Sunday, Runday

This was without question the best summer for running I’ve ever had. I can remember only a few days when it was so humid I felt I needed gills to breathe. And I can’t remember any days that were so hot I couldn’t move. It was a kind, cool, rainy summer and I loved it. But I’m keenly aware it’s come to an end and we’re now in my favorite season of the year. I love everything about fall—its scents, its heightened insect chorus, the hush of everything else. I even love its ephemerality, perhaps most of all.

And so I announced to Liam and, by proxy, the still-sleeping Phoebe on this fine cool Sunday morning that I was going running, and it would be a long one. I didn’t know where I was running to until I took a right on the county road and headed for Dean’s Fork. I’d never run it before, but I figured it’d work out to about a six-mile round trip, and that’s what I felt like doing. I had no water or food with me but it wasn’t hot and I figured I’d be OK, just a little parched and hungry on the return. And I was all that.

I took my phone but there was no reception. It did me no good except as a camera, and what a lovely camera it was. It let me take you along with me. 

The first thing I came to was a beautiful beaver pond with actual beavers. I know they're still there because my friend Tim Appleton had seen one sunning on a log just a day earlier. And because the dam is always in perfect repair, no holes or spillways. It is the most epic beaver dam I've ever seen, at least 15' high at its deepest point.

Real water is so darned rare around our house, that it's a delight to see a pond, even if it's all silted in and only a few inches deep in most places. 

There are always kingfishers there. 

They rattle and fuss and fly from one end of the pond to the other, letting me know I'm intruding.

Not taken with an iPhone. I can cheat sometimes.

Today, there was something even more special.

I had to leave Chet Baker home because he sprained his wrist chasing feral cats (an honorable battle wound) at the Midwest Birding Symposium, and Katdoc told me he really shouldn't run for two weeks. If you think it's easy to leave those pleading eyes and that sweet face every morning, well, it's not. 

He had a turrible limp at MBS, and about 800 people came up and asked me what had happened to him. I had to carry him everywhere we went for two days, slung over my shoulder like a sack of peanuts. He's much, much better now, 17 days out. You can barely see the limp. We saw Dr. Lutz who recommended easing him back into running on October 7. Well, that's today!

One thing I found, without having a doggeh out in front of me, is that I could creep up on birds and animals, seeing them before they flushed, before they saw me. 

And I peeked through a scrim of vegetation and saw a wood duck peeking back at me. Scanning the pond's many emergent logs, I found at least seven more. 

I watched them for a long time as the sentinel decided whether I was friend, foe, or nothing at all.

It wasn't too long before they lost their nerve and took off in sequential squadrons, ten birds in all, giving a low whoooeeek? as they flew.

Wood ducks are tail-heavy, long from back of wing to tip of tail, easy to recognize even in silhouette.

Two were almost perfect fall drakes! Oh what a jewel a drake wood duck is!

They made my day. I hated to make them move, but they got gone, and there was nothing I could do but forge ahead. I couldn't wait to see what other surprises Dean's Fork held.

Evening at French Creek

Paddling French Creek, I had a wildlife show unfolding all the time.


A little yellow-rumped warbler dawdled around on a black willow overhead, showing me its buttery badonkadonk. Also puttering around in the gallery forest: bay-breasted and magnolia warblers, white-eyed vireos, Carolina wrens, blue jays, flickers and robins.

I found a lovely painted turtle (Chrysemys picta) who seemed not to fear me at all

and a musk turtle (Sternotherus odoratus) who was so alarmed at my approach that he tipped off his basking perch on a dead tulip limb, landed on his back and scrabbled frantically over and into the water. See that pointy nose and rounded dome of a shell? That's a stinkpot. I like them. I'm sure that in Buck's book they're good for nothing (see below).

When I'd done the entire perimeter of the embayment, almost a three-hour paddle, I was about to turn for the boatlaunch when I saw some animals on the shore. The cutest little grulla pony with a smeared strip of a blaze came up to check me out. I don't think she'd seen a one-man canoe before, and the waving paddles intrigued her. She blew and stamped like a deer. The cow with the moon and stars on her flank was less intrigued, and turned her back on me.

Finally it was time to turn for home. There was a man fishing on the boat launch, and he moved his lines so I could cruise in. When I finally came close enough to see, his face broke into a smile. "Oh! A pretty woman!" he said. He grabbed the bow of my canoe and pulled me in so I wouldn't get my feet wet getting out. What a nice man. We talked for a bit and he said, "I like to come down here. It's peaceful. I lost my wife exactly four years and nine months ago today."

"Not that you're counting, huh?"

"What?"

"I said, you're still counting, huh?"

"Yeah. You count for awhile."

His name was Buck and he quickly added that he felt lucky because he had two grown children and two grandchildren living nearby, and they were "the light of my life."

