Not just for the birds

Blog

  • The Yellow Bittern

    The Yellow Bittern

    Anyone who hunts birds knows heartbreak, if only because most of us have been through dogs. The best of them last a quarter of our lives at the most. So we watch them come and go. And then there are the birds. And the land. Innocence. You know what that’s like.

    I’ve been trying to learn a new instrument, the Irish pipes. They’re called “uilleann” pipes (pronounced “ILL-in”), which is Irish for “elbow.” You use your elbow to pump a bellows which fills a bag under your other elbow with the air you need to resonate up to 7 reeds. Then there are 13 keys you play harmonies with using your wrist and thumb while your fingers play the melody on a 14-inch tube with a finicky reed. It’s far more complex and insane than the Scottish pipes, which I’ve played since 2007 and had previously thought was the most ridiculous instrument ever invented. This instrument puts Ireland’s association with drink in a new light.

    Irish music, like the people coming from that small island, is known for its ferocity, its speed. It’s lesser known for what, in my humble opinion, are its much better but heartbreaking slow airs, tunes we Westered mortals might call ballads. Most of those come from old poems or stories, and nearly all of them have Irish titles: Táimse mo Chodladh (I Am Asleep), Port na bPúcaí (Song of the Faeries), Éamonn a’ Chnuic (Ned of the Hills), An Raibh Tú ar an gCarraig? (Were you at the Rock?)…

    An Bonnán Buí (The Yellow Bittern) asserted itself for some reason today. Maybe it was the weather, or the news, how can you know? It’s been a common song over there for a long time, and without getting all musicological on you, I’ll just say it oozed its way into me somehow today. I’d heard a bunch of versions by my favorite players (thanks, YouTube). Everyone does it quite differently, and I’d decided I needed to learn it. I have the printed sheet music, but it didn’t even closely match any of the far better versions by Chris McMullen or Cillian Vallely or Liam O’Flynn. So I picked one (McMullen’s), and started memorizing it. There are two phrases, and it took about an hour to get the first under my fingers. And then I realized there was something more I didn’t know.

    I looked up the tune, and learned it’s after a poem from the early 18th century by an Irish poet called Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna. He was an admitted drunk, and this — his reputed greatest work — was about his struggle with alcoholism. He’d happened, in winter, upon a yellow bittern that had died of thirst at the edge of a frozen lake. Like most good poems, this says a lot with very few words. Seamus Heaney’s translation of one of the later stanzas:

    I am saddened, bittern, and brokenhearted
    To find you in scrags in the rushy tufts,
    And the big rats scampering down the rat paths
    To wake your carcass and have their fun.
    If you could have got word to me in time, bird,
    That you were in trouble and craved a sup,
    I’d have struck the fetters of those lough waters
    And wet your thrapple with the blow I struck.

    In the end, the poet decides that — even though his wife desperately wishes he’d quit drinking — he can’t give up drink because he knows that when he dies he’ll get no more.

    I was a music major in college, at first, anyway. One of the first things I learned and have never forgotten is that “programmatic” music is a hoax: any music purporting to paint a specific picture is not only bad but should be avoided and, if you’ve got the time, you should talk shit about it. The professor’s point, I recall, was that music was better than that. It was ineffable. It said more than a simple picture could. That’s why it was important to pick it apart, dissect it, musicologize it.

    When Chris McMullen or Cillian Vallely start playing this tune I see the dead bittern and my heart breaks.

    Today is my brother’s 60th birthday. He emailed me some of his thoughts about why he’s probably going to stop fishing for steelhead, something he’s loved and done for a long time. Much of what he said reminded me, in very different ways, of why I think more frequently these days about not chukar hunting anymore.

    We’ve been hooked on the web cam showing Shadow and Jackie, the 11- and 13-year-old bald eagles trying to raise chicks in a nest high above a lake in the San Bernardino mountains. Two chicks hatched a few days before the third egg, and that littler chick survived long enough to develop a large fan club before it died. No fault of the parents. The weather there has been brutal. We could see them live anytime, and often marveled at one of the parents — only its white head and huge yellow beak visible in a snow-mounded nest — softly covering the babies during a howling snowstorm. We watched Shadow and Jackie bring dozens of dead fish and coots and ducks to the nest, tear them up, and gently feed them to the little fuzzballs. Leslie said today, “Look at all the animals that died to feed those chicks.”

