Month: February 2021

Saturday was a perfect day to take a winter walk. After weeks of frigid weather, Steve and I rejoiced to experience temperatures just below freezing. How freeing to wear only one layer of mittens, one pair of socks and no heavy scarf covering our faces. And near-freezing temperatures meant the substantial snow cover was still intact, streaked on this day with blue shadows marking the presence of hazy sunshine. Our destination? A secluded, riverside residential enclave in East Dundee, across the river from our favorite local park. Our neighbor Rob had told us a mature eagle often roosts in a tall tree there in the late afternoon, so we timed our walk accordingly.

As we entered South End Park, we decided to walk through the deep snow, taking advantage of the tramped-down trail some people and deer had been using. Who first marked the trail—the deer or the people—was uncertain, but several piles of fresh scat indicated some deer had walked this path recently. As we got close to the river’s edge, we enjoyed seeing the crisscrossing patterns of tracks across and along the frozen river made by humans on foot and skis and creatures of all sizes. We also reveled in the silence. No manmade sounds were audible, and birds are much less vocal in the winter months. It seemed the world was holding its breath. After living for years in the hubbub of a large city, I continue to relish the sounds of silence.

After crossing the pedestrian bridge and entering East Dundee, we reached the road to the residential area where we hoped to see the roosting eagle. It was fun to explore this hidden neighborhood on foot. With the majority of the homes abutting the river, as one would expect, it’s an odd mixture of small, vintage, one-story cottage-sized dwellings, some of which have been expanded for year-round living; what looks like an abandoned fishing shack with old license plates tacked next to the collapsing front door; and two grand, newly built, imposing homes at the end of the street facing south, where the Fox River widens to impressive dimensions. All of these homes are grouped close together on small lots, to maximize the availability of water views.

The only sounds we heard were the barking and snarling of a large black dog behind a fence and the faint sound of a distant chickadee voicing its namesake call. As we walked I wondered about the wisdom of living right on the river’s banks and squarely on its floodplain. But the views of the river from there are lovely, made extra special by the lack of visible human structures on the opposite shores.  You can almost imagine what this place might have looked like before humans arrived. Even better, the people at the end of the street have a great view of an active bald eagle’s nest on the other side of the river.

Rob, who is often kind enough to report his eagle sightings and as such has become our own personal eagle scout, informed us last summer that there was an occupied nest in town, roughly a mile downriver from our house. Anticipating seeing eagles in the area throughout the year excited me beyond measure. When he told us the nest is visible only from the water, we had more than enough incentive to make a purchase that Steve has been lobbying for ever since we moved to this river town: we bought a used canoe.

Our first two attempts to locate the nest from our new vessel were unsuccessful. We surmised the nest was well hidden from the water by the foliage of surrounding trees, so we pressed Rob for more details on its location. On our third try, as we paddled from the Fox into the creek, we saw it in all its massive glory. It’s situated 50 yards or so inland from a creek near where it empties into the Fox River. As if to welcome us that day, one of the adults was roosting in dignified state on a tree right along the river’s edge as we entered the creek. We assumed that the eagle Rob had seen roosting regularly across the river from the nest location is part of our local eagle pair.

When we finally spotted the roosting tree, the intricate, lacy lines of the tree were not interrupted by a large, dark eagle shape silhouetted against the bright pale-blue sky. We pressed onward, in hopes of seeing an eagle airborne. Scanning the sky looking westward, in the direction of the nest, we still had no sightings. Suddenly, in the narrow gap between two of the houses, we could see the nest. With the leaves off the trees, it’s now plainly visible across the river.

The nesting season for bald eagles in much of the country starts in mid-February, so it’s likely that if our local nest is in use, the adults are already incubating their eggs. We stood still, watching the nest closely for any signs of activity. We saw none, although binoculars might have helped us spy an adult sitting on the nest. Then, without warning, the hushed quiet of this winter’s day was pierced by the nearby peal of an eagle’s gull-like call. Despite our searching, we couldn’t see the bird, but hearing it announce its presence was more than enough. My heart soared.

We heard it call several more times before we turned around and starting to walk toward home. I wondered, what was the eagle communicating? Was it sounding an alarm? Was it a cry for help? Or was it just saying, to anyone who would listen, “I’m here! I’m here!” I was so glad we were there to hear it.

