SATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2011. Winter seems reluctant to leave Wisconsin. The pond near our complex, which has finally been open water for several days, has a skin of ice over two-thirds of its surface this morning. I notice the ice as I walk past on the bike path, heading toward the ball field in the park just north of the pond. For months I’ve been aware of a bend in the river upstream visible through the bare winter trees and shrubs on the far side of the park, a bend mostly hidden from view in more verdant seasons. Startled that I hadn’t seen it before—or at least acknowledged it—I’ve been intending to take a closer look at it. The idea became more insistent after the February blizzard, when the stark brown trees stood out against the white snow, and the Fox River, still running open, glowed a deep blue behind them, flowing at first perpendicular to the park and then parallel to it.
From then on I looked for the bend each time I drove past. Driving by gives me a more elevated perspective that makes it easy to locate the bend, but on foot I’m not certain exactly where it is. The park is at the bottom of a ten-foot slope and the trees and undergrowth are thicker at ground level, obscuring any view of the river. When I tromp down the slope and cross the grass toward the line of trees, I thread my way through them a little too soon, coming out well below the bend. A rough path along the riverbank takes me to a point where a huge oak sprawls thick trunks in four directions close to the ground. From here I have a view of the river bend.
My arrival startles a nearby pair of mallards, who fly off complaining. In the distance two more ducks leave the water to rise up into the trees. I pull out my binoculars for a closer look and find myself staring at the first wood ducks I’ve ever seen in the wild. On the water I discover half a dozen more, and then I spot some buffleheads, some common goldeneyes, a pair of common mergansers, and more mallards—a surprising variety of waterfowl. It seems to be a popular spot. Except for the mallards, I’ve seen none of these birds on the river before. Red-winged blackbirds fly into the grasses on the shore and chickadees call from deeper in the woods. My presence causes no more alarm and I watch through binoculars as long as I can stand still in the cold. Then I find an easier, more direct path out of the woods.
I cut back across the ballfield, the grass flecked with snow, and climb the slope. The sun at 9:30 has begun to affect the edge of the ice sheet on the pond but, as cold as it is, I’m sure it won’t shrink much.
I follow the paved path between the pond and our complex back toward the river. Last weekend we had two days of heavy rain, and with the melting snow and the rain, the river has been running high. The floodplain glistens from the water spread across it, and I am certain that the path will be flooded near the observation deck. We’ve had several dry days and very cold nights and the hummocks of sedge between the path and the river seem separated by ice rather than by water.
Still, as persistent as winter is, the birds are ready for spring. I see robins and red-winged blackbirds and hear birdsong all along the path. Once I have a close-up view of a singing song sparrow and pause to listen to him warble and trill. A few other birds are too fleet of wing for me to identify, but they are distinctive enough for me to realize they aren’t anything I’ve seen or heard already this morning.
At the entrance to the woods the path runs closer to the flood-plain and I begin to see more signs of flooding the closer I get to the observation deck. The foremost pilings of the deck are now in water and the platform seems to overlook a lake. The river here meanders through the wetlands, swings east and then west and then east again, approaching the deck and turning abruptly south to glide away from it. The sedges are usually high and dry and the channel of the river readily visible. Today, except for a few slightly higher parcels of land that have become islands, it is almost impossible to tell where the river usually runs. Around one of the islands I see a pair of mallards, as well as Canada geese in pairs or groups of three or four, no more than a dozen altogether. At one point a gander on one island storms across the shore of another to chase off two geese that were calmly standing there. The other geese ignore the fracas and drift around the island calmly.
The sun is bright, the wind brisk, and snow flurries persistent, sometimes so light as to be barely noticeable, sometimes so intense as to cloud the air. When my hands become too cold to write notes or to hold my binoculars steady, I head home, well contented. I didn’t set out to have a lively birding day and I appreciate how lucky I’ve been. All I wanted was to become better acquainted with the river and, with the help of the birds, I’ve gotten that as well.