The Trip to Shanklands

I seem to be on a  Guyana kick, so I'll try to remember more of that incredible trip.

After spending a week at Timberhead, we were off to Shanklands, a resort of sorts on the banks of the mighty Essequibo River.
We left Timberhead early in the morning after the usual night of rain.  The six of us piled into an African Queen-like boat called the Elizabeth II.  No one knew the reason for this name-  it didn't seem to matter.  Our first leg was a quiet, putting journey along the creek, guided by Junior, our shy, smiling boat driver.  He was adept at quick stops and turns when Mike, our bird guide would hold up his hand, signalling a sighting.  I learned to sit solidly, feet planted firmly for these unexpected stops.  Birds large and small swept across the water before us- vines, bamboo and small trees looped and leaned into the water.  Long, narrow wood canoes holding one or two people pulled alongside, watching the big, white strangers in the silver boat.
We rounded a bend and suddenly we were in big water:  the Demarara River, silvery, wide and flat.  A sudden violent storm blew up from  behind us, causing both shores to disappear completely behind curtains of blowing rain.  Several inches of water quickly gathered on the floor of the partially open boat, and much of Junior's gear floated near our feet.  Junior was soaked but smiling, drinking Sprite and looking like he hadn't a care in the world.  As  the Elizabeth II tootled gamely along, the shores finally began to reappear, dim and far away.  Junior pulled us closer to river right and suddenly out of nowhere, an opening in the dense jungle appeared.  Two or three old army trucks, looking WWII vintage, rusted in the rain forest clearing.
After securing us to the steep, muddy bank, Junior produced a wonderful lunch of fried egg sandwiches, plantain rolls (fried in butter!) and pineapple.  As we were finishing, two very muddy Toyota trucks pulled up driven by two smiling brown men.  All of us piled into the tarp -covered back of one truck and we rode, military style,  thumping and banging over twenty-six miles of very rutted sand road to Shanklands.  It was the bumpiest ride I'd ever experienced.  The two elder birders from New York chuckled quietly and Al said, "You think this is bad, you should have been in Madagascar!"

Shanklands was a welcome sight.  Rolling green grass dotted with brilliant flowers and enormous trees, and white lattice-laced cottages dotted the sides of the lawn, shaded by trees.  The Essiquibo River extended the length of our view, flat and endless.  The far shore shimmered and danced in the distance.

Shanklands - some memories:  sitting under the kitchen awning out of the sun; listening to the torrents of rain falling on our cottage roof and splashing in pools in the grass; smelling the delicate white grapefruit blossoms from the tree outside our window at night;  steep, rickety stairs to the river and the long, narrow boat dock;  turquoise-colored tanagers sharing the pepper tree with the family of barbets;  screeching, clamorous parrot flyovers;  salt and pepper in dishes at the table;  free liquor setups under the awning; homemade hot sauce that was deliciously, indescribably hot.  Breathlessly humid forest walks where we heard much more than we saw; walk-in white tile showers; plumbeous kites soaring; the shy, white kitchen cat; the smelly peccary who lurked near the buildings; the loud macaw; and always,  always the unending silver ribbon of river,  moving away from us,  away.

In the Rainforest of Guyana ~ Another Adventure II

We returned to camp for  a lunch of roasted chicken and corn salad, tired but jubilant.  I have never been so hot.  Insect repellent mixed with sweat causes my fingers to stick to the binocular casing.  Our clothes are wet from the inside, glued to us in the stunning humidity.  As we shower in the tepid water heated by the sun, crested oropendolas gargle and whistle in the trees above the camp.  Their yellow and chestnut feathers flash as they swing upside down from the branches.  Their relatives, the yellow-rumped caciques, hop from tree to tree, endlessly repeating their mournful, wheedling call.

An afternoon siesta is in order.  A blue-gray tanager hunts insects in the palm thatch above our bed, rattling and scratching softly.  He occasionally peers down through the loose weave of the false ceiling to be sure the humans below are staying put.

