The Lone Goose

I usually write about life concerning our countryside home. This blog entry is about life at our rustic cottage retreat.

Our lake is small. In recent years from spring to early fall, it has been home to an increasing number of Canada Geese. They are not well loved by most cottagers whose waterfronts have been invaded and desecrated by these well-meaning creatures. It is not their fault if they are inclined to use the artificial beaches and manicured lawns for nesting and for their toilet. These are, after all so inviting.

Our cottage is basic - no hydro, no plumbing - and we think it wonderful. Its natural waterfront and treed lot is not so inviting, at least for the geese. We do not have to suffer the slings and arrows of goose dung to the same degree.

There were fewer gaggles of geese this year. Often the geese have numbered in the 30’s after the annual births. These gaggles are clusters of several families. It seems, however, that this year there was but one family… two adults and six little goslings, small, grey and downy balls of fluff that grazed under the watchful eye of the parents. Taking to the water, they raced comically to stay in the secure zone of parental oversight.

There are many dangers for these young waterfowl. The hawks are soaring high above, talons on the ready. The large snapping turtles lurk beneath the dark surface. There are domesticated dogs and cats to be wary of, as well as coyotes and other carnivorous creatures of the wild. Nevertheless a goose once threatened is not to be tangled with and the survival rate of their young does seem to be high.

One has to admit that the early dawn sighting of these proud geese gliding by in a tightly marshalled line can be quite inspiring to behold.

Of course, the optimal phrase is “gliding by” – swimming on to someone else’s territory.

Sitting on our point over the weeks and months of summer, we observe these young geese growing day by day, changing colour, changing shape. But in mid August we observed one of the young was missing. Now there were the two adults and five adolescent birds.

What had happened? A turtle? They come up from the deep on a resting bird and with their long sharp claws disembowel the prey and drag it down. Or was it a fox? We could only guess.

As summer was drawing to its close, we observed the lessons in flight. The vigorous flapping along the water’s surface fine entertainment. Then came the short not quite airborne dashes. Next, there are short flights of a few meters before splashing down. There is much practice needed before the young wings are strong enough to circle the lake in midair.

But we noticed early on in these lessons that one goose was left on the water far behind… honking frantically, flapping feverishly, but never achieving flight. Parents and siblings returned to its side, curious. Then off again they went, the lone one once again left behind, trying as it might to catch up. The others would return soon enough, and off the entire family swam as if all was well. As the lessons continued, the straggler continued to struggle. Its call was plaintive, from a human perspective, sad. “Wait for me” it said. And wait they did.

One day as we kayaked close to the far shore we came across the rotting carcass of a midsized goose. It had been dead for quite some time. The sight was not pleasant. It was not our goose … but it was surely the missing one. What had been its fate?

The daily practice flights continued. The lone goose tried and tried without success to be like its brothers and sisters. It cannot be faulted for its effort. After each practice run, the family always came back and gathered around the flightless one. If this were Disney, there would be much chatter and questioning. But the real world is not Disney.

As the days went by and the sun slipped quickly toward the south, the flocks of geese were now flying overhead in larger and larger numbers. The noisy formations were starting to look something like the primal V we expect to see way up in the autumn sky. And one day, our fond family flew off, leaving one dead and one debilitated goose behind. What were they feeling? Do geese feel sorrow?

We seldom sighted the lone goose after that. But we heard its distant eerie call morning and night. Occasionally, it could be seen, like a haunting ghost in the morning mist. What would its fate be? Winter would come. The lake would freeze. The water would no longer be a refuge. A lone land-struck goose would be easy hunting for those creatures seeking to fatten up before winter’s full blast.

But this autumn has been mild… exceptionally so. By December, the lake was still not frozen. Our goose had, remarkably, befriended a pet mallard duck that it had met while swimming out on our lake this fall. Unfortunately, the goose is not inclined to accept human help. Unlike the duck, it is not human friendly. There may be good reason.

The duck’s owner, who lives on our lake year round, informs us that the goose has a broken wing … Perhaps we should have guessed. If it would only follow its new friend to the safety of its shed at night, it might just survive the cold dark days ahead.

How does a goose break its wing? Was it hit by a boat? Was that also how the other goose died? Was the attack intentional – an irate cottager, an irresponsible guest? We will never know.

We hope we might see our lone goose again in the spring. Time will tell. The odds, however, would seem to be against it.

Bare foot and Pregant

Not! 

Well I am bare foot – to a degree. I am wearing sandals. And I have been in the proverbial kitchen since early morning making apple sauce, salmon pate, and chicken liver pate and preparing a cold summer dinner for a neighbour who will be our guest this evening. And John has been chasing a rabbit away from our morning glories, which have become a regular delicacy for any number of young rabbits.

John also managed to capture a critter in our chipmunk live trap this morning – a young skunk! Rather than risk driving it to a new home, with an old yardstick, he managed to prop up the gates of the trap and encouraged the rather cute, timid creature to scurry away from its entrapment. This it happily did. In gratitude, no spray was forthcoming. Past experiences with adult skunks have not been so fortunate.

