A flotilla of geese, large and dark, their white chin straps barely visible in the pre-dawn light, drifted slowly away from the stony bank of the abandoned boat launch at White Oak Pond. A quick tally revealed more than twenty-five, a flock well augmented by a fully grown, new generation.

The geese paddled out toward open water, moving steadily and effortlessly, tracing soft Vs across the placid surface of the pond. Perhaps they had spent the night in the safety of the deeper water near the old boat ramp. They didn’t seem concerned by my presence possibly due to the early hour and faint light when birds and animals often seemed less afraid. Or maybe they had simply seen few humans around the deserted pond and were less inclined to be alarmed.

I unloaded my kayak and dragged it down the rocky, weedy ground to a small inlet in the shoreline reeds. Climbing in, I shoved hard with the paddle, pushed the boat across the black mud, and floated free. I always loved that first moment of floating free; low and level in the water, moving easily with even the slightest push of the paddle.

The forecast called for a break in the rain. My plan was to paddle across the open water, push the kayak into the edge of the vast marsh, and conduct an hour-long sit spot afloat. After a brief search I found a small mud bank covered with weeds and wildflowers, backed the stern of the kayak onto it, and settled in with a full view of the open water. In a few minutes it felt as if my presence was ignored, as if I had vanished into and was absorbed by the marsh.

Swallows swirled overhead, lifting, turning, ascending, dropping deftly, snatching insects from the air. I tried to identify the different species, a challenge because they flew constantly and were difficult to track through the air.

The most graceful were the barn swallows with slender long wings, streamlined body, long forked tail, blueish back, cinnamon neck and buff colored breast. I watched them flap and glide and flap and glide and listened to their short, sweet “vit, vit” song. There were some tree swallows as well with violet-green backs, white breasts, broader wings and squared off, faintly notched tails, singing more musical gurgles and chirps. And I spotted a few northern rough-winged swallows, plainer in appearance, brownish back, white breast, gray-brown throat, broader wings and squared off, notched tails.

These three types of swallows seemed happy to share this prime pond habitat with its abundance of insects. They appeared in waves. For a while there were no swallows and then suddenly lots of them, some flying a few feet over my head, with such quiet wing strokes that I could barely hear their wing beats. I saw immature swallows with indistinct plumage mixed in, flying and hunting alongside their elders and parents with what appeared to be full proficiency. I guessed there were at least a hundred swallows flying and feeding over the pond and marsh.

Ahead on the water swam a lone duck. Binoculars up, I saw a mostly gray duck, but at the distance and in the dim light it was hard to identify. I watched it swim, pause, climb out on a mud bank, pick for food and waddle back in the water.

Somehow it seemed like a young duck on its own. I didn’t know why, but I felt a sense of kinship to this duck. Perhaps because we were both alone, both engaged in the tasks at hand. The duck slipped into a patch of reeds and disappeared.

A trio of red-winged blackbirds, chacking emphatically, corkscrewed down out of the sky and landed amidst a thick patch of cattails. Another two flew in and joined them, then another five. I listened to their “chack, chack” calls. Some walked on the mud picking for food, others clung to vertical stems, and still others perched jauntily on the top of long dark brown cattail heads.

More blackbirds flew in. I saw the plain brownish females and spotted an occasional flash of bright orange from the wings of the males. They seemed restless, getting ready to assemble into migratory flocks, flocks that included the old generation and the new, the young birds that would be making their first trek south.

The flock of geese, hidden behind reeds, began to honk, then lifted into the air and flew right over me. I could hear their strong wings fanning the air as they steadily gained altitude, honking, climbing, heading out for a day of grazing in nearby fields.

A light mist began to fall that in few minutes turned to rain, the drops splashing softly onto the surface of the pond, creating impact circles. The rain soaked my shoulders and the pages of my notebook. It was a gentle rain, unexpected, and I thought, just more water joining the day’s watery theme. I grabbed my life-preserver, put it over my notebook to keep the pages dry, and lifted it when I made notes.

The lone duck reappeared, much closer now and I was happy to see it again. I brought it into focus with my binoculars and studied its appearance; gray head, short gray bill, and a faint white eye ring. It seemed oblivious to my presence. I watched it feed, saw its bill open and close as it snatched morsels from the mud, saw it strain water with its beak, somehow an intimate view. I felt almost as if I was invading its privacy.

