February 15, 2024
After downing a hot coffee, I bundled up and headed to the Buckhorn Reservoir to fish. It was twilight when I arrived, and there was enough light to see without my headlamp. I positioned myself at the end of the pier and baited the hooks of my rods. With two lines in the water, I hoped to catch some fish, even though the fish were inactive in the fold water.
As the sky lit, still well before sunrise, soft colors of blues and pinks filled the sky, reflecting perfectly off the water. Seagulls, more than a hundred, circled about the vast sky, soaring, skimming, and diving into the water to catch prey. Behind me, I heard the familiar squawking of a blue heron. I turned to see the gigantic bird flying past me, its large slow-moving wings beating in perfect time with its reflection off the glassed lake. A pair of mallards swam by, stopping to quack at me.
There was smoke coming off the water, especially on the east side of the lake near the dam. The soft colors, circling birds, and wispy air made for a serene scene. As the sun approached the horizon, the seagulls drifted closer. I was surprised by how quiet the birds were, only occasionally singing in soft tones.
About five minutes before the sun hit the horizon, the seagulls all landed on the opposite pier, lining up in imperfect rows, sitting quietly, facing the sun. I was not the only sun worshiper this morning. Something spooked the flock, and they took flight, this time noisily, before circling back onto the pier.
The fishing was slow, but I caught a few crappie out of the cold water. Their silvered skin sparkled in the light, their wide eyes perfectly clear, staring back at me. In the summer, when you pull a fish from the water, it flops around, making it difficult to hold them while you remove the hook. Then, when you place them back into the water, they shoot off like small rockets. But in the winter, the cold holds them in a trance. They barely move when you pull the hook from their mouths and when you set them in the water, they often float still before swimming off casually as if nothing happened. In the cold, I move slower, too.
When I arrived home, I saw a small plastic bag in the pasture and balls of white fluff strewn about. I’m not sure if the white mess was cotton blown over from a nearby field, of if it was the stuffing from a toy. I grabbed the bag and filled it, cleaning the area. As I did this, I heard the loud calls of an unfamiliar bird. I looked around to see what was making the ruckus and saw four large Pileated Woodpeckers flying about the pasture, two landing on a pine and immediately pecking away at it. These woodpeckers are relatively rare to see, with their large red hoods and tufts. I was surprised when I saw one in the forest earlier this week. Now I was watching four of them. I memorized their song so I could recognize it while walking in the woods.
Work was busy, but after a long meeting, I took a ten-minute break, sitting on the stoop of my front porch, sipping coffee. The sun was warm and bright, causing me to squint as I held my face up to the sun. I noted how calm things were outside. Nature is so patient; unflappable. A loud noise reverberated in the air behind the trees. I knew it was a helicopter, but it sounded very low. Suddenly, the enormous machine popped out of the tree line, its nose pointed down low like a gunner ship. I’m not sure what they were doing, but my mind flashed to a scene from the Terminator where the machines were hunting down people. Was this metal contraption trying to take out my peaceful scene? I whistled the theme song from the movie and then laughed. Eight crows in the yard near me cawed loudly, laughing along.
I ate my lunch in the woods. When I exited my house, I saw a small mouse near the front door. It ran into a crevice in the brick and I snapped a few pictures of the little rodent and its beady eyes. I went back inside, grabbed a small mousetrap baited with peanut butter, and placed it on the porch. I turn east and headed into the woods.
For lunch, I climbed into a tree stand affixed to a large pine on the north end of the property. There, I sat in the quiet, enjoying the warmer weather as I ate and listened to nature’s sounds. For the past week, I’ve noticed signs of spring. The ends of tree branches were forming small buds and the frogs were out croaking in mass. From the stand, I spotted the top of a tree that was filled with tiny pink flowers in full bloom. Another tree had large buds about to flower. Our calendars can say what they want, but in eastern North Carolina, spring is here. Yes, there may be more cold snaps and freezing temperatures, but the flora and fauna in eastern North Carolina have adapted. In Texas, one late cold snap would kill entire trees. Last year, late in spring, dozens of wild cherry trees blossomed in the grove right before we had a week of subfreezing temperatures. I remember thinking that all the trees were going to die, but they didn’t The flowers just acted like nothing happened and kept on blossoming and growing. Things are just built differently here.
The time in the blind was a wonderful break from work. The day was quiet and sunny, with a cool breeze. I spotted an American red squirrel and one eastern gray squirrel. I didn’t see any other wildlife, except for an occasional bird flying by. Still, it was a great place to eat lunch. There is something about being in the middle of nature while being off the forest floor and out of sight. You get to see the woods as they are when you’re not there. I sat back, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. As the wind picked up, I felt the large tree I was attached to sway slowly. It would have been more relaxing if I wasn’t thirty feet up in the air.
On my way back