Today, it is a glorious 28 Celsius, a little better than yesterday’s 32 degrees. Even the thunderstorm that swept through in the late afternoon did not cool it down much. It did produce a wonderful rainbow. 

The current heat is quite different from just three days ago when we had the fire on in the summer kitchen to stave off the chill.

However, it has been too hot for a long walk these past couple of days. Nevertheless, I did manage to walk down the road to a neighbour’s farm late this morning to return a pan. While there, I picked some beets, parsley and onion greens from the vegetable garden, - upon her invitation. I  returned home with my treasure at a leisurely pace, walking next to a wall of corn. I had just finished stewing the beet greens and cooking the beets when John came home from errands with another bag of beets. But these will be his chore. 

One can only take so much of a kitchen on a lovely summer’s day.

A Room with a View

Today has been the first day in eighteen days that I have not had to deal with clearing snow, either by reason of snowfall or blowing snow. My beloved partner has been sitting on a beach for all of that time. 

Well, dealing with snow and firewood is certainly one way to keep fit. It is also a way to do oneself harm. I think I am feeling the effects of both options.

This morning, as I sat in the comfort of my armchair by the fire, I could see the sun rising over the distant hill. The coffee tasted particularly good as it dawned on me, like the day, that I had nothing especially pressing to do. There was a fine mist floating high above the ground. The sky was a comfortable rose colour, indicating the blue sky that was to come later. The minus 22 Celsius I awoke to, rose to a comfortable, windless minus 10. Absolutely balmy by comparison to the temperatures we have been having.

But I am not someone to sit for long, unless I have a good book to read. And I had devoured two of them these past eighteen days. So passing by the kitchen window on the way for a second cup of coffee, I decided the cedar row we had planted along the roadside to the north many years ago was starting to obstruct our view of the countryside. The trees needed to be trimmed back. An easy task for a quiet day in the country.

After I had gathered my handsaw and clippers, I thought better of trudging through the waste deep snow and so I walked down the lane and along the roadside. These moderately sized trees now seemed like giants as I peered up at them. They had seemed so much smaller looking at them from the hilltop window. But then I realized the snow was crunchy hard by the road, piled high by the almost daily ploughing. This would make it easier. The snow pile was firm and a good six feet deep, which would take me a good way up the tree trunks. So I mounted the bank and felt quite smug, until the crust gave way and I sank hopelessly down to my chest. Not a good idea. But great exercise in attempting the escape from my icy encasing. A ladder would be needed.

So I trudged back along the road and up the hill to retrieve a tall step ladder. Once back by the cedar row, I went to grab the saw. It was right there I was sure. But it too had disappeared into the snow. After meticulous scanning with my hands I found it – or it found me – OUCH. Blood on snow is quite pretty really.

Alas, not to be daunted, I placed the ladder up against the first and smaller of the trees and managed quite well to lop of the top a good four feet from the peak. Until the ladder shifted ominously to the side and sank two feet at the same time, leaving me dangling by one hand to the trunk. I was glad my partner was not there to witness this. On the other hand, had he been there, I likely would not have found myself in this ridiculous situation.

Beginner’s mishap. And it was. I gained my feet and so did the ladder and I managed to lower the tops of the ten bushy trees that were most obstructive of our winter view. In the summer you see, there is other more abundant foliage that walls us snugly in and secures us from the world outside. We don’t mind that verdant seclusion. There are vistas still, but more discreet.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

On a day that’s cold and white

When winter’s in full swing

There is a vision, quite the sight

While birds fly on the wing.

It is a fluffy little rabbit

Who eats the seeds below

And this is now quite the habit

While fatter he does grow.

And yes the birds seem well undone

That all the seeds aren’t theirs

For rabbit edges on their fun

And seems quite unawares

That all this food is not for him

It’s meant for aviary dining

But they as well are not so slim

And should clearly stop their whining.

There is plenty there for one and all

Even Squirrel has nimbly eaten

By feats that amuse and quite enthrall

For he will not be beaten.

So there we have our little clutch

Of those who share this hill

And this pleases me yes very much

From where I sit quite still.

Home is a sanctuary

Home is where the hearth is and that could not be truer than in a frigid winter. We stepped off the plane after leaving three weeks of +30 Celsius, sea breezes, soft sand and the healing warmth of a tropical sea to -16 Celsius and a harsh, biting wind. By the time we got to our home, it was – 24 Celsius. Our bodies were traumatized.

But there is nothing like being home. It feels so good. And that is despite the ice and snow, the shovelling, the frozen pipes, the repetitive task of bringing in loads of firewood to feed our various wood stoves and a fireplace, and yes the return of many aches that had slipped away in the heat of Cuban sunshine.

It does not take long to forget that we had been away, although flaking skin reminds us of our once brilliant tans. We come home to friends, a busy social schedule and, of course, work. All feel good. Idleness, has charm only for so long.