The Wild Edge

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Quiet

There is something about the sound of a flyline cutting through the air, and the murmur of river and the smell of spruce,fir and pine that makes time slow down. A soothing balm to the day, when even though you don't catch a fish, hell,don't even see one, doesn't matter. When nothing really matters, just being there in the woods, of you being in the woods.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Summer Nights

I used to go out in the dark of a summer night, and sit on the front porch and watch the cars, fewer the later it was, and also to watch the insects at the street light at the end of our drive along the main street. And watching from the dark into those pools of light. Those nights in New Jersey, the air warm and rich with sounds, it gave depth and meaning to summer. And from my post I would hear the cars and trucks humming along out on the highway, distant dogs barking, and occasional cat fight. Lights flickering in a darkened house, as the people watched television.

And sometimes I would walk down the street, from one pool of light to another, relishing the safety and comfort of the dark. The streetlights casting dappled shadows onto the sidewalks, crickets and cicadas chirping the night along, the heat rising from the ground. And if you went out to a field, the rabbits darting out of the way, the fog rising just to waist height. Walking into the backyard, into the darkness, following the fireflies.

At the shore,waves crashing on the beach, ghost crabs running , and you just standing there understanding why they earned that name, the appear and disappear like a specter.

Here in Maine, at least where I live a summer night seems much less rich . It's quieter, the crickets and other insects do not have that almost rain forest quality that the Pines Barrens had, there you felt the Jersey Devil. Here it seems more normal, whatever that means. Loons maniacally calling, their tremolos echoing across the water, distant laughter erupts out from vacationers. It's quiet to some degrees that could lull you into some security, but you don't or can't. Here you can hear something coming at you. A mouse seems giant. And it's darker, but the darkness is what makes it more richer. You can see the stars, really feel them.

A couple weeks ago deep in the night a porcupine was screaming I got up and followed, walking in the cool of the dark, seeking. The damp grass brushing against my legs, until I came to the tree the porcupine had gone to, its teeth chatting.

Thunderstorms in the night. The stars disappearing, increasingly darker, distant rumble of thunder. The wind freshens,distant flash, more rumbling. The first drops hitting , tapping, then drumming, faster,harder, a lull, then the rain increases in intensity, more flashing, thunder louder, coming almost immediately with each flash. Dishes and other things clinking with the thunder, the house shakes.

Sometimes you must go out and stand in the dark, watching, listening, smelling. Meteors or stars, or distant lightning. The quiet draws you out. Morse code from the fireflies calls you, you slip into a time many years ago, when a warm summer night was magic, and now those years later, the magic comes back.

Paddling along in my canoe, the night closing in, stars on the water, making it look, no, feel like you're paddling through them. The tree line is blacker than black, the twilight lighting the way

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Mountain Birdwatch

The forecast for June 20 was looking good. I had picked that day to do my route for Mountain Birdwatch, a citizen science project where volunteers across the Northeast go forth and count birds. But not just any birds. Bicknell's , Swainsons,Hermit thrush, fox, and white throated sparrow. Chickadees, both black capped and boreal. Yellow bellied flycatcher, winter wren,blackpoll warbler and red squirrels. This group tends to nests in he mountains of the Northeast and Canada, places where spruce and balsam fir grow thick, where mosquitos and blackflies are very happy to see you.

Yes I know, red squirrels are not birds, but their impact on them does matter. Everything is tied together.

The flank of Sugarloaf

I wasn't my first choice of days, but June in Maine had been a bit dampish, and when it wasn't, I was busy trying to get things done. The days around my my time were going to be hot and humid, with no rain for that period.

But forecasts change. Temps were going up, thunderstorms predicted. I went over to my route in Carrabassett Valley on Monday to see how the road to it had fared. It was rough, but doable and when I got to the end , whoa, "No vehicles beyond this point". Well, ok, that's no problem , it just means I walk further. Miles later, I got to Caribou Pond. At least the map shows a pond. Somewhere.

My route, Caribou Pond West, is in a bowl, with mountains surrounding it. Sugarloaf, Spaulding, Redington, Mt Abrahams. It's pretty, quiet and packed with birds. If it was easier to get to, it could easily be a birding hotspot for northern species. I got to my route, did a quick look around, and walked back, put my shoes back on, oh, did I mention I had streams to cross, and a couple of small pools to boot.

Redington Range

Redington Range.This whole area had been logged about 20 years ago.

Spaulding Mountain

I gathered my gear on Tuesday, and after telling Snyder goodbye, drove back over to Carrabassett Valley, hiked again to my site and set the tent up. Part of what wee are supposed to do is to count the cones on some trees along our route. It works out better if you do it before the bird count, and since I still had plenty of time, went out with binoculars and GPS. It went quick.Mostly because there was very few cones out. Last year the cone crop was really good, and these things are cyclical , so after a boom year, there will be a bust. Economics and nature follow the same rules. This is also where counting red squirrels comes in. Reds will feast on seeds of many plants. Also fruits, arthropods, mushrooms and when available, meat or eggs. When one food source is low, another fills the space. Since the cone crop here is poor, you can expect , well it's not pretty, but it's part of life.

On my hike in , the clouds were starting to roll in and so did the wind. Being a bowl, the wind spills over the Redington Range, spills down and races along. My tent up until that point was standing proud. As I lay in the tent that night, I was wondering if the storms predicted would hit. The winds continued to build. The darker it got, the gustier the winds got. Soon the tent was flapping hard, and even wrapping me like a burrito. I predicted a long night.

Sometime in the night I woke, and debated if I could continue the count. But sleep doesn't come easy when you're being beat up and having fabric snapping inches from your face. I went to bed hearing fox sparrows and Swainson's thrushes singing, and when morning came at 4 am, the white throated sparrows were in full song. And also Bicknell's ! Now that is a good sign, the target species you volunteered to count is there, not far from your tent and singing!

I got out of my tent to get started and the Bicknells' went quiet. It was still gusty, but the birds were sure singing. The one thing about birds is they will always keep you guessing. The fox sparrows were quiet, the Bicknells, did start singing , but only after they got used to me. Meanwhile the White throats were loudly demanding attention. It seems they wanted to outdo the others.

The rest of the count seemed to go quickly, the day cleared more, birds sang. Soon the count was over, and camp was packed. On the way out I met a pissed off garter snake and a shy moose.

In an area loaded with moose tracks, he was the only one I saw.

It's now a week since the count was made. The data was submitted, gear, well most of it, has been put away, blisters are healing, but the moments are not forgotten. You count birds, swat mosquitos, curse the blackflies , walk the miles and (around 24 with the recon) and find yourself looking forward to next year.