0945 RM(road mile) 75.1 Lake Rock Eagle, Putnam County Oconee National Forest
A sizeable flight of Canadian Geese arrived at the SW Gate. Landed smack dab in the middle of the Lake. No fools them water Geese. I counted about 5 dozen. Heads erect, necks long and straight. Black, from the tip of top down their necks to the shoulder near the water line. Maybe 100 yards away. Not the same few who honked last night. They’re still across the water near the 4-H Camp Complex. Honking occasionally. These new arrivals announced themselves well in advance. A foretaste. I heard this uproar, a clamorous honking, and thought the 4-H geese had stepped on a snake or some thing. But the clamour rose, volume increased, signaling a major happening about to happen. “They must be in the water, across the Lake by the far shore, ” I thought to myself naively. As I strolled down slope to the water’s edge, for a better look.(Now I wish I had brought my binoculars. “Naw, I won’t need them,” says me, to myself, yesterday.)
I looked across the water and could not see any floating geese, certainly not enough to sponsor the swelling racket. Closer, louder, and more rancorous with each step I took. “Maybe they’re scrunched down in the marsh fringe.” “Smart beggars to hide like that, while raisin’ such a fuss.” I love the call of Canada Geese. A honking that I cannot describe, but know to hear. If I could be re in carnate I would choose to return as a Canada Goose. To be able to make that wonderful forlorn sound. That sound that triggers in me a sense of wilderness and splendid isolation. A sound that seems to echo madly even when there are no available surfaces to return an echo. Then when 60 geese honk and echo excitedly, mixing together their bleating calls, the result reminds me of a giant marquee filled with small bulbs. Each blinking randomly. A reverberating twitter, hypnotic…Well, to make a long story short, do you know how big a 747 is? If you stand in front of one, looked at it from about a 30 degree angle to the left of it’s center line, do you recall how big a 747 would look, The entire span, from its right wing tip on your left, foward to its nose, then receding to its left wingtip on your right. Do you sense how big that wedge would look from wing tip, forward to nose, then back to wing tip. I’m talking your basic big. Well, as I drew closer to the Lake fringe on my side, searching for the sneaky geese hiding in the marsh fringe on the other side, the loud flittering rancor growing more rancorous, almost hurting, this huge humongous 747 rose majestically from behind the horizon and aimed itself directly at me. The wonderful fuss was, of course, not a band of sneaky geese surreptitiously skulking in the fringe. But, a mighty flight approaching Lake Rock Eagle from the SW. Chattering amongst themselves. Escalating their messages as they approached the landing. Coordinating their landing instructions. Forming a smoother wedge for turbulence reduction. Looking for trouble. Assessing landing possibilities. Lookouts posted. Strong members to the outside. Weaker to the inside. Polling each other for important data. Fixing on The flight leader at the point of the wedge. Sensing wind. Adjusting altitudes, of each member, and of the entire Vee. Rising to clear a patch of trees then sloping gradually, down the invisible incline. Wings moving them forward, Wings slowing. Still slowing. Down the incline. Toward the geometric center of the lake. Effortlessly, unerringly. In perfect formation. In wonderful harmony. Unison. Gliding the last 50 yards. Easing downward. Wings braking. Heads up. Tails down. Chests out. Feet extended. Then, puff. I really mean “puff”, 60 Canadian geese touched down with a collective “puff.” Each gliding forward several feet to dissolve his momentum into the water surface. Sixty small wakes. A huge cheer. High fives all around, like a championship locker room. Congratulations and exhilarations. A mighty celebration. Flapping, preening, stretching, coasting into a tight huddle. I want to be a Canada Goose.
Note addendum on adjoining journal log page: Spellbound. Fifty yards across, for sure. Appearing suddenly, Monstrous. Covered the entire expanse of Lake across from me. My eyes pop. My jaw drops. My knees knock. I feel naive and stupid for looking at the marsh fringe. I feel priviledge and wonder-struck. The total surprise, far beyond any humble expectations.
RM 75.1 T 1140 Depart Lake Rock Eagle. Warm, pleasant, slight breeze. Hazy. Go back the way I came in. Look for rest rooms. CR2 NW
Doc’s final trusty iron horse was a Chevy Tahoe named The Hoe. In the years he invested in traveling back roads, he started with an ancient 70s Chevy Vega named Lotus Blossom, which spit oil by the quart and was not optimal for Forest Service roads. In the mid 1980s he intensified the experience with a GMC Jimmy named The Beagle. The Hoe was the apotheosis of Roy’s roadworthy education, with enough space for him to sleep in at campgrounds when he wanted, room to stow all of the critical gear needed for backwoods photography, with enough torque and tread to make it out of the occasional unpaved road too far. This is a representative example of the field-dressed Hoe, gumboots at the ready should wetlands abound.
doctor flowers redux 