He seemed lonely and he knew a lot about this place so I decided to hang out with him for awhile. I learned from him that there are both soft-shelled (Good for nothing! Can't even eat 'em!) and hard-shelled (snapping) turtles in the embayment. That there are channel cats upward of 40 lb. here. Muskellunge too. He showed me a lure he'd had for 30 years, all beat up, almost broken, that's been his best muskie lure. I told him I'd hit three huge carp with the canoe in the shallowest part of the embayment, and they were big enough to rock the boat. Durn carp. I told him about the drake wood duck I'd heard stumbling through the leaves on a steep slope above the water. I figured he had been looking for acorns and beechnuts until I scared him into flight. I had thought I was hearing a turkey because it sounded like a biped, but it sounded too clumsy for a turkey, so I waited on it and darned if it wasn't a duck walking through the leaves!

Buck said he always brings an extra rod and reel in case someone comes down and feels like fishing for awhile with him. And there it lay, ready to go. I felt bad leaving him, he was interesting and sweet and I didn't even mind his cigarette smoke that much. He asked me why I was carrying my stuff and canoe way up to the car, why didn't I just back the car down the ramp and pick it up? I told him I don't like backing down a steep ramp when I can't see what's behind me and I don't mind carrying everything because it was only two trips and the canoe only weighs 28 pounds and could he tell me why a man always needs to tell a woman a better way to do things? At that he laughed and said "I guess we do, don't we?"

I told him I'd be back again, and that I'd be glad to see him, and I think he'll be glad to see me, too.

French Creek Interlude

Last Sunday, I threw the boat in the back of the car, packed a backpack of play clothes, took the kids to church, ate too much at the All Members Potluck, dropped Phoebs and Liam off with cousins and took off by myself for French Creek, on the West Virginia side of the Ohio River. French Creek will live in infamy because it's where Bill and I spotted (and I sketched thoroughly) West Virginia's First of State Little Gull (Larus minimus). NOBODY else we called to come see it managed to see it. This was B.C. (before digital cameras). And so, despite pages of may I say perfectly adequate Zick sketches from life, comparing it to the ring-billed gulls all around it, it remained as "Hypothetical" on the WV Rare Bird list. Please. How could Bill and I mistake a Little Gull with its slaty underwings and minuscule size for anything else? This is a question I've asked of rare records committees before. Substitute this question: How could Zick mistake Ohio's first of state Eurasian Collared-Dove for anything else? Durn thing flew by our birdwatching tower below eye level. I saw its collar, its large size, its pale sandy coloration, its square-tipped tail and its red eye, for Pete's sake. Sign me, "Hypothetical."

Digressing again. That was winter. This is the end of summer. That was about rare birds records committees. This is about boating. The tulips are turning yellow, a few maples are ablaze, it was hot hot hot--I believe we will be catapulted from summer straight into winter this year-- and rather still and I was swaddled in the only shirt I'd thought to bring, a heavy denim long-sleeved affair, with a thick PFD atop that. But I was alone and peaceful and having fun. There were a bunch of great blue herons striking poses wherever I looked,
Love the spray of wild iris behind this bird, and the two posts. Herons are so decorative.and I got some decent shots. I really like this one, with the spray coming off foot and wing, and the accidentally good composition (I was just leading the bird so it wouldn't fly out of the frame, and gave it room to fly in the picture). While I know these are not the only decent photos of great blue herons (possibly the most photographed bird on the planet), they're mine and I like them.

Wood ducks exploded out of every cove. Here's a pair, hen in the lead. I couldn't get the binocs on them fast enough to tell, but when I blew up my photos I could see that some of them had been drakes in full nuptial finery. Gorgeous! We're so lucky to have this ornate little duck as our most common breeder--yes, more common than mallards in this sycamore-laden biome. Yeah!I love doing that--taking a photo, just sort of randomly firing away at something you can barely see with your darn new bifocals through the viewfinder, and then finding that the camera saw all the detail you couldn't see, and did its best to identify the bird for you. It's a bit tricky getting the focus dot on the bird when it's doing about sixty and you're twisting your torso around trying to follow its trajectory without tipping your canoe. I'd love to say I can approach birds more closely in the canoe than I could otherwise, but all the birds at French Creek were super-spooky on Sunday.

A great egret circled overhead. I could see the bones in its wing as the light came through it. I never expect to see great egrets. They're always such a creamy white delight, and they always fill me with surprise and awe.Belted kingfishers scolded and rattled ahead of me. If there's a spookier bird, I haven't seen it. Those birds are just impossible to get close to. Bye, Sucka! You'd think they tasted wonderful, as leery as they are of humans. I got a couple of identifiable shots with the 300 mm. This one, where she's framed in sugar maple, is pretty nice, if you're not worried about seeing the bird.
And then I finally got a little closer. Obviously, she's wound tight as a spring, but she's still sitting...That's the wonderful thing about a little canoe. Mine is absolutely silent and smooth as silk on the water. When I see a bird ahead, I give it a few power strokes and then drift on my momentum as close as I can, firing away as I go. I wish my shutter were as quiet as my vehicle.

Though I was only paddling for about three hours, the things I saw and experienced will have to last me all week. I can't tell you what a difference it's made in my life to get out on the water. It seems the perfect anodyne for all that troubles me.

The only problem I've found is that I spend much of my mental energy now daydreaming about the serene waters I'd rather be paddling. I have friends who say this pleasant affliction/addiction will only get worse.