Field Journal
January 6, 2018
It was a partially cloudy day, with light winds. The roads were in good condition, and the temperatures were hovering slightly above freezing. I packed up my kayak and gear to go down to Big Flat. The pond was frozen save for an open patch near the middle, with a number of coots appearing as black dots on the water. The lake, on the other hand, was open and clear of ice. I put my kayak into the lake side, loaded my gear, jacked some birdshot into my shotgun, and set off. The sun shone through the scattered, wispy clouds, creating enough glare that I was glad for my polarized anti-glare sunglasses. The water was cloudy green-white with suspended sediment. I initially took a short jaunt downstream. Not finding much by the time I reached the furthest downstream extent of the tule patches before reaching the bare basalt blocks of the old railway embankment, I turned back around and went upstream. Some creatures were swimming just under the surface, leaving ripples behind them, but due to the cloudy water I could not see what they were.
In the little coves of near-shore trees and shoreline brush past the pumphouse, I passed a flat-bottomed motorboat pulled up onto shore, a couple of goose decoys stashed inside of it. As I rounded the bend to the next cove, I saw a flock of geese through the brush. But the geese were not reacting to my presence, or even moving. It was a decoy spread. I waved to the camouflaged blind and powered my way past, trying to avoid bothering the hunter more than necessary. The dog barked at me as I passed.
At the beginning of the tules past the power lines, I saw another goose decoy in the water. A decoy that started to swim under its own power. Okay, so it wasn't a decoy. I lined up my sights and shot it down just as it was beginning to take off. A fine Canada goose for the day.
A bird lifted out of a tule patch. As I reached for my shotgun my brain noticed the slow wingbeats, dark brown color, and white rump patch. It was a harrier hawk. I left the shotgun where it was. The hawk flapped a short distance and then settled back down at the riverside.
At the point of the downstream entrance to the inlet, another group of hunters had set up their decoy spread. I wasn't going to get to explore the inlet today, apparently. Angling out to go around the decoys, I paddled past as fast as I could.
I made my way up to the far upstream end of Big Flat. From a tule patch, I heard the alarm call of a mallard, but no bird flew out. I took the kayak into the patch, and poked around in there, but found nothing. Perhaps it was an injured bird that was hiding? I suppose we will never know.
I crossed over to fishhook HMU. Several bad eagles soared in circles overhead.
There is a point with a tree growing near the point's tip, behind which is a small sheltered cove. I was musing that someday there would be ducks in that cove, but I would have become so jaded that I would not be ready for them and they would get away. I was distracted by a kestrel flying up from the shore and landing in the tree. As I was checking out the kestrel, I missed the mallard drake that was in the cove. Not being ready, I was too slow on the draw when it flushed and it was well out of range by the time I had shouldered my shotgun.
A little farther on, another kestrel was hovering in the air, hunting the brush of the near-shore slope.
At the secret pond, there were a large number of black-and-white diving ducks. I probably could have bagged some of them, but anymore divers just seem too small to be worth the effort. After one circuit around the pond, I came back out onto the lake. I paddled down past the power station. A large number of coots were in the water and I could hear the calls of ducks from up ahead. I flushed several ducks, all too far away to shoot. I made my way to the end of the rushes, to where the shore was just the basalt blocks of the railway embankment, lined with weathered driftwood.
I turned and paddled back across the lake. As I drew closer, I could see that the hunters at the entrance to the inlet were still there. So I headed for the downstream shore, hugging the tules. A number of flocks of geese flew overhead. The hunters were calling to them, but the geese were not interested. I suspect they were on the wrong side of the river - large flocks of geese always seem to gather on the other side, along the bare railway embankment. This side just has the occasional loner or pair, and even that is not very common. Do they prefer wide open spaces with little cover so they can see predators from afar? Do they recognize that they are well camouflaged, with similar colors and sizes to the chunky basalt fill rocks and sun-bleached driftwood?