Before dusk we walk to Pokerero Creek to watch the tiny fork-tailed palm swifts swoop and sail above the tea-colored water.  The dry tan fronds rattle in the evening breeze as the swifts dart up into the protection of the dead leaves to their roosts.  Long-legged wattled jacanas flash their yellow underwings and tiptoe daintily in the shallow of the stream.  A female white-chested emerald, a tiny hummingbird, perches on a limb over the water.  She hawks insects, sips nectar from the orange asclepias flowers, and chases butterflies from her territory.  The low sun flashes green jewel tones on her back as she pirouettes over the water and returns to her perch.  So her days passes. 

We walk back to the camp in full darkness.  The Captain, a wizened Arawak gentleman of more than seventy years, carries a lamp to light the torches lining the path.  He nods and shows brown teeth as he smiles.  We can see the dim light of the lamps he has lit and carried to each of the guest huts.
The night sky pulsates with stars and planets that burn in pale blues, reds and greens.  The Southern Cross leans halfway up the sky, pointing out north and south for wanderers in the southern hemisphere.  Meteors trace brief, fiery paths across the blackness.  The buzz and screech of the insects frogs and owls is turned to full volume.  Tiny fireflies wink on and off ahead of us on the trail.  We find our sleepy way to our hut, pull the mosquito netting around us, and fall asleep under the palm thatch and the turning stars.

In the RainForest of Guyana ~ Another Adventure

Although we spent less than two weeks in Guyana, it made a very deep and lasting impression.  I would like to share my impressions of this wild and only partially tamed place.  It is the true third world, with all its wonders and trials.  The utter beauty of its wildness, the colors, smells, sights and sounds were gifts that I will never forget nor fail to appreciate in our easier, tamer world. 



The absolute black of the rainforest night begins to fade to day.  The screeches and grunts of insects and frogs give way to the softer, fuller songs of the birds.  The tropical screech-owl cries once more, lifts heavy wings and flies deep into the forest.  A small yellow tongue of flame still gutters in the glass of the kerosene lamp that was hung in our hut last evening.  Dawn and dusk near the equator do not linger.  Night becomes day within minutes.
The noise of dawn suddenly increases through the camp as a flock of little chachalacas courses through the camp.  The turkey-like birds flap and jump from treetop to treetop, making an unearthly squawking ruckus.  They move away toward Pokerero Creek and other birds songs emerge.  Mel's old windup alarm clock, two cabins away, gives the official clanking notice of day.  Early morning is fresh and cool.  Last night's rain shines on our open porch.  Mist rises from Pokerero Creek, just visible, shimmering in the dawn light at the bottom of the sand incline below Timberhead Rainforest Resort.  Orange-winged parrots fly over, two by two, heading for their day's work of finding and eating fruits in the top of the green canopy.  Their metallic screeches ricochet through camp.  The captive scarlet macaw, crippled years ago by a bullet in his wing, bobs his head and screeches back from the kitchen porch where he eats sliced pineapple and mango.
This is the first week of a birding trip deep into the rainforest of Guyana.  Our small group of birders assembled at JFK Airport in New York City following months of planning and anticipation.  After arriving in Georgetown, the capitol of Guyana, we  traveled by van and then by boat down the Demerera River, then up one of its many tributaries.  As the purple-throated fruit crow flies, we are about twenty miles from Georgetown.  It couldn't feel more remote.
Our raised wood huts comprise a camp built and run by the Arawak Indians who live in a small village a few miles down the creek.  Palm-thatched roofs shield us from the tropical sun and the brief heavy rains that often come in the afternoon.  The huts are roomy and airy, with big windows on all sides that have shutters but no screens.  (A lesson quickly learned in the tropics is that at night it is wise to close the shutters before turning up the lamp.  Light attracts many flying insects, including commonly named flying cockroaches and tiger moths, which appear larger than hummingbirds in the shadowy light.  The only effective way to remove them is to wait until they land and then grab them in your fist and toss them out the window.)
A large bed with soft linens sits in the center of each room, generously swathed in mosquito netting.  Bathrooms are modern with sinks, toilets, and spacious walk-in showers.  As I open the door to the bathroom this particular morning, the  flock of resident tiny beige-furred bats is just settling on the wooden roof beams above me after their night's flight.  A delicate slate-colored frog sporting ruffled toes flutters away from his perch behind the toilet paper roll.
The sky is pure, pale blue, covered intermittently with towering purple-gray clouds and wavy flat clouds that look like lavender pen strokes above the rainforest.  Metallic green, dull green, acid green, rich northern forest green are all tossed together in a wild mix around us.  Tall, lanky cecropia trees, palms of every size, and fig trees with ambling, twisted limbs share the camp with us.  White sand is under our feet, punctuated with bright eruptions of pink and green caladiums, a leafy tropical plant.    Blue-gray tanagers, the color of the sky at dawn, are a common camp bird.  Silver-beaked tanagers, red-black as smoldering coal with beaks that look like silver neon, fuss and argue in the fig above the kitchen.  Great kiskadees, with their bright yellow breasts and masked faces, occupy every post perch and proclaim kis-kil-dee throughout the day.
After a generous breakfast of boiled eggs, ham roll-ups, fish salad (very salty but good), local buns, watermelon and good, strong coffee,  we take the trail through the rainforest toward the Arawak village.  We walk along the edge of the forest where the land begins to slope to the creek.  Wild, white lilies nod in the slight breeze.  They look like snowdrifts in another land.  Across the creek, a tan-green grass savannah stretches for two miles until the rainforest again absorbs it.  A yellow-headed vulture, much like our turkey vulture, but with a bald head the color of egg yolk, tilts and circles above the savannah.  Our guide points out a black-collared hawk perched on a snag next to the creek.  Heat waves, magnified by our binoculars, cause the hawk to dance gently in our lenses.  We can just make out his lovely rufous breast, whitish head and broad black collar.
Rainforest walking can  become hypnotic:  a brown-shirted back bobbing ahead of me on the trail, the heat, the buzz of bugs, the remote screech of birds in the high canopy, the rhythmic bump of binoculars and pack.  A muted beep comes from Mel's backpack.  It's probably some of his camera equipment.  He doesn't hear it, or perhaps doesn't mind it.
Mike stops suddenly and raises his hand.  I march into John's back and we all look up.  Red howler monkeys, he whispers, pointing to the rainforest beyond the savannah.  A faint but deep pulsating, booming roar floats to us on the humid air.  We gaze across the heat-hazed savannah to the treetops on the other side, and imagine the big, bearded russet monkeys gathered there.  We  strain to hear them.  Of all the forest cries heard so far, this is the sound of wildness that makes the others seem less important.  It makes hackles rise.  It goes directly to some primitive place in the brain that used to hear sounds like this in the forest.  The cries fade as the faint wind changes direction, then intensifies - are they coming this way?  They're far on the other side of the savannah and are shy of humans, but they still cause a frisson of fear in some forgotten spot.  We are reminded that here in the rainforest, we, too, are just vulnerable mammals.

