He was trapped, and docile. It took Avery a moment to realize she had one, a saw-whet tangled quietly in the mist nest waiting for its fate. Owls’ specialized feathers allow them to fly without sound so she would never have known if she hadn’t been checking the net every half hour.
She put on gloves and disengaged the bird gently from the net, put him in a small sack and brought him into the Barque of the Pine where she had set up her equipment. The Barque was a perfect lab. It sat shaded by tall pines and the low, overhanging roof and small windows kept the inside dark.
She pulled out an ultraviolet light to estimate the bird’s age. The pigment of new saw-whet feathers fluoresces a pink glow in the light and fades with age. This one’s feathers were luminescing a pink glow under the black light. She recorded the age as one year old, a juvenile.
It was definitely a male, as he weighed in on the scale at less than seventy-five grams; a female would be closer to one hundred. Avery blew on his downy chest feathers to look for the telltale yellow of a fat deposit, indicating that prey is plentiful. He was a plump one all right; the field mice were abundant around the Barque. When she was done recording, she put a small aluminum alloy band around his tiny leg with a serial number for tracking. If he ever did leave his territory in the North Woods to migrate south, maybe a bird-bander in Pennsylvania would capture him one day and they could share stories.
“All done little guy,” she said. Lifting him in the air at the door of the Barque she was both sad and exhilarated that she finally had a live bird banded. The creature, which had shown no emotion during the whole ordeal, bit her wrist before he flew off.
It was a productive morning. By 11 am she had captured and banded four more owls: three males and one female. Satisfied and hungry, she decided to call it a day. Since luck was on her side, maybe this evening she would give it another try at the site near Camp Kirby. She returned to Huntington to eat lunch with the co-eds before heading back to her small cabin in the woods. After lunch she took a break on the porch of her cabin and stole a few minutes to read more of the diary.
June 16, 1893
I woke up to the lonely wail of the loons. They frighten me sometimes, the loons, they call to each other every morning as if they are lost. And it reminds me of William. Sometimes he appears lost.
For instance, last night he came to see me very late. Nate had long since gone to bed. William tapped lightly on the door leading to my room.
I was startled by his tapping, it took me a moment to realize someone was outside my room on the porch. I put on my robe and went to him. He was as wet as a mop and smelled like cigar smoke and campfire.
He was exhausted. I know that he and Janet have been doing a lot of entertaining this summer. President Harrison has stayed at Pine Knot more than once while on a hunting expedition. And numerous friends and family from New York City are planning to visit when the black flies have gone. Or so William has informed me. He does not want so much company, he told me, while he is working on finishing Camp Uncas, but he has to entertain to keep these people interested in investing in his land holdings. I really don’t understand it all.
“Oh Minnie,” he said and hugged me, causing me to get drenched as well. He went to the chair in the corner and took off his shoes before sitting back in the chair to look at me standing in the middle of the room. I was still so shocked to see him here at this time of night.
After what seemed like a long time of me standing there in the middle of the room, shivering, waiting for him to say something, he took my hand and led me to my bed and tucked me in and sat down on the bed next to me. We listened to the soft patter of the rain on the roof and looked out the window at the drizzle. I had my arms over his chest.
“I will stay with you until you fall asleep,” he said.
When I woke up this morning he was gone. And that is when I heard the loons calling.
Minnie
June 20, 1893
Nate has been my constant companion while I pine away here waiting for my next visit from William. Tonight we sat on the porch after supper. We read about the guides of the Adirondacks that Nate is so proud of. This funny little book, Murray’s Adventures, was written over twenty years ago, yet Nate reads it like it’s his talisman. He was especially proud of Murray’s description of the independent guide, as it reminds him of his Uncle.
“…a more honest, cheerful and patient class of men cannot be found the world over. Born and bred as many of them were in this wilderness, skilled in ….woodcraft, …handy with the rod,…superb at the paddle. Bronzed and hardy, fearless of danger…uncontaminated with the vicious habits of civilized life…”
I would hate to be the one to tell poor Nate that they are a dying breed as the hotels hire them as servants to the masses that arrive each summer, no longer just the men on an outing: the women and children are in tow as well. And the tourists spend their time not in a boat or portaging from one lake to the next but sitting on the verandas of places like Under the Hemlocks or Paul Smith’s Hotel, waiting for tea and the next social event of the day where they can put on their finest clothes and act like they are back home. I know all of this because I heard the guides complaining about it while I was a governess for William’s children.
But all of this turmoil is hard to explain to an eleven year old orphan boy who wants to believe his father was swallowed up by the woods and who doesn’t even know how his mother died. I held him close to me as we watched the sunset.
Minnie
“Hmmm,” Avery hummed to herself, intrigued by the way this affair was shaping into something. She yawned, then put the small diary back in her pack and went into the cabin to take a short nap before going out again to scout for more owls.