    It’s hard to stay away from the news, even though it’s obvious to anyone with a heart that there’s nothing good there. Very much the opposite.

    I needed to learn about the yellow bittern, its story, today. For some reason. I didn’t expect it to, but it made me cry. That made me feel more human than I have in at least 50 days. So I guess that’s a good thing about heartbreak.

    But then what?

  • Hope

    Hope

    My morning ritual every day like clockwork is getting roused out of bed much earlier than I want. Usually the culprit for the rude awaking is Peat because his internal clock tells him it’s time to get fed. Bloom on the other hand is just an innocent bystander to this stupidness. Believe me, we’ve tried to ignore Peat and make him wait to get fed and have even stooped to the level of getting out of bed and putting Peat and his unwilling accomplice Bloom in the car in the garage just to get one or two more hours of shuteye. Bob and I are hoping that moving the clocks ahead one hour this weekend will result in Peat waiting to harass us at 6:00 a.m. on Sunday morning instead of his usual 5:00 a.m. wake up call. I know this whole problem could be easily solved by just stuffing them in crates in another room all night but we like our dogs to sleep with us and don’t plan on depriving ourselves from this pleasure anytime soon.

    After the dogs scarf down their kibble, I let them outside in our fenced backyard. While I’m waiting for them to finish doing their business, I make my coffee and then let them back inside. I grab my laptop and sit down on the couch with Peat curled up next to me on my left and Bloom on my right. I read my email and the news. While all this is happening, Bob is still in bed because he’s an insomniac and is usually up half the night reading and gets his best sleep after I get up.

    This morning, my mother-in-law Barbara who is an avid bird-watcher, had emailed me a link to a bald eagle nest live camera the night before. I clicked on the link and found myself mesmerized and watched an eagle on the nest, feathers blowing in the wind while sitting 145 feet up on a Jeffrey Pine Tree.

    At one point, the eagle named Jackie got up and left the nest for a minute. I could see two small chicks and one unhatched egg. I found myself being very excited and moved by seeing this because apparently, according to Barbara, last year the same pair set up home here had eggs that didn’t hatch.

    The exact location of the eagle nest and camera is not disclosed to protect the eagles, which makes sense; humans should be considerate to the eagles and nature.
    Later this morning while watching, Jackie’s mate Shadow showed up and by now 50,000 people were watching the live stream.

    A couple of days ago, Bob and I took the dogs out for a hike down in Hells Canyon. Bloom and Peat pointed a pair of Gray Partridge. I asked Bob if he knew if the huns or chukar were already pairing up to breed. He thought it might be too early.

    It made me think more about wanting to know more about chukar and Gray Partridge nesting. I remembered years ago finding a study about Hells Canyon chukar and luckily found it again. The 114-page report written in 2001 for Idaho Power is called “Assessment of Chukar and Gray Partridge Populations and Habitat in Hells Canyon.” The link is below:

    https://docs.idahopower.com/pdfs/relicensing/hellscanyon/hellspdfs/techappendices/Wildlife/e32_07.pdf

    If you hunt chukar or Gray Partridge the report is interesting and valuable. Jim Posewitz wrote in his book, Beyond Fair Chase, “Learning about wildlife must begin before your first hunt. The learning process will allow you to become a more understanding and ethical person, and it also will help you become a more successful hunter.”

    Here are some facts about breeding and nesting from the study if you don’t have time to read the whole thing.

    Chukar: Pair formation starts March-April. First eggs hatch March-April. Incubation of eggs 23-30 days. Chicks are capable of flight at <2 weeks of age and appear similar to adults by 18 weeks. Nesting period may extend over 5 months with hatchings from early May-August. During the study 23 nests were found. 87% were on south-facing slopes. The nests were often located within 183-366 meters of water. Rock outcrops were the most prevalent place for nests (56%) followed by grass forbs at 26%.