Stay tuned for the next chapter ~ soon to follow
This article was originally published in Bird Watcher's Digest, July-August 2000.

At the Prince Phillip Hotel

                                                

                                                               Part II

The following day, we stumbled out of the early afternoon heat into the cool damp air of the hotel.  We had spent the morning not far from Georgetown on a jungle trail that led to the banks of the Demarara River.  The heat and humidity had been numbing, but we had seen a black nunbird.  This small black bird with a very large red bill burrows nests in the ground and, if luck is with the birders, can be found near rivers in Guyana.  We were lucky that day.

            Mike had advised the group to skip the hotel elevator unless we wanted to risk spending some very hot and airless time in it, since the power generator functioned rather intermittently.  We slowly climbed seven flights of stairs to our rooms.  Showers and beers from the room fridges refreshed us.

            The only place to rest inside and still enjoy a cool breeze was the lobby.  The large marble-floored area was cool even in the heat of the afternoon.  As we descended the seven flights of stairs, we heard the crunching grind of the generator shutting down.  We exchanged looks but were too tired to comment on our good  luck.  The lobby was dim and quiet.  It was shaped like a cross with wide, marble floored hallways lined with small shops and offices.  The central portion held the massive wood main desk and entries to the restaurant and two bars.  Small shops lined the lobby.  We could hear John’s laugh coming from the nearest bar where the rather ingratiating Indian bartender regaled him with well-polished stories of unusual travelers.  Along the quiet hallways, potted reddish-green banana plants with four-foot leaves reached to the skylights. Flame-like red and pink ginger blooms nodded in the breeze from the open walkways leading to the garden.  We settled in rattan chairs near a trickling indoor fountain, where tiny brown birds flitted down, drank and disappeared into the surrounding ferns.