I passed by the tule patches, musing that I only got one shot off all day, but at least I had made it count. It was getting late in the afternoon, the sun settling lower and casting its glittering glare across the water. I passed the power lines again, noting that the deer skeleton was still there. Gliding along the shore, next to the scrub and bushes, I flushed a mallard pair. I sighted on the drake, and hit him with my first shot. Not dead, it began a semi-powered descent to the water, unable to stay aloft. My second shot to finish him off missed, and it splashed into the water, still flapping as it tried to escape. My third shot stopped the flapping, turning its motion into the seizures of a freshly dead bird. As I paddled to pick it up, I noticed flapping movement in the further downstream curve of the cove. Snatching the bird was easy enough, but it was still flapping and flopping even after I wrung its neck. It kept flopping all over the boat, nearly falling out several times. I finally pinned it up against the fore bulkhead (if such a thing exists on a kayak) with my foot. Then I went to check out the motion I saw earlier.
I poked around at the edge of the brush, not seeing anything. But as I set off again downstream, another mallard drake burst from the bushes at close range. My first shot missed, but my second dropped the bird. It was soon retrieved and added to my catch for the day.
I passed the cove were I put in and take out, intending to go back to the extreme downstream end of Big Flat. The sun was now very low, nearly blinding with its glare. I mused that the cowboys in the old westerns must have dealt with this when they rode off into the sunsets at the ends of the films. At least by then they had already dealt with the bad guys, so they were not at terrible risk of ambush by foes they could not see because of the blinding sun.
A wisp of cirrus in just the right position produced a spectacular sun dog to the left side of the sun, with a bright rainbow iridescence.
Reaching the end, I turned back and headed for my take-out point. The sun was settling into the curve of the Earth. I paddled through a large flock of coots. As I passed the final patch of tules and cattails, a flushed one last mallard drake. But it was already behind me as it flushed, and due to the limited arc of fire from within a kayak it escaped. I heard the assembly call of a hen mallard from up ahead and make a short side-jaunt to check it out. But it seemed to be coming from past the land, perhaps from the icy pond. So I went back and took my gear and kayak and birds up onto the path, gathered my stuff at the car, and headed home.
It was a partially cloudy day, with light winds. The roads were in good condition, and the temperatures were hovering slightly above freezing. I packed up my kayak and gear to go down to Big Flat. The pond was frozen save for an open patch near the middle, with a number of coots appearing as black dots on the water. The lake, on the other hand, was open and clear of ice. I put my kayak into the lake side, loaded my gear, jacked some birdshot into my shotgun, and set off. The sun shone through the scattered, wispy clouds, creating enough glare that I was glad for my polarized anti-glare sunglasses. The water was cloudy green-white with suspended sediment. I initially took a short jaunt downstream. Not finding much by the time I reached the furthest downstream extent of the tule patches before reaching the bare basalt blocks of the old railway embankment, I turned back around and went upstream. Some creatures were swimming just under the surface, leaving ripples behind them, but due to the cloudy water I could not see what they were.
In the little coves of near-shore trees and shoreline brush past the pumphouse, I passed a flat-bottomed motorboat pulled up onto shore, a couple of goose decoys stashed inside of it. As I rounded the bend to the next cove, I saw a flock of geese through the brush. But the geese were not reacting to my presence, or even moving. It was a decoy spread. I waved to the camouflaged blind and powered my way past, trying to avoid bothering the hunter more than necessary. The dog barked at me as I passed.
At the beginning of the tules past the power lines, I saw another goose decoy in the water. A decoy that started to swim under its own power. Okay, so it wasn't a decoy. I lined up my sights and shot it down just as it was beginning to take off. A fine Canada goose for the day.
A bird lifted out of a tule patch. As I reached for my shotgun my brain noticed the slow wingbeats, dark brown color, and white rump patch. It was a harrier hawk. I left the shotgun where it was. The hawk flapped a short distance and then settled back down at the riverside.
At the point of the downstream entrance to the inlet, another group of hunters had set up their decoy spread. I wasn't going to get to explore the inlet today, apparently. Angling out to go around the decoys, I paddled past as fast as I could.