    Gray Partridge: No information on gray partridge nests in Hells Canyon or other canyon grasslands is available in the report. Based on studies for agricultural landscapes, dates for pair formation vary from region and weather conditions but usually January-February. Female chooses Male. Established pairs may remain together for life. Egg laying begins April-May. Incubation 21-26 days. Chicks are capable of short flights in <2 weeks and longer flights by 6-8 weeks.

    Sometimes it’s unavoidable but we try to not hike with the dogs off-trail in the spring in areas where we’ve seen chukar or huns during hunting season. Just like with that pair of eagles, we should try as much as possible not to disturb nesting areas. I suppose if you find yourself in the chukar hills with your pointing or flushing dogs this spring, avoid south-facing slopes with rock outcrops near water.

    Emily Dickinson wrote “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.” I find this to be very true.


  • What Did We Expect?

    What Did We Expect?

    More news this morning from Hercules, about a new lease they signed with the State of Idaho, encompassing for the first time the area on the other side of Highway 71.

    Most of this land is on the Andrus WMA, and offered hunters and other recreationalists nearly countless opportunities to use the public land. Ranchers also have run cattle extensively in this area for generations; it’s unclear how their leases will be affected by Hercules’ expansion. Expect to see the same degree of closure to access there as on the other side of Highway 71 between Camp Creek and Grade Creek. Now the entire area from Middle Fork of Brownlee Creek Road all the way down to below West Fork Road will be open to mineral exploration by Hercules.

    To anyone who’s read this blog, it’s no secret that this was our main hunting area. Now, with the charred remains of last season’s fires on the other areas we hunted nearby there’s nothing left within a day’s drive. What did we expect?

    Hercules’ news release on the new leases highlights the benefits to Idaho:

    “Under the terms of the lease, the Lessee will pay an annual rental fee of US$24,927, which will increase by 3% each year over the 20-year lease term. The Lessee will remit a 5% Net Smelter Return (NSR) royalty on any minerals produced from the leased area. To incentivize production, minimum annual royalty amounts are due each year, regardless of if the lease has reached production, starting at US$20,000 per year for the first five years of the agreement…”

    I guess Idaho should feel lucky that Hercules will be contributing almost the equivalent of one full-time beginning teacher’s salary.

  • What Is Life?

    What Is Life?

    Over the years, I or Leslie would joke, one of us, usually me, “What is life?” The question, for me, which I shared at the time, years ago, with my wife, came from a recalcitrant student of mine. “Recalcitrant student” is basically the same, in my short career as a teacher, as saying that black was dark.

    Anyway, Tony would sigh that while everyone was working on something, and I was “monitoring.” It took everything I had to ignore his question.

    But it’s a good question. Even though it would recur as a joke, it quickly, to both Leslie and me (we’d admit later), would evolve into a sort of private needs analysis. What about ______? Did he really mean _________? They couldn’t have thought that ________? And, we all know, there’s no answer.

    For game birds, the question is more basic, if asked at all, which most would say doesn’t happen. Ever. For those creatures.

    Today was Christmas. There was the usual several-day lead up. Now I’m walking the dogs on the golf course, snow here and there, crispy, then some quiet wet grass, what will spring be like? Will the greens show snow mold? Probably. They didn’t spray them this fall, the morons. Blah blah blah. What a waste some thoughts are.

    I used to love Christmas. Like most kids (I don’t actually know if this is true; it could just as easily not be), I’d get up earlier than my parents, sometimes conspiring with my sibling, and plot and hedge and wonder. I’d listen, too. That was private. Something never to be checked with the other. Shameful to admit that, maybe. Or maybe just claiming something like a moment for myself. Something before the deluge of waking up parents, of tinsel getting caught in bows and ribbons. Of scoldings, forgivenesses (because of Christ’s birthday) calculated agonizingly by the scolder, pecking orders chipped away at, families going at it.

