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| So close yet so far... |
Across
the river looked to be mighty birdy country, but the water was too deep to
wade, so to get there meant many miles on logging roads. Mature alders, with pockets
of poplar and clusters of softwoods, beckoned. Dozens of times I had seen it,
but traipsing all over the country on the other side of the river, I had never
figured out where to find it.
Studying
topographical maps and aerial photos, I finally unraveled it.
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| Beavers were everywhere. |
It
took a hike through softwoods to get there, probably a mile. In places the
sphagnum moss was so thick you could actually hear yourself think. Most of the
spruce and fir trees were large, so the walking was easy, but in places
thickets of smaller trees or cedars and water under foot made the going slower.
When we could, we followed game trails. I wish deer were taller.
Along
the river ancient cherries stood over the alders. Dead elms desperately tried
to hang onto their limbs and scattered fat fallen fir trees required detours. Fingers
of water forced reconnoitering and alternate courses. But it was bird country.
The
dogs tore through the cover. Maggie, the youngster, shot about like a ping pong
ball, almost immediately bumping a grouse. It looked like a cannon-fired turkey
crossing an opening over tall grass. Colby, the experienced older girl, work
methodically. Bells were ringing. Birds were pointed, birds were bumped, and,
at the end of the day, the birds were luckier than we were.
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| Do you see him there? |
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