Make way for coots

This is the epitome of how different people approach "nature moments" in very different ways.  And how if you stampede headlong like a pack of wild dogs toward a small group of birds 1/20th your size, the birds don't always lay down the welcome mat.

Yesterday, my mom and I decided to take a walk through the local wildlife refuge.  It was late in the afternoon, approaching sunset, and as we made our way slowly along the dike between the two fresh-water impoundments, the sky shone blue, purple, and burnt red and orange behind the clouds.  It was quiet and peaceful.  Not many birds to be heard, or any animals for that matter.  But it was busy with people.  The parking lot had been almost full, and there were many birders and photographers enjoying their last hour at the refuge.

There weren't many birds to see, either.  A few unseen Song Sparrows called surreptitiously from the brush along the dike, their quiet communications kept especially private at this late hour.  A lone pair of Mute Swans fed gracefully in the small patch of unfrozen water off to the left.  They held their heads underwater for long periods of time, only occasionally raising their arcing necks above the surface to catch a breath and survey their surroundings.  With their heads and necks submerged, only their rounded white bodies remained visible, and a young girl about four years old remarked, "Daddy, it looks like they have shells on!"

My mother and I continued, and as we approached an area along the dike where the brush gave way, so that you could walk to the water's edge on either side, an older woman stood silently, patiently staring out at the water on the west side.  A large group of people walked further ahead, but for now, where we stood, it was just this woman, my mother, and I.  Out in the water, atop the frozen surface, walked a small group of ten or so duck-sized birds.  I could tell from their silhouettes they were American Coots, and they were slowly, cautiously walking parallel to the dike, still about 50 feet away, but toward a spot directly opposite us.  And as they arrived at this spot, now directly perpendicular to where we stood on the path, they started to inch forward, closer.  The older woman leaned over and said to my mother and me, "They're going to try to cross the dike.  They do that from time to time."

She was right.  You could see in the way they looked around that the coots were approaching the dike, in the hopes of crossing where the brush had given way on both sides.  If they continued walking on their current trajectory, they would cross not 10 feet from where the three of us stood watching.

Now, American Coots are common birds around here.  Oftentimes you see them in the hundreds, especially at this refuge.  But there are two observations to be made.  One, as many birders know, when there aren't a lot of birds around to speak of, you tend to get excited about ANY bird that comes your way, even a common one.  And two, no matter how common or uncommon the bird, when something unexpectedly...candid seems about to occur, that moment is always precious.  And the anticipation of seeing this small group of timorous coots slowly muster the courage to entrust us with their passage was quietly thrilling.

At that moment, as the coots continued to make their way forward with much trepidation, a few people who were returning back down the path toward us stopped and asked us what we were looking at.  They saw the coots approaching, and stood behind us.  And seeing a small group of us beginning to congregate, more people along the path began to hurry our way, knowing that something wild had attracted our attention.  An even larger horde of people soon collected around us, until we numbered more than twenty.  As everyone shuffled their positions, murmuring to one another nervously, desperately trying to determine why they were now standing there, not wanting to miss whatever had compelled them to descend upon this particular location, a remarkable symmetry began to appear.  There atop the frozen ice, a jittery group of coots looked worriedly back and forth between their destination in the opposite impoundment and this odd group of homo sapiens which must have seemed to arise suddenly and spontaneously from the depths of the dike.  And there, too, along the gravel path stood an anxious group of human bodies all atwitter, looking back and forth between the coots and each other.  Humans and coots, their progress halted, both uneasily trying to figure out what to do in the next moment.

The coots pressed on, closer.  As they did so, haltingly, each member of the group scanned right and left, their necks constantly in motion.  Heads popped up and down, turning from side to side, as if in a cartoon.  The group would stop their progress short, hold still for fifteen seconds or so, still surveying nervously around, until one member would take one brazen step, allowing the others to shuffle forward ever so slightly.  There they would reestablish their position, look around, and determine again the magnitute of any immediate danger.  A few coots would make unconvincing attempts at taking additional steps forward, immediately retreat, and rejoin the huddle.  This would happen three or four times, until finally, one coot, but not always the same individual, would take one cavalier step forward and stay put long enough for his followers to close ranks.  We became quiet, motionless for now, most of us succumbing to that dumbfounded moment of shock and breathless disbelief that comes when something "natural" and extraordinary is about to happen right in front of you.