I made my way up to the far upstream end of Big Flat. From a tule patch, I heard the alarm call of a mallard, but no bird flew out. I took the kayak into the patch, and poked around in there, but found nothing. Perhaps it was an injured bird that was hiding? I suppose we will never know.
I crossed over to fishhook HMU. Several bad eagles soared in circles overhead.
There is a point with a tree growing near the point's tip, behind which is a small sheltered cove. I was musing that someday there would be ducks in that cove, but I would have become so jaded that I would not be ready for them and they would get away. I was distracted by a kestrel flying up from the shore and landing in the tree. As I was checking out the kestrel, I missed the mallard drake that was in the cove. Not being ready, I was too slow on the draw when it flushed and it was well out of range by the time I had shouldered my shotgun.
A little farther on, another kestrel was hovering in the air, hunting the brush of the near-shore slope.
At the secret pond, there were a large number of black-and-white diving ducks. I probably could have bagged some of them, but anymore divers just seem too small to be worth the effort. After one circuit around the pond, I came back out onto the lake. I paddled down past the power station. A large number of coots were in the water and I could hear the calls of ducks from up ahead. I flushed several ducks, all too far away to shoot. I made my way to the end of the rushes, to where the shore was just the basalt blocks of the railway embankment, lined with weathered driftwood.
I turned and paddled back across the lake. As I drew closer, I could see that the hunters at the entrance to the inlet were still there. So I headed for the downstream shore, hugging the tules. A number of flocks of geese flew overhead. The hunters were calling to them, but the geese were not interested. I suspect they were on the wrong side of the river - large flocks of geese always seem to gather on the other side, along the bare railway embankment. This side just has the occasional loner or pair, and even that is not very common. Do they prefer wide open spaces with little cover so they can see predators from afar? Do they recognize that they are well camouflaged, with similar colors and sizes to the chunky basalt fill rocks and sun-bleached driftwood?
I passed by the tule patches, musing that I only got one shot off all day, but at least I had made it count. It was getting late in the afternoon, the sun settling lower and casting its glittering glare across the water. I passed the power lines again, noting that the deer skeleton was still there. Gliding along the shore, next to the scrub and bushes, I flushed a mallard pair. I sighted on the drake, and hit him with my first shot. Not dead, it began a semi-powered descent to the water, unable to stay aloft. My second shot to finish him off missed, and it splashed into the water, still flapping as it tried to escape. My third shot stopped the flapping, turning its motion into the seizures of a freshly dead bird. As I paddled to pick it up, I noticed flapping movement in the further downstream curve of the cove. Snatching the bird was easy enough, but it was still flapping and flopping even after I wrung its neck. It kept flopping all over the boat, nearly falling out several times. I finally pinned it up against the fore bulkhead (if such a thing exists on a kayak) with my foot. Then I went to check out the motion I saw earlier.
I poked around at the edge of the brush, not seeing anything. But as I set off again downstream, another mallard drake burst from the bushes at close range. My first shot missed, but my second dropped the bird. It was soon retrieved and added to my catch for the day.
I passed the cove were I put in and take out, intending to go back to the extreme downstream end of Big Flat. The sun was now very low, nearly blinding with its glare. I mused that the cowboys in the old westerns must have dealt with this when they rode off into the sunsets at the ends of the films. At least by then they had already dealt with the bad guys, so they were not at terrible risk of ambush by foes they could not see because of the blinding sun.
A wisp of cirrus in just the right position produced a spectacular sun dog to the left side of the sun, with a bright rainbow iridescence.
Reaching the end, I turned back and headed for my take-out point. The sun was settling into the curve of the Earth. I paddled through a large flock of coots. As I passed the final patch of tules and cattails, a flushed one last mallard drake. But it was already behind me as it flushed, and due to the limited arc of fire from within a kayak it escaped. I heard the assembly call of a hen mallard from up ahead and make a short side-jaunt to check it out. But it seemed to be coming from past the land, perhaps from the icy pond. So I went back and took my gear and kayak and birds up onto the path, gathered my stuff at the car, and headed home.