Fledgling Birds - 07/07/13 - Written by Mike LaDue

While in the garden pulling weeds or harvesting leafy greens, I have noticed a plethora of young birds. Robins, grackles, starlings, morning doves and the local nest of Merlin’s have fledged. It is enjoyable to watch the smaller bird’s line up around our feeder and wait for seed. You would think that once the young fledge, they could fend for themselves (more) efficiently. No, the caretaking is far from over for the adult birds. The parents are still responsible for feeding the young, as well as for their safety.

Growing birds are far more vocal than the average child. They squawk and complain even while the seeds are being beaked right into their mouths. It takes days for the pea brained complainers to realize that they are capable of doing the same thing on their own. Even though they do have a small brain, I’ll give them credit for knowing when it is time to leave home. Finding out that they can fly must be a liberating experience. They need no training, no learners permit or a class to show them how. It is a leap of faith reinforced by parents coaxing or the witnessing of fellow siblings making the plunge. If a human child had the same chance I wonder if they would ever be seen again.

There are two predators that the young flyers have to be aware of in the neighborhood. The first is, as in many other neighborhoods, the outside cat. The second less common predator is the Merlin (falcons) that are now feeding their fledged young. The Merlin’s have been lively with chatter all spring, but now that the young are flying the, noise is twofold. My bride watched one of the young ones yesterday take a meal from the sky and light onto a bare branch. A second young Merlin decided that sharing the meal would be a great idea. It came to join its sibling and was promptly admonished and chased away. Sharing was probably fine while they cohabitated in the nest and food came along all by itself. That falcon learned the rewards of its labor and was not going to share those efforts with one who does not even try. Humans may see that as a cruel rule, but it is one that makes being self-sufficient mandatory.

Friends from the river invited my bride and me to take a hike around the island where they spend weekends. We walked the trails and enjoyed watching songbirds and ripening wild raspberries. There was a relieving shade under the tall oaks standing in woods, and some of those (trees) are well over a hundred years old. It was like walking in the wilderness that once surrounded this river. How refreshing to hear nothing but nature and seeing the lack of man’s interference with it. We were in for an unexpected treat when they told us that a rookery of blue herons occupy a section of those woods.

Jane said; “Shall we take them to see the rookery of herons?” That statement stopped me in my tracks; “I have not been close to a heron rookery since I was ten years old. My Pap and I used to fish around Iron side Island and that was as close as I ever got to them. I’d like nothing more than to get under their nests and listen to them.” Jane’s husband Mike was leading our walk and said; “It is like going to some prehistoric place. You won’t believe the racket that they make. When we first came here and listened to them during the night we had no idea what they were.” He led us over hills and through the woods to a slight valley.

I could smell them long before I saw or heard them. The air over the island carried the aroma and I was reminded of my days cleaning out chicken coops. Mike was correct, the herons screeching and squawking was eerie. The mature birds flew in with fish to feed the young and as they approached the immature herons cried for attention. The long gangly adult birds put on the brakes, to land on foliage covered branches. Swooping sounds of faltering wing beats added to the ever present chatter. The returning herons cast shadows over the tree tops, before stretching out two long legs to grasp a solid perch. Whitewashed chalky scat covered the ground below each nest. We were there… under the rookery.

Three deer slipped through the woods as my bride and I took gingerly footsteps around the scat. We craned our heads to the sky to see several nests high above the ground. Immature herons stood on piles of sticks sewn together by the long bills of their parents. Others ventured out beyond the nest to stand and stare into the air, like forlorn children waiting for a school bus. It was difficult to photograph, the birds blended into the sky and foliage almost becoming transparent. I managed to focus on a tree where two adults pandered to the hunger of an off spring. At no time could I get all of them completely into the shot but it was close.

When a heron stands in just the right direction it looks like a piece of vertical plywood standing on its side, with two eyeballs attached. That’s what makes them efficient at catching fish, lack of movement and an invisible forward profile. The young in the trees already had that down; they were hard to pick out (if they were not moving). Last week my bride just happened to see a heron fly past with a chipmunk hanging from its bill. I have seen herons in ponds snatching frogs and in ditches taking pollywogs. If they are able to spear a chipmunk you know just how fast they can strike!

