Geese in the Spring

[The Solemates]

Sometimes I write random observations down. Here's one from this spring, after taking a Sunday stroll in my backyard.

Geese in the Spring

During the course of his leisure time, of which these days we seem to have less and less, and which we ought to find time for, as if scheduling time is the appropriate language for such an endeavor, a man ought to become more and more acquainted with the geographical intricacies of his surroundings with an intimacy that only comes from walking the land, studying its inhabitants, seeking to understand its flora, and attempting an overall heightened engagement of his senses of awareness and observation, and preferably undergoing such an endeavor on a lazy sunny Sunday afternoon. So that is just what I set out to do. I had had it in my mind for some time that a walk circumscribing the lakes and along the waterways of my backyard, so to speak, was in order. That I had only walked around a handful of them was inexcusable.

There’s just something to be said about walking out the back door for a long, invigorating jaunt. Muir had life correct when he talked of “throwing a loaf of bread and a pound of tea in an old sack and jumping over the back fence.” The locality of a potential wilderness escape is something most people take for granted. Nature is everywhere. It is fun to go find it, but I also contend you do not have to travel far. I had as my target one particular lake that I had not been to before. I had studied the maps of my area that morning and for the first time noticed a small lake just off the beaten path. Something about these types of cartographic discoveries enthralls me. Not that they are true discoveries in any sense of the word, but they are personal discoveries, accompanied with the thought that ‘I never knew that was there; shame on me.’ No matter the amount of time we’ve spent in the wilderness, if one looks hard enough he can always find those personal discoveries. Looking back through the years of forest walking, these are the moments that are most memorable to me – moments in which the excitement of something new, something to be explored, is first learned. Traveling to new places brings excitement – but the first discovery of it rouses that innate playful boyhood mindset of naive exploration.

Other types of wilderness outings are not so adrenaline focused. As I walked into the unknown that Sunday, I thought of visits to places I had been dozens of times before, which brought the comfort of nostalgia. I thought of walking once again past the same rust colored stump, remnants of an ancient hemlock now gone, yet vibrant with life in the form of fungi, protozoa, and insect larvae, turning left at the moss-covered granite that contrasts so distinctly with the dark fertile soil and protruding into your footpath such that around it is the only way to go, and traveling onward, through the ferns and past the yellow leafed alder, as they stretch to the sky with their smooth silky bark, a clue to their young age despite their already enormous height, onto the ridgeline bench and into the stand of mature elms I continued – each visual reminder so warmly accepted as something known, something memorized, something embedded so deeply into my thoughts that to not be there, at that moment in time, experiencing those emotions, would be a tragedy.

Back from my daydreaming, I had made it to the outskirts of the lake. As typical of wilderness expanses that border an access point with a drivable path nearby, I was able to find a faint trail near the lake, but that petered out in less than 25 yards. I prefer the open forested landscape anyways, and willingly created my own trail of discovery. I found myself in step with the smoky, musty smell of the forest duff below my feet, lost in the sound of walking. The natural frequency of the swish, swish, swish was suddenly halted when I realized what I was doing. One could probably have heard me coming from far off, as it is difficult to mask the deafening sound of leaves underfoot, especially when they are piled to a depth of no less than 6 inches. To silence such walking is an art, an art I try to practice as often as I walk in the woods. This afternoon was to be no exception. I plodded on, now more in tune with reducing my sound imprint on the serene wilderness setting.

Not long and I came across further evidence of the human touch, but the likes of which was done more tastefully than many I have encountered on other such strolls. This one was a simple pier, one that is utilized for a specific purpose, not for show. Its boards were weathered grey, there were no railings, its length was just sufficient enough to protrude past the dry grassy yellowed banks, and its height, built not even 12 inches above the water’s surface, spoke of a builder attune to complementing nature, rather than conquering it, as if one can conquer nature. That the pier existed somewhat surprised me. I hadn’t walked that far to arrive at this point, but I had passed little sign of civilization. Taking it all in, I paused, placed the ever-so-present inhibitions aside that always accompany my thoughts when discovering that mankind had interrupted wilderness with a structure, this time in the form of the pier, and sat on it in wonder of the scene before me.

