A Trilogy of Bird Tales

I went off to Maine the week of Labor Day, as I have been doing these past few years to visit my friend Ann. Ann owns a snug and comfortable little camp (summer cabin) on East Pond in the Belgrade Lakes Region. (The sunset pictured on the header of this blog was taken from her dock.)


Vacationing in Maine is my chance to do a lot of lake kayaking, some interesting hiking, enjoy my annual dose of listening to the loons calling, and catch up with Ann and her family.






Best of all, I get to lounge on the dock and not expect myself to do anything else. Coffee on the dock in the morning watching the fog lift and the wildlife scurry into their day is essential.












And then wine on the dock in the evening while witnessing some of the most spectacular sunsets I have ever seen is each day's highlight.



















This year I came away with three new stories, all about different birds. (Surprise, surprise)








Loons

My absolute favorite bird in Maine is the Common Loon. This duck-like bird with a distinctively-shaped black head, red eyes, and black and white checkered back has won my heart over, time and again. They carry their young on their back. The call of a loon echoing across a lake is a sound not to be missed in this lifetime. They actually have several calls, the four basic are the yodel, tremolo, hoot, and wail. The wail is the most hauntingly beautiful, used mostly at night to keep in contact with other loons, and can be heard for miles.

While kayaking on two different lakes in the first few days, I found that the loons seemed to be gathering in packs of 12 or so. Maybe they were laying plans for migration, mustering family and friends, deciding who was going where, and when, etc. Or maybe they were just being sociable before the big flight and having end of summer lake parties. When I kayak and get anywhere near a loon, I silently stalk it. Being a very elusive bird, though, just when you think you are quietly gliding close enough for a great picture, they dive under the surface leaving you stupidly scanning 360 degrees of empty water until 30 or more seconds later, when they cunningly surface somewhere far away. In other words, loons are always swimming away from you.
















One evening as Ann and I were watching a sunset which we thought wasn't going to amount to much, but ended up being astoundingly beautiful as the clouds and light morphed it continuously into different color palettes, we noticed a dozen loons offshore about 100 yards. Even though they were so far away, I took a picture since I was snapping shots with wild abandon at the changing light.

Then one of us started a long and funny narrative, which took our attention away from everything except the story at hand, and set us both laughing, giggling, and, as Ann later insisted, cackling.

I think cackle is a strong and unnecessarily demeaning description. Cackle conjures images of witches chanting around boiling cauldrons. With warts on their noses. But I digress, what happened next is the point. The loons, as one body, turned and started swimming toward us!

Remember the tremolo? This call is described as sounding like "insane laughter" with eight to ten notes voiced rapidly and is indicative of agitation or fear. Did the loons think we were other loons needing solace or protection? Were they saying, "Calm down. It'll be okay, the flight isn't so bad. You know we can't stay in this place which now is a veritable Eden but in two months will be a frozen winter wonderland." Or were we disturbing their festivities? "Check out these humans, trying to trick us into thinking they are loons in trouble! How dare they mock us with their false SOS tremolo?"

Sea Gull

One bright and lazy afternoon we spent on the dock drinking gin and tonics and going for the occasional swim. Ann and I brought the Scrabble game down and were immersed in a game.

If you are a Scrabble player, you may well ask at this point, "Scrabble on the dock? What if the tiles fall through into the water?" Which in fact I did ask Ann, since my own mother direly warns against Scrabble on the deck at home for the same reason: tiles lost forever under the deck. Then Ann reminded me that wood floats!

Rick, her brother-in-law and my friend, was fishing. We were concentrating deeply on the game because the close score rendered it completely competitive. Imagine being totally lazy, soaking in the hot sun, yet being so concentrated on this game of words, and having maybe a little alcohol buzz going on all at once!

