October Mornings

by WYMAN RICHARDSON, M.D.

1

ONE day in mid-October, I hauled myself out of bed shortly after five o’clock. A full orange moon was squashing itself down into the western horizon, and there was a faint pink color to the eastern sky as I left the house. Orion hung to the east, surrounded by its galaxy of brilliant stars. Twinkling Sirius, not far above the eastern horizon, was the brightest star in the sky, brighter than any planet.

It was cold down by the creek, especially so for bare feet, as I put the canoe into the water. The water itself was relatively warm, but that, made matters worse when I hauled my feet into the canoe. As I worked down the channel, I could hear ducks quacking, A fast-flying teal skipped across the bow, silhouetted against the now reddening eastern sky. Not a breath of wind stirred the surface of the water. I surprised a night heron close to the channel edge, and he flew clumsily away, no doubt as fast as he could, protesting loudly with a series of outlandish squawks that violated the morning’s quiet.

It was light enough, by the time I rounded Porchv bar, to see shore birds on the flats. So many were there, that the finis seemed to be in constant motion. There were large flocks of black-billed sanderling, white in their winter plumage, the wavechasing “peep” of the beaches; many red-backed sandpipers, ihe English “dunlin,” that hardy, curved-billed peep of the winter marshes; and. strangely, knots, whose spring-plumaged chestnutcolored breasts have given them the common name of “redbreast.” There was also a good sprinkling of the so-called black-bellied plover, whose bellies are always white, though their breasts may be black. Most of these were pale all over, perhaps the young of the year. They ran rather sedately over the upper bars, searching for large sea worms; stopping suddenly, now and then, to look about. And in those shallow, muddy places, bands of greater yellowlegs formed ranks and chased schools of minnows into shallow water where they could be caught and eaten.

I saw a lot of black ducks for this time of year — one hundred and eight, to be exact. As I came by in the canoe, they would jump from the water with a roar that would shatter the still air. Back on the marsh, I could hear an occasional quack, and sometimes that low “chuek-a-duck-a-duck” call that only contented ducks make.

Just as I came to Broad Creek, the shore birds all took to the air, some of them making a queerly shrill call that indicated a dangerous hawk was about. I soon found the culprit. A sharp-shinned hawk had struck a small peep down into the water. The peep was alive, probably wing-broken, and the hawk was trying to secure his prey. However, three large herring gulls, uttering coarse cries, attacked the hawk, and after several futile passes he disappeared. The gulls may have been motivated by a desire to save a feathered friend. 1 wish I could believe so. But I am terribly afraid they wanted to devour the peep themselves. Unfortunately, I did not determine the point, for at this moment my reel suddenly began to sing. I lost the bass; but when this tragedy occurred, the tide had carried me far down the channel.

I startled several bass in the shoal water where the Beach House run comes out to the main channel. They scooted off, humping the water up like submarines about to surface. On my way back, I saw a bass feeding on a school of pogies in the deep water close to the edge of Porchv Marsh. A quawk. happily perched on a broken-off piece of sedge, stood motionless, his beak a quarter inch from the water, waiting for the bass to drive the pogies within striking distance. As I edged up in the canoe, his dilemma was ludicrous. Should he wait one more moment for the expected morsel, or should prudence take precedence over appetite? Prudence prevailed and he took off wilh a protesting croak. Neither he nor I got any fish.

It was a very low water—low “dreen” as (he saying goes; bill I elected to go hack up the Minister’s Channel, knowing well that the mouth of it would be dry. I was glad I did. As I silently poked the canoe up by Minister’s Point, I came upon a green-winged teal. He seemed quite tame, and appeared to be lonely, for he kept uttering a queer little rather laryngeal quack, and did not fly until I came within thirty yards. Before he flew, he drifted onto the flat, apparently in order to get a better lake-off. When he did go, he took off as only a leal can, and not until then did I sec the beautiful, buff-bordered green speculum on his wing.

