’s something about his song that captivates me, like a piper calling from the wilderness. As much as I love his flute-like melody it also makes me a little sad. I associate the song with the evening. I seem to notice the sweet but somehow melancholy tune just before the sun goes down and the day is over. It’s as if this pretty little bird has come to remind me that time is passing by and another chapter is finished. The nest is empty, both for the robins and for me.

We are blessed in that both our kids are doing very well. We are very proud of them and, while we try to continue our support as much as possible, we are optimistic that they are both on their way to happily independent lives. Sending the fledglings off is a big milestone. For many years now – just about half of my life – my identity has been largely defined as husband and father. It has been all too easy to forget who I was and what I wanted to be. Now, we are beginning a new chapter and it might be time to renegotiate some contracts. I’m not anticipating any major reinventions but, rather, I'm hoping for a chance to focus more on a few good friendships and one great marriage. I also want to remember the dreams of my youth, and before this book is done, I want to make a few of them come true.

That One May Live

The death of one baby robin may have saved the life of another.

I was working on an indoor carpentry project in the neighborhood yesterday. When I went to open a window, I saw a newly-fledged robin floating, dead, in a barrel of rainwater. The little bird looked very dead, but I promptly fished it out of the water just in case. It was stiff, so I took a little comfort in knowing it probably died before I had arrived, and even if I had been more observant, there was nothing I could have done.

I examined a nearby rhododendron, looking for the nest, but instead found another baby robin silently gripping a twig. I spotted what must have been the parents nervously watching the area and busily looking for worms.

I imagined the pathetic scene that must have ensued as this baby, possibly on its maiden flight, clumsily tried to land on the edge of the trash can, but tumbled into the water instead. The water level was about four or five inches below the rim of the barrel, so there was no way it could have climbed the wall of slippery plastic. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize as I picture the frantic parents watching the baby struggle to climb from the water and the confused sibling looking on in fright. What did they feel as the thrashing gradually weakened until, finally, the little bird could no longer hold its head out of the water.

Naturally, the homeowner could not have foreseen how a neglected trash can could become a deathtrap. She had no objection when I told her what happened and asked permission to empty the water. I neglected to tell her how lucky we were that it was a fledgling robin and not her toddler that had plunged into the barrel.

My thoughts were on robins when I got home so I decided to check in on the ones nesting in my backyard. The nest was empty and I saw one of the adults perched overhead, its beak full of worms. I went around to the back of the shed to see if I could observe the adults feeding the hungry youngsters. I heard the loud chirp of a fledgling, but immediately knew tragedy was stalking one of my babies. The chirp was echoing from inside the shed.

The nest was built on the roof of a wren box that is mounted up under the eaves of the shed. The space above the wall and between the rafters is open, so when this baby clambered out of the nest, it apparently fell into the shed rather than out into the open. The bird would surly die if it was not reunited with its parents. I propped the shed door open and eventually found the baby perched, all head and legs, in a jumble of bicycle parts. As I reached for it, it flew out the door, evidently unharmed by its mishap. The ever-watchful parents saw the whole thing and the father was with his offspring in a moment.

I spent the next half hour watching through the kitchen window as the male urgently collected worms to bring to the newly-liberated baby. The female, although she did check in from time to time, seemed preoccupied with the rest of the little family. As I watched this miraculous striving against the odds presented by all the hazards out there for young birds, I found it amazing that they survive at all. While I was saddened by the drowning of one fledgling, I took some comfort in knowing that the death of one bird had lead to the rescue of another.

Magic in the Air

I love May Day! (No, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the communist party...) May first is the day the chimney swifts return. These 'cigars with wings' are my own Swallows of Capistrano: I could almost set the calendar by their Spring return.

Every year, starting a few days before the first of May, I start watching the sky over my house. Weather permitting, I'll first see my little friends on the first of the month. They were 5 days late this year, but I imagine the delay was caused by a rather unusual three-day rain event bucking the usual trend and coming in off the Atlantic from the East. It rained pretty much all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was beautifully warm and clear. I knew it would be only a matter of hours. Sure enough, when I went out to get the paper this morning, I saw my first swift of the year streaking high overhead. A little later, with sun streaming through the bathroom skylight as I showered, I was thrilled to see a group of three shoot by.

Like tree swallows, these birds are fun to watch as they move through the air with apparent glee. I have a recurring flying dream, but even on my best nights, I can never soar with such confidence and ease. Where tree swallows look a bit like playful kids, swifts seem almost military as they zoom in tight formations high over my deck, chattering orders as they go. I sometimes imagine they are little jets flying combat air patrol over my roof.

I do wonder, though. There is a trend these days for people to install chimney caps to keep rain, squirrels, birds and other foreign matter out of the flue. I often think I should put one on our chimney. In the past I have seen swifts tumble from the air into chimneys on the houses on both sides of ours, and both these chimneys are now capped. Like the bluebirds who declined when wood fence posts became obsolete, could the swifts suffer from good house-keeping?

But for now, my swifts are back, and their regular- if not constant- chipping and chattering will be background music on the soundtrack of my summer. Then, just as suddenly as they arrive on May first, the door will close on September first. They disappear with a predictability and totality that is truly amazing, leaving behind only fond memories of warm days and blue skies.

Other friends also return at almost exactly the same time. Every year, catbirds nest in a huge clump of forsythia that dominates a good chunk of the yard near the deck, and I spotted the first one just a day before the arrival of the swifts. These are handsome birds with their trim gray coats and stylish black caps. They seem particularly intelligent and friendly, pausing in their nest-building to look at me and mew as I have my morning coffee on the deck. I can't help but wonder if these are the same individuals who were here last year and if those were offspring of previous generations, like salmon, returning to the exact spot of their birth.

I am a man of simple pleasures. While I take great joy from the companionship of common birds like my swifts and catbirds, the enjoyment I get from robins in the Spring is almost primordial. In all likelihood, the robin was the first bird I could identify as a small child. Their happy caroling in April as the earthworms begin to arise from the warming moist soil has always been a sign of re-birth. They have always signaled swelling tree buds and children laughing outside after a long winter.

A pair of robins have been bobbing around the back lawn for a week or two now. I assumed they were nesting in the area, and that made me happy because it's been a few years since we've had a nest. Like the catbirds, these robins make we wonder if this DNA has been here before. Like our last resident robins, this pair has built their nest on top of one of my bird houses. One of the first things I did when we moved here nearly 20 years ago was put up nesting boxes. We live in a classic established suburban neighborhood, and I hoped I could enjoy the company of house wrens. While I sometimes hear house wrens, and often hear the over-sized songs of Carolina wrens, I've never had anything but false nests in my boxes. At least the robins are willing to accept my hospitality, and I'm delighted to have them. Maybe I should put up nesting shelves instead.

So, even with all the troubles in our world today, life struggles on. I find it truly miraculous that these small creatures can navigate hundreds and even thousands of miles every year to return to my small back yard. Even though I hope to spend an hour or two up on Moose Hill this weekend searching for more exotic birds, it's my everyday friends that really tell me that Spring is really here.