The coots, still walking on the ice, had now come within ten feet of the dike, about twenty feet down the path from where our front line stood.  If they continued, they would cross in clear view of everyone present, yet still at a safe distance.  I wondered if other people were considering the same question that I was:  These coots clearly had plans that involved being on the other side of that dike.  The western impoundment was good for them no longer.  They had goals, they were moving up in the world, and whatever their future held, it lay somewhere in that eastern water.  But...they're birds.  They can fly.  Why this prolonged standoff when they could just take to the air and fly disdainfully over our heads and be done with it?  If anyone had been wondering this, a clue came suddenly when one of the coots lost his resolve, turned tail, and made a break for it.  Clearly, jumping ship for some birds is not as easy at it is for others.  The escaping coot couldn't just ascend into the air like a Mallard.  He ran laboriously on long-toed feet, struggling with the effort, and only at great length and obvious exertion did he leave the ground and head back west, forgoing his original plans to the east, disappearing into the distance.

The other coots remained, steadfast.  Their toes were clearly visible now, usually hidden underwater while the coots swim on the surface.  If anyone had confused them with ducks, they could now see that the coots did not have webbed feed for paddling.  They instead showcased surprisingly long lobed toes, which would help them walk along aquatic vegetation, and in this particular case, atop thin ice.  The coots aren't ducks at all; they're more closely related to rails and cranes.  People began to ooh and ahh as they became more aware of the coots' surprisingly odd-looking toes.  A great example of how even a common bird can awe a crowd in the right moment.

Just then, as the coots made clear that yes, in fact, they were damn well going to cross that dike no matter what, and here we go, one last push, one more second and we're there, let's make a run for it, don't think about it, just run and it'll all be over soon!...But seconds before the coots actually arrived at the western edge of the dike, a rogue photographer in our midst lunged forward decisively and strode precipitously to the spot where the coots now stood frozen in momentary panic and confusion.  Click-click-click-click-click-click.  The shutter on the camera released in a continuous succession.  The coots stared, and took a first uncertain step backward.  Observing the success the first photographer was having, a few more photographers stepped forward to engage the coots, and began firing.  Our squadron was thinning, and soon a gadarene rush of photographers and onlookers alike followed in their wake and descended upon the terrified group of American Coots who, awaking from their momentary paralysis, at last turned and ran, launched into the air, and fled.

The group of people began to disburse.  Some of the photographers were satisfied with their shots.  A female photographer said to me, "They were never going to cross the dike.  The coots wouldn't do that."  Everyone walked off and continued with their afternoon.  Except the older woman who had first pointed out the coots to my mother and me still stood there, her eyes still fixed upon the spot where the coots had last stood just moments ago.  She was still standing there when my mother and I finally walked on, further down the path.

We walked to the end, where the path leads to a river, with fields and farmhouses on the opposite side.  We paused to admire the quiet scene, and then turned and began to retrace our steps, now heading back down the path to the parking lot.

When we again arrived at the spot where the dike was clear of brush on either side, about fifteen minutes had passed since the large group of people had moved on.  The older woman was still standing there, still looking out at the western water.  It was getting dark, and everyone else had headed to the exit.  Just the three of us stood there alone.  And on the frozen water on the west side, about ten feet from the dike, walked the same group of coots, inching forward.

We stood quiet and motionless, and with no one to stop them, they hesitantly stepped forward, one step at a time, until they were at the dike.  Together, they clambered up the side and reached the top surface of the path, looking all around.  They seemed unaware of us, but more likely, were acutely aware, but unthreatened.  Sensing no danger now, they began to cross the dike.  And then a curious thing happened.  Now finally within a few steps of completing their arduous task of reaching the eastern impoundment, they paused.  They paused and they looked around a bit more...and they began to strut.  Not across the dike, but along it.  They held their heads high and started to wiggle excitedly as they strutted down the path, away from us.  They seemed to be enjoying an adrenaline rush of pride and excitement, like kids having reached the top of a mountain.  They walked confidently away, seeming purposefully to prolong their time atop that dike.  And then, having savored their achievement long enough, they slipped into the brush along the eastern edge, and disappeared.