Further on up, just at the head of the channel, I poked up close to two young pintails. They were very loath to leave the soft ooze in which they were feeding. First they swam out into deeper water, but as I approached I was interested to see that they worked back to the flat, just as did the teal, so that they could make a better jump. When they went, one jumped to the north and the other to the south, which shows how little wind there was.

Just as the pintails left, I was startled to hear a golden plover. 1 tried to imitate his note, which frightened a black duck feeding behind a grassy point not twenty yards away. He jumped a good fifteen feet in the air, and his very red legs, shining in the sun, his large size, and his sleek and glossy dark feathering marked him as one of the large “redleg” variety. Meanwhile the golden plover, darker and faster-flying cousin to the black-bellied plover, lit on a near-by flat for my benefit.

Fortunately for me, the obstructing flat at the head of the channel was wet and soft; and I easily dragged the canoe across, the only hazard being the danger of stepping on an upended razor-fish shell. One gets used to “feeling the way” when walking with bare feet in the mud, and I negotiated the portage without accident.

From there, back to the boathouse, I leisurely poked the canoe in shallow water, watching the bottom in the now bright sunlight. In the inside channel, between the Cedar Bank Channel and First Hummock, I saw a “windowpane” flounder, or sand dab, lying still, near the edge, heading upstream, his only motion being the opening and shutting of his large mouth as he gulped down the minnows that I drove past him. As broad as he is long, you can, if you hold him up, see the light shine through him. How could such a greedy fish remain so thin?

Still further up, I came upon Horseshoe-crabville, where the bottom seemed literally to be paved with them. And finally, I poked up into the Salt Pond Creek, where I saw some huge oysters that are excellent when baked.

And so, up the hill to the Farm House, a curious, recurring ache in the pit of the stomach suggesting that more food is in order. It is nine-thirty Farm House time. Clock time means little here at the Farm House. Dinner will be at a quarter to eleven. Then a snooze, and after that perhaps a go at some of the things on the “thing” list. Supper will be at half past four or so; and later, possibly a sunset and night expedition. Would the cold meat of freshly caught blue crabs, with just a dab of mayonnaise, taste good tomorrow?

2

ON the morning of October 4, 1947, I was sitting at. the dining table writing up the Farm House log, when gradually a peculiar quality in t he calls of some near-by crows forced its way into my consciousness. Crows can, with their calls, express almost any shade of meaning. They can be bold, gossipy, instructive, threatening, warning, or loving—but afraid, never. This time, however, I gradually realized that these particular crows were scared, and scared plenty. I went to the south window and rather casually looked out. Then I made a grab for my bird glasses, dashed out the north door, and eased around the southeast corner of the house.

There, above the brown, grass-covered hill which separates the Farm House from the Nauset Marsh, a very large bird came hurt ling down out of the air, missed by inches the dark cedar whose top just shows over the brow of the hill, and zoomed up again on spread wings. Then, soaring in tight circles, and with incredible speed, the bird gained a considerable height, and repeated the performance. Meanwhile the crows, evidently huddled in the comforting thickness of the big cedar, gave voice to tremulous croaks of sheer terror.

Although only once before had I seen one, and that but for a brief instant, I immediately recognized this stranger as a gyrfalcon, the largest of all our falcons.

Eight times the falcon repeated his performance, apparently for the sheer fun of it, as obviously he had no chance to make a kill. Possibly he felt that the crows were getting too brash, and ought to be put back in their place. Finally he tired of I he sport and headed off to the north, flapping his sharppointed wings in a rather leisurely fashion, but nevertheless making fast time. I had a good chance to observe his generally sooty-brown color, slightly lighter on the belly, with some nearly white feathers near the tip of his tail.

Next morning in the fog, while I was sitting on the south platform trying to correlate the obvious follies of man with the feeble attempts of a song sparrow to sing an October song, the big falcon came by, flying low, to the south. He suddenly loomed up out of the fog, looking as large as an eagle, and as suddenly disappeared into it. He cut through my vague philosophical meanderings and gave me the feeling that if you really want to do something, you had better go and do it.

