Enveloped in dense fog I set up my camp stool on a large, flat, vegetation-covered rock that protruded into the still water of the back beaver pond. To my left the bare black branches of a willow tree splayed into the grayness. Beneath the willow ran the long shoreward reach of a massive beaver dam, an assemblage of uncountable sticks, branches and small logs woven together and secured with mud. Water spilled softly over the dam into the next pond downstream. I pulled out my notebook and began my session of nature observation.

Red-winged Black Birds, fluttery dark silhouettes, landed in the willow and on the electric wires running behind it, bobbed their tails, boldly displayed their orange and gold wing epaulets, and sang liquid, gurgly “konk-la-ree” songs punctuated by “chacks” and a harsh, aggressive “bil-bow-roo” croak. Skirmishes broke out, one bird chasing another, both squawking and flapping. I was sitting in prime red-wing habitat. The birds were staking out their breeding territory, chasing away intruders, and making a grand display for the plain brown females.

A beaver traced a silent V through the water thirty feet in front of me. In the fog I could just make out its wet, chocolate-brown fur and short stubby ears. The water swirled as it propelled itself with sweeps of its powerful tail. The beaver slowed, swam closer, peered at me in the dim light, perhaps trying to figure out what this strange shape was. Back and forth it swam slowly and cautiously, then turned toward the pond and slipped silently beneath the surface.

 My alarm had chimed at five and even at that early hour the first light of day was inching above the horizon. While doing a few yoga stretches to loosen up I heard the sweet “cheerlily-cheerup, cheerlily-cheerup” song of a robin. It was only 5:14. Wow! I thought. A person would have to get up really early to catch the start of the dawn chorus this time of year.

My plan had been to drive to a new sit spot location that was over a mile from my house and be settled in at six when the sun rose. But the idea of driving, the noise of the motor, the opening and closing of car doors, all sounded wrong. It would be better to walk I thought, more in synch with the early morning stillness.

Back pack and camp stool shouldered, binoculars around my neck, I stepped across the back yard, into the woods, and down the long hill to the valley where the stream that fed the beaver pond flowed. Glancing ahead, I was alarmed to see a thick layer of fog hanging all along the valley. I wouldn’t be able to see anything in the fog! But then, that inner voice that so often gives me the words to describe the upcoming session, intoned, “The Reveal.”

I got it right away. The sun would rise, its beams would cut through the fog, the world of nature would be revealed. Comforted by this thought, I slowed my pace and began to wonder what else might be revealed on my walk. I saw a cluster of white, dew coated spider webs, delicate silken mittens set atop slender branches, a visual treat for an early morning walker.

Treading quietly I listened to and then tried to identify the bird songs and calls around me. I picked out the sprightly “drink you teeeeeee” of an Eastern Towhee, the rollicking “maids, maids, put on your tea kettle-lettle-lettle” of a Song Sparrow and the pure whistled “whoit, whoit, whoit” of a Northern Cardinal. The tones of each song sounded especially rich and full and melodious. Were the birds fresh and rested after a night’s sleep and now producing their purest notes?  Were they giving it their absolute best at start of breeding season? Was my hearing, renewed and reset after sleep, allowing me to fully perceive the tonal beauty of the songs? Or was it the morning quiet or some unique acoustic quality of the fog that made the tones sound so pure and lovely?

Now, as I sat silently next to the fog draped pond, taking notes during my second ten minute interval, I heard more songs; the resonant, reedy trill of a newly arrived Swamp Sparrow, the soft coos of a Mourning Dove, the poignant “ooo-eek” of a Wood Duck winging unseen through the fog above, and the clear clarion “wicka, wicka, wicka” of a Northern Flicker. From the upstream end of the pond two geese, hidden in the fog, honked softly back and forth. Their honks grew louder and more insistent. They took flight, emerged out of the fog, looped over the beaver dam, set their wings, circled back into the fog, and splashed down in the middle of the pond.

