I walked the short but steep walk back up the hill from the rail yard, to our apartment downtown and chained my bike up outside. Instead of going in, I decided to round the corner and get an espresso at the cafe on the next block. I sat there groggily sipping my espresso, wondering what I was to do with my time now that I had the whole day, and decided to read a section in my current book, African Silences by Peter Matthiessen - a detailed account of wild animal surveys through northwestern and central Africa which Matthiessen had taken in the early 80’s. The title of the book stems from the disappointing lack of animals, the devastation from poaching and habitat loss, that Matthiessen found while on these safaris. I read a section on the plains elephants and white rhinoceros of Kenya and the Central African Republic, then decided it was time to go and see some wildlife for myself.
Even though it was dreary, I had only a few days earlier purchased a pair of compact, waterproof 8x25 binoculars and had yet to view any wildlife through them, so I decided that today was the day. Since moving to Anchorage I’ve taken several bike rides on the coastal trail, which is a paved greenway running along the rim of the Knik Arm - the offshoot of the Gulf of Alaska which defines Anchorage to the north and west - and often I have seen moose feeding along the sides of the trail. Even if I didn’t get to see any moose, I knew there was a small island in the center of the Westchester Lagoon that was home to multiple bird species. I’ve never bird watched before, but I thought I might as well give it a shot.
At the apartment I slipped Brittany’s ASU rain shell over my sweatshirt, packed a snack and my binoculars, and shot down 5th street onto the coastal trail feeling the air growing heavy and cold with rain. I cruised the short distance to the Lagoon and found myself a small flat patch among the tall grass on the shore, at the closest point to the bird island. I sat down cross legged and lifted my binoculars up and began to adjust them. At first glance I saw and island scattered with birds, and that was about it. I didn’t think much of it, and was pretty apathetic toward the whole scene. I couldn’t decipher what was so interesting about bird watching in those first few moments, but I decided to try and be patient, and just keep watching to see what happened.
As I gazed through the lenses at the small island covered in birds, the first thing I tried to take note of were the different species. Right off the bat I noted the large Canada geese and some seagulls, but other than that I was hard pressed to notice anything else. I began searching along the rim of the island and eventually spied several ducks lining the water’s edge. The longer I sat, the more I began to notice!
I soon discovered that there was actually an order to all of the chaos of this small teardrop-shaped island. The teardrop was no more than 500 square feet, dropping from east to west. At the tip of the teardrop, or eastern point of the island, the landscape was split down the center by a small 8-inch dropoff. The south side (and top) of the dropoff was covered in tall grass, and the north side was a rocky beach area that stretched halfway down the north edge of the tear, and dipped into the center. The rim of the entire bottom half of the tear was lined with tall grass, and in the center of the widest point there was a stand of about five aspen trees closely grouped together, with a few small bushes surrounding the stand.
From what I could tell, these were the rules of the island: When the Canada geese were on the island, they could pretty much roam wherever they liked. But they generally stayed on the rocky beach, and were very infrequently ashore anyway. After about 15 minutes on land they would begin loudly honking, and soon after all would be slipped into the water and heading off in bunches of 20 - 30, goslings in tow. The aspen stand and bushes were exclusively controlled by the seagulls, and when the geese were gone the beach was theirs too, save for the water’s edge. They would let the chicks wander about, fumbling over rocks and practicing their shrill squawks until the geese decided to become terrestrial, at which point the chicks were shuffled back into the bushes.
The very rim of the island belonged to the many types of ducks: Eurasian widgeon, mallard and pied-billed grebe were the primary species. The mallard often hung around in the water just offshore, nibbling and bobbing about in the surf. The black and white grebe were planted comfortably at the water’s edge, and slept for almost the entire two hours I observed them. There seemed to be only one pair of widgeon that called the island home - the male was always afloat and the red headed female sat attentively on her nest on the western edge of the island, tucked away in tall grass and generally hidden from the rest of the birds.
I watched as patterns repeated themselves: the honking would commence, the geese would go for a swim, the gulls would let their young ones roam, the mallards would circumvent the island, the geese would return, the male gulls would scatter in a fit of anxiety and swarm the island in a domelike pattern, the female gulls would shuffle the chicks into the bushes, the female widgeon would stretch her neck to see what the commotion was all about, the mallards would circle, the geese would roam for a few minutes, the honking would commence, the geese would go for a swim……..it was all repeating in roughly 30 minute intervals!
Just as I began to realize this, a sudden agitation erupted amongst all species on the island, save for the calm and collected mother widgeon. The geese began fluttering their wings and honking, showing their robust white chests, but remaining on the island. The male gulls, all squawking, took to the skies while the females nearly threw the chicks into the bushes. The mother widgeon stretched her neck. The pied billed grebes blinked for the first time. What on earth was going on? I wondered.
Then I saw him. The stern-faced, unflinching father bald eagle. He took a high line over the Lagoon, but made sure to pass directly over the island. He wanted them all to know that he wasn’t going to be bullied. The gulls charged him and nipped at his heels, but didn’t dare attempt and attack, for fear of retaliation. They were obviously perturbed, but knew they could do nothing but try to intimidate the huge bird to keep it away from the island and their young ones. But the eagle seemed unconcerned with such frivolity as gull chicks. He had his own matters to attend to. The gulls must think they’re fighting to keep the eagles off the island. Little do they know, the eagles are right where they want to be.
I watched as he soared to the far side of the Lagoon and flapped a single, powerful flap to swoop straight up and land on the tip of the largest black fir tree. In his nest I watched as he passed the catch to his mate for her to break down and regurgitate to their single hatchling. He stayed only a moment, rubbed necks with the female, then was gone again, this time crossing the western end of the Lagoon but not unnoticed by the bird island. I was only to see him this once, but I frequently checked and took notice of the female, constantly scanning the horizon for his return, their hatchling close at her side.
With the male eagle gone, things settled back into their routine. Geese came ashore, wandered, and disembarked. Gulls had dogfights in their dome above the island while chicks stumbled over rocks. Grebes slept, mallards bobbed. But this time I caught sight of something new. I watched as a little white bird, smaller than the gulls joined in the dogfights, then took a line directly at me and landed on the Lagoon’s edge just feet away from where I sat. It stood there momentarily, and I knew right away that it was an Arctic tern! I have seen plenty of terns in North Carolina, and it was a familiar sight. After standing on the water’s edge for maybe fifteen seconds, another tern, with a fish in its mouth, landed right beside. The fishless tern strutted over, and was willfully given the fish by the smaller tern. It took off low across the water, occasionally dipping the fish under. Why? To keep it fresh? Was it still alive?
It approached the tall grass, just where it starts to the west of the rock beach, and made many false landings around an area of high grass that created a sort of cave-like enclosure. Finally it dropped down and disappeared. I watched the dark cave into which it had disappeared for a few moments, and soon three little grey puffs with bright red beaks emerged and scattered onto the beach. Behind them, much to my confusion, their mother fluttered out and began joining in the dogfights with the gulls once more, totally unconcerned about her little ones. I watched as the pair of terns swooped and dodged with the gulls. I was constantly checking on their hatchlings to see if all was well, feeling that I was doing the job of their parents while the actual parents played carefree like hatchlings themselves. They were never bothered, and occasionally the mother would retreat to the nest, then back out again. It was a strange pattern of parenting, but I suppose the terns felt confident that their young ones were not in danger. I did, however, once notice the swift reaction by the mother tern to a Canada goose who began pecking around her nest. The terns are sleek and speedy, and not to be tested, from what I can see.
At one point, a canoe with three people rode right up onto the rocky beach, disrupting the flow and causing another pandemonium. The grebes had to finally wake and move from their warm spots, the gulls scattered, the geese fled, and the mother widgeon took the opportunity to leave her nest momentarily and go for a swim while no one was looking. Rain began to patter on the lagoon. The birds all seemed upset and on edge for the few minutes the father and his two sons stood on the island, but calmed down once they had shoved off again. I noticed for just a brief moment a bird that I was sure was a sand piper walking along the rocky shore, peering over the rocks at the gull chicks and looking generally up to no good. But I swear that I blinked, and it was gone. At this point I decided I had had enough of the bird island, and mounted my bike to continue down the trail in the gentle noon shower.
Just a half mile southbound down the trail is Fish Creek. This spot on the trail always takes my breath away. To the west of the bridge that crosses the creek (at low tide) is a vast expanse of mud flat, with an eight foot deep serpentine canyon slithering through to let the slow trickle of Fish Creek reach the Knik Arm. On the eastern side of the bridge is a beautiful, lush green field with the creek twisting through the center. Every time I pass here I imagine bears roaming through this field with salmon in their jaws, oblivious to the slackjawed humans looking on. I doubt this scene ever occurs, but I thought I might stop to take a look anyway.
I had just begun to raise my binoculars when I noticed a small brown patch about 200 yards off in the tall grass. Before I even got the lenses focused I heard a voice next to me say “Have you seen the mother?”
“Actually I haven’t even seen it yet, I just got here!” I said. As I focused on the patch I saw that it was a very young moose calf, no more that a few months at best. She was wandering around the field eating the grass, looking quite carefree, until suddenly her ears perked and she spotted us. She quickly scurried off into the treeline to the south, and the woman who was watching with me took off again. I decided I would try to head them off in the woods to the south, carefully, of course, as a mother moose is quite protective of her calves. But as I came around the back of the trees I realized that a fenced yard was blocking the moose’ exit in that direction.
I decided to ride back to the Fish Creek bridge and see if the moose had come to the same conclusion, and I arrived just as the small calf was hopping over the shortest gap in the creek to the other side. She nibbled on a few more stalks of grass, then spotted me again and dashed into the treeline, this time to the north. I scanned the trees and saw her moving up the hillside...but where was the mother? It was odd to see a calf walking alone across such a large field. I pulled out my phone and checked Google Maps to see if I could get near to the woods where she had entered. I found that I could get on a back street that cut close to the creek, and pedaled quickly up the hill.
I found myself in a new housing development, riding down a street that was freshly paved and had only three homes on it, all under construction. I rode to the very end of the street, which was, according to Google, the closest spot to the creek. Just as I pulled up to the driveway of the last house I spotted the moose calf standing right in front of the house on the gravel driveway, staring right at me. I was not more that 20 feet away, and couldn’t believe that I had been able to sneak up on it so successfully. It was obviously thinking the same thing, and we stared at one another for five or six seconds before I tried to open the camera on my phone. Of course, the moment I did this the calf took off running around the back of the house and out of sight.
I didn’t want to walk through the yard of the strange house, even though it seemed unfinished. And I also was not sure that the mother moose wouldn’t be back there waiting for me. I noticed that the yard was fenced on the left with a steel fence that had six inch gaps between the beams, and the fence connected to the entrance gate that let in from the connecting road, so I went out through the gate into the little cul de sac to see if I could peer around the back of the house. As I approached the fence, I once again found that I had surprised the moose and was standing only feet away, this time with a steel fence between us. But of course the moose didn’t see it as much protection and took off running.
I passed through the gate again and rounded the front of the house, realizing that the entire yard was fenced in except for the driveway and a small gap on the right side, through which the calf surely entered from the woods, and that I would likely see her back in front. I was right, and this time I was prepared to snap a few pictures before she ran around back again. This time I chose a different approach and climbed halfway up the front staircase, which was on the left of the house, and leaned over the railing. When I did this, I saw the little moose munching on the grass just beyond the back left corner of the house, and I was able to put the eye of the camera to the lens of my binoculars and take a short video of her feeding.
After catching this moment, I turned around and realized that a woman in a Bobcat had driven into the driveway with a load of gravel while I was recording the moose. She got out with a beaming smile and asked “is it a moose?” To which I responded, “Yes. Is this your house?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. Anyone who’s here with a moose is a welcomed guest.” She asked if it was in the back, and I told her it was. Then she led me through the house, a huge palace with high vaulted ceilings and floors entirely of granite, to the back deck where we stood no more than twelve feet from the moose, looking down from above. In a whisper she asked how long it had been here, and I told her maybe twenty minutes. She said she wanted to show her brother, and asked if I could come back outside to wait while she went to retrieve him from down the street. I said “Of course!” and she asked my name. When I told her she replied that hers was Cille (like “Seal”), which I’m guessing is short for Lucille...though it could be spelled exactly like the animal for all I know.
When she returned with her brother we all three walked to the back yard and found the moose grazing in the small gully in the furthest corner. We watched her for a few minutes, then decided it would be best to shoo her back into the woods. Cille’s brother approached the calf from the rear, and she went running past at full speed, galloping just a few feet away from where I was standing, and back into the woods. We all gasped at the beauty of the moment, and sighed a happy sigh of relief and looked around at each other, smiling.
Once the moment had past, the reality of standing in the yard of complete strangers set in and I realized it was time for me to go, too. I said goodbye, and thanks for allowing me to moose hunt in their yard! They said I was welcome to any time, and waved me off with a smile. While I biked home along the coastal trail, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds, and I couldn’t help but feel satisfied at how well my own wildlife survey had turned out.
