Robert LaCombe

Unfinished Business I was relaxing on the hammock the other day. I guess I was assessing our lives. My wife’s and mine. I had a cold drink in my hand, the sun was setting, and I was feeling intimate with my surroundings. It’s a piece of property we have worked closely with for over a decade.

Fashioning your Faith Over the years I’ve had the opportunity to listen to many fine orators proselytizing the Christian faith. As a minister I’ve been to retreats, conferences, seminars, revivals and all manner of Christian gatherings listening to men and women give testimonies and tell stories of their encounters w...

First Snow Every season in the forest brings out different energies and different emotions

Robert LaCombe | Substack Naturalist and writer living in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia with my wife and an ever changing menagerie of domestic and wild animals.

The Shed When I was eleven years old, we moved into a beautiful home in the woods. It was in the heart of an old farming community that years before, had given up and sold out to developers who had major plans. But for now, it was paradise. We were surrounded by meadows and orchards, broken down fences and o...

Fall

The forest that surrounds our home is shedding its mantle of fall colors.
The air is still but leaves are falling like snow.
Branches and other leaves receive a brief caress as they descend dry, like flakes of rust. The sound echoes of a forest dripping with moisture after a summer thunderstorm.
Soon the great oaks, beech, maple and popular will stand naked, their long shadows stretching across the forest floor, compliments of Autumns sun angled low.
Chickadees, nuthatches. Tufted titmice and goldfinches descend on the feeder and scattered throughout the garden flimsy spider webs bejeweled with dew. The feeling is melancholy but relaxing.
At no other time of year does one feel the passing of time so apparent or so poignant.
Autunm days like this sing of hope when there is no hope, breathe eternal summer when winter is so near. A paradise not lost but hidden, until the longer days of sunshine and the life it brings with it return.
I live in a world where alien life is not on some distant planet, but within walking distance from the chair I now sit in. Where bumble bees see in ultraviolet light, butterflies’ taste with their feet, and spiders float through the air on threads of light, while the whole forest, it’s trees, plants and fungi pulsate in communication underground through webs of mycelium.
All of this, on the wane now. This somber and most beautiful day.
Should I feel pity for religions that explain away this majesty with dogma and prejudice?
Every season brings out sensitivity in different ways. How does one not feel gratitude to be alive while experiencing such a magical, and mysterious kingdom?

