As I prepare for our First Circle and Nature Awareness wilderness survival camps here on the beautiful Oregon coast, spring is well on its way. Blooming shrubs, like wild Rhododendron, are beginning to flower in elegant profusion. Showering florescent to pale pink blooms amid the rich green and rust colors of Huckleberry and Salal bushes.
The wild Rhodie’s remind me of sacred forest glens, aglow with warm soft filtered sunlight, hidden among the giant old growth evergreens I once witnessed many years ago.
We also enjoy watching the Anna’s and Rufus hummingbirds as they flit and buzz to and fro feeding between the flowering blossoms and the feeder we keep out for them. We tracked down a bird sound that began a few days ago from the far side of the lake. To me it sounded very much like a California Mountain Quail, which we haven’t seen locally, but find them higher in the hills. Celeste with her sharp ears pinned it down to an Olive Sided Fly Catcher. (They make a quick 3-beers whistle.) After about an hour of stalking the sound with my binoculars I was able to confirm. With the tremendous variety of winged insects here on the lake, the Flycatchers should do very well.
Last week the Tree Swallows, in small groups, circled above our heads twittering away making known their return for another summer. Diving and skimming for insects near the waters surface, they are cavity dwellers making their homes in the holes of trees, like abandoned woodpecker nests.
There are a pair of Osprey, (Fish Hawks), making their nest somewhere near us. They have only recently arrived as well, diving in great arching circles, chasing vultures from their domain, screeching high piercing calls. I watched as one of the Osprey dived very near a pair of Canadian Geese. The pair have a clutch of seven chicks to protect, and were supremely upset by the seemingly predatory action of the Osprey.
I watched our local Beaver performing which seemed to me as I imagined in the softening light of dusk, A spring ritual of the the Beaver clan. It was early evening, I, seated near the lake in quiet observation was roused by a smacking sound, a sound known to all living creatures of the lake, as the sound of the Beavers tail hard upon the surface of the water.
Slapping its tail with great energy then diving among the Lily pads, to surface again, more slapping with its broad tail and diving again under water, circling round and round.
I’m guessing; but, it seemed to me an activity related to the joy of spring, or it may have just been a warning to the rest of the clan, my proximity to their liquid territory.
Scanning the trail from camp, we look hopefully for the fresh print of our resident Bear in hopes of his return this season. We whisper, grunting our bear chant into the failing light of evening as the north wind kicks up, the lake no longer placid, waves edged with white froth, we head home.
