27 February 2022 (Ducktrap River)
Kristen Lindquist
Ducktrap River
deer tracks in snow lead me
to open water
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: Ducktrap River
7 May 2021 (river)
Kristen Lindquist
spring sun . . .
following the wren
following the river
13 May 2020 (ferns)
Kristen Lindquist
upriver
unfurling ferns
flag the path
May 15: Ducktrap River Preserve
Kristen Lindquist
Led a bird walk this morning on the Ducktrap River Preserve in Lincolnville. While watching warblers forage in the poplars along the edge of a restored gravel pit, we heard a Scarlet Tanager singing in the distance, that raspy melody distinctive despite the trees between us and the bird. Further up the trail in the hemlock grove, two Barred Owls flew together from tree to tree, hooting like crazed monkeys, particularly delighting the little boy who'd joined our group. And down by the river, the long, bubbling, buzzy song of the tiny Winter Wren tells us of the stone walls winding through the woods, marking boundaries of former fields.
Trees where fields once were.
Across the green distance
red tanager sings.
Trees where fields once were.
Across the green distance
red tanager sings.
May 4: Mayflowers
Kristen Lindquist
I spent several hours tramping around the greening woods of the Ducktrap River Preserve this morning. Some first spring sightings of warblers, including a beautiful sunlit view of a singing Blackburnian amid the hemlocks, and some first wildflowers, like this Trailing Arbutus.
Commonly called mayflowers, Trailing Arbutus flowers are often tucked away under its big leathery leaves. My grandmother, who would have been 99 in a few days if she were still alive, loved these best because they always bloomed in time for her birthday. And if you get down on your hands and knees and put your face close, you can smell their subtle, sweet fragrance.
It's a bit like prayer--
head down on the forest floor
sniffing the mayflower.
Commonly called mayflowers, Trailing Arbutus flowers are often tucked away under its big leathery leaves. My grandmother, who would have been 99 in a few days if she were still alive, loved these best because they always bloomed in time for her birthday. And if you get down on your hands and knees and put your face close, you can smell their subtle, sweet fragrance.
It's a bit like prayer--
head down on the forest floor
sniffing the mayflower.
 |
| Trailing Arbutus blooming on the banks of the tea-brown Ducktrap River |
January 1, 2013: First birds
Kristen Lindquist
At the start of each new year, I like to keep track of the first birds I see. When I got up, a crow flew through the backyard, sweeping past like a shadow against the snow. Nothing new there. Later, on a long snowshoe hike at the Ducktrap River Preserve, through sheltering hemlocks whose snowy boughs filtered sunlight onto snow patterned with snowshoe hare tracks, we only had one new species: Black-capped Chickadee. Back home, a swirl of Herring Gulls. And one goldfinch singing unseen in the neighbor's arbor vitae. And that was all. (It probably didn't help that my little window feeders were soaking in the sink, awaiting a cleaning and refill.)
If I'd really been trying, I'd have headed for the harbor or some other open water. Several birders posted observations of ducks on the Maine birding list-serv today. But I like to see what comes to me for the first day of the year, as some kind of portent. To see/hear those familiar birds might be auspicious for a year ahead full of good friends, for example. Or perhaps sustained pleasure of what I enjoyed in the year newly past.
Year's first birds appear
in stark black and white:
crows against snow, chickadees.
If I'd really been trying, I'd have headed for the harbor or some other open water. Several birders posted observations of ducks on the Maine birding list-serv today. But I like to see what comes to me for the first day of the year, as some kind of portent. To see/hear those familiar birds might be auspicious for a year ahead full of good friends, for example. Or perhaps sustained pleasure of what I enjoyed in the year newly past.
Year's first birds appear
in stark black and white:
crows against snow, chickadees.
 |
| Ducktrap River from the Backcountry Ski Trail |
May 12: Sap sippers
Kristen Lindquist
I visited the Ducktrap River Preserve early and spent several hours exploring and watching/listening for birds. The hemlock-shaded uplands resonated with bird song: Blackburnian, black-throated blue, and black-throated green warblers, ovenbirds, pine siskins, kinglets, and blue-headed vireos made their presence known, while down the bluff, the river rushed ever on. For a long time I sat in a patch of sun on an old fallen log and just let the music of it all tumble through the warm air around me.
The sunshine seemed to have awakened quite a few butterflies, as well, of few of which I could even recognize: red admiral, comma, and question mark. I was particularly interested to note several butterflies, mostly question marks, fluttering around a stand of birch trees. Looking closely, I could see where a yellow-bellied sapsucker--a local species of woodpecker--had drilled a few small "wells" in the trunks. The butterflies were gathering on these wells, sipping birch sap. At one, a butterfly seemed to be vying with a corps of largish red and black ants for the sap. These butterflies wintered over and now renew their energy with this sap thanks to the sapsucker. The sapsucker's only thought, of course, was for itself, but it also benefited the insects without even realizing. Ah, the workings of Nature...
Sipping spring birch sap,
ethereal butterflies--
even they must eat.
