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January 25, 2007  Ides of January For several days in mid January a continuous and fine snow fell. In spite of the small flake size though, accumulations on feeder roofs and underfoot grew noticeably larger. Roads and pathways shrank inward taking on the look of snakelike conduits. At the height of the snowfall, town, and the roads leading into town, looked like the aftermath of a giant pillow fight. Some days later the weather changed and became very mild. So yesterday morning I decided to wander up the hill to the store on the south end of town then if I felt energetic, I would loop around the marsh before returning to the car. The day was shaping up to be positively spring-like. Walking conditions would be challenging because road shoulders are non-existent at the best of times. Every car on the highway kicks up a fine brown spray and potholes belch fluid as each vehicle passes. I was on my way across a main intersection in the middle of town, without yet starting up the 99 Mile hill, when I heard some sure signs of spring. I stopped in my tracks and listened. Above me several Red-winged Blackbirds flew in the direction of the marsh and made their familiar ‘chk’- ing calls. I haven’t heard the RWB’s for a number of months and paused to drink them in. They sped quickly away over the highway and out of sight, but I hadn’t taken more than a few steps before once again hearing their sound. This time it was a larger flock, perhaps a dozen or more also heading toward the marsh. My walk would now most certainly include the marsh just so I could witness the Red-winged Blackbirds arrival. I visited the store on the hill then crossed the highway and walked southward and marsh-ward. The path I walked sits between the main highway and the front of the senior high school and is kept open only by the persistence of human foot traffic. I soon passed the high school and approached the beginning of the marsh trail. In the poplar trees (the trees that will soon disappear to make way for a new highway intersection,) I heard the Red-winged Blackbird’s chorus competing with the roar of traffic. It was great to once again hear the birds. I counted 22 blackbird shapes silhouetted against the snowscape and horizon. And despite my inability to make out their features from a distance, at this time of year I was quite sure they would all be males. The females arrive later so the bachelor birds are forced to tolerate each other’s company. They pass the days eating at feeders and as they were now doing, practicing their vocal repertoires. I passed directly under the flock and hoped they remained undisturbed in the treetops. I turned my attention to the marsh trail and noted that it was in worse shape than expected. Not only had a small snow moving machine heaped a bank up at the beginning of the pathway, very little pedestrian activity was evident. One other human footprint and two deer were the only creatures that recently passed this way. Nevertheless I stepped over the snow bank and trod carefully in the packed portion of the trail. I continued to pick my way along the path and saw more deer tracks. In the seepage a Raven touched down and further along were the stamp, stamp, stamp tracks of a Ruffed Grouse. There were many tracks but no signs of life. By the time I’d reached the little bridge at the outflow of the marsh, my short walk in nature put me in a contemplative mood. I thought of the marsh and its importance to me. Hardly a day goes by at any time of year when I don’t stop here. Sometimes I sit on the benches along the shore. Often I walk around it. Always it refreshes me. The marsh, which sits so close to town, feels pressure from human activity on all sides. Its riparian areas have shrunk and will continue to shrink. Yet oddly, the thing I think the marsh needs most are human friends. I continued from the bridge, along the half of the walk around the marsh that is over open ground, along blacktop and mowed lawn. I stopped at the Visitor Information Centre blackboard to write about my Red-winged Blackbird sighting and saw a truck pull up and stop. The driver pulled out her lunch and gazed over the frozen marsh. The Blackbird calls could still faintly be heard. And though their pathways through the sky might seem free of deep snow and slippery ice. They too have their perils. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