Went for a splendid bike ride this morning, the first day of fall. The weather was perfect, a Carolina blue sky, 72 degrees with an occasional breeze. It was enough to rustle the leaves that had already fallen to the ground. We got off our bikes and sat on a bench along a part of the trail that follows the New River. We wanted to rest a bit, and just listen to the sounds unfolding around us. It was beautiful, of course, but something was missing.
Some friends visited last week with their children, he's a physician so naturally our conversation tended towards health and health care. We sat outside on the front porch, and because our home sits in the woods we were able to watch deer wander by and listen as a few birds sang from the trees. It occurred to me then, as it often does these days, how quiet the woods and meadow spaces had become since I was a boy, and I mentioned it in conversation. My friend who is only 42 looked at me questioning my observation. "It's true”, I said. "When I was a kid, a place in the woods like this would be absolutely alive with a multitude of bird and insect sounds. There would be movement everywhere!" Unless you were an avid outdoors person like myself, it would probably go unnoticed.
A few days after they left a study was released in the journal Science. It stated there has been a 29% reduction in the North American bird population since 1970. That's about 3 billion birds. There are many reasons for this, habitat loss, increased use of pesticides, even the number of domestic cats play a critical role.
That my friend didn't notice the difference, is not at all unusual, how could he? Each generation experiences less "wildness" and nature because there is less. The problem is, that it's normal to them. The new normal. Any more than I can imagine a time when passenger pigeons (now extinct) were the most plentiful bird in the world. Their flocks so huge, it blocked the sun. Or buffalo herds so large they took three days to pass. If we didn't have written accounts of the abundance of wildlife in our country from days past, we would never even wonder what happened.
Not only have we lost a huge number of our bird population, equally unsettling is that we have lost what birds do! Insect and pest control, help in pollination and the spreading of seeds for plants and trees are only part of the services birds offer. The aria of songs that float across our air space and the palette of colors that brighten our world are now, also, 30% less.
The question that always comes to my mind in cases like this is, does anyone really care? I am keenly aware of the fact that most Facebook users will have stopped reading several paragraphs ago, because it takes effort to read. Mostly, when we get on Facebook, we just want to watch short videos or look at pictures. This is important. Even if you don't believe it is.
Man has always believed that nothing is as important as us. Therefore, everything else is less. A good portion of the population believes that God gave man dominion over the earth, that we have the authority to do as we please with animals and their habitat. Problem is, man has this reoccurring history of relegating certain races to a status of less than human and treating them accordingly. And now we... at least in this country, seem to have put the poor and homeless into a category of, if not less than human, at least less deserving of the same rights as the rich. If this is in any doubt look at our justice system. But I digress.
I have spent most of my life being an astute observer of nature and all her glories. This is what I have concluded;
An organism that is too greedy and takes too much without giving anything in return destroys what it needs for life and dies out. Most species, therefore, have developed innate behaviors that protect the habitat from over exploitation.
Many species, when infected with a virus develop a fever. Raising the body temperature is necessary to kill the virus.
Whether you choose to believe the science or not, the planet is getting warmer. Choosing not to believe the science because it doesn't line up with your theology or political affiliations makes you, a part of the problem.
We live in a country today that is no longer run for the people or by the people. We are run by greedy corporations that own our elected officials. In this kind of world, the loss of species, or habitat, or your health, will always be less important than the loss of profit. They have all the power and they get to control the conversation. Don't ever let them convince us that we don't need strong protections for the environment.
Yesterday, across the world, we saw children and young people leading, because they can see the truth and the future and are not paid to sell lies.
There are so many things to be concerned about in this country. I know gun control and abortion are wedge issues designed to keep us divided.
Dare I say it? This is more important!

September

Summer’s end comes steadily with a low angled sun. Morning shadows reveal flimsy spider webs that hang low, bejeweled with dew. The sun rises later and sets a little earlier.
There is increased activity as everything senses time is running short. Humming birds hit the feeder in greater numbers as their migration south across the gulf has already begun. Bucks with velvety antlers stalk the forest as ginger ghosts, leaving signs of their passing with gouged out areas of earth and rubbed off bark hanging in strips from the trunks of saplings.
Turkeys roam the woods in small flocks like gossiping church ladies in petticoats. And bears, black silhouettes, plodding amid an emerald world digging up, pulling down or turning over anything that might reveal precious calories to support a long winter.
Every creature that lives here can feel it. A gentle prodding, reminding us change is coming. With that knowledge comes a peace, sometimes tinged with melancholy. Another summer is ending. And how many more are left to us?
But today, the sky could not be a cleaner blue. The sun tries to deceive us with her embrace and the air is yet to be filled with the scent of rotting leaves. So we revel in the knowledge that September is here and everyday forward is a gift. Soon the snow will cover a sleeping land, and spring will come again.