 One of the trees had a number of horizontal branches and it held six different nests. You can imagine what the earth looked like under that tree! I have no estimate on how many heron were in that pungent lively rookery. We backed out and left the area to the community of original residents, who for centuries never saw a human.

A hundred years has changed this river in many ways. I have only known her for the last fifty. Of all of my experiences in nature along her shores, this was the first time that I traversed what was once called a wilderness. I found that it is not only a sanctuary for herons; it was also a sanctuary for my spirit. I thank our friends for sharing this secluded seductive section of the river. It thrives in a different time, but in the same place as a resilient reminder to the rivers importance. We are not the only species and far from the only beneficiaries of her unique ecosystem.

Wild Asparagus Season - 05/12/13 - Written by Mike LaDue

My week was shut down early by a spring cold. I have spent three days wishing to be outdoors, while relishing the times that I accumulated earlier. I caught some fish, chased some turkey and tended my early garden. Its times like these when I am forced to lay low, that I truly appreciate all that I have to enjoy on and around our river. The clouds in my fogged head and the persistent cough have anchored me to home. Today I just had to bust out of here and get some fresh air.

I traveled over to a spot where I have been successful in acquiring asparagus from a very old bed. On Monday after chasing turkeys, I checked the bed and only found three young shoots. I ate them right there, on the spot. Raw asparagus is very akin to the flavor fresh peas, with a lot more moisture to offer. Those three shoots were barely enough to wet my appetite. I did not know what to expect this morning, maybe a few more. There in front of me stood a bounty of tall hearty green thick shafts. I counted as I cut them from their bond with the soil, just over fifty stalks!

The bed I was in was part of a farm that originated over one hundred years ago. The property is now a State wildlife management area (WMA). Each time I travel through the field (to the spot) I think of the hard knock life of those original farmers. I have never known work like those rock busting, sod cutting determined survivors. Their workday lasted as long as the daylight and beyond. I’ll bet that they were as anxious for that first cutting of spring, as I am each year. There are few remnants of the old farm left, pray that lone patch of asparagus. Finding a wild patch is like unearthing buried treasure and those of us that do keep it close to our cuffs. My efforts yielded me just over two pounds, enough to satisfy me for a few meals.

I spent my evenings casting for northern pike just before sunset (pre cold). The river was calm and clear on each outing. I have seen a number of pike follow my lure to the boat ultimately refusing to have anything further to do with it. Switching the hard spoon (color) did nothing to improve my encounter with the belligerent followers. I tried a rattletrap on Sunday and was surprised by a fat momma small mouth grasping it. She made two leaps prior to me hulling her clear of the river and releasing her. The change in the size of the small mouths has been amazing in the last few years.

The ones that I have been seeing in the river again this year are big. I’d say that they are from two to four pounds each, with a few larger ones tracing shadows against the bottom. There have been a number of changes since I started fishing here in the early 1980’s. Weeds were held by rocks with very few open spots, where I could see the bottom. Pike dominated the area out front along with schools of perch preferring the dense weeds. Since then the bottom has steadily been covered by sand. Zebra muscles came in to filter the water making it hard for weeds to live. Gobies found their way here to the dismay of many an angler, they are everywhere. Is it a coincidence that the perch and bass each getting larger? Recent catches indicate to me that the smaller gobies are now a preferred food source of each. I find them while filleting both perch and the occasionally bass that I do keep. Einstein said that there is an equal and opposite reaction from events causing change. It looks as though we may have come out of this one on the plus side, as far as the bass and perch are concerned.    

I have been enjoying the (spring) river air that is blending with the fragrance of emerging flowers. Tulips are beginning to fade while lilacs are filling the void with pungent sweetness. It is pleasurable to tend my early garden plants while immersed in the perfume of the season. My bride has constructed a ‘fancy’ pea trellis for the growing peas. She has been working on my ways for a number of years, in an attempt make things look ‘better’ around here. Left to my own devices I’d just knot up some string and call it good enough. I’ll admit that it does look much better, but she has a long ways to go to reconfigure my casual ways.

