[wisb] Recessional of the Arctic Ambassador at the Buena Vista
- From: Michael Huebschen <huebschenhuebschen@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: "wisbirdn@xxxxxxxxxxxxx" <wisbirdn@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 21:43:35 -0700 (PDT)
An afternoon long search for the Arctic Ambassador at the Buena Vista
Grasslands on 25 March 2014 brought visual touch with some of the early
harbingers of vernal flux (Horned Lark, Rough-legged Hawk, Kestrel, and
Northern Harrier), as I hoped for one last fleeting visual embrace with the
Visiting Professor of cold-weather insulation, snowscape blend and vole
management. The Cryogenic Curmudgeon had howled it's defiance of notations on
our 12-month schedule-minder regarding day length, sun angle, and long term
average temperature all afternoon. (The not-so subtle winds and air temperature
reminded one that minus global warming, we might well be flirting with sliding
into the next ice age, by the measure of the geologic clock. That is not to
imply that global warming is to be discounted.)
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About 15 minutes after sunset, I headed east toward the great indoors pretty
suspicious that our winter season diplomats from Bubo scandiacus had headed
north with the last thaw and southerly wind change. As I drew within sight of
the Taft Ave. intersection, my oculars locked onto a white form perched on the
top of a dendroid cadaver. I pulled off on the shoulder long enough to regain
visual embrace with the avian emblem that many of us had reveled to for the
past several months. It likely spent most of the afternoon partially sheltered
in a ground level locale that afforded much more relief from the cold roar
sweeping across the open expanse than a treetop would have. I would likely be
remiss in presuming that it responded to my presence with the owl emotional
equivalent of approval, acceptance or even complete ambivalence. Yet,
acknowledge one another's presence, we did. In the dimming twilight, it's
golden irises breathed on me, as I captured a quick
parcel of it's aesthetic gold gaze for the cerebral memory bin.
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I continued on toward the trappings of techno-comfort and shelter from the
exhalatory sting of the Cryogenic Curmudgeon speculating on the extent to which
many of us might have infringed on the "comfort zone" of this magnificent
symbol of evolutionary toughness. As Kerry Sehloff and others have aptly
emphasized, we (this would-be lensman included) are still a ways from
perfecting our interactions with the likes of the Snowy Owl so as to minimize
interference with it's basic functions. While I for one, would be surprised if
I never veer from the optimum state of restraint in future approaches of these
magnificent creatures, I tip my hat to those who make that mandate a high
priority. I would be more comfortable if other hominid revelers would eliminate
the verbal gabble that inevitably seems to arise when two or more hominids
descend upon such a locale. Wanna gabfest? Why not move away about a half mile
and convntioneer till you're exhausted if that be
Your inclination? That might go a long way in insuring that we do not "love"
the native fauna to death (Leopold). While we may never perfect the execution
of that caution equation, I find it popping to mind more often than earlier on.
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For a good part of the route home, I mused on the hope and prospect of being
able to recall the visual capture of that phantom creature in the waning
twilight long into my late years aboard the planet. I know as surely as the
twilight dimmed that evening that my recall hard drive and microprocessor will
slow, burr, and blur if I live for any number of years.
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Hence, I write these accounts to share them with You all, and have them for
future reference, should I live to be old enough to need a written review of
the events that have made my synapses hum with glee.
Â
Best Wishes,
Michael J. Huebschen
Oshkosh, Winnebago County, Wi.
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