            “Hello, would you like to see a bird nest?”   The soft, familiar voice came from behind us.   Verna stood in the doorway of a small bookshop. 

            “Verna, hello,” I said.  “Come join us.”

            “I would like to show you a bird nest.”  Her soft accent made “bird” sound like “buhd”.  “My brother is a gardener here.  He showed me.  It’s just outside.”

            We  followed her down the cool hallway into the heavy brightness and damp heat of the tropical afternoon. She walked easily ahead, stepping from stone to stone.  We followed the cobbled pathway through the manicured lawn and tame roses into the back garden where the overgrown greenery looked like jungle transplanted inside the hotel walls.

            “Here, this way.  Follow me exactly now,” Verna said.  She turned to wait then directed us carefully off the path into soft, moist soil.  She pushed tree fern leaves out of her way and slowed to let us catch up.  Barb tried to detour around an especially large and wet looking heliconia but Verna caught her arm.  “No, this way.  Step here.”  She  obeyed.

            As we  pushed through a dense growth of scrubby, twisted figs, a hummingbird jetted by.  I felt the turbulence from her tiny wings as she flew past. “Damn - I think that’s a female blue-tailed emerald - wow,”  Barb said reverently as she turned to follow the tiny bird’s flight.  A blue-tailed emerald is a kind of hummingbird that we had been hoping to see.  The green feathers glow like emeralds in the sun, and the tail is iridescent blue.  The female is a duller version, but still wonderful.

            “That is she.  We are close to her home now.  Look,” Verna said.  She gently lifted the side of a three-foot wide gunnera leaf to reveal a brown and gray nest suspended like a tiny hammock from the underside of the leaf.  “No eggs yet, but my brother said that last year she had two babies here.  She will again.”

            The nest could fit into a child’s hand, yet it was sturdy and tight.  Ingeniously built under a leathery, thorned leaf, the nestlings would be protected from rain, heat and many predators. 

            Verna smiled.  “Isn’t it lovely?” she said softly.

            “Verna, this is a gift.  We would never see something like this on our own,” Barb said as she stooped to examine the nest.

            “It is my gift.  But we should go before mother becomes anxious about us discovering her home.”

            Following Verna, we carefully retraced our steps back to the stone pathway and from there to the cool depths of the hotel bar to celebrate our find.  John was no longer there, so we shared our excitement with the bartender who seemed a little surprised that a tiny green bird could cause the North Americans to be so happy.  Oh well, tourists are an odd lot, his look seemed to say.

            Later that evening the group gathered in the restaurant for our last dinner at the Prince Phillip Hotel.  A celebration was planned because of the outstanding number and variety of species we had seen during our short stay.

            “No John tonight?” asked Mel.  They sat at their usual table in the dining room, cocktails in hand.  Lunch was hours ago and we all were ready to order dinner.

            “He won’t be joining us,” Mike said.  “Got himself into a bit of a fix this afternoon.”

            We all made appropriate murmurs of concern while burning to know if he finally ran afoul of the local community.  There was plenty of trouble for an over-confident northerner to find in Georgetown.

            Mike’s face looked sober, but his eyes held an amused look he couldn’t quite hide.  “He heard a rumor about an occupied blue-tailed emerald nest somewhere on the grounds in the back garden and tried to find it on his own.  Son of a gun stepped into a nest of biting ants and they really played hell with him.”

            Verna stood quietly behind them with her order book in hand.  She smiled and asked softly “Will you be having wine tonight?”

           
              I bumped Barb's foot under the table but neither of us said a word.       

                                                               *





b

At the Prince Phillip Hotel

This is a short story  I wrote following a birding trip to Guyana.  Guyana is beautiful and primitive, but any mention of Jim Jones or that fatal experience, brings blank looks and comments of "...long time ago.  Far away from here."
  Guyana is beginning to be known as a birding hot spot and it is indeed an incredible place to bird. Anyone who travels there must be able to be flexible,  ready for the unusual and comfortable with occasional discomfort.  I haven't traveled anywhere quite like it nor have I met more polite, soft spoken people.