The sunshine seemed to have awakened quite a few butterflies, as well, of few of which I could even recognize: red admiral, comma, and question mark. I was particularly interested to note several butterflies, mostly question marks, fluttering around a stand of birch trees. Looking closely, I could see where a yellow-bellied sapsucker--a local species of woodpecker--had drilled a few small "wells" in the trunks. The butterflies were gathering on these wells, sipping birch sap. At one, a butterfly seemed to be vying with a corps of largish red and black ants for the sap. These butterflies wintered over and now renew their energy with this sap thanks to the sapsucker. The sapsucker's only thought, of course, was for itself, but it also benefited the insects without even realizing. Ah, the workings of Nature...
Sipping spring birch sap,
ethereal butterflies--
even they must eat.
 |
| Question Mark |
November 1: Ducktrap Salmon
Kristen Lindquist
One great thing about my job with Coastal Mountains Land Trust is that every now and then they let me out of the office to spend time on one of our conservation properties. Our Ducktrap River Preserve has long been one of my favorite places.
Late this afternoon a group of us gathered there around fisheries biologist Peter Ruksznis to learn some of the mysteries of salmon migration and spawning. Peter had that day carried out his survey of salmon redds in the river, and as he'd expected, he found none. This was sad, but not unexpected--five years ago, he'd also found none, and this would have been the next generation of that spawning year. However, other "cohorts," or multi-generational runs, have fortunately been more successful, making the Ducktrap the only Maine river with a natural run of Atlantic salmon. (All our other salmon rivers are currently stocked.) We also learned why the Ducktrap offers ideal habitat for salmon: 85% of it is permanently conserved, it's a consistently cool river (in part due to heavy forest overhanging much of its banks) with appropriate riffles, a bed that's the right texture for salmon nests, relatively few small-mouthed bass, which are voracious predators, and an appropriate amount of twists and turns
.
Salmon leave the Ducktrap and swim to the West coast of Greenland, to return four years later to spawn. They find their home river by smell. I couldn't help but wonder how far out to sea a salmon can pick up the scent of its home waters, and what triggers are at work in that little fish brain to help it recognize where to go. It seems miraculous, really. We're talking about a tiny handful of fish independently returning to a tiny river on the complex coastline of Maine after swimming to Greenland and back.
Thinking about the miracle of the continued return of salmon to the river (just not this year) put the river in a new light for most of us--a light that was only enhanced by actual end-of-day sunlight falling heavily, brightly, onto the river and the surrounding tangle of forest.
Late this afternoon a group of us gathered there around fisheries biologist Peter Ruksznis to learn some of the mysteries of salmon migration and spawning. Peter had that day carried out his survey of salmon redds in the river, and as he'd expected, he found none. This was sad, but not unexpected--five years ago, he'd also found none, and this would have been the next generation of that spawning year. However, other "cohorts," or multi-generational runs, have fortunately been more successful, making the Ducktrap the only Maine river with a natural run of Atlantic salmon. (All our other salmon rivers are currently stocked.) We also learned why the Ducktrap offers ideal habitat for salmon: 85% of it is permanently conserved, it's a consistently cool river (in part due to heavy forest overhanging much of its banks) with appropriate riffles, a bed that's the right texture for salmon nests, relatively few small-mouthed bass, which are voracious predators, and an appropriate amount of twists and turns
.
Salmon leave the Ducktrap and swim to the West coast of Greenland, to return four years later to spawn. They find their home river by smell. I couldn't help but wonder how far out to sea a salmon can pick up the scent of its home waters, and what triggers are at work in that little fish brain to help it recognize where to go. It seems miraculous, really. We're talking about a tiny handful of fish independently returning to a tiny river on the complex coastline of Maine after swimming to Greenland and back.
Thinking about the miracle of the continued return of salmon to the river (just not this year) put the river in a new light for most of us--a light that was only enhanced by actual end-of-day sunlight falling heavily, brightly, onto the river and the surrounding tangle of forest.
Clean, chilly riffles
lit by filtered fall sunlight.
Here there be salmon.
October 7: Ducktrap Harbor
Kristen Lindquist
One of my favorite local spots is a small town park at the tip of Howe Point, which ends at the mouth of the Ducktrap River in Lincolnville. When I was a kid, I'd come with my family to this cobble beach to pick mussels, look for crabs under the rocks, and swim in the deep waters of the river channel, jumping in and letting the tide pull me into the ocean. This was also a high school hangout, where we congregated on weekend nights, shivering as we stood around in the dark sipping cans of Bud. And it's still a place I like to come with a beach chair and a book on a free summer morning. Or this time of year, to enjoy the quiet and my memories while observing migrating waterfowl.
This morning I had the place all to myself: high tide, sun dazzling the beach, harbor dotted with ducks. I counted 54 red-breasted mergansers scattered on the harbor, as well as two green-winged teals very close to shore on the river side of the point. The green speculum on the teals' wings flashed a brilliant emerald in the morning light. A ring-billed gull squealed from the shore, as a young double-crested cormorant repeatedly dove in the river channel, bringing up small fish. A crow flew into the tree over my head, silent; two more flew low over the stones further up the beach, looking for something, anything.
Sun-dazzled harbor--
ten minutes here watching ducks
sets the whole day's tone.