Going Home

I’ve heard it said, that two of the most important events in a person’s life are leaving home, and going back home. Home can mean different things to different people. For some, “home” is that house they grew up in, or that town where they graduated from high school. To others, home is wherever their mother lives.
For me, “home” was ten acres of paradise nestled in the heart of farm country in southwestern Ontario. The house was hidden from the road in a clearing in the woods. A stream ran through the back yard with a waterfall that dropped into a small pool hardly big enough to swim in. We moved there the summer I turned twelve.
The back door opened up to a world that was nothing short of glorious. Where everything begged inspection. The sights, sounds and smells intoxicated and overwhelmed my senses.
One summer morning while following the stream, I came upon an old man sitting on a rock.
We talked for a while and I learned his name was Roy Ivor, a famous ornithologist and author, who had written a book and assorted articles for National Geographic He invited me back to his
house, which was little more than a small cottage in the woods surrounded by huge aviaries filled with all kinds of birds, from sparrows to eagles.
We sat on his porch and talked as wild chickadees and nuthatches landed on his arm or shoulder and made their way to his breast pocket, where he kept a treat of peanut chips for his
friends. Even the odd chipmunk would gleefully dance up the old man’s leg chasing away any competitors, crawl into his pocket and totally stuff his cheeks before exiting.
Over the next few years Mr. Ivor (who was 90 years old when we met) and I became close.
Every day I would make my way across the meadow and through the woods to his bird sanctuary. And every day he taught me something new. People would send him injured or baby
birds from all over Canada and the United States. Dutifully and methodically, he would tend to each one. This one had a broken wing, that one, too young to be on its own. Each one with a
story, each one getting the same level of care and respect.
I watched as his old weathered hands would slowly and gently pick up an injured bird and his fingers would feel for a break in the wing. Quietly talking in so soothing a tone, words that
revealed such a deep understanding and compassion for the life that now rested in his care.
At times it was not possible to be in his presence and think of him as anything but a “holy man”. Indeed, as I learned later in life from veterinarians, just how impossible it can be to set a
broken wing or leg on a bird because of their hollow bones. He taught me how to set broken bones, taught me how to mix up special formulas to feed different baby birds, taught me the
proper way to let an eagle rest on my arm. He gave me baby owls, hawks and various song birds to take home and raise.
Sometimes I would deliberately miss the bus that came to the end of our long driveway and walk to Roy’s on my way to school. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school boy?” “Yea, but I missed
the bus.” Of course, you did. Well, come on over here and give me a hand with things before you go.”
Not many days went by that I didn’t spend at least some time with Roy. I spent so much time walking back and forth that I became intimate with the land between our properties. The stream,
the meadow, the woods, and the orchard, where I watched trees that blossomed in the spring with sweet-smelling flowers turn to fruit, fall to the ground in September and rot. The next year
the limb that hung low with fruit was dead. It was like a new wrinkle on a familiar face. All this was somehow important to me.
It was in the orchard one beautiful spring afternoon, when the grass was getting long and a warm breeze carried the scent of apple blossoms, that I gave my virginity to a young girl that
lived in the farm across the ravine. But not my innocence. I kept that until the summer I turned fifteen, when my father was transferred to a town in upstate New York. My innocence was torn
from me, along with a menagerie of pets that had to be found homes for on short notice. My paradise, my friend, left behind and we moved into an awful house on a busy street in a smelly
factory town. A part of the country where it was not uncommon to have less than twenty sunny days over the course of a summer, where it was not uncommon to have five feet of snow fall in
twenty-four hours, where it was not uncommon to feel a profound sense of loss.
I’m getting ready to go back home. Not the home in the woods in Southwestern Ontario. I’ve been back there. The stream is now a green way that runs through a sea of concrete. The farms sold to greedy developers who turned them into shopping centers, townhomes and busy roads.
Mr. Ivor, whose furrowed brow hovered over countless birds is buried in St. Peters cemetery on the hill. He died when he was ninety-nine.
But I am going back home. Home for me is a place in the woods. Where the breeze whispering through pine trees is the sound of my traffic, and the songs of the birds are the voices of my neighbors. Where I can once again find intimacy with my Creator through His creations.
This will be my new home. Maybe it will be my last.
I still think of my old home and friend often. They are cradled in the arms of my heart where my memories give them life. My mentor, Mr. Ivor. The lines on his face ran as deep as his character. If I could be the man, he was to me, to just one person in this life, it would be a life filled with purpose and significance.
Tomorrow, I leave to go back home