The songsters with feathers have been busy picking and placing twigs for weeks. Two morning doves chose to build a nest at the cross section at the top of my cabin wall logs. There was barely enough room for one of them. Each time the male brought a twig his mate would wiggle it into place only to have it drop to the ground. It took two weeks and a lot of back step sweeping from me, before they chose to relocate. They have successfully built a home on the other side where there is more room.

 Another pair of doves found our upper deck to be the perfect location to raise a brood. They chose a small table next to our porch swing, which is flat and open. Both my bride and the dog went out there after dark one evening, to watch for falling stars when the dog discovered the nest. The dove flew off into the darkness unable to find her way back. I brought the nest (on the table) in for the night to keep the two eggs warm. My bride put the table back out in the morning, once it warmed up. The dove has been sitting there since and now owns the deck, until the little ones fledge. No one can say that I am not hospitable; I am such a sucker for the coos of baby doves…

Ice In - Ice Out Vintage Sleds - 02/04/13 - Written by Mike LaDue

A brief warm up curtailed my ice fishing efforts until a week ago Sunday. It was a sunny cold day and I had been cooped up in the cabin long enough. I was itching to get in at least a couple of hours, resting my behind on a bucket. The ice was much different from the last that I had sat upon. It had been broken and splintered into large chunks that lay strewn across the shore. A new episode of cold had cemented the old ice with a new layer which was black and clear.

There was very little snow on the surface, so the ice cleats came in handy. I carefully chose my steps. I crossed a series of heaved up ice burgs using my auger for stability. A stinging wind took to my face like lint to static. I could feel the redness replace my otherwise peaked winter face. Black ice is actually clear, very clear in fact. Walking across it is like traveling in a glass bottomed boat. I could see weeds frozen and suspended below me. It can be an unnerving experience as you feel like there is nothing between you and the bottom.

I ended up on a spot where there was some remaining snow. I felt much more comfortable there, not seeing the bottom. A little snow helps to keep the bucket in place and I like it for coating any fish that I may catch. When the wind is strong it will dry them out and freeze a fish quickly. It turns out that that was not going to be a problem. I sat for two hours (jigging) and even switched rods with out so much as a bump from below. Yes I got skunked, not a fish, not even a tiny one.

Monday morning the wind was blowing and the cold continued. The River was iced to and beyond Carleton Island. It had had time to grow and was getting close to a foot in thickness. I was getting excited about finally getting to walk on the River. Then Wednesday came and 50 degree weather. I went down to my dock to see how the ice was faring. It had become clear and there were small pockets of water purging through a few cracks. I did not see how any wind would be able to dislodge that large new piece of real estate. It should make it through the heat wave, I was sure…

Thursday morning on the last day of January the River was roaring. There was not a bit of ice left from the expansive flat surface that existed the day before. Oh what a wind, I seldom have seen the river with waves that rival those of lake Ontario. It blew in from the west, mean, nasty and vengeful. As the white caps tumbled to a crest the sunlight of the morning ignited the mist. I watched as tiny rainbows, prisms of light cast across the surface like halos. The waves on the River carried waves of color like a crown, it was amazing!

Friday February 1^st, I looked out to see that the wind had stalled and dispersed over night, leaving a new layer of ice under construction. The large expanse between my place and Carleton was attempting to weld the two shore lines together with a solid surface. What a difference a day can make. I am left scratching my head, got ice, no ice, oh wait there is ice. So far, the up coming forecast is in my favor for some ice fishing this week, so far.

My Bride and I went up to Alexandria Bay yesterday for breakfast and to stock up on steaks. Along the way I noticed some ‘vintage snowmobile’ signs along the road. I thought that it had been the previous weekend for (some reason) and I got excited. “Oh we have to go down town and take a walk; I’d like to see this.” “You go right ahead; I’ll stay in the car and keep it warm for you while go watch your breath.” My gal has got to be the most thoughtful creature on earth, always looking out for me.

