Lone Goose

The Lone Goose is weighing heavily on my heart. He shows up each evening all by himself and slowly swims up one side of the river and down the other and then up into the backwater on the far side. That area is rich with nesting sites that are calling to goose couples now. It’s mating time and his head turns from side to side, searching. But unlike the other seasons, she’s not here to meet him.

I’ve chastised myself for anthropomorphizing. But in my heart I know he’s lost his mate and I ache for him every evening when I see him finally give up and leave, alone. I know he’ll be back again tomorrow. Geese mate for life and they are so faithful. They will occasionally pick a second mate if the unthinkable happens and I fervently hope the Lone Goose will.

We’ve been here on River’s Edge through three nesting seasons now. We watch the families, we count the goslings. We hurt when their numbers diminish from one 24 hour period to the next. We think of them as “our goslings”. We cheer as they learn to walk and we’re proud when their down is replaced by their beautiful flight feathers and they become less distinguishable from their parents. We try not to dwell upon it when hunting season comes and weekend after weekend we are awakened at dawn by the shotgun blasts.

I grew up in a hunting family and I have no issue with folks who love to hunt; well, except for those who are hunting only for trophies (but that’s a different topic). My folks were never happier then when they were shivering in a duck blind in the fog somewhere in South Carolina or Washington, or when they were tramping through wheat fields hoping to flush out an upland game bird in Wisconsin. They walked in unison, they needed no words, and they knew they could depend upon each another. They were mates for life and they were so fortunate to have 50 years together.

When my father died, my mother was the Lone Goose. She was so lost without him. That broke my heart too. Dad had to die. He was far too debilitated after his stroke to be happy inside himself and neither Mom nor I asked it of him. Still, I was totally unprepared for my Mother’s desperate aloneness, and for my inability to help her after she lost her life mate. Oh, she coped alright, and she put on a brave face most of the time but there was no way she could hide her aching heart from me, her only child. She died six years after Dad, fully ready to go and delighted about their upcoming reunion. I combined their ashes in one urn as they’d asked and buried them together. I found a lovely snow globe with a pair of elegant white swans inside and let it inspire me to write their joint eulogy about life and love, about commitment and forever.


Now a Lone Goose is back in my life and the heartache is fresh again. I deeply miss my mom as I grieve for him. I walk over to the shelf in my living room and pick up the beautiful snow globe with the elegant white swans and I shake it. Though I know order will be restored as soon as the snow settles, the globe clearly demonstrates to me the disorientation of stormy times as I peer into the globe and, for a time, lose sight of the pair.

Perhaps tomorrow the Lone Goose will come accompanied and peace will be restored in his heart and mine.

Happy Birthday, Frosty

Happy Birthday to the Dutchess Y

Our lovely Irish lass, Frosty (registered: Silverfrost) has turned 13!

Back in 1995, her American born father, Chet, went to Ireland to meet the perfect Irish lass. Her mother, Adage, fit the bill perfectly and on March 10, 1996, Silverfrost was born, a vibrant and beautiful member in a litter of 9.

As a youngster, Frosty came to the U.S. and began her racing career. Her records shows she began racing June 6, 1998 in Corpus Christi, Texas, running every season but one until May 2001 when she retired to create her own lineage of racers in July 2001, March 2002 and February 2004.

Frosty retired again at age 9 and changed her name to ours.

Three of her 19 kids "stopped by" to wish her a joyful day ...

Sky Diamond (girl, July 2001, daddy Gable Dodge)

American Design (girl, March 2002, daddy Rapido Rambo)

Flight Leader (boy, July 2001, daddy Gable Dodge)

Jack Frost (boy, February 2004, daddy Gable Oscar)

Besides being an undoubtedly gracious mother, Frosty is a canine miracle. She sees all, from flowers to stars and at such times, her mantle of sovereign mystery gives way to unabashed wonder at the world and her eyes light up as if to say "Wow! Did you see THAT"?

We are, indeed, pleased and proud to have her in our family.

Sound and Fury

It took me an hour to eat my oatmeal this morning. I was sitting at the island in our kitchen, which is strategically positioned to see out our west-facing windows. If you’ve not caught this view in previous blogs, let me show you a winter morning version …

This morning the clouds are resting on the tops of the mountains. They are laden with snow and remind me of a piñata just waiting to be whacked by a stick so they can unload their burden.

Along the river’s edge the tips of the old cottonwoods have turned a season-welcoming golden. The river willow is a glowing shade of terra cotta and the lovely maroon dogwood is turning amethyst, sure signs the sap is flowing.

There is a bench of land between us and the river, about the width of a country road and 10 feet below the level of our house. Beyond that and perhaps eight feet lower is the Bitterroot River. This morning it is teeming with life.

Opposite our house is a backwater that is very attractive to wildlife. I pick up the field glasses to check out a commotion in the liquid cul-de-sac, and see several Canada Geese having a rather heated discussion about territory. If you’ve ever been around geese, you know they are not to be messed with. They are a species full of sound and fury and mating season hormones turn the everyday flurries into a perfect storm.

Nonchalantly riding out the storm, right next to the “hissing match”, are several ducks, four different species, bobbing for breakfast. They’ve seen the goose display far too often to be impressed.

There is a large snag that washed into that pool back when it was part of the river’s main channel, and sitting on a limb of that waterlogged mass is a big bird – a very big bird. It’s a young golden eagle who has been drawn to the commotion much like a 13-year old boy is drawn to a fistfight. He is making full use of his amazing ability to turn his head nearly 360 degrees to take in the whole scene. I laugh at him when he makes himself dizzy and nearly falls off his perch into the water.

Movement on the nearby shore, proves to be a tiny spotted fawn with her mama standing guard lest the eagle should take a fancy to venison for breakfast. As I marvel at the new little spotted miracle, something large flies across my field of vision. Hildyth – our resident Blue Heron - has arrived for breakfast. She makes a breathtaking precision landing in the shallow water and immediately assumes her statue pose to wait, oh so patiently, for breakfast to arrive.

On the near side of the river, along the edge of the high bank, 13 woodchucks are busy snuffling through the grasses for their favorite snack (whatever that may be). Two of them take up their usual positions on the rail fence. They are stretched out their full length upon the top rail, feet dangling down on either side like a lumpy saddle blanket drying in the sun. A bit to the north of them is a rooster pheasant, white ringed neck shining like a beacon, flapping his wings and strutting his stuff. ‘Tis the season.

I eat my ice cold oatmeal with a smile on my face. It’s a great day to be alive.