                                                          

                                                The Prince Phillip Hotel

            “Well, speak up, please. Do you know this wine or not?  Is there someone else whom I can speak to about this wine?”  Holding the parchment wine list, John twisted in his chair to look up at the silent, smiling black woman.  Like most of the hotel staff, she was from one of the Amerindian villages near Georgetown.  Not more than nineteen, tall and statuesque, she had luminous eyes and black hair pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head.  The waitress continued to smile silently as she backed away from the table.  The rest of the group around the table had either buried their heads in their menus or were staring at John in pained amazement.

            “Really, John, you’re in the third world.  You can’t expect a native woman just in from the bush to discuss a Chateau Neuf du Pape with you.  Give her a break.”  This came from Mel, one of the older men in the birding group.

            “If they have a Chateau Neuf on the wine list, then they’d damn well better have someone who can tell me if it’s still good.  Oh, what the hell.”  John turned again in his chair and motioned impatiently to the woman who waited, order book in hand, a few feet away.

            “This one, please” he said, enunciated the ‘please’.  “We will have this wine.”  With exaggerated movements he pointed out a wine on the list.  She nodded silently, eyes down, as she wrote in her order book.   Near the main restaurant door, the hostess, an older Asian woman, watched with narrowed eyes as the waitress retreated.  She shook her head slightly, unsmiling. 

 When the wine arrived, the group waited tensely as the waitress skillfully removed the cork and poured a taste for John.  Fortunately, the wine was acceptable and the rest of the meal passed without incident.

            This was the second leg of a two-week birding trip in Guyana.  Our  group had returned to Georgetown from Santa Mission, an Amerindian post deep in the bush.  We  had planned a three-day rest before embarking on a boat trip down the Demarara River, then cross-country by jeep to Shanklands, a resort on the shore of the Esiquibo River.  While in Georgetown  we  planned to tour a ginger plantation, then take a boat ride down the Mahocany River to find howler monkeys and hoatzins.  The picture in A Guide to the Birds of Venezuela, the book most of the birders were using as a reference, describes the hoatzin (pronounced what-zin) as a chicken-like bird with striking spiky  feathers growing out of the blue-skinned head, in the style of a Mohawk haircut.

            Georgetown, the capitol of Guyana, is a rough, rowdy city where tourists are strongly encouraged not to wander unescorted.  Masked with a lush, thick garden, fortress-like walls surround the Hotel.  Just outside the city the jungle is an impenetrable mass of green.  Most travel in the bush is by river; the few roads are deeply rutted and muddy.

            The surrounding Amerindian villages provide staff for the big hotels and government agencies in the city.  The people are dark, soft-spoken and extremely polite. Those who have been educated in the local schools speak with a delightful slurred British accent.  Their habit, when embarrassed by the behavior of others, is to smile politely and not say a word.

            Our group was up with the sun the following morning.   Breakfast was served in the elegant dining room where, outside the generous window, a dainty jacana, a long-legged wading bird, stepped delicately from one lotus leaf to another in the pond.  He flashed brilliant yellow under-wings as he darted after small fish.  Blue-gray tanagers flitted through the shrubbery and a flock of raucous, screeching orange-winged parrots flew over on their way to a day of foraging in the nearby jungle.  It was seven in the morning and the temperature was already seventy-five degrees.

            The professional guide, Mike, was a veteran tropical birder.  He could name most of the birds  by hearing their songs.  My  travel partner Barb and I  were moderately experienced birders from the Northwest.  We loved finding birds in remote countries whenever we could afford a trip.   Bill and Mel, seventy-eight-year old native New Yorkers and lifelong friends, had birded together since grade school.  They were made of shoe leather: tough, flexible and so far, inexhaustible. They told wonderful, opinionated tales about each other.  John, who’d been rude to the waitress, was a New Englander who let it be known that he was a Princeton grad with a law practice in New York City.  He had left his wife behind so that he could enjoy ‘roughing it’ for a few weeks.  He looked pristine that morning, as usual.  A crisp seersucker shirt was tucked into creased khakis and a clean baseball cap covered his sparse light brown hair.  No matter how hot and dirty the bird walks were, John seemed to stay clean and cool.

