FreeLists / birdky / [birdky] long story

["Ben Yandell" <by@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Sorry for the length of this, but I had to share.
A few weeks ago I bought a kayak.  Late in the afternoon of August 7 I tried
it out for the first time on still water.  

I should have known I had interesting encounters ahead, because that morning
at Reelfoot a ruby-throated hummingbird had hovered and then zipped back and
forth and back and forth in front of the kayak on the roof of my car.  The
kayak is bright orange, and I think the hummingbird was sure he'd found the
mother lode, nectar-wise.  ("The biggest trumpet vine you ever saw!")

A few hours later I was at the Jonathan Creek boat ramp.  I managed to get
myself off the sloping concrete and into the kayak without flipping over,
and decided to explore the side creeks before paddling out into the
embayment.  I had the place absolutely to myself, and the creeks were quiet
and dark and green and wonderful.

Less than five minutes after heading out, I came across a great blue heron
floating on the water like a duck.  I've seen great blues do this below
Kentucky Dam, but never on water as shallow and as still as that of the
creek.

I approached him slowly, thinking he'd take off any second, but he just sat
and stared at me.  I began to wonder if he was injured, and when I got
closer I noticed that his body feathers were completely saturated.  Then I
saw the nylon twine running from a branch of an overhanging tree into the
water below the great blue.  I realized he was tangled in the line or maybe
caught on its hook.  How long had he been trapped there?  

I apologized for my species.

If you've tried to free a tangled animal, you know that it's tricky to do
without inciting frantic escape attempts from the animal and injuring it
further.  I paddled up slowly, talking softly (for what that's worth).  For
whatever reason, the heron just sat and looked at me.  He made no noise and
did not move, although he seemed healthy enough to do so.  

Besides worrying about the bird hurting himself, I had to worry about his
hurting me.  I've seen the great blue heron's speed and reach when spearing
a fish.  Now I was within striking distance.  I was awed by the length and
apparent sharpness of that impressive yellow-orange beak.  

Not wanting to appear aggressive, I moved slowly and avoided eye contact
except for brief glances.  I doubt I've ever made eye contact with a great
blue heron at such close range, and as he stared at me with those yellow
eyes (forward-facing eyes, the eyes of a predator), I was wondering how he
and I were going to accomplish this thing.

I had a pocketknife with me, so I grabbed the twine from the tree end and
slowly pulled it out of the water.  Up came one of the heron's legs - the
whole procedure an indignity, but one that the heron tolerated without
protest.  

The twine was tangled into a loose knot around the bird's "ankle" - which
isn't really its ankle.  (Its "knee" is its ankle, which explains why birds'
"knees" seem to bend the wrong direction.)  I decided the best bet was not
to spend a lot of time on this step of the process, and I reasoned that
leaving the heron with a loose-fitting twine anklet was better than
combining a flailing heron and an open knife while floating in a kayak.
(Although so far no flailing involved.)

I cut the twine near the anklet, letting the heron's leg drop back below the
muddy water.  I paddled backwards a few feet.  The heron did not move for
several seconds.  Then he sank farther into the water.  His feathers were
saturated, and the water was evidently too deep for him to stand.  He
flopped his wings forward, and used them to paddle awkwardly toward a downed
branch in the middle of the creek just ahead of him.  Using his beak as a
grappling hook, he pulled himself onto the branch, and then threw his wings
across the branch.  He looked for all the world like an exhausted swimmer
hanging onto the side of a boat.

He immediately started sticking his head across the branch and moving it
deep underwater for several seconds at a time.  I thought at first he was
starting to hunt, which I took as a positive sign.  I soon realized, though,
that he was trying to maneuver his center of gravity over the branch.  As I
watched this, I saw thrashing in the water farther down the creek.  I was
worried that another animal was ensnared, but this time underwater, so I
left the heron on the branch and paddled quickly toward the disturbance.

About 30 yards from the new problem, I saw that it was two cottonmouths
doing some form of mating ritual or combat.  They were thick, powerful
snakes - dark-backed and cream-colored underneath, with the triangular head
shape of pit vipers.  They would entwine like a caduceus, with their heads
coming a full foot above the surface of the creek.  Using logic that
mystifies me now, I reasoned that I needed to paddle past them, which at one
point put me within a few feet of them.  

When I was about 15 feet past past them, they split up, and one began to
swim straight at me.  

Man, those guys are fast.

Now keep in mind, I'm up a creek with steep, wooded banks, and I am floating
in a kayak that clears the water by less distance than this poisonous snake
has just demonstrated he can master.  