I watched the spot where I heard the geese land and soon their shadowy shapes came into view. They swam towards me, paddling, pushing with their bodies as if riding a watery swing.  I saw their long, graceful, arched black necks set off by a bright white chin strap. Closer they swam and now I could see the refection of their statuesque necks mirrored in the water, a kind of mesmerizing double arch spanning fog and water. The geese, moving like synchronous swimmers, came closer, just twenty feet away. It felt as if they were inspecting me, a dark green jacketed shape set against the background of a greening hay field, something unexpected and unknown in their private wild world. I felt a tiny tinge of nervousness under their examining gaze. Slowly, with a few nervous honks, the geese swam off and disappeared into the fog.

Looking, listening, and feeling, I made notes of all my sensory impressions, scribbled shorthand letters, symbols, and words around a circle with a dot in the center noting my location. Glancing out at the pond I could now see a thin tan line of old grasses and weeds running along the far shore. The fog was lifting ever so slightly and little by little more was revealed.

A small bird perched on a nearby branch; brown streaked breast, dark spot in the middle, soft “chimp, chimp, chimp” companion calls, a male song sparrow. He fluttered in front of me, and landed on the litter of the beaver dam. A few soft companion calls and his mate flew down to join him. They hopped and picked their way along the top of the beaver dam.

A cardinal, luminous bright red in the gray light, flew into the willow, flitted from branch to branch, and also landed on the top of the beaver dam, where it too hopped along the ground and picked through the litter of twigs, branches, and dried weed stems. It seemed that the beaver dam not only created a large, deep pond, but it also provided a long feeding and foraging platform for the birds, an opportunity they readily found.

Two beavers surfaced in front of me, swimming in lazy circles, looping closer. They seemed to be gazing at me, studying me. I noticed my reactions. A tiny thread of fear flashed through me; wild animals, danger, they could attack. I need a stick for a weapon. Check for an escape route. Another thought surfaced. “Hey beavers! I’m a human. I’m dangerous to you. Wise up. Get away from me. I’m invading your space. I’m too close.”

Sadly, I realized that the fear and conflict in my heart was creating waves of disturbance, building a barrier between me and the beavers, and probably separating me from all of nature. To move forward with my observations I would need to clear my heart and mind of fear. The beavers, as if reading my state of mind, swam hurriedly away. One slapped the water loudly with its tail, and then they both dove under the water.

I heard geese honking in the distance, flying toward the pond in the fog. The geese on the pond answered with steady honks as if guiding the flyers in. A chorus of back and forth honking between the groups of geese arose. Three splashes in the fog as the newcomers found their way. The honking slowly settled into silence. Guidance offered spontaneously, safe landing accomplished; the geese returned to their business.

The fog cleared. I could see the far shore of the pond; the long tan line of last year’s grasses and weeds, the jumble of bare branched shrubs and bushes, the tall stately trunks of the trees illuminated by sunlight. A perfect mirror image of this shoreline panorama reflected upon the mirror surface of the pond.

Two drake mallards flew over the pond, luminous green heads, bright white neck rings, chestnut neck, and gray-white breast. I heard their raspy “veep, veep” calls. Setting their wings they glided towards me, but at the last moment spotted me, veered to the left, and splashed down in the adjacent pond.

Spring frogs, peepers, launched their loud, high pitched, yet soothing chorus. Tree Swallows looped and twittered over the pond on the hunt for flying insects. Red-wings were all around me singing, calling, chasing. A swamp sparrow trilled and a song sparrow belted out its aria. A cardinal whistled. Doves cooed. The telegraph “rat-tat-tat” of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker added a percussion touch to the morning chorus.

My hour was up, but I lingered and gazed at the mirror image of the far shoreline and looked down at a half-submerged log in front of me covered in dazzling verdant green moss. The rays of the rising sun, now above the hill behind me, warmed my neck and shoulders. Reluctantly, I stood up, packed up my gear, and started back, stepping into the hay field where I saw my earlier path, a weaving trail of dark green footsteps across light green dew-covered grass.

 

This sit spot session took place on April 28, 2018 in Wayne County, PA.