“The Eagle” by Timothy Otis Paine

How the eagle does:
Gathering up his might.
Quitting where he was,
Soars he in the height.
But his aerie home
Is not always grand:
Now on mountain dome,
Now in lowly land.
In a rugged wold,
Be it but apart,
He shall build his hold,
Take his mighty start.
Where he makes his bed,
Where he piles his lair,
Turns his noble head,
’Tis the king that’s there.
Where he heaps his nest,
Where he lies in state,
Where he takes his rest,
There the place is great.

We got a late-winter snow here in West Dundee in March 2020, not long after I had started working remotely and Illinois went into pandemic lockdown. This was the view that morning from my home office, a small room at the front of the house.

Late March around here is usually when we experience winter’s last gasp. While this late-season snowfall seemed to befit the coldness of our pandemic-induced isolation, I also saw something else in the view—a call to pause and appreciate winter’s loveliness.  

Two weeks into our shelter-in-place order, it was starting to sink in: freeing up the 90 minutes I spent commuting each weekday, as well as the cancellation of concerts, family visits, social events and all the other activities that comprised much of the busyness of our lives, meant I had a lot more time to spend outside in nature. As writer Kathryn Jones put it in a Covid-focused issue of the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas (vol. 17), “Sheltering in place means I may not be able to wander in the world right now, but I can find wonder in my world.” Thus the regular pilgrimages Steve and I made to the creek crossing began.

Less than 10 minutes’ drive from our house, the crossing over Jelkes Creek near a spacious suburban subdivision would seem an unlikely place to savor the natural world. It’s a modest-sized creek, too large to jump across but not by much. Looking east from the crossing (the downstream view) above the creek’s steep south bank is a typical painstakingly manicured suburban lawn. On the other side is the opposite—a tangled, unruly mass of scrub trees, bushes, remains of fallen trees and, mostly, tall grasses. But if you look further downstream, you see a willow tree with angled branches overhanging the creek, the sky reflected in the water and the gentle sloping line of a distant ridge marking where, less than 1.5 miles away, the creek reaches its final destination and joins the Fox River. Here’s the view from a sunny winter’s day this January.

It’s an unassuming vista to be sure, but, as any nature observer knows, even modest bodies of water can yield visual delights and wildlife sightings.

Our practice was to park on the crossing and stay in the car with windows open or closed, depending on the weather. The car windshield and windows acted as visual shields, making it less likely the wildlife would see us. Equipped with the essentials—binoculars and patience—Steve and I parked there at least once or twice a week to gaze at the scene for 30 minutes or more, hoping some creatures would reveal themselves.

Over the months that we regularly visited the crossing last year, our sightings were many and some were quite exciting. They included a kingfisher diving into the creek head first to catch a fish, a beaver swimming under the crossing and continuing downstream, a mink scampering across the road in front of us, numerous songbirds flitting around or singing nearby, migrating sandhill cranes flying high overhead and what we think was a river otter swimming swiftly from one side of the creek to the other. Our most frequent sightings were of muskrats, which clearly had a den along the south bank. It was a rare day that we didn’t see one in the water, cruising along at a constant speed with its ratlike tail undulating back and forth like a snake. We saw them so often we named one of them Monty, at the suggestion of my friend Cristin’s older son, Connor.

On those days when Monty and the other critters didn’t appear, we found solace simply experiencing the scene. Observing the colors of vegetation gradually shift as the seasons moved from spring to summer to fall, listening to the water’s gentle, gurgling lullaby and watching objects transformed by the ever-changing light were more than enough. We were grateful to have the time to sit still and watch nature and life continue on and just be.

Pilgrimages are journeys to a sacred place. In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty of the pandemic and political upheaval, it felt healing to visit this same spot as often as we could. In the 2017 film Lady Bird, a wise educator told the main character that she must love her hometown of Sacramento because in describing it she paid attention to where she grew up. As Sister Sarah Joan asked Lady Bird, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing—love and attention?” We loved the creek crossing in all of its unassuming grandeur, and we were compelled to express our thanks by paying attention.

“Church Services Cancelled” by Chris Ellery
(Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, vol. 17)

You have time to walk now
along the river
with a congregation of geese
unperturbed
by the drizzle and fog.