NATURE
The Wake Up Call
By Robert H. Wills
The Canada Geese flew in after dark, riding the gusts of an autumn storm that tore the first red and gold leaves from the trees along the shore of the lake.
Although Mike, our son, said that two loons and some diving ducks had been on the lake earlier in the day, no birds paddled in the waves that were beginning to churn the sand along the lakeshore as we drove to town for pizza.
On our return in a pelting rain, we stumbled into the cold house, our clothes damp from the run from the van. Mike flipped on the generator, bathing the kitchen in light. “Shall I throw some maple logs in the fireplace?” he asked.
“The heat will go straight up the chimney,” I said. “Fire up the space heater. That will give us a little warmth during the night.”
“I have a surprise for you in the morning,” he said to Cherie and me.
We rolled into bed between cold sheets and under feather comforters. Mike’s house is “off the grid” deep in the woods of the Michigan Upper Peninsula. As our body heat warmed us, we gave the room temperature little thought, awakening occasionally to the sound of rain and wind, but responding by snuggling deeper.
Around 6 a.m., Mike called, “Hurry up! They’re about to take off.”
I felt as if a gate attendant were rushing me down the boarding ramp at O’Hare Field.
A Disney-like vista opened before us as Cherie and I stood at the picture window in his bedroom. From shore to shore, the dark, feathered forms of hundreds, maybe thousands of geese -- more geese than could be counted -- bobbed in the first light of dawn on the dying waves of last night’s storm.
Canada Geese are big birds, weighing from 15 to 20 pounds, with a wingspan close to six feet. Near shore, the geese appeared larger-than-life in the first light of the sun tinting the eastern horizon.
They swam slowly and gracefully, arching their long black necks (they are cousins to swans) as they became aware of the human eyes watching from the window. The birds accepted our presence with a disinterest that was almost insulting. I expected panic and sudden flight when they knew we were there. But when Mike walked to the lake shore to take pictures, he was ignored.
In shallow water, some of the geese formed into irregular rows, dipped their long necks under water and flipped their tails skyward, exposing their bellies while they chomped the tangle of weeds on the bottom. From a distance, they looked like beer kegs floating on the water.
All over the lake, the geese seemed intent on socializing. It was as if the lake was trapped under an overturned saucer of noise – loud, penetrating goose calls which grew in volume as flight time approached.
Anticipation was in the air. While they must have had flight on their agenda, there were no practice take-offs, no checking of the landing gear, but still a sense of readiness.
Mike, who slept with a window open, said that most of the geese had rested quietly during the night except for individual birds that squawked or called out almost constantly. As dawn broke, the intensity of their chatter increased.
And some, perhaps while pruning their feathers, rose from the water and flapped their wings as if they wanted to be sure they were staying limber for the miles ahead. The result was a subdued whooping sound that became a point-counterpoint medley of song and percussive whoops.
Their path as they paddled across the lake seemed aimless, first toward the house, then away, then back again. But further observation hinted at choreography. They apparently were gathering in groups, forming lines, much as military pilots do as they prepare to take-off.
Are the groups families? Mom, Dad, and the four to eight kids that were hatched over the summer?
It is generally agreed that geese mate for life, so maybe those flocks we see flying in V formations high in the sky, their calls alerting earth far below to their presence, contain two or three generations.
Or maybe the gaggles we see swimming together are birds that nested in a single swamp or on the same lake, or had lunch together on a nearby lawn or hay field.
Professional goose watchers are careful not to ascribe human behavioral characteristics to the birds. But you have to wonder.
In any case, on the lake, there were hundreds, no, thousands of goose calls raised in total disharmony. Chaos before orderliness.
“Who’s in charge?” I asked, not expecting an answer. Where is the First Sergeant ordering them to “Fall in?” “Prepare for flight.” “Start your engines!”
Generally, laymen refer to the “honking” of Canada Geese. But to me, there is no “honking.” Their call is totally repetitious, not musical until it is enriched by flight or distance as in the sound of a flock disappearing over the horizon, flying north on a spring morning, hundreds of feet above the listener.
The chorus cascading from on high is the music of the spheres. In the spring, it’s the harbinger of flowers; in the fall, the soft blanket of winter snow.
In truth, close up, as on the lake, the goose call is a high pitched, two part squawk, kuh luk, a call unique to the bird. I hear it more as a yodel, not like the grand, echoing voice of the loon, but a song shredded into confetti tumbling from the sky, and impossible to translate into words.
It raises a chill on the back of my neck, stirs my emotions and revives memories of long ago and far away. It cuts to the soul.
It’s a song that cannot be denied.
The bird calls on the lake increased in intensity and volume. Were they saying farewell to the friends of summer? Were they yelling at the kids to “snap to it and get in line?” Or maybe, “See you tonight at the Horicon Marsh!”
Whatever. There was a mighty uproar – honking, screaming, squealing, squawking, take your choice. It was time to go!
Suddenly a flock of birds rose from the lake forming an uneven stair-step formation. The last of them flapped and fluttered into a semblance of a V. They flew over the trees and circled the lake.
They were on their way, followed immediately by a second gaggle.
As if on signal – surely there is a signal of some kind – the geese on the lake began forming into groups of comparable size which took off in rapid order, one after another, sometimes, on opposite sides of the lake, two flights at a time.
The first two groups departed in quick succession and climbed to the southeast. Two other clusters banked to the southwest as soon as the lines were formed. And several flights swung back over the lake circling into the expected V formation so more could join them.
Now, the flights were taking off one on the tail feather of the other. As soon as one patch of blue sky was clear, it was filled with another formation. For some reason, urgency had been added to the mix.
No birds turned back; no flights returned to the lake. With hundreds of birds in the air, there were no laggards; no collisions and there was no control tower to keep the flights separated. Every bird seemed to know where it fit in the formation before it lifted off the water.
Geese watchers agree that the leader of the flock at take-off breaks wind for the birds that follow. When it tires, a following goose takes the lead. As they rose from the water, there was no way to identify the swing goose, or the pecking order of the flock.
But the discipline was amazing. Man could not have cleared the lake as swiftly or as efficiently.
Large sections of the lake began to reappear. The open water steadily broadening. Only an hour later, with the sun glistening through the shoreline trees, the lake was empty.
With one exception. One goose – just one
-- straggled into the air, heading in the direction of the flock, but out
of sight of the leader.
Had it overslept? Was it injured? Would it catch up? Was it a comic goose
that stayed back to philosophize and entertain? Or was it, like so many of
us, just a misfit? There’s one in every crowd.