At 100 yards out near the middle of a crystal blue water, I was able to capture in still-life the swift lake-traversing passage of some of the landscape's seasonal caretakers. I couldn't help but wonder where these Canadian Geese had flown from less than a month earlier, in search of such a warm climatic region as this, and it was fascinating to think that of all the possibilities under their sky-soaring wings that they chose this little lake as their temporary home; probabilistically speaking, it was mind-boggling to think that in some lake, somewhere out there, similar geese were calling another place home, and that in some lake, somewhere out there, similar geese were calling another place home, and that...oh the stories that they could tell of open country - perhaps even arctic tundra with its barren horizon, or lichen-covered boreal forests and their deep dark secrets, or grasslands pocked by endless marshes, or crooked creeks spilling into brackish inlets, or of high alpine ponds fed by glacial run-off - all untouched by the human hand, and descriptive of a life expressed most richly in the flutter from landscape to landscape, and of a subsistence enhanced by the fruit of the land, a providential impression stamped upon nature's dynamic painting.

Other geese flew in, their massive wings spread to reveal a living tapestry. They were marked with the purest, deepest colorful lines as any I had ever seen. The contrast between colors formed the most remarkable borders; not a feather was out of place. Plump with thick downy feathers, a natural bodily preparation for the winter that just passed, with the coming of Spring they would be losing these in the weeks ahead. They seemed to glide to halt in the water without making a sound; the only evidence left were ripples on the mirrored lake surface. They would soon be making their voyage to more northern lands, and had I not muffled my footsteps earlier, I may not have witnessed nature’s dance laid out before me. I looked closely at their anatomy. How their feathers stay so clean when they are constantly wet with water from algae-filled ponds has always amazed me. Of course, the true nature of their features provides such a water repellency that man has never been able to mimic. Many have tried, with their synthetic down and other textile formulations, but none have truly succeeded, as evidenced by the fact that we still stuff our garments and our bedding with their plumage.

Their necks, straight when in flight, yet elegantly curved when floating in the water, are able to bend in the most awkward of directions, allowing them to further clean their thick coat with their agile bill. They seemed hasty, yet graceful, in the water, their webbed feet allowing them to paddle much faster than seemed possible. It was no time and the whole of them were across the lake, leaving me wishing that I had brought binoculars. Many hours have passed with me behind binoculars, scanning my horizon, attempting to magnify every minute obscurity found in nature, making it larger than life before my very eyes, peering at some living thing with it never knowing, and leaving no imprint other than in my mind. I often even do this from the comfort of my den, adjacent to the large stone hearth, looking through the wall of glass, across my pond, and into my backyard forest. A fire, preferably one that has been smoldering for an afternoon, such that a fiery hot bed of coals drafts its warmth towards my leather lounging chair, and me, with book in hand, as I catch a glimpse of motion outside, further heightens the experience. I long for such moments, and remember them always as snapshots in time, grateful that I was alert enough to pause and reflect.

Every so often, one of the geese would do that well-known nosedive into the water’s depth, bobbing on end for long enough that it seemed it defied the laws of buoyancy. One of the closest resurfaced, water flowing off its back as if it was never absorbed, and looked straight at me. I remained motionless, as I always do when interacting with wildlife, and studied its face. Nothing but black, with a small periphery of white at the cheek line, stared back; its eyes, bill, face, and head perfectly camouflaged against the dark waters of the lake, as if it were just a shadow emanating from the surface. I wondered what it was thinking, but then it turned and continued doing what geese do – enjoying the sun in the company of friends.

Stepping off the pier, I didn’t realize that I had spent nearly an hour observing these wonderful creatures. I continued on around the lake with a keen observance of the uncharacteristic green-ness that the past year's mild winter had afforded. Grassy shorelines, once dormant from winter's touch, had prematurely started the transformation into a prolific infancy of pre-spring grassy seedlings, and I even imagined a blanketed picnic afternoon, flying frisbees, and rolly-polly, pell-mell puppies tumbling down the hill, curious about what the water entails. The green of the grass was enticing, and brought to mind temperatures 30 degrees higher; basking in the sun, soaking it all in type of temperatures. I almost lay down so I could fully envelop myself in the imagery, but decided against it when I looked at my watch; today was not the day – there was wood to chop at the house before dark. As I turned from this spot, such imagery still lingering in my mind, I crossed a grassy field which led me to climb a water carved embankment, and began thinking of where my next lazy Sunday stroll would take me.

[Kerosene]

Nice quick read to distract me. Was this a personal writing exercise also? If so, not bad.

I do think that you misspelled roly poly however!

[The Solemates]

not sure what you mean by personal writing exercise - i just tend to write about nature every once in a while when the mood hits. the mood generally hits after going for walks in the woods wish i had more time for writing more.

[Kerosene]

Every so often I will pick a topic and try my hand at improving my writing. Unfortunately I have more of a business writing style -- which works well for my career but frequently borders on informative versus descriptive.

Funny how we all wish we had more time to do the things we love!

[aficion]

Enjoyed that muchly. It takes some talent to put a reader vividly in a time and place. Well done.

[The Solemates]

thanks blind pig