25 October 2020

 I've made a commitment (at least to myself) to visit the north side of the Englishman River Estuary regularly.  Perhaps not every day, but, weather permitting, at least 5 days out of the week, to observe and record, not merely birds, but the changes in the setting --flora, fauna, weather, tides, light.  It's not a heavily travelled area, but there are always people to meet there, and many of them seem to share my sense that this is a truly special place.  I think I might say, a sacred place.  Often there is a stillness in the morning that is deeply wholesome and serene.   Other times, of course, there is a lively chorus of birds--tweeting, quacking, honking.  

It was cold this morning.  No doubt it will become colder as the season deepens, but -4 Celsius at 9 am of an October morning is nippy, and there was frost and frozen puddles.  The effect was striking.

The duck pond by the bridge was showing a glaze of ice at its far end.

The sky was remarkable as well.  I think I need to read up meteorology a bit, to understand what was happening above.

 I find myself reflecting on the words of my mentor and friend in Toronto, who taught courses on educational assessment of children.  He spoke of "understanding the child in context."  That is to say, not merely the classroom functioning of the child, but of his/her environment and culture, of the factors that influenced and were reflected in the child's learning and behaviour.  He did funny little stick figures with balloons showing the positive contextual elements, and anchors showing the negative elements.  There's an analogy here, I think, to understanding birds and their world.  It's also a good reason to familiarise myself with the environment rather than merely "twitching," and collecting numerous species. 

 Perhaps cases in point:

I had two encounters with a northern harrier, both of which happened so quickly that I don't have photos.

First, as I was walking along the path that leads to the entry to the refuge, the harrier swooped past and into the brambles that line the way.  An explosion of at least an hundred small birds ensued.  At a later point I determined they were mostly siskins.  The hawk disappeared.  

Further into the estuary, as I stood watching an assortment of small birds in the clumps of wild roses, the harrier glided past me not more that six feet distant.  Again, she came from behind me and I didn't have time to use my camera, but she was truly magnificent.  There was an impression of speed, and of intention that gives a stronger sense (for me, at least) of the bird than "field markings." 

I often see big flocks of small birds that I can't always identify.  There were more of these than usual today, it seemed, and I was able to recognise that many of them were flocks of pine siskins.  

 

In checking other birder's reports, I see similar reports of siskins.  Now I need to find out where they've come from, and where they're headed.  They won't spend the entire winter here.   

 As usual, I sat overlooking the shore, drinking coffee and admiring the view.  It always changes--the past days there is more snow on the coast range.  There are at least four eagles, one juvenile and three adults harassing the flocks of ducks that have moved in.  

I moved on as the day warmed up, and my breakfast called.  It looks as though the weather will be dry again tomorrow, and no doubt there will be more to see.