This morning I had the place all to myself: high tide, sun dazzling the beach, harbor dotted with ducks. I counted 54 red-breasted mergansers scattered on the harbor, as well as two green-winged teals very close to shore on the river side of the point. The green speculum on the teals' wings flashed a brilliant emerald in the morning light. A ring-billed gull squealed from the shore, as a young double-crested cormorant repeatedly dove in the river channel, bringing up small fish. A crow flew into the tree over my head, silent; two more flew low over the stones further up the beach, looking for something, anything.
 |
View to the harbor, with Islesboro a dark line on the horizon |
ten minutes here watching ducks
sets the whole day's tone.
September 7: Nice weather... if you're a fish
Kristen Lindquist
For us humans, this cold rain makes for a bleak and dreary day. But as we move closer to the autumnal equinox (a.k.a. the first day of fall), these wet days replenish our rivers and streams and create the watery highways that Atlantic salmon and some trout follow to their spawning grounds.
Salmon return from the deep sea to their home river to spawn, guided miraculously by various factors--sense of taste, the earth's magnetism, currents--that are as little understood as those enabling bird migration. When they get there, there needs to be high enough water for the female fish to move upstream to appropriate habitat to make redds, the indentations in the river bed carved out with her body in which she lays eggs for male salmon to fertilize. On the Ducktrap River, where a remnant population of this endangered species lingers, some falls only a dozen or fewer redds are counted by fisheries biologists. But the fish are still hanging in there. And this rain will help them return to the river once more.
What's cold rain to us
is the way home for salmon--
a refilled river.
Salmon return from the deep sea to their home river to spawn, guided miraculously by various factors--sense of taste, the earth's magnetism, currents--that are as little understood as those enabling bird migration. When they get there, there needs to be high enough water for the female fish to move upstream to appropriate habitat to make redds, the indentations in the river bed carved out with her body in which she lays eggs for male salmon to fertilize. On the Ducktrap River, where a remnant population of this endangered species lingers, some falls only a dozen or fewer redds are counted by fisheries biologists. But the fish are still hanging in there. And this rain will help them return to the river once more.
What's cold rain to us
is the way home for salmon--
a refilled river.
July 29: Scarlet Tanager
Kristen Lindquist
A friend has wanted to see a scarlet tanager for a long time, so this morning we embarked on a tanager quest. I knew there was at least one hanging out on the Ducktrap River Preserve this spring, so I suggested we go back there, though I had no idea if he'd still be hanging around singing. As it turned out, I was surprised by how many birds were still singing. We heard at least half a dozen Blackburnian warblers squeaking way above our heads in the old hemlocks. A family of four white-breasted nuthatches flew to a nearby tree trunk and foraged, the young pausing now and then to beg, the adults still giving in to the impulse to feed them. A hermit thrush's flute song rose from within a stand of pines, and goldfinches twittered overhead.
As we paused among the shade of the hemlocks on a ridge above the river, trying to actually see one of the Blackburnians, my ears picked up on a distant, raspy warble. A tanager! It sounded like he was on the other side of the river, in dense woods, but as we listened, he seemed to come a bit closer. We decided to head down the slope to the river in hopes of catching a glimpse of this brilliant red bird.
The river was beautiful in the morning sun, its mossy banks a bright, verdant green, the water low in this dry season and tea-colored due to tannins from the surrounding hemlocks. Water bugs skipped around on its surface, while tiny fish--were they salmon parr?--darted in shaded shallows. We sat on a big rock and listened. Tantalizingly close, the tanager sang over and over. Another tanager farther up river answered him. They sang back and forth for a while, the sound shifting as they flew to different perches. But we never saw either one.
No matter. My friend and I agreed it was time well spent in the company of each other, the river, and the birds singing around us. And on our hike out, an ovenbird--a notoriously hard-to-see warbler--popped up and gave us a quick glimpse. You don't always find what you go looking for, but sometimes what you do discover is just as meaningful.
She survived cancer.
Tanager's riverside song
seems blessing enough.
As we paused among the shade of the hemlocks on a ridge above the river, trying to actually see one of the Blackburnians, my ears picked up on a distant, raspy warble. A tanager! It sounded like he was on the other side of the river, in dense woods, but as we listened, he seemed to come a bit closer. We decided to head down the slope to the river in hopes of catching a glimpse of this brilliant red bird.
The river was beautiful in the morning sun, its mossy banks a bright, verdant green, the water low in this dry season and tea-colored due to tannins from the surrounding hemlocks. Water bugs skipped around on its surface, while tiny fish--were they salmon parr?--darted in shaded shallows. We sat on a big rock and listened. Tantalizingly close, the tanager sang over and over. Another tanager farther up river answered him. They sang back and forth for a while, the sound shifting as they flew to different perches. But we never saw either one.
No matter. My friend and I agreed it was time well spent in the company of each other, the river, and the birds singing around us. And on our hike out, an ovenbird--a notoriously hard-to-see warbler--popped up and gave us a quick glimpse. You don't always find what you go looking for, but sometimes what you do discover is just as meaningful.
She survived cancer.
Tanager's riverside song
seems blessing enough.