I seldom leave my camera at home and I sure did regret it yesterday. I saw some sweet old sleds that brought back many memories. Tiny sleds for kids, with engines from 16cc to five horse power. Early snow machines painted red and looking like new. Single cylinder late sixties ski-doo’s that I remember the intake sucking my scarf into. There were Sno-jets, Moto skis, Polaris and Arctic cats. I saw a couple of Chaparrals and one Massey Ferguson ‘Ski-wiz’. The best and worst part was one owner attempting to start his sled, pulling and pulling on the recoil rope. Oh, that sound and struggle I remember well. My shoulder hurt from just watching him.

I think that he put thirty strokes into his effort before the ancient temperamental machine succumbed. Blue/ white smoke puffed out with each ping of the two cycle engine. I remember a time when that aroma filled the air all winter long. He revved the engine to warm it and the sound was something that I had forgotten, it was damn loud! No wonder I have lost my higher pitch hearing. But back to the memories, I never had a sled but my neighbors on all sides did. On weekends waves of the ‘snow machines’ would pass by the house. They traveled the fields, zipped down the road shoulders, and traversed the railroad tracks.

As I said they were loud and I could hear them coming long before I could see any. The ones in the fields were the most fun to watch. Each one had a single dim lamp on the front cowl that bobbed across the drifts like a horseman carrying a lantern. I watched them through wavy window panes that were a century old. Often a caravan of twenty sleds followed one another, over drifts and through an orchard like a long winter snake. I am pleased to see that some of those original machines have survived. This was the first event for them in the Bay and I hope it is able to continue to grow. I will remember my camera and the date next year!

This morning I went with a friend to join the folks from TILT (Thousand Island Land Trust) on an eagle watch over to Wellesley Island. We arrived early and my partner saw the first eagle of the day. It flew onto a tree to roost, overlooking a small Island with a red cabin on it. We were off to a good start! The sun was out though; at times it was under the cover of light misty clouds.

We were joined by a surprisingly large number of fellow enthusiasts. Our names were taken by Corrine Mockler of the TILT staff to make sure all who signed up were accounted for. The chariot provided was a hay wagon loaded with bales of fragrant hay. Binoculars and blankets were also available for those who needed them. An Ornithologist named Gerry Smith provided us with (his) fifty plus years of birding experience. He gave us insights on how to identify juvenile eagles from the mature and the rarely seen Golden eagle.

There were a number of stops where we delighted in seeing some individual eagles. Some of them were on roost while others were in flight, one even landed onto the frozen River surface. Our driver and host Jake Tibbles joined Gerry in explaining the importance of preserving large tracts of undeveloped land. I found out that TILT also has some large parcels on the lesser known islands. Each uniquely formed and preserved area provides a traditional habitat for all that is wild. How refreshing to see an entity of private influence protecting the Rivers ecosystem through sound property management.

I met some new people on the adventure and had a relaxing time while we all enjoyed the outdoors. A very nice couple even invited the wagon load of hay and snow covered strangers into their home. Mr. and Mrs. Smith had a house full of bird watchers, who were extremely grateful to share both their heat and the splendid view on the River. Our group enjoyed watching a mature eagle go to roost, swans, various ducks and a number of eagle fly-bys. I was so grateful to our hosts that I even shared some of my dried apple chips with them. One of my new acquaintances commented on how nice it must be to live on the River year round. I cocked an eyebrow and with a smile said; “You wouldn’t like it, it’s boring, there is hardly ever anything to do.” That’s funny she said; “It seems to me that some ‘guy’ often writes in the T.I. Sun about just how marvelous it is to live on the River all year.” Humm…

Icing on the River and a Grouse Hunt - 01-18-13 - Written by Mike LaDue

I ventured out this morning with my camera, to show you the current River conditions. It was breezy, brisk, sunny and bright. The sun this time of year can be a grand deceiver; she keeps her heat to herself. The wind cut through my gloves and stung my fingers so I limited my exposure to just a few minutes. Any snow that remains is crusted, crystallized and crunchy. It easily held my over laden stature without yielding a millimeter. I have been spending too much time inside as indicated by my digital scale. Each day it shows me an increase in body mass from the previous day (dang scale).