Mid Summer Mornings

This morning, the trees of the forest are dark and dripping with moisture. Bizarre looking mushrooms and colorful fungi have risen from brown pine needles, decaying leaves and fallen trees. Invisible forces are at work turning them into humus for future generations. Spider webs crafted in the night now hang low bejeweled with dew. And somewhere, beyond the forest, a misty glowing light is trying to pe*****te this natural amphitheater.
There are creatures that have occasion to pass through here. Their passion plays, dramatic life and death struggles, even their comedies, can turn the grounds into a vaudeville stage. On this moody, gray morning it’s an opera house for the grandstanding aria of the pileated woodpecker and the competing whimsical song of a wood thrush.
For me, it’s a lecture hall and I am compelled to listen. So quiet is the voice for such an ardent narrative. Some days, I come away not understanding the lesson, but am always left with a quiet peace. As though I’ve been in the presence of infinite grace, welcoming acceptance and inspiration. I’ve come to realize that it’s a place I go to heal.
Lately, I feel the burden of trust left to me by an old man who may have expected something more from the time we spent together. I should be doing more for these wild places.

Unfinished Business
I was relaxing on the hammock the other day. I guess I was assessing our lives. My wife’s and mine. I had a cold drink in my hand, the sun was setting, and I was feeling intimate with my
surroundings. It’s a piece of property we have worked closely with for over a decade.
Sometimes, I feel fortunate and wonder what I ever did to deserve all this. Other times I don’t fully understand how we have survived what life has thrown our way. Often, when I’m alone, I
try to concentrate on the positive and do a mental inventory of everything I’m grateful for. The list is substantial. That’s what I was doing this late afternoon.
The day was slowly trading places with the evening and the songs of birds were being replaced with the calls of crickets. Everything was peaceful, and I felt my spirit resting in a place
of gratitude. But I was taken off guard with a sudden and overwhelming feeling that I was very far from home. I felt panicked, like I needed to return somewhere and take care of unfinished
business.
I had a home once, that I loved. Maybe even more than the home I have now. But, I was just a boy and had earned nothing. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I had earned the respect and
friendship of an old man. He was ten years old when the slaughter at Wounded Knee took place, and ninety-one years old when I met him. A “Holy man” in the truest sense of the
definition. Although that wasn’t a claim he ever made, it was obvious to anyone that spent time with him. He was awarded the “Order of Canada Medal” for his work in ornithology. He wrote a
book called “I live with Birds.” and articles for the National Geographic. He understood that animals had emotions, could feel love and loss at a time when science scoffed at the very
notion. He had a small home in the woods surrounded by large aviaries. It was a bird sanctuary.
People sent him injured and rare birds from all over North America. He set the hollow bones of broken wings and legs, determined the exact formula to be fed to any number of baby birds,
raised them up, or healed them, and released them into the wild to live as they were meant to
live. All the while, showing the same level of care and respect to the life that now rested in his hands, be it sparrow or eagle.
Every day I made my way across the meadow, over the stream and through the woods to his home. Every day he taught me something new. I met him when I was eleven years old and
had to leave him when I was fifteen.
Four decades later, I sometimes awake from the same dream. All the birds are dead. I wasn’t there to feed them. It wasn’t the place. It was him. He was my home.
My home now is where my wife is. Our children are adults, living too far away. My thoughts drifted to them and our own intimate tribe... our family. What a gift it was to have them as children, all to ourselves. We were our home then. A time so intense and wonderful. It passed too quickly, was over too soon. I realized then what I was feeling. I was very far from “that
home.” My kids will never be children again, and I... will never again be a young man. But I can still open a door and enter into a room where I hear my kids say.... “Dad’s home!” I still hear
them as they come thundering up the stairs to greet me, still feel them in my arms as we roll around on the floor, feel their hair in my face as they kiss me, hear their laughter when I tickle them and feel their weight on my back as they ride the “bucking bronco.”
I guess there is no “unfinished business.” If we are very fortunate, we will have had several “homes” in our lifetimes. Each one cradled in the arms of our minds and our hearts. Each one
changing us from one person into someone else. Wiser, stronger, fuller..... better.