Rick idly commented about a sea gull he was watching out on the water that had caught a fish so big, it couldn't get it up out of the water to carry it away. We all looked out across the dazzling lake to watch this gull flailing, wings flapping, but its feet seemingly stuck as if glued to a hidden perch. Another gull, perhaps the wife, floated nearby. "Hahrold, I told ya it was too big, but do ya evah listen ta me? I told ya, don't dive for that one, how will ya evah get it home? But ya had to anyway, I shoulda known I was wastin' my breath!" After watching for a few moments, I turned back to the game. Where, oh where, was I going to unload this Q having no U? The game was nearing the end, I had to get rid of it, but hopefully pick up enough points, Ann was edging ahead!

About 10 minutes later, Rick pointed out that the bird was still struggling. Perhaps it was even caught on something. Ann and I snapped to and squinted out over the water again. Now our complete interest was aroused! A bird in trouble!

"Maybe it needs help! It's probably exhausted if it's been struggling all this time."

"Yeah, if it's been out there this long, it probably is caught up in something, maybe even some fishing line or something!" I frowned at Rick as if it was possibly even his fault.

"We need to help it!"

"Okay, what will we need? Some gloves. Something to cut the line, a knife or something."

Ann said, "I have gloves."

Rick wasn't caught up in the increasing crisis. He was sitting calmly, watching his line in the water, and in no mood to go anywhere or do anything. "You need to help us!" I said.

"What do you want me to do?!"

"I don't know, just help!"

He said he had to go up to his truck for gloves, and then to the bathroom and then he'd be down. By this time Ann had already run up to camp and back with gloves and I had found a knife in his tackle box. We pulled the kayaks down the bank and into the lake and were off.

Operation Save the Gull paddled quickly and efficiently across the water and then glided up slowly and silently to the bird. I think the wife had flown away by now. As we gently sidled up to him I started making soothing noises while asking Ann, what should we do now? One of us don gloves and try to pick him up? And maybe the other one of us can see what the problem is and possibly cut him loose?

The gull looked at us in disbelief for a few seconds and then quietly lifted his wings and flew away. He hadn't been caught in any branches, there was no fishing line tangled in his feet. Ann and I looked at each other and shrugged and headed back for the dock and our Scrabble game. Rick was just coming out of the house.

Back at the dock we watched the sea gull circling back over his fish. Perhaps he still had hopes of getting his super-sized dinner. If only the humans wouldn't interfere.

The Great Horned Owl

Ann couldn't wait to ask me about some owl hooting sounds she had recently heard at night. After I arrived at camp on the first day, I hadn't been sitting on the dock an hour before she gasped, her eyes growing big and said, "Oh! I need to ask you about a bird I thought I heard!"

I love that I have somehow become the leading authority among my family and circles of friends on bird call identification, as if I'm some kind of ornithologist. People will say, "Oh, we were out hiking in Utah, and we heard this bird and wish you had been there!" Or they will type in an email: What kind of bird goes TWEET TWEET tweedle dee dee? Once at my mom's house, my sister pointed to a pretty bird on a tree outside and asked me what it was. I couldn't see it and couldn't readily get to the window, and it wasn't singing, so she described it. I said, "I'm not sure, but if it's climbing down the tree trunk, upside down, it is probably a white-breasted nuthatch. My brother looked at me, impressed, and forever after, believed that I knew all there was to know about birds, their habitats, mating practices, diet, and migration.

Ann continued, "There are five hoots in all. Three and then two." She demonstrated, "Hoo hoo hoo, hoooo hoooo."

"Hmmm, that certainly sounds like it could be an owl," I offered. Her husband, Mike, said, "There were no hoots at all. I think it was some kind of mammal."

Oh dear. Now we had confusing data. Ann looked at me knowingly and shook her head. I could read her thoughts. "Pay no attention to him. We'll listen for it later tonight, and you will see!"

Ann and I had the week to ourselves and one evening after a late supper we had started a cozy fire and settled in for some reading. I could hear loons calling across the lake and was thinking how perfect everything was when Ann started. "There it is!! Did you hear that?"

