Melancholy Musings

Last Friday I posted an item on Facebook that started like this: "this was one of those perfect days where everything comes together in a very nice way".

And today I find that a sense of melancholy has entered my soul.  It's not unusual for people to have this feeling as summer ends and winter approaches but for me, it is very unusual.  Summer is my least favourite season.  Both winter and autumn vie for top spot as I prefer the cooler temperatures and there is something supremely satisfying about having the wood stove going.

So why is the end of this summer bringing on this state of melancholy?

Maybe it's because it was so incredible.

The bobolink worked filled my days in May and June.  Searching for nests, surveying new locations, banding and attaching geolocators.  The time flew by.

 

female bobolink

  

bobolink nestlings

And then there was my anti-shrike force field, that thing that prevents me from seeing a shrike despite living in an area known to be one of the few areas in Ontario where this endangered bird breeds.  Where others would claim to see a shrike on a regular basis, I saw none.  

That force field took a hiatus this year and allowed me to see and have access to more shrikes than I ever thought possible. First, there was the shrike that, apparently, only I could see.  Thank goodness I had photographic evidence.

evidence of "my" shrike

Then in August, I was given the opportunity to feed the captive bred shrikes that were moved up here in preparation for their release into the wild.  It wasn't quite as exciting as I thought it would be as you aren't supposed to make eye contact with the birds when you are in the cage.  It's hard to check out a bird when you aren't supposed to look at it.

Count out 15 tablespoons of mealworms, 30 super mealworms and 75 crickets.  The mealworms, both regular and super, were easy but have you ever tried counting crickets?  They never stop hopping!

Then, even better, the pre-release check when the birds are actually in hand and you can get a good look at them.  They are gorgeous!

 

receiving the pre-release antibiotics; look at the gorgeous mottling on the head

Finally, best of all, there is the release itself when you can't help but wonder how the birds feel when they are finally able to stretch their wings completely.  It's a great big world out there.

out of the cage

contemplating the great outside

Today, though, the field cabin was closed for the last time this season.  The bobolink folks are long gone. After joining me on a hike in QE2 Provincial Park, the shrike field biologist packed up her car and has left the area.  

Queen Elizabeth 2 Wildlands Provincial Park

And so, the melancholy has arrived.

After an ice cream and a final goodbye, I decided to head into town to get gas for the car and chips and beer to make me feel better. 

If these things don't work, I simply have to remind myself that I'm living in an area I love and I'm doing work that I love and I have finally found a place where I belong.  The hummingbirds are still entertaining.  When they are gone, the seed feeders will be hung out again and the blue jays, woodpeckers and chickadees will return, keeping me busy until spring when the next bobolink, shrike and hummingbird seasons begin again.

five on the feeder

Life is great!

And then the barking started

There I was, 3:30 a.m., sound asleep in bed.  Nice and cosy, fresh breeze coming through the open window, cat sleeping beside me.

And then the barking started.
And I was instantly awake and smiling.

I had been anxiously waiting all winter for the return of the whip-poor-wills - anxious because last summer I'd heard very few and I was concerned that the terrible downward spiral of the WPWI population had hit Carden.

Since the singing started a few nights ago I have spent many sleepless minutes (hours) in the middle of the night, smiling and relieved that, for now at least, the WPWI is still present in Carden.

Then I wondered if I would hear again the sound that I had heard for the first time ever in May last year.  And, later, several times throughout the summer.

Last night it happened.

It's not really a "bark".  It sounds more like a cat working on heaving up a fur ball.  There is definitely a back-of-the-throat element to it.  But it brought a smile to my face to hear it last night.

The fox was back!

This time, though, the barking went on for a long time.  There seemed to be an almost plaintive tone to it.  I began to worry that the fox had been injured on the road.

So at 3:40 a.m., I was dressed and headed out to make sure it wasn't.  With headlight in hand, I wandered down the now silent road and saw nothing.  The barking had stopped shortly after I got outside.

The WPWI, however, were singing brilliantly - two of them, to the south and to the east.
The spring peepers were peeping in the distance with an American toad or two adding to the song.

The sky was full of stars and a quarter moon and yet more stars.  As I stood there looking up at the Big Dipper (one of the few constellations I can identify), a woodcock peented from nearby and the leaves from last fall were rustling as new growth pushed up towards open sky.  There was not a bug in sight or sound.

A WPWI began to call from the north, sounding as though it were not more than 100 m away.  I cut through the already long grass, soaking my pants, seeking a view of this bird.

 Scanning with the headlamp, a pair of glowing green eyes sat frozen in place over by the fence line.  Was it really eyes or just a reflective sticker?  Eventually they moved - maybe a WPWI, not scary at all.

Then I remembered the recent reports of bear in the area and reconsidered going any further.
With a sigh, I turned back towards the house and slept well for the rest of the night, content with the world here in Carden.

Carden Sounds

After a night of high winds and rain (and a leaking window), the morning brought another surprise - no power.  So what to do? What to do?

I went back to bed for a bit.  Got up, studied dragonflies for a bit.
And then, after a phone call from a friend, I decided to do the Carden thing - take a trip down Victoria Road and over to Wylie Road.  And what a trip it was.

The first bird of note: a shrike.  I'd seen one in this very spot last week; it seems it's sticking around. And the sound associated with the shrike is.......human swearing as it flies out of range just before I can push the shutter on the camera.

