Reuniting with an Old Friend

I set out with my friends and a birding acquaintance of theirs to northeastern Massachusetts, so that we might get a glimpse of the reported rarities and, for us, being from a land-locked part of the state, the equally obscure coastal birds.  We witnessed some beautiful birds, including the west-coast Townsend’s warbler, a lost Cassin’s kingbird, which should be in Mexico right now, an elegant great blue heron, and the strange-looking surf and white-winged scoters.  The hotspot for observing the coastal birds on our trip was the Park River National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island, for which we bundled up to keep the chill of the frigid sea wind at bay. 

I strolled along the boardwalk, whose construction seemed to match that of the steady rise and fall of the sand dunes over which it was built.  As I neared the end of the boardwalk, I kept pausing to stand on my tip-toes and peer over the last row of sand dunes in anxious anticipation of the sight of the vast, blue ocean.  Finally, I saw it, but only a slight glimpse.  My heart skipped a beat; I felt like a kid in a candy store, exhilarated over what was at last within my grasp.  In between my last few peeps over the dunes, I jogged to the end of the boardwalk, past the birders on the landing, and down the sand-covered stairs.  I could barely contain my excitement with a broad smile stretched from ear to ear, as I stumbled through the shifting sand. 

As I approached the compacted, ocean swept stretch of the beach, I slowed my pace and heartily greeted my long-lost friend.  I stood as close as I dared to the incoming surf, inhaling that brisk, salty air and allowing the power of the wind and waves to reinvigorate my soul.  I fancied the waves instigating a chase, as they crashed into the shore and the bubbling, white foam glided up the beach towards my feet.  Instead of permitting such an attack, I crouched down just out of reach, and extended my arm to gently caress my friend, letting it know that I’m here, that I care, that it’s been missed.

With no end in sight over the horizon, the great, expansive ocean always serves as a reminder to me how insignificant myself and humanity, in general, are, and how mysterious life can be, full of secrets and unknowns.  Yet, there is a beauty in it that extends to humanity and to life itself, which trumps the negative that we might find in them.  It opens our eyes to the endless possibilities and the wonder of uncertainty; it humbles us.  I find the ocean to be inspiring and revitalizing, seeming to change who I am and how I reflect upon this life.  And so, once again, I long to be reunited with that friend, which has so dramatically affected me and changed my frame of mind, my outlook on life.

The Beauty and Wonder of Nature

In spite of my pessimism, I have seen some amazing sights and beautiful animals, including ones out in the wild, for which I am incredibly grateful.  Pileated woodpeckers at home are a common song to hear, but not to physically see, apparently.  One day, as I was sitting in a wooden lawn chair outside of the kitchen, one swooped down from overhead and landed on a tree no more than ten meters away from me to the right of the little tool shed.  He scoped it out and then hopped to a spot closer to me on a stump, before flying off.  Then, three times over the past few weeks, I have heard an incessant buzzing noise that sounded like the mother of all bees, towards which I turned to see a hummingbird hovering stationary in the air.  Twice, it seemed to be observing the photographs of past rehabilitated and released animals posted outside of the kitchen or, perhaps, contemplating if the glass was a safe medium through which to travel, but, both times, they eventually went on their way.

Unfortunately, these tiny creatures do not fair well once injured.  Both hummingbirds that have been admitted as patients quickly passed on within the hour.  Although, circumstances seem to play a significant role in the outcomes, since two more have recently arrived at the center, an adult and a youngster, and have been doing quite well.  The hope is to later release them together, so that the young one may have some guidance.

Herons have been flying about and silently, gracefully stalking fish by the water’s edge at Fernwood Point.  I am always impressed by the agility and beauty of these birds, yet up close, they are apparently quite vicious.  At both Fernwood and Vesuvius Bay, pairs of bald eagles have engaged in brief chases through the air before going their separate ways, one back to the forest’s edge, perhaps returning to guard the nest, while the other glides away from the island.  At Fernwood yesterday, there were actually three, one smaller than the other two, who was making quite a racket, squawking and drawing attention to himself, perhaps a fledgling.

Many songbirds have visited the feeder at the center, some of which I can recall from home, but several are unfamiliar species.  I have only been able to identify a few positively, including the Red-breasted Nuthatch and Rofus-sided Towhee.  I have seen different species of chickadees from the familiar Black-capped Chickadee and, perhaps, a White-throated Sparrow. 

Along the seashore, there are large purple starfish stuffed into the nooks and crannies of the rocky shore and lying among the seaweed, hoping to avoid detection, even with a group of six clustered tightly together near the bottom of a dock post, although this made it difficult to count the individuals.  Vibrant red and orange seas cucumbers line the rock crevices along the shore and hermit crabs hide in tiny pools within shells that were likely once inhabited by dogwhelks.  The rocks are filled with holes no wider than my index finger, in which critters have sought refuge until the tide comes in again, including a possible ascidian that squirted a stream of water at me before retracting when I touched it.  More sprays of water shot up all along the shore from the bivalves hiding beneath the muddy beach.  I discovered nudibranch (sea slug) eggs in a gel-encased, spiral cluster attached to a rock surface facing the sea, but unfortunately, the water was far too murky and fraught with long blades of grass-like algae to be able to detect a parent slithering along the sea floor. 

Conifer trees cover the landscape, perfectly straight and erect, seeming to reach ever higher for the sky and attempting to catch the clouds.  It is hard to imagine that much of the woods here is second growth.  Little grows beneath these dense and towering stands, save for the shade loving mosses that carpet the forest floor, creating an image of an enchanted woodland, complete with a garden gnome in a rear section of the center.

There are lilacs here, for which I always pause to inhale their beautiful fragrance.  I am happy that I am not missing them.