The duck climbed on to a mud bank offering me a full view. I saw its mottled brownish breast and short gray legs. A quick peek at the photos on the iBird Pro app confirmed that it was a female wood duck, most likely a juvenile.

For a few moments I relished the thrill that comes with a confirmed identification. I wondered if this was simply the satisfaction that follows successful problem solving. Or, was it based on something deeper, some hard-wired reward circuits honed by evolution when precise knowledge of flora and fauna increased the odds of survival.

My little friend disappeared again into the reeds. I wondered why she was alone at this time of year when most birds were gathering. Was she the sole survivor of a clutch that had been predated? Had she become separated from her nest mates? She appeared energetic, competent and in possession of a strong will to survive. I wished her well.

A gust of wind swayed the long slender green leaves of the cattails back and forth creating a soft rustling sound. The swaying motion and rustling sound seemed eternal, a soundscape heard well before my existence and one that would continue well after I was gone.

I listened to the birds around the pond; the electric spark-like “dtzee, dtzee, dtzeet” of a kingbird, the cawing of distant crows, the strident “jay, jay, jay” of blue jays, and the lilting “per-chick-or-ree” of goldfinches in flight. I heard the croaking of frogs and the loud harsh squawk of a blue heron taking flight.

Looking around I saw a prosperous diversity of plant life. Some of the plants I knew; the brown topped cattails, the pink blossomed smartweed, the purple-blue spires of pickerelweed, and the yellow cup-flowers of lily pads. But there were many, many more plants and flowers, low and tall, spreading and climbing that I didn’t know.

                                           

I thought about the history of White Oak Pond. It had been created in 1820 by the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company as a reservoir to supplement the flow for barges carrying anthracite coal to the Hudson River and on to New York City. When the canal went out of business the pond was eventually taken over by the state and for almost a hundred years was a favorite spot for fisherman and boaters. Then in 2015, amidst considerable outcry, the state drained the pond after deciding the dam was structurally at risk.

For three years now the pond had gone wild. In the center and around the old boat ramp there was still an area of open water now enlarged by recent heavy rains. The rest of the former lake had naturalized into a vast, verdant marsh, an unplanned wildlife refuge for birds, reptiles, fishes, and mammals.

I thought about the human perspectives on White Oak Pond, the concept of changing owners, the building and maintenance of the dam, the controversies over the water level, the arguments and plans for restoring the pond, the concerns of the land owners, the state, and the sportsmen.

All of these perspectives seemed distant and foreign as I sat in my kayak. Out on the water where nature had free rein for three years, I sensed a very different reality, one characterized by resilience, adaptability, growth, and a primal power for which I had no word.

The rain picked up. The hull of my boat was dotted with mosquitoes, flies, and other insects.   The rain must have driven the insects down toward the surface of the pond. I glanced around and saw that the swallows had also descended and now were skimming the surface of the pond, finding the insects where they were, instantly adjusted their hunting strategy.

I saw movement on a thin, plant covered mud bank ahead. Scanning with my binoculars I spotted a trio of sandpipers crouching and creeping along the mudflat. I honed in on field marks; reddish-brown plumage, short black beaks, legs seemed dark, but easily could have been mud coated. They took flight, rapid wing-beats, flying low over the water in close formation, bright “preep” calls.

It was hard to know for sure with a such a brief sighting, but most likely they were least sandpipers, birds that had bred high in the arctic tundra and were now working their way south. From the air they must have spotted wild White Oak Pond, liked the look of it, and settled in to rest and refuel.

My hour was up. I paddled further into the marsh, up the narrowing course of the stream where I saw and heard more ducks and herons. The rain fell harder. I paddled back to the boat ramp, pulled the kayak out and re-secured it to the top of the car.

I liked to reflect on how I felt after a sit spot. I was wet, but happy. I felt uplifted by the beauty I had seen, and soothed by the sounds I had heard. After an hour observing life on White Oak Pond I sensed a feeling of attachment to the pond and knew that I would want to return. And there was something about the re-wilding of the pond, something about the power and strength of that process that made me feel simultaneously small and insignificant yet also connected and restored.

This sit spot afloat was conducted on August 13, 2018.