* * *

            Mike had downplayed the safety aspect, but the group had overheard the East Indian bartender at the hotel’s main bar talking about a British man who had wandered alone  into one of the rougher parts of town and was “chopped” for his wallet.  This was the local description of a machete attack.  So, rather than wander outside the walls in search of a restaurant, the group gathered again that evening at the hotel to eat and go over the day’s bird list.

            The same tall young black woman was our waitress.  The name tag on her maroon uniform read “Verna”.

            “What will you have for dinner tonight, please?” she said, starting at the end of the table farthest from John.  We all ordered, then enjoyed reliving the discovery of a silver-beaked tanager earlier in the day.  Intense red-black with an over-size blue-silver beak, the tanager flitted low in a cecropia tree, allowing what birders call “soul-satisfying”, long looks through scopes and binoculars.

            When dinner arrived, Verna and another waiter served the table.  John’s voice rose above the general noise of conversation in the restaurant.  “Excuse me, this is not what I ordered.  I ordered the baked chicken and yam soufflé.  This is beef.” He motioned imperiously across the table at Verna, who was still serving.

            She hesitated and pulled the order book from her pocket.  “Sir, I have written down what you indicated on the menu,  roast beef and potato.”  She started to walk toward him with the open order book.

            “I don’t care what you wrote down, this is wrong.  I don’t eat beef.”

             Verna was still for a moment.  “Yes, sir.  I will bring the chicken.”  Verna removed the plate and with lowered eyes, moved quickly to the kitchen doors.

            Barb  leaned over and said quietly to me  “I’ll bet he ordered the beef.  He’s such an ass, he probably just changed his mind.” 

            “ You know that ‘chopping’ thing the bartender was talking about?  He should watch it,” I said from behind my napkin.

            Again the hostess had watched the entire scene; her mouth formed into a tight line.  She followed Verna into the kitchen and her raised voice carried through the swinging doors.

            “Great,” Mike said.  “You got her in trouble.  She’s just a kid.”

“Oh, they all holler at each other all the time.  Maybe it’ll make her pay more attention next time,” John said, sipping his drink.

            Verna brought the chicken dish and quietly placed it in front of John.  He didn’t say thank you.

            The group broke up early.  We were all exhausted from the heat and humidity, both consistently in the mid-nineties.  We were heading for the stairs when I had an idea. I pulled Barb aside.  “Wait a minute.  Come on,” I said as I walked toward a small open office near the main restaurant door.  The hostess sat inside, running down a list of figures, her fingers flying over an abacus.

            “Excuse us, please,” I  said politely.  I waited for the hostess to raise her eyes and acknowledge us.  “Yes?” she put down the abacus and smiled.

            “We,” I pulled Barb up next to me, “want to let you know how much we enjoy the food here.  It’s wonderful.”  Barb nodded emphatically in agreement.

            “Oh, thank you so much,” the hostess said.  “We are happy to give you a good experience and good food.”  She preened a little and fiddled with the ivory chopsticks in her pulled-back hair.

            “Yes, and also, we are so taken with Verna.  She is an excellent server.  So attentive to our needs.”

            “Oh, yes?  Do you think so?  She is very young and I worry about her around for- uh, visitors from other countries.”

            “She is so polite and thoughtful.  Yes, I think she’s the best waitress we’ve had this trip.  Tell her that we are very pleased. And we plan to leave her a big tip tomorrow.  It’s our last day.”  Mike had told the group that the tips were shared among staff.

            “So nice to hear!”  She positively glowed and relaxed in her chair.  “I will tell Verna.  She will be so happy.”

            “It’s our pleasure.  We know how hard it can be to get good help.”  At this point Barb pulled me gently out the door.  She whispered  “Too much of a good thing, girl…”
            We  giggled all the way to our rooms.

                                                                             *

 Stay tuned for the last pages of the story.  John meets with an unusual adversary.  

A Royal Fly-By

Royalty seem to be in the news a lot these days, with the Olympics and all.  We had a visit right here in our yard.  Just like many royals, this one jetted in and did not stay long.   This royal also generated many oohs and aahs and excitement from those visited.