Changing Waters

When I was a boy my family lived for a time in the country. Behind our home was a stream, it
cascaded down a succession of rock shelves for perhaps two hundred feet before finally gushing over a five-foot waterfall into a small basin just big enough to swim in. Under huge overhanging Hemlocks I would sit on a slate ledge that protruded out over the water and throw small pieces of bread into the little pool. Chub and Shiners darted from the shadows and attacked my offerings in a squirming mass. Reflections of light from tiny scales caused flashes of brilliant silver and flooded the chaos of their feeding frenzy like exploding sparklers. Crayfish clambered out from under their rocks in the hopes of grabbing a stray morsel, but that seemed unlikely as the bread disappeared when it broke the surface.
Dragonflies darted here and there and stopped instantly as if looking for something. I spied on dragonfly nymphs under the water, caught one in the cup of my hands and was rewarded with a painful bite that astonished me. Once they completed their metamorphoses and were air-borne they were impossible to catch. Their eyes, like two motorcycle helmets on their heads, saw everything in any direction. I could not out smart or out maneuver them.
Bullfrogs, painted turtles, muskrats, wood ducks, kingfishers and herons were all common residents of my stream. But for one who knew where to look; mud puppies, salamanders, snapping turtles, mink and otter could also be encountered. Lift the rock slowly and let the current take with it the silt from the disturbance and look; a newt, a crayfish, a baby snapping turtle. Small, but intricate lives who did dwell in a hidden world, and for a curious boy; treasures and mysteries that enriched his youth.
The stream was called Sawmill Creek, she continued her campaign past our property through forests and meadows another three miles before emptying herself into The Credit River, where they combined forces for another several miles before pushing their way into Lake Ontario.
After several days of rain or a spring thaw the stream would exceed her boundaries and roar past in a rage like an avalanche of frothy chocolate milk. I would rush down to watch this side of her, rare and exciting. The sheer volume of water rumbled like constant thunder that pulsated in my chest and I relished the l***y pandemonium she created in a former place of tranquility. Days later, when her temper subsided, I could survey the damage and look for treasure left behind in her haste.
The waterfall was a place where daydreams were formed, then floated aimlessly downstream with the current. The imagination of youth, free from the confines of real responsibility, rising and drifting with the slightest breeze, the hum of a thousand insects or the song of a wood thrush. Often, I could hear music in the cascading water splashing against rock and moss, a virtual symphony of woodwinds, stringed instruments, brass and drum.
I listen for those ancient musicians now when I’m near a stream or river. Sometimes I get distracted and can’t tune into her dulcet, but often if I’m alone, I can close my eyes and tune out everything but the music. A breeze blowing through the trees will add harmony, and birds often contribute a chorus. Although the aria produced from rushing water and stone is more than sufficient.
Today, my wife and I walked beside Chestnut creek and paused to listen for her song. The stream is partially frozen and the gurgling sound it made going over and under the shelves of ice crafted a composition that can be played only during the winter season. She suggested we cup our hands to our ears and when we did the melody of cold water slapping over rock and ice was amplified and sounded like a cathedral filled with the clacking applause of hundreds.
The spring floods roar out an intense rhythmic beat, the dog days of summer bring down a languid easy love song, and when the shadows grow long after the fall equinox she sings a soulful song of loss and hope. Her lyrics may often be influenced by my mood, but the music is always her own. Every stream, river or spring flowing to its own tempo, crafted only by the lay of the land and the spirit musicians that inhabit her space.