I could see that ice is beginning to grasp the River surface, in the sheltered area between Carleton drive and Burnham Point State Park. Overnight the ice pad grew three fold in size extending to a fingerlike point. The River is reluctant to concede the inevitable. A west wind defies the long outstretched ice pad tearing at the seams. The pad looks to be firmly established staving off the continual assault, but time and temperature will tell. Fragments of ice are surrounded in slurry of slush pushing against the shoreline, below me. It sounds like a margarita being prepared in a blender and then poured. Like a cake that has been properly cooled, the river is ready for its icing. With the weather forecast being predicted for next week, I expect to see the transformation expand to the shores of Carleton Island.

The bird feeder has welcomed a number of new visitors. A tit mouse made an appearance last week for just a day and then traveled on. At least four different wood peckers have settled in today, both hairy and downy. I will have to add another suet basket to give them all an equal chance to dine. I snuck down to my dock to get a photo of a pair of common golden eye ducks. The drake saw me and took flight; he was striking in color as he flew above the river surface. The drake golden eye has such a distinctive face. I have not seen an eagle this week but expect the sightings of them to grow with the coming ice.

I received a phone call from a friend last week inviting me to join him on an eagle watch. He thought that I might be interested in joining a group from TILT (Thousand Island Land Trust) to observe some of the big raptors. As you might expect I will jump at any chance to get outdoors, particularly when it is next to this River.   I am excited about joining the group on February 3^rd at Thousand Islands Park. I have taken a number of trips to Wellesley Island in past winters to enjoy her unique solitude. I have watched deer feeding, eagles soaring or resting and numerous other creatures. It is one of the many treasures that make this a premier place for an outdoors-person to live.

With the first snow pack gone I am finally able to get back into the fields and woods. There in lies my problem with the previously mentioned (evil) weight scale. My lack of outdoor activity directly impacts the growing girth of my waistline. I know that exercise is good, but I find it boring and mundane. Give me a decent day and a good pair of boots and I can put miles behind me without regret. With some coaxing, my Britt Zoey was willing to join me on a bird hunt. To be honest, all I had to do was bring my canvas pants up from the basement and she went into frenzy. She put on her happy face and exhibited a lack of patience while I dressed. Her little tail danced on her behind while she crouched with her face on the floor. Little miss attitude tells me off at any given opportunity.

I took her over to the Ashland Wildlife area and set her free. She raced over the open field taking pause to relieve her intestinal contents several times. Every dog I have ever owned has always done the same routine. That is all except one, a water spaniel named Bow. He preferred to do it in the back of the Mazda station wagon while in transit. I could not open enough windows or get to my destination fast enough!

Zoey sized up the area and took to the thickest brush that she could find. I could hear her bell clanking as she slipped out of sight. What a perfect day to do some exploring, it was sunny and relatively warm too. I soon unzipped my coat and dropped the hood that covered my ears. I wondered in and out of thick overgrowth, seeing one rabbit that escaped undetected by the dog. This is also an area where I like to setup and call tom turkeys in the spring. I took note of some excellent looking spots for that upcoming season.

On my way into some good looking grouse cover I noticed some fresh blood on the snow. Zoey came zipping past and I took a look at her for any sign of a wound. She seemed unaffected and continued into more thick growth. When next I saw her she was favoring her front left wheel and began to chew on the top of her foot. She gnawed on it, got up and stopped to gnaw on it again. I called her over and flipped her to her side finding a two inch thorn protruding from the pad of her paw. With a quick jerk I removed the annoyance and she let out a soft yip. I figured that I was going to carry her back to the truck. She jumped up and proceeded about her business. Next time I’ll try her out on some leather boots to prevent any further problem.

During her exploration of a tight patch of bushes she became aware of some scent. She circled the area in tighter and tighter circles closing in on a reluctant ruffed grouse. I then heard the wing beats of a frantic grouse break the silence. It had some trouble breaking free of the brush, but it knew exactly where I was. I followed the sound and watched as it broke free of the cover almost, forty yards away. There was no way that my 20 gauge was going to catch that rocket! If I was carrying my long gun, dimes to doughnuts it would have risen at my feet. You have heard of Murphy’s Law?  Well LaDue’s law goes like this; “No matter the situation the fool with the gun will not be prepared or in the right location.” It’s genetic and follows me like my Pap’s shadow. I travel in good company and can hear his laughter still…