 |
| A large family of Trumpeter Swans preparing for -- or perhaps in the midst of -- a migration (photo by Art Weber); the photo was taken on the two-track that leads to one of my favorite tree stands -- the one I hunted in tonight |
I spend a good amount of my time on this online journal trying to describe just a fraction of the amazing diversity of subjects that we are blessed to witness at Standing Rush -- both in our work and in our play. The marsh is a visual spectacle that unfolds before one's eyes in a different way with each passing day . . . in fact, with each passing "MOMENT" (hence the name of the blog).
Despite our collective efforts with a camera, we could never capture, much less share, anywhere close to what we are fortunate enough to see in person. We do our best. But tonight, as I reminisce on the day that I just had and on the day that lies immediately ahead, I feel compelled to express my gratitude for another of my God-given senses -- the gift of hearing.
This afternoon marked my first sit in a tree stand. This season thus far, my deer hunting pursuits have been much like my time (or lack thereof) in a duck blind: filled with great intentions, but filled even further with personal and professional responsibilities that most often supersede a hunt. I have explained in past posts that I tend to get philosophical when I'm perched in a tree. This evening, my mind consistently wandered to my dad. It is fitting, because I consider my deer hunting outings to be sacred time -- opportunities not only to observe wildlife and the natural world, but also to observe all the blessings in my life. Dad, who passed in June, was certainly one of my greatest blessings. He was also one that, on the eve of a holiday specifically built to "give thanks," was a master at being humbly grateful. Our family is working hard to carry on one particularly special aspect of his legacy, his favorite "prayer," which was either an internal or audible "thank you, thank you, thank you!"
So tonight, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I am thankful not only for Dad but for the gift of hearing. Here's my attempt at a comprehensive list of what I heard tonight from the stand:
 |
| Red-winged Blackbird (Photo by J. Flanagan, used with permission); Click Here for a library of wildlife calls |
- A typical mix of "tweety" birds -- cardinals, blue jays, juncos, and marsh sparrows -- either flitting close enough to hear wing beats or chirping in the understory beneath my feet, particularly as the light faded. A brown creeper and white-breasted nuthatch, scooting along rough willow bark just a few feet from my head, periodically chastising each other for invading each other's invisible territory. A covey of mourning doves, spontaneously flushing from dangers I certainly couldn't detect. Periodic flocks of chatty blackbirds, able to be heard way longer than they could be seen.
- Cattail and Phragmites rustling more-or-less constantly in the unrelenting (and less than ideal) wind. A clump of remnant grape leaves doing their best to hold on for one more day. A broken cottonwood bough creaking in the crotch of a mulberry tree behind me.
- Man-made sounds: the familiar and distant drone of highway traffic as the wind swung from west to northwest; periodic jets overhead; the lonely but somehow soothing wale of train whistles; random volleys from shotguns on adjacent marshes and farm fields; solitary shots as deer hunters prepped for next week's main "gun season;" a dog barking either because he has been chained too long or because he is just ready to come inside.
- Whistling wigeon rocketing overhead toward the marsh; wings and the telltale subtle quacks of several flocks of mallards on the wing; solitary and unmistakable quacks from within the marsh, sometime followed by a "high-ball" chorus of enthusiastic clucks and quacks that always makes me feel like I missed out on a joke told by a mallard comedian. Small (and sometimes not so small) pods of Canada geese noisily announcing their need to find a restful landing zone to spend the night. A bevy of trumpeter swans, who I could tell just by the range in their strained and curious calls, where looking around -- per usual -- as they surveyed where they might land in the marsh.
- Several bald eagles, a single red-tailed hawk, and plenty of gulls (probably of several different makes and models) and great blue herons (whose calls seem to bend like their long necks as they spook and change course in the air).
- A noisy 'possum (so easily mistaken for a big buck), rambling from the base of one willow snag to another beneath me; a fox squirrel squeaking through the tough outer shell of an imported walnut; a nearly inaudible cottontail (who I may have heard due to a quick rustle of leaves but more likely because I saw its reaction to a silent northern harrier, gliding silently through my main shooting lane).
- One pair of great horned owls, echoing to each other as I climbed down my ladder.
All of this was in about two hours; all before nightfall fully set in. And all was "observed" with my ears rather than my eyes (although I must admit, I would sneak a peak whenever possible and a nearly full moon would have made for some more fun observation, if I wouldn't have been under-dressed). Unfortunately, I never did hear what is often the almost incomprehensibly subtle approach of a whitetail underfoot, or the nearly equally thrilling sound of the arrow being released from my bow. Next time. Obviously, still plenty to be thankful for.