Everywhere I have lived there has been a stream or a river that figured prominently in the time I spent there. Names that stimulated my imagination; The Credit River, The Saint Lawrence, The Oswego, The Saugeen, The Catawba and now The New River. Many hours were spent exploring their banks, kayaking their routes, camping by and fishing their waters. I’ve had close relationships with all of them, but none so intimate as the one with Sawmill Creek. Perhaps it was my age that so ingrained her lessons into my spirit; perhaps it was her spirit that made that age so memorable. Walking beside her – with her – was the greatest education I ever received.
The first buck I had ever seen was resting by her banks – invisible in the tall brown grass of Fall. We surprised each other and he catapulted from his bed with a grunt, long explosive leaps carried him across the meadow, white tail flashing each time his front hooves touched the earth. The experience left me awe-struck. Images of a velvet rack of antlers, bulging eyes and that great thick neck still give me chills when I think of the encounter.
The nests of water fowl, song birds, fierce hawks and stoic owls were many along her pathway and I checked on them all regularly. A fox den, a hollow tree with a family of raccoons, muskrat dens made from cattail, water snakes, the dark skeletal remains of long dead Elm trees, their brittle branches like withered arms reaching for salvation in the puffy white clouds against a bright blue sky. And always her song as it rolled over rocks and fallen trees providing the sound track for this impossible spectacle of perfection and paradise.
The summer I turned fifteen was spent pulling up surveyors stakes and sitting in a tree so a construction crew couldn’t cut it down. My father was transferred in the fall and we moved south to New York state before the devastation began in earnest. I went back years later to do a presentation in a school that had been built on what was once the meadow the buck ran through. Expensive homes lined streets with names like “Singing Brook Lane” and Rolling Meadows Drive. At lunch I went down to the stream to see if she remembered me and to hear her song. The area had been turned into a green way with an asphalt trail that followed her meandering path, some of her banks were lined with white rocks in a wire mess to control erosion, a sickly brown foam collected in little eddies created by a lethargic current.
I walked up-stream in search of the waterfall, my desire was to sit on the slate ledge and share my sandwich with the fish. A bridge had been built over her for the pleasure of cyclists and pedestrians, a mansion was now looming large in the place of our home and the great hemlocks, ferns and wild flowers that once lined her banks were mostly gone, replaced with the type of landscaping preferred by the more socially refined. The slate out cropping had long ago broken away and lay in repose under five feet of water at the base of the falls. I lifted rocks in search of the hidden lives that once so enchanted this small pool, but they were gone, the rocks now covered in a slimy algae like growth.
I was suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of grief and loss and had to just sit by the falls and try to come to terms with an anger that seemed to have thoroughly permeated my spirit. But soon, I began to see how this little stream had helped to shape who I had become and influenced my perception of the world and an understanding of my place in it. Slowly my anger was replaced with great waves of gratitude and love and it was only then I could hear her music. It was strong and beautiful, a summer love song, pure and resilient, her spirit had never left and she inspired me to add to her song
“Oh lover of loves, with all my heart I will cradle you in the arms of my mind where once again my memories give you glorious life. I’ll remember you and all you gave me.”
“Our walks together, when I poured out my inner most self without ever saying a word and you were there, comforting my soul with each step. What I owe can never be paid”
“Our spirits have been forever entwined, bound together by the maker of all things who gave us to each other, but only for our allotted time.”
We’ve both changed, her and I. She’s been around for thousands of years and has seen many changes. And how many lives has she helped to mold? How many boys and girls, men and women down through the generations have been influenced by her music? I’ll never know. But how many more are still enjoying her beauty, her playful dance over rocks and under trees? They enjoy her for who she is today, they didn’t know her in days of old and have no sense of what’s been lost. When people stop on the bridge they appreciate who she is now, and what she has to offer is no less for those who know how to listen.