The following morning, just as the southwest breeze was beginning to temper the delicious October eoolness, he paid the marsh another visit. I first saw him over the boathouses at the mouth of the Salt Pond Creek, where he began to soar. Again, though using wider circles, but still with nary a wing beat, he gained altitude with unbelievable rapidity, meanwhile drifting off the wind to the northeast. I followed him with the glasses until lie looked tiny, and became nearly invisible, except, where he was crossing white clouds.

Suddenly he went into a dive, came tearing down out of the heavens, and leveled off only a few feet above the tall marsh grass at Pull Devil Corner. Prom here, he made good time across Tom Doane’s Hummock and disappeared somewhere under Skiff Hill. As far as I could make out, he had no live target when he made his pitch.

I have several times watched the gyrfalcon’s smaller cousin, the peregrine, or duck hawk, make a similar pilch — usually, in my case, directed at a single red-backed sandpiper; and I must confess that for sheer speed and quickness of turn the peregrine seems to have ihe advantage. But when it comes to really magnificent power — power coupled with absolute precision — gyrfalcon has a wide margin over any ot her bird I have ever seen.

Another two days elapsed before I saw the gyrfalcon again. I had finished that most deplorable of all tasks, locking up the Farm House preparatory to leaving, and was just about to get into my car, when he suddenly passed by not fifty feet over my head. He glanced at me out of one of his fierce dark eyes, but paid little attention to such an insignificant thing, and flew rapidly out of sight to the northwest.

On April 8 of the following year I again came upon mv powerful acquaintance. On this occasion, a friend and 1 were on our way to Round Pond. Except for the pitch pines, the trees were bare. Consequently, when we came to the locust grove which lies to the east of the back road to North Eastham, a huge bird sitting near the top of one of the trees immediately attracted our attention.

We stopped the car and, with our glasses, looked out at him through the open window. He sal perfectly still, facing us with his head turned slightly to his left. Even at eighly yards, we could make out that fierce glint in his eye. Very foolishly, we elected to get out, so thal we might better observe him. Apparently he didn’t mind the car, but he did mind us; for, as soon as we appeared, he took off and flew out of sight over a ridge of pines to the east . We did have a chance to see that he was somewhat lighter in color than he was in October. Assuming that he was the same bird, which seems a reasonable probability, this fact lends credence to the theory that the color phases of the gyrfalcons are simply a matter of maturity, as is the case with herring gulls.

The next day, we looked for him among the locust trees; but he was nowhere to be found. Nor did we see him again, anywhere, during that week. I went back to town thinking that our gyrfalcon had left for good. But I was wrong; for son Fred and I, a couple of months later, had the best look at him of all.

It was early in June — the eighth, to be exact — and we were driving back, in our open coupe, from the vicinity of Round Pond. Suddenly, in the very same locust grove, we came upon him. He was sitting near the top of a large locust, within twenty feet of the road. He was on one side of the tree; and within four feet of him, separated only by the tree trunk, sat a rigidly still and very large crow.

The car traveled another fifty feet before it came to a stop. Then, with the glasses, we took a good look, while from a pitch pine grove a couple of hundred yards away came the excited cawings of a group of nesting crows. It became apparent that the big one was acting as guard for his nesting brethren. I had the impression that he was getting on in years, and imagined that he was an old widower who had taken it upon himself to protect his flock. There was a suggestion of grayness about, the base of his bill, which, with his long “whiskers,” gave him an aged, grizzled appearance.

Like a fool, I made the same mistake I had made before, and got out of the car. The gyrfalcon immediately took off, and the crow, uttering what can only be described as a loud squeal, took off after him. I am sure it was a warning signal; for those more distant crows at once fell silent. Before both birds disappeared over a rise to the east, we observed that the gyrfalcon now had so many white feathers on his wings and back as to appear distinctly mottled. I have not seen him since.

As the days pass by, in my mind I can see this magnificent bird sitting bolt upright on the top of a rock, ranging the arctic tundra with his glowing eye. I like to think he will again take up traveling. If he does, I am sure the memory of those rolling downs, of that exquisite, open-water Nauset Marsh, of the wide ocean, whose deep blue color defies description — I am sure the memory of all this will some time bring him back.