While stopped for the shrike, I become aware of other Carden sounds.

Upland sandpipers are wolf whistling in the distance and peeping right there on the fencepost.
Meadowlark lemon is everywhere. There are peents and rattles and that glorious clear song celebrating the arrival on the breeding grounds.

A savannah sparrow pops up from the grass and stands on a fence post but, again, not quite long enough to be captured by the camera.
Red-winged blackbirds chack and gurgle over territories.
Starlings whistle and squeak and murmur.

Both a great blue heron and a turkey vulture flap and soar overhead, soundless.
Snipe are winnowing high up in the sky and wheeting from deep in the grass.

Further along the road, the cattle munch the new grass found deep within last year's brown remains.
Turning onto Wylie, there is a bluebird, sitting silently beside the babbling roadside stream.

A chorus of chorus frogs strum their combs.
The tires splash through the ever-present puddle.

A song sparrow settles into a tree, practicing its song between bouts of grooming.
A kestrel sits in a dead tree watching my approach and takes to the air when I'm just three steps away from the fence which would have provided support for an over-extended camera.

A tree sparrow quietly explores a sumac while robins whinny and sing.
A lone leopard frog snores once, twice; a couple of geese argue with honks on a distant pond.

A single chipping sparrow trills and, out there, someone sings a song both repeated and varied.  Was that a brown thrasher?
As I move along to try to locate it, I am distracted by an even more distinct song.  Looks like a grackle but sounds very much different.  Rather like a rusty gate.  Rather like a rusty blackbird.  Hard to see the rust against a difficult sky but the gate and the eye and the bill are right.

A pair of mallards quack - how quaint the sound - as they move further away from my approach.
Then the rain starts plopping, leaving ripples in the water.
The wind rustles in the trees; the nose sniffs, running in the cold.
Back in the car, turn on the heater.  Warm, warm, cold fingers.

Stop at the puddles to listen again.  Turn off the heater, hear the chorus of combs and see the sandhill crane, no bugling this time, just steady wingbeats carrying it off to the distance.

On the return trip up Victoria Road, mourning doves coo their sad song.
The windshield wipers are squeaking.

A turkey gobbles and shimmies his wings, trying to entice his two female friends that he is better than the other turkey tom gobbling from the adjacent field.

A quick stop at the pond, a pair of bufflehead dive and come together and eventually flap the water in an anxious flight away from an unseen danger.

These are the sounds of Carden today.

Spring comes to Carden

Today it was warm for the second day in a row.
Today I went out without winter coat or winter boots.
Today spring has come to Carden.

After a morning of working on the computer I decided that I really needed to get out to enjoy the day.  Where better to go than to check out Wylie and Alvar Roads.  On the drive down Victoria Road, I saw that Alvar Road was still too snowy and icy to travel so I continued down and along over to Wylie.  Along the way, kestrels lifted from the hydro lines as my car passed by, crows flew overhead and the brown fields looked lifeless.

And then I saw what always makes me smile: the cattle are back on the landscape.

I can't tell you why seeing them out makes me feel so content except that there is something so basically natural here.  These are not manicured paddocks, not maintained, not groomed.  These animals have the chance to live in a very wild way, dealing with natural things like coyotes, lightning strikes and junipers.  They go into the trees for shade when it gets hot and wander the acres looking for food when they are hungry.  The cattle in Carden go out on the land in spring and don't come in again until fall turns the grasses too brown to consume.  Some have their calves out there; some are just fattening up for a different fate.

So after pausing to connect again with this life, I forged ahead. And Wylie did not disappoint.
It was in its usual challenging condition.

After careful maneuvering around potholes and puddles, I was eventually stopped by snow.

So I parked the car and continued on foot.  As I walked I could hear a couple of crows having an argument with a raven.  A killdeer was calling and the red-winged blackbirds were exclaiming over their territories.

And then I was stopped again - too much water to ford.

I took a few moments to look around, to listen to the wind and the birds and to wonder why this desolate landscape resonates with me so much.

And then I turned around and headed back to the car.

Nearly there, I encountered this little bit of wildlife as it made its way along the road.

On the drive back down Wylie I was stopped by the sight of a bird flying into a tree.  It was not a starling or a red-winged blackbird.  This was something different but the light was bad and I could not be sure what it was until she flew down beside her very blue mate.  I watched as this bluebird pair travelled along the fenceline.  Then they landed and I thought I could take a picture of them.  But as I focussed in my attention was drawn away by something else even more unexpected.

What was that I was hearing? Was I mistaking it for a variation of the call of a red-winged blackbird? There it was again.  And on the other side of the road, again. The unmistakable sound of a fingernail being drawn across the teeth of a comb.

Could it possibly be that there were chorus frogs there in the long wet grass feeling spry with the sudden warmth?  I sat and listened for several minutes and it surely did sound like that to me.

I drove further south along the road and then turned the car back northward, hoping to see the bluebirds again.  Crossed the massive puddle for the third time but no sign of the birds so I parked the car and waited.  I never did see them again.

But they have returned.  More will be coming.
And soon this desolate land will be filled with bobolink and grasshopper sparrows, upland sandpipers and snipe, butterflies and dragonflies and wildflowers.
It's already started.
We just need to wait a little bit longer for the Carden landscape to show its colours.