As I sat quietly watching the water, not really paying attention, a very agitated and panicked collared dove came zigging and zagging from the south, about two feet above the water.  He  dashed side to side, trying to evade and yet make maximum speed at the same time. He was silent, all effort focused on survival.

 Then, effortlessly, fiercely,  the peregrine falcon appeared.  Just as near to the water, the dark blue-gray jet closed in easily on his prey.  Peregrines have a characteristic wing beat:  powerful, purposeful, full of confidence.  The dark helmet markings on his face flashed in the light, and the big, dark eye was focused only on the dove. 

As if he had just decided to put on the gas, the falcon accelerated his wing beats, moved his feet forward in a 'grab' position, and snagged the hapless dove with one strong foot. At least the end is quick in such powerful talons.  And peregrines don't hunt for sport, they hunt to eat and live.

Peregrines engender the word 'royalty' in the bird world.  Long a choice with falconers, they have in inherent dignity and presence that everyone encountering the bird will quickly notice. Their quiet authority and physical power are beautiful to behold.

The peregrine population was almost wiped out due to  DDT, but since it was banned in the US, they have made a great comeback.  Now they can be found even in the cities, nesting on narrow window ledges near parks.  One more example of wildlife doing their best to live among us.  Their prey is primarily birds, and city pigeons and starlings are prime targets.   Because the looming shadow of a peregrine on the hunt will panic and disperse whole flocks of birds, vineyard managers have begun to use falconers and falcons to keep pesty birds from eating their entire grape crop.  And airports now use them to patrol and keep hazardous flocks of birds off the runways.   What great examples of working with a wild creature to the benefit of both.

But here in the quiet marshes and dusky woods, peregrines perch quietly  at the marsh's edge, watching and waiting.   When prey is spotted, they launch effortlessly into their powerful flight: a royal on the wing.

Where the Wild Things Really Are

They are here all around us.  We are so lucky.   Just this morning, in the quiet of a soft, cloudy dawn, I heard the kuk-kakuk-kakuk of a Virginia Rail.  This Rail is a marsh bird - a very skulky, secretive bird who is hard to find and see, even for birders.  Rails are rather gawky waders, and in bird references, can be found under the heading "Chicken-like Wading Birds".  They do resemble chickens with shortened, variegated brown feathers.  This Rail has  a beautiful dense gray cheek-patch surrounding a fierce red eye.  The bill is long and reddish-orange, quite unchicken-like.  Actually, they're quite the dapper bird.
 Rails usually live in  remote marshlands, away from houses, traffic and human noise.   Our lake outlet is near houses, traffic and human noise, yet there is still enough marshland, enough water and cover to make this Rail happy.  He has been here, calling, for at least three seasons.

Many folks would argue the value of a bird that is rarely seen.  What do they contribute?
There is wildlife all around us, and most of it is rarely seen, due to well-placed caution on the critters' end of things.  We do see bears here in the yard, and yes, they can be a nuisance.  But think of what they're doing.  Think of how many pounds of berries it takes to fill a bear's stomach.  Who was here first?  Is it the bear's fault that what used to be a place to forage is now a house with a green lawn?

Development is a given. What I  believe is that we cannot allow ourselves to lose the wild things.  There is untold value in wildness.  To know that there are places in the world where wild things never, ever see a human during their lifespan.  To know that there are creatures that make their way through life completely out of human control.  To hear the distant, haunting call of a  bird or critter and not know what it is.  The mystery of that is  ancient and human.  The earth is not only ours.  "In wildness is the preservation of  the world" ~ a quote by Henry David Thoreau, says it all.

And here, where we live, we have birds and mammals all around, trying to make an honest living just like us.  We can all be here.  With forethought, flexibility and respect we can live beside them and enjoy their wild calls, hoots and honks. We are all connected on this planet and the diminishment of one species touches us all.

So enough with the preaching.  Please - step outside and listen.  You may not hear a rare or unusual bird, but even the crows in your yard are wild things.  If you really see them, something is there to be learned.
Crows may be the only connection with wildness that some folks have.  We are luckier here. There is deep value in it, no matter where.  We must cultivate that value and not let it disappear, along with the wild things.

We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where
the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe;
to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground....
We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life 
pasturing freely where we never wander.  ~ Walden