The Geese of Danlee Park

There is a park that I drive by occasionally, it borders Chestnut creek and the New River Trail. A small camp ground for tent camping lies between the creek and the trail, and on the road side of the park there is an asphalt walking trail and a kid’s playground. Part way up the ravine a small cabin overlooks the park, and is occasionally rented out as a vacation property. Across the road from the cabin is an abandoned farm house in disrepair that is surrounded by a fenced pasture where horses often graze. All in all, a nice setting.
One afternoon as I was passing by, I noticed two large domestic geese standing in an open area between the creek and the road looking confused. Very recently someone had decided to relieve themselves of these two innocents (I’m sure.) by dropping them off at the park. Having shared our space with geese I could certainly understand how someone would want to rehome this duo. I know from experience how impossible it is to find anyone naive’ enough to take them. But, just dropping them off at the park and driving away seemed a bit harsh.
I pulled the truck over got out and walked towards them. I know a gooses body language quite well and these two were very scared. A place they’ve never been before, in an open area with no protection, and a stranger walking towards them. At least they had each other. I walked past them and sat down by the stream bank. The duo huddled close together vocalizing their distress with loud honks and squeals. For a brief moment I contemplated taking them home where they would be safe but, a flash back of our last goose experience reminded me how displeased my wife would be with that decision.
I talked to them in the most reassuring tone I could muster. As they inched closer, I noticed that one had “angel wing.”
Angel Wing is a condition that effects mostly waterfowl, it’s caused by a nutritional deficiency in vitamins and minerals combined with a high level of carbohydrates and sugars. Feeding waterfowl too much bread is the likely culprit. It causes the carpal joint (wrist) on the wing to grow awkwardly, leaving the wing unable to sit flush against the body. This renders the bird flightless. Their primary flight feathers look more like sticks. Damage in fully mature birds is irreversible and most often fatal because they can’t fly to other food sources and the flock will reject them.
This one had a mate and it was not rejecting her but rather moved in to protect her when I got too close. I sat for a long time trying to gain their confidence. They eventually figured I posed no threat and came in to investigate this odd human.
With necks outstretched, heads down, and talking all the way, they came over in a defensive position ready to fight or flee in moment’s notice. They are a pair of domestic Pomeranian geese. We’ve raised a pair of this breed ourselves. My wife and I disagree on whether it was a delight or a disaster having them. Whose ever reality is the truth no longer matters. In the end you can’t blame a goose for being a goose.
I was concerned for these two. They obviously were raised by someone who didn’t know what they were getting into and when they couldn’t deal with them anymore took them for a one-way trip to the park. A very “dickish” thing to do in my opinion.
There are coyotes here, they are deadly serious hunters and opportunistic. We’ve lost many chickens to them over the years, and these two wouldn’t stand a chance if caught in the open away from water.
I came back the next day to check on them and brought along a little snack. I didn’t see them when I pulled up so, I walked down to the stream bank hoping I wouldn’t find a scattering of bloody feathers. I found them comfortably sitting beside the water on a small sand bar. When they saw me, they sounded the alarm, standing fully erect with necks stretched out and heads held high honking and squeaking at a decibel level I thought was completely unnecessary. I laid out a peace offering with some corn and apple slices. They hesitated but, soon found the apple slices irresistible and waddled over rocking side to side on stubby little legs. They didn’t need the food, there was a field with plenty of fresh green grass to gorge on. It was more like a house warming gift welcoming them to their new home.
My business takes me out of town several days a week so I wasn’t able to get back to check on them for almost a week. When I pulled off the road that bordered the creek the pair recognized my truck and rushed over with a greeting that would have convinced anyone watching that we were old friends. They ran from the stream bank on stubby little legs honking and flapping their wings. The one with the deformity looked pitiful as she wasn’t able to fully extend them. They surrounded me nibbling on my shoes and pant legs and genuinely seemed happy to see me. I offered them some snacks but, they were more interested in visiting than eating. So, I walked down to the stream followed now, by a friendly entourage and sat down along the bank. Having the trust and companionship of animals wild or domestic always seems to have a calming effect. I sat with them while they blabbered on in incomprehensible goose speak. They seemed to be telling me about their day and other sordid adventures. After a few minutes they quieted down and sandwiched me one on either side and rested peacefully.
It felt somewhat like a privilege to have won their friendship so I was reluctant to leave but, humans have other matters to attend to and can’t be sitting around all day by a stream bank even with the best of friends. They escorted me back to the truck chatting the whole way.
So began our friendship that has lasted over two years now. Every day I have off, starts with a short drive to the park and visits of varying lengths with this loving couple who are so devoted and bonded to each other.
