Thursday, May 27, 2010

Enchanted Forest


Last night I escaped to a world where owls speak to humans, water lilies shoot arrows, dragons prowl and eyeballs float; a realm where tree branches don scarlet and indigo bunting, and sounds foreign and veery ethereal fill the forest air. Transported not in dreams but in canoe, I drifted into a world within a world; familiar yet impenetrable if not for my guide and interpreter. It was neither Narnia, nor Rivendell…but a sunset canoe trip in Audubon of Topsfield, Massachusetts.

The world of the deciduous forest canopy is a surprisingly exotic culture, where the local dialects are so foreign to the ear they sound more like music than language. Croaks, twitters, arpeggios, and a curious sound akin to a marble rolling around inside a hula hoop fill the air. But what do they mean? All these creatures, the canopy "locals" are chattering away to each other, what are they saying? What a gift, a privilege it would be to share in the conversation. To be able to ask a beaver for building advice; to be able to ask the birds how they build such strong, symmetrical, sheltered nests, or how they fly through the woods without hitting the branches. What does it feel like to fly on the wings of a hawk? How do swallows see the bugs they nab in flight? Are diurnal animals afraid of the dark? What's their take on global warming, border disputers, car traffic? Do they think of bird watchers as stalkers?

No way to get those answers tonight, but I am curious about an ethereal sound wafting in the background. As we hike the pond trail, Scott, a naturalist at the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary tells me it's a veery. It is a visually unremarkable bird, and one seldom seen by people, but its voice joins the company of angels. The first note soars high from a double-chambered voice box, then spirals into a reedy, mystical song that swoops around the soul and launches it heavenward. I'm transfixed by the sound.

Scott's voice recalls me to earth, and I leave the veery to join a conversation about owls. Tonight with Scott's help we'll be learning our first phrase in owlese. Hiking along a sanctuary trail before the night goes pitch, he explains that barred owls become active in the dying light, and often vocalize among the treetops. At this time of the season, the chatter will be about property lines. Tonight, we're going to ring a few doorbells and say, "Who Goes There?" owl style. Scott does a spot-on impersonation of a barred owl. Fittingly enough, it sounds like the English phrase, "Who, who, who-who are YOU all?"

In the quickly fading light, at the hour the French refer to as "entre le chien et le loup," when you can't distinguish between a dog and a wolf, we gather in a little group at the junction of two paths. As we stand and swat noiselessly at ravenous mosquitoes, Scott hoots an impressive greeting. Silence. He calls again, and we wait, like a foreign delegation in a royal antechamber. Silence. Again he calls. And then, from the treetops above, maybe an eighth of a mile away, an owl replies, in a voice that echoes Scott's. The collective gasp that erupts among us banishes bugs and stops time. Man calls again, and Owl replies. Man calls again, and a winged shadow swoops into view very close overhead, calling as it flies. We've been received at court. I hope my goosebumps aren't showing.

Up in the forest canopy, the owl's courtiers call out to each other from their arboreal balconies, granting us a wary audience, and a display of their vivid plumage. A normally reclusive tanager flashes the hems of a gorgeous scarlet cloak on its ascent to a nest. An indigo bunting looking perfectly regal in all that delicious blue, and twitters a complex exchange. Is it a greeting for us, or a call to send the kids to bed? Words, music, or both? It's like listening to Italian. Even when you don't understand a word, the very sound of it is lyrical and beautiful.

Every royal court has a jester, and that title fits the turkey we spot perched high in the branches of a dead tree overhanging the pond. I have great respect for turkeys, but this comical specimen looks about as comfortable up there as a Sumo wrestler on a high wire. The scene reminds me of news stories of cows deposited on rooftops by capricious tornadoes.

Down below in the water, there's a more formidable scene. Armed water lilies, dragons and eyes everywhere. Actually, it's all show. Some water lilies send up leaves that break the water's surface like spiked arrow heads. When the coast is clear, they unfurl and float face up on the pond, their verdant anchor lines trailing to the mud below. The prowling dragons are quite real but equally harmless - unless of course you happen to be a mosquito. Dragon flies and their damsels skim the air for tasty morsels. Floating eyeballs bob like disembodied ghouls, but on closer inspection, they're firmly attached to the heads of submerged green frogs. They're on aquatic reconnaissance, periscoping nosy nature lovers (tolerated) and hungry herons (a threat to life and legs). And if a fly happens by during the watch, well, heck, a frog's gotta eat.

A bull frog belches, but Steve tells me it's not a bull frog. My mistake. It's a green frog. Who knew there were two kinds of portly croakers? The green frog is a grass green baritone whose call hits the air in a sudden quick burst, like a bark meeting a loud burp. The bull frog is your dark pine bass, digging deep to summon that familiar two-syllable reverberation that always makes me think it's gargling golf balls. I sometimes wonder if Tolkien had that in mind when he created the character Gollum... And there are no cow frogs, by the way, in case you're wondering. Bull frogs can be male and female.

The remaining cast of characters in this story of enchantment are numerous. They are the heralds and nobles in the owl's realm; tree frogs, Eastern pewees, beavers, river otters...Please come and make their acquaintance; no passport required. Just don't tell the lilies you know the arrows are all show. To walk or paddle where the wild things are:
http://www.massaudubon.org/Nature_Connection/Sanctuaries/Ipswich_River/index.php

1 comment:

  1. Hi there, Catrina. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this lively piece. Cheryl tells me you live to write. I can believe it. If I weren't in Costa Rica, I'd head on down to the sanctuary.

    ReplyDelete