    Lucky to have had that, to have had all that. All that it was. Lucky not to have known it wouldn’t last. Unlucky to have realized, probably simultaneously, that it was over. When you don’t have your own children, there’s no surrogacy period, and we’re in about the 5th decade of disillusionment. Of course, if you do have children, there’s always the chance they’ll hate you; that’s the consolation prize we give each other when we’re scared shitless we’ll be too daft to know what to do when it’s too late. Or even that it’s too late.

    So what is life? For me, for the past long while, it’s been two-thirds waiting and one-third chukar hunting and trying to make sure nothing falls through the cracks during that one-third. I think I’ve done a decent job at scribbling all that down. At managing it. At monitoring it. Maybe I leveraged that in my classroom when Tony was just, maybe, breathing an expression of boredom out loud. Or maybe he wanted someone to answer. Or maybe he was just playing the fool. As a brown-skinned kid, one of exactly two at our school, who suffered through (or at least sailed through) years of ignorance and bullying (“The Wall”), Tony became a flag-flying MAGA-phile. I see his truck and his flag sometimes there in town. And I’d bet he hasn’t a clue he impacted me in any way.

    One of my proudest achievements as a teacher, mainly because of what the students taught me from the experience, was having Tony’s class read Robert Pinsky’s translation of Dante’s Inferno. I expected them to hate it or at least be bored by it. The opposite. That’s for keeps. Which makes me wish I’d had Tony and his class, all pretty recalcitrant boys who I’d genuinely come to love, read Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man.” I know Tony would have taught me a lot about the last few lines:

    “…the listener, who listens in the snow,
    And, nothing himself, beholds
    Nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.”

  • Hercules-Barrick

    Hercules-Barrick

    Ventured over for a hunt on what used to be one of my favorite spots in Hells Canyon.

    We waited until the Hercules-Barrick “exploration” mining operation shut down for “winter weather.” The last two years, the one time each season we’d hunted over there was interrupted by run-ins with mining operations. All this on public land, land we pay taxes every year to maintain. Land that was given to Idaho specifically for wintering ground for deer and elk. Land that many people I know feed their families from the big and small game harvested from that public land. Land that ranchers I know used to run their cattle on in the summer. Land that is now torn up by new roads and heavy equipment.

    Up high, where no motorized vehicles can go (or haven’t gone yet), we saw lots of birds and big game prints. Down low, where it’s pretty easy to get to, not so much.

    Down lower, the signs. Of things to come, no doubt.

    The gate at the junction of Camp Creek and Grade Creek roads, all on public land funded by taxpayers who are being told they can’t access their land.

    It’s worse than sad to see something you love destroyed, and then to be charged for it, and then to be told to stay off of it. Idaho needs to re-work its ancient mining laws: if mining operations close or inhibit access to public lands, taxes should be reduced accordingly, even if it’s only a few cents. Remember the Boston Tea Party? Judy Boyle is not my representative. And Chris Paul, CEO of Hercules, is a Canadian whose business Canada has banned from doing things in his own country for numerous environmental and human rights violations. If they get their way, Barrick, an even more vile non-U.S. offender, will buy the operation and staff it with Peruvians. The local community won’t see a penny. And all this waiting for the deportation shoe to drop with the incoming “administration.”

    We hiked out on Camp Creek, a road that used to be an old two-track terminating at a locked gate on Highway 71, one of the few non-motorized access points to the north end of the Andrus WMA. Now it’s a freeway for heavy equipment, with numerous drill pads excavated along the road. I used to finish great hunts reflecting on life and hunting and connections while walking down this road, and occasionally get interrupted by pointing dogs or busting coveys, bonuses reserved for epic days in the field. Now, it’s just anger, sadness, and maybe a few less savory thoughts.

    This is a bad sign. Mining operations are required to have a “Storm Water Pollution Prevention Plan,” and Hercules-Barrick put this box and a contact phone number (with a Saskatchewan area code) at a place that nobody is supposed to go. The box was empty. I called the number, and got a “Call cannot be completed” message.