I looked at her, puzzled. Yes, that certainly wasn't a loon, but since I hadn't been listening for it, nothing registered.

Then, "There it is again! See? Five hoots!"

That time I had heard it. "It is an owl! Let's go outside so we can hear it better!" I was up and out of the house in seconds. Ann was searching for her shoes, as her dog Lucy has a habit of moving one around the house, thereby separating them. It was dark as pitch outside, and I remembered that it was a new moon. I heard the owl calling from far away and then a second owl way down the lake in the opposite direction answered him. Ann came out with a flashlight. "Turn that off," I warned, as if an owl couldn't tell we were there anyway. We crept down the gravel road listening to the two owls, the one getting closer to us all the time. "I think it's a Barred Owl!" I whisper. "Because their song goes. . .wait, wait, no! It's a Great Horned Owl," I hissed triumphantly. "Listen to it! It's saying, 'Who's awake, me too! Who's awake? Me too.'" When the owl got as close as we thought it could, we still couldn't see it because of all the tall trees. It was just out of sight behind that big tall one in her neighbor's yard.

The next night I heard it first. We were putting away the Scrabble game and I had been listening because Ann noted the time the evening before--9:30--and it was getting to be that time. And right then, as if it was a cuckoo clock, the owl hooted out its call, "Who's awake? Me too!"

"There it is!" I called, and grabbed my fleece (it was drizzling outside) and a flashlight, and again was out the door in moments. I crept down the dark road, the raindrops in the pine trees making more sound than my feet on the gravel. Ann caught up and we ended up underneath the same tall trees as the night before. We heard the call and answer of the two owls, one from far down the lake and our owl coming closer until it ended up hidden away again out of sight but just above us! We waited and watched anyway, and were finally rewarded with the sight of him flying across an opening in the night sky. These owls have a wingspan of 40-60 inches! Everything was hazy with clouds and fog, though, so we couldn't see him clearly.

The following day, we were out in kayaks and I was studying the trees on the shore. "Ann," I said, "Maybe tonight before the owl comes, we should get in the kayaks and paddle offshore just to around this spot! I think the owl sits in that dead tree there and that's why we can't see it from the road, it's blocked by all those other tall trees." Ann agreed and we laid some plans.

The two of us had done night time paddles before and one night we were surrounded by loons wailing and calling as we laid back in our kayaks, floating on the lake, and looking up at the stars. That was a magical experience!

By the time the appointed hour came, a nocturnal excursion on the water wasn't as appealing. Instead I pointed out that perhaps from her neighbor's deck, we would have a clear view of the tree in question. Ann's neighbors weren't there that summer and she was certain it would be fine. So we put on fleeces, took flashlights, and scurried down to our "blind" before the owls came.

We did indeed have a perfect view of the tree. That evening, the sky was clear and the stars were brightly shining with no moon to compete with. I was in my element, anticipating the owl coming closer and closer, making his way down the lake shore, calling to his friend to plan their meetup, and then landing in the bare branches above giving us the perfect view. He would be so clear we would be able to see his "horns" or the tufts of feathers on his head!

9:30 came and went. 9:45, 10:00. Ann got tired and went back. And just as she did, the owls came. I was ready and watching, excited and barely breathing, knowing any moment he would fly into view. But he never did. He somehow circled around, as if he knew we were there, which in my realistic mind, I'm sure he did. Out of sight he answered his mate and then was gone. I gave up and went back to the cabin. Later we heard them again, in fact we thought we heard maybe 4 or 5. But the excitement had worn off--I must not be a true birder, after all. And later still, at 3 in the morning, I heard them very clearly, very close, right over the house! I tried to rouse myself. I should get up, get dressed, silently creep out of the house and down the road. But the bed was warm and I was too sleepy. "The owls know this," I thought. "They're no dummies." Maybe tomorrow night.

"Who's awake?"

"Not . . . me . . . zzzzzzzzz"