Last December the temperature dropped to below zero degrees. Geese are well insulated against the cold and rarely have issues. However, when I pulled up to our usual meeting spot and honked the horn only one came up over the stream bank to greet me, and then stopped a few feet from the water calling, looking behind and was unwilling to go any farther. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and feared the worst. I walked towards the stream and could hear her pitiful pleas before I reached the edge. When I found her, she was unable to climb the bank because she had two huge blocks of ice frozen to the ends of both wings weighing her down. Her deformity caused this situation. Her wing feathers sticking out away from her body collected water turning to ice and growing larger by the hour. I hadn’t been to see them for a few days so she may have been this way for a while.
I walked back to the truck and retrieved a large steel padlock and used it to smash the ice blocks attached to her wings. I had to hold her down which really stressed her out as well as her mate. I had never been forceful with them before and I worried I had lost their trust. The whole event left them cautious and nervous so I left them alone not wanting to aggravate the situation any more.
When I came to check on them the following morning, I didn’t quite know what to expect. But, when I pulled up and honked my horn, they both came running, flapping their wings and honking with such enthusiasm I knew all was forgotten. The one that I had broken the ice from its wings was especially excited and parked herself between my feet wrapping her neck around my leg and refusing to move. Not all had been forgotten apparently.
It can be easy to read things into animal behavior that isn’t accurate. We tend to project human qualities and behaviors onto them that can confuse the situation. This much I know is true. Geese are very intelligent animals. They bond for life with a mate, live a long time, have long memories and are very loyal and will risk their lives defending their mates and young. They can also be total jackasses. It is also true that this goose for whom I broke the ice from her wings has not just remained friendly but, since this event has been what can only be described as affectionate with me.
Several weeks ago, I arrived for a visit and was greeted with their usual enthusiasm. She was limping though and a little slower in reaching me. I picked her up and examined her leg. A fish hook was imbedded in the thick leathery orange skin with a three-foot nylon string still attached. That skin around the leg is very tough, the hook had a barb in it and I couldn’t remove it.
I drove back home retrieved a dog crate, drove back to the park and much to the horror of her mate, put her in the crate and drove away leaving him alone and panicked. Our vet is used to us bringing in injured wildlife and took her back immediately and removed the hook. Even though they had been apart for less than an hour when I took her home to the park the reunion was a joyous and ruckus affair with much honking and squealing and head bowing. They waddled off together towards the stream completely ignoring the one who saved her leg. I have to admit I felt a little jilted. On our next visit she let me know how much I was appreciated by sitting in my lap, taking my fingers in her beak and nibbling gently her gratitude.
Why is it that relationships formed with animals can be as fulfilling as relationships formed with human friends? These geese know nothing about the world I live in. I know almost nothing about theirs. When we are together, we don’t talk about the negative or the human condition. Politics, violence, drugs, poverty, climate change, nor do we talk about other geese or other people. We just enjoy being in each other’s company. It’s simple, it’s pure, it has purpose, and as with all friendships they lead to other acquaintances.
There is a flock of crows whose territory includes the park, there is also a pair of wild Canada geese that have taken up residency. They all have noticed how well we get along and have become curious. Now when I arrive the crows announce my presence and come in from all directions for a sampling of the day’s menu, the wild geese hang back waiting to be noticed and gladly partake in any leftovers. I have fun watching their behavior. The pair only tolerate so much though and when the crows or Canada geese get too close, they chase them off. Heads down, necks stretched out and running faster than you would think those stubby little legs could carry them they charge the freeloaders. The Canada geese retreat but, the crows make a game of it and taunt the hapless couple with superior intelligence and flight skills. One crow distracts them while another swoops in to claim the prize. They are totally out matched.
It’s a fun group with interesting personalities. It’s entertaining to be a part of it. My presence with food adds a dynamic to the theater because birds that normally would have very little to do with each other suddenly are brought together for the opportunity share a meal… only they’re not really sharing. The Pomeranian geese use they’re larger size to easily intimidate the Canada geese. When they try it with the crows, the crows prove that wits and superior skills always prevail over bullying and brute force.
I have made this group of animal’s part of my life and they have allowed me to be part of theirs. Even when I’m short on time I try and stop by for a visit. I realize that some days I’m just checking on them, making sure everyone is safe and all is right with the world. Other days, when I have time, I’ll hang a while. It’s like stopping by to have a cup of coffee with friends.
Often when I spend time in nature studying some bird or other animal I am often reminded of this quote by Henry Beston from his book The Outermost House; “We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.”