A Mallard Emergency

I should have noticed sooner. All afternoon, a sunny break in the rainy weather, I had worked in the side yard.  I have a native plant garden that stretches from near the house to very near the pond.  Because it's damp and shady, lots of northwest natives like it there.  I have a huckleberry, several kinds of ferns, and just last week, one of two trilliums that I successfully transplanted showed two luminous white blooms.  Trilliums like deep shade, and this one is happy under the alder, where the white faces of the flowers seem to float in the cool dark.  By the way, I bought the trilliums from a native plant nursery - it's not nice to steal from Mother Nature. So anyway, working away, I was happily oblivious to the drama unfolding not fifty feet away.

I had noticed a mallard drake swimming close to shore, but if I drifted near, he would paddle away, watching me over his shoulder.  Something should have clued me, as he kept returning, and he was alone.  Right now, we have two consistent pairs of mallards in the yard.  The males keep a baleful eye on each other, lowering their heads and chasing if one trespasses some unseen boundary, too close to the other hen.  If one does catch the other, solid bites to the tail bring home the no-trespassing message.
Our pond/stream edge was bounded by a previous owner in cedar poles.  They're sunk in the shoreline so that only about eight to ten inches remain above water.  They're like a gap-tooth smile, with lots of spaces and crooks where the ducks can climb onshore.  But some of the crooks form a kind of half circle, and in one of these, a mallard hen had been trapped.
I finally saw her when I walked to the water's edge, just to enjoy the day.  Early bees were humming and the violet-green swallows were swooping and chittering above, catching bugs and checking out the nest boxes on the shoreline.  The hen was terrified.  She had stayed quiet in order to not be discovered by the human and now that I saw her, panic ensued.  She struggled mightily to get loose, but she had evidently flown into this small space, and now she couldn't open her wings to fly free.  Her eyes were huge and she was panting.  She was convinced the end was near.  I don't think there's anything more terrifying to wild things than being trapped and approached.
I spoke quietly to her, which didn't seem to impress her one bit.  From handling birds and critters in wildlife rehab, I knew that gentle and smooth was going to work best.  Minimize the trauma.  I stooped and gathered her, holding her wings to her body, and pulled her up from her trap.  Ducks really can't hurt you.  The toe claws can give a good scrape, so they're good to avoid.  And most wild things will poop when picked up, just out of panic.  So it's good to hold them away from your jeans and shoes.
I couldn't resist admiring her.  Mallard hens look pretty drab from a distance, but up close, those browns, beiges and duns are just beautiful.  Every feather perfectly crafted and finished with delicate stippling, dots and stripes. 
But she was panting and wild-eyed.  So after checking her for any skin breaks or bad scrapes, I turned her toward the water and gave her a gentle toss.  She flew, quacking loudly, to the middle of the pond where her anxious mate met her.  He circled her, head lowered, speaking softly.   She spent a good fifteen minutes carefully grooming away any trace of her entrapment, then the couple drifted downstream to spend a quiet afternoon in the sun.
I put a big rock in the area where she was trapped so that it wouldn't happen again.  If I hadn't seen her, she could have starved there.
Back to trimming and cleaning the garden, listening to the assorted calls and songs of the ducks, redwings, goldfinches and swallows.  Nothing can beat it.