Sauvie Island

February 18, 2023

Rachael is up first this morning. When I finally come out of the bedroom I find her huddled in the corner of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. She doesn’t feel well, woke up with a sore throat, and her voice is huskier and raspier than her normal sound first thing in the morning before caffeine smooths things out. Uh, oh.

Other than expressing concern and offering comfort, there’s nothing to be done immediately so I head down to Caffe Umbria to get my own vocal cords working and wrap up yesterday’s post.

In Caffe Umbria. This cutie was particularly taken with my shoes, and after sniffing them out pronounced me good and leaped up my leg for some affection.

When I’m home again we talk over the day. Rachael’s plan is to stay put, regretfully taking a pass on one of the few bikeworthy days we’re expecting. She sees no reason for me to sit it out too though - she’s engrossed in one of Amber Starfire’s memoirs, a book that captured my attention as well once I picked it up - and all she asks at the moment is for me to walk next door to CVS to pick up some chicken noodle soup for her. She takes great pains to insure that I come back with the right label, even sending me an email with photos of the two specific labela she’ll accept and going over them with me before I leave to focus in on the key identifiers.

It’s like going on a bird hunt - if I don’t pay attention to the bill length and color I might come home with a song sparrow when it was a fox I was after. With her coaching though I get this one right and return with Progresso Light Chicken Noodle Soup (130 calories per can) rather than Progresso Traditional Chicken Noodle Soup or Progresso Reduced Sodium Roasted Chicken Noodle Soup or the least acceptable, Progresso Rich & Hearty Chicken and Homestyle Noodles.

Phew! Having aced that test, she’s fine with me taking off to Sauvie Island for the day in hopes of seeing a sandhill crane or snow goose. It’s still too far and aggressive for me to bike the 45 miles there and back from home on my ankle, and besides the weather looks marginal. I’ll drive out there, bike as far as weather allows, and worst case I can always just drive to the best birding spots if biking looks unwise.

It’s pretty gloomy when I bike north up the east side of the island on Gillihan Road. It’s solidly overcast here, and it definitely looks like there’s rain coming down on the hills to the west. At least it’s not too chilly and the wind is modest, but it’s not clear that I’ll make it out to Reeder Road on the northeast side of the island where I think my best chance of seeing a snow goose lies.

We’ll see how far I get today. It’s a comfort knowing the car is only a few miles away if it comes to that.

As I go on though the conditions seem stable enough and maybe even slightly improving. Six miles later I make it to Reeder Road, and sure enough within another mile I start hearing the unmistakeable raspy call of sandhill cranes and the sounds of a large number of geese. Some large V’s of Canada geese or maybe cacklers pass overhead, but I’m frustrated in seeing the ones nearby by the high, large hedgerow that blocks my view of the flooded fields just to the west. Finally I come to a narrow gap, peek through, and see some snow geese, a few cranes, and an assortment of other waterfowl. It’s not much of a look though, and I have to lift my camera high over my head to get any view at all above a split rail fence. I’m not seeing the big numbers though, because they’re all concentrated about a quarter mile back, well hidden.

The best I can muster. I need longer arms, or a long selfie stick.

I continue biking north hoping for a better look somewhere, but don’t find one. There are more open wetlands that I can actually see across now because I’m past the hedgerows, and there is even a wildlife viewing platform. But there’s no wildlife - they’re all back behind me, hidden from the road. I keep biking until I come to the Columbia River, and then climb atop the berm to see if there are any gulls about or maybe freighters queued up on the river; but there’s only a wide, gray expanse of water.

My favorite barn on this part of the island, always worth stopping for a look.

About twelve miles from the car it starts misting, enough that I decide it’s time to stash the camera and turn back. I keep a decent pace and resign myself to that one mediocre shot as evidence of my snow goose and crane sightings, but before long the misting stops; and when I’m back where the birds are I see a few cranes coming in for a landing and grab a decent shot. And then I see far out some large white shapes that when I zoom in on them reveal themselves as swans - tundra swans I assume, by their bills, black as near as I can tell at this distance, and because they’re the only swan species that winters in large numbers on the island. So I’ll count them, but with a question mark until I hopefully get a closer look somewhere along the way.

And, a bit further on I look up and see another huge bird up in the trees - another immature baldie. And then suddenly there’s a cacophony just on the other side of the hedgerow and then with a roar of a thousand wing beats a white cloud erupts above the hedgerow. I barely get the camera out for a shot before they disappear from view, apparently relocating somewhere north of here.

The memory of that sound warms me for the next few miles, and reminds me of the one other time I’ve heard it, decades ago when I was on a winter outing to southeast Oregon with my dog Shasta. We were at the south end of Summer Lake on the start of a hike to Diablo mountain when I heard a distant, muffled roar and turned to see a cloud of snow geese rising from the opposite end of the lake, miles away. It’s one of those sounds and images that’s permanently etched into the brain, one I recall often.

Three miles later I’ve made the turn west past the junction with Gillihan and see a car up ahead stopped in the middle of the road. As I draw nearer I see the driver is looking out the window, and then I hear the sound. This is where they’ve relocated too, just off the road and in plain sight. Thousands of them, blanketing the top of the ridge cackling away.

And then there’s that awesome sound and blur of motion again, and they’re gone.

It looks like they’re all at attention, waiting for their flight instructions.

I’ve looked at other photos and videos of this phenomenon, and as wonderful as this one is it’s pretty modest. They can congregate in really immense numbers, as many as several hundred thousand.

I’ve gotten much more than I hoped for from today’s ride, but the day isn’t quite done with me yet. On the way back to the car it starts sprinkling again and then the sun feebly breaks through - just enough to nicely illuminate the fields, and to throw up a faint rainbow as I drive away.

Another hanger-on that’s been slowly losing its grip on my watch.

Some sun breaks through. It won’t last long.

____________________

2023 Bird List

107. Sandhill crane

108. Tundra swan

109. Snow goose

Today's ride: 24 miles (39 km)
Total: 1,568 miles (2,523 km)

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Bruce LellmanWell, I just hope the Progresso Light Chicken Noodle Soup (130 calories per can) is low in sodium.

And, you once again managed to get beautiful shots using the less than beautiful light.
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1 year ago

Scott AndersonTo Bruce LellmanThanks! Blue sky is so overrated, don’t you think? You see one clear blue sky, you’ve seen them all.
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1 year ago