I'm a psychologist by education, and I was enjoying observing my own
cognitions at this moment.  What exactly was I going to do if he decided I
was a threat?  Better yet, what if he decided he'd like to explore the
inside of a big orange kayak?  I was certain I wasn't going to stay in the
kayak with such a passenger, but dumping myself into the creek with him and
his mate/rival didn't seem so inviting, either.

For the second time in less than 10 minutes, I found myself making
uncomfortably close eye contact with an animal that could choose to remind
me that I'm not really the crown of creation.

The snake swam alongside the kayak.  (Have you ever really studied the
interesting dark mark that cottonmouths have on their cheeks?)  Then - as I
had been silently reassuring myself that he would - he headed down-creek,
presumably with an interesting tale to tell his buddies.    

I paddled back toward the heron.  He was still balanced on the branch, but
not where I'd left him.  The branch was evidently not anchored, and had
floated a few yards toward me and my newfound playmates.  

It was obvious that I had not yet rescued the heron.  He was as calm and as
in peril as ever.  I paddled to within a few yards of him to contemplate how
to help him.  He clung to the branch, calmly staring at me with those
forward-facing, yellow eyes, and it came to me as clearly as if he'd spoken
it aloud.  He was staring at me and thinking, "You're an idiot."

OK.  Now put yourself in my kayak.  Here's a large, saturated, exhausted,
and potentially dangerous bird, stranded on a floating branch with no
obvious prospects of escape.  Seriously.  Think about it.  You're so smart,
how do you help this guy?


Plan A

I spotted a large tree that had fallen into the creek.  It wasn't that far
away, and it looked like a place for the heron to stand and dry out.  Maybe
the tree could even act as a bridge from the water to the bank.  I paddled
over to the heron's branch, all the while thinking he would squawk and take
off.  Instead, he just stared at me:  "You're an idiot."

I positioned my kayak next to the branch and gave it a shove toward the
downed tree.  

Do you truly understand Newton's Third Law of Motion?  Branch and heron
moved 1.7 cm.  Kayak and idiot moved 2.6 meters.

Still, I persevered with this silliness, and eventually positioned the heron
next to the downed tree.  

You know the saying:  You can lead a heron to dry dock, but you can't make
him disembark.  He clung to his branch, staring at me, thinking, "You're an
idiot."

I said out loud, "I'm the primate here.  I should be able to solve this."


Plan B

I've got a boat.  I've got a knife.  I've got twine hanging from the trees.


I cut pieces of twine, tied them together, tied one end to the side of my
kayak, and tied the other end to the heron's branch.  Soon we were headed
upstream:  a big orange kayak towing a branch with a disgusted heron
onboard.  (I like my Mother's description after hearing this story:
"low-speed water-skiing.")   I kept picturing what this 20-foot-long
assemblage would look like to anyone standing along the creek bank.  

After ten minutes of towing, I found a low bank where I could deposit the
heron on dry land.  I slowly swung the branch around toward the bank.  Even
though the heron and I were within touching distance, he calmly clung to his
branch.  (Staring.  Thinking, "You're an idiot.")  I positioned his branch
so that he was next to the muddy bank, but again no action.  I nudged him on
the back with my paddle.  His next move surprised me.  

He stretched his neck out and buried almost the entire length of his beak
into the mud of the bank.  He then dragged himself off the branch and almost
out of the water.  He sat in this weird predicament, beak in mud, so I
nudged him again.  (This cartoon balloon appeared above his head, "You're an
idiot.")

He pulled his beak out of the mud stretched it out again, buried it in the
mud again, and pulled himself entirely out of the water onto dry land.
(Success!)  As he pulled his bloody legs up under his body, I noticed they
were still tangled together with twine.  

He's right:  I AM an idiot.

I figured we were comrades at this point, what with the cruise we'd taken
together and all, so I opened my knife, reached under him and pulled out
first one leg and then the other, and carefully cut all the twine off him.
Whether from exhaustion, understanding, or sheer exasperation, he never once
tried to pull away, never once threatened me.  He just stared at me,
thinking, "Finally."

I knew he had to be hungry, so I tossed him a Nutri-Grain bar.  (Strawberry.
Low fat.)  I doubt he viewed it as food - I barely do - but I had to try
something.  

And yes.  I did unwrap it.  I'm not an idiot.

I left him sitting on the muddy bank.  I hope he dried out.  I hope his legs
are healing and he's OK.  I hope he warns his buddies about the ecological
disaster humans have created by leaving unbreakable fishing line on every
foot of creek, river, beach, and ocean on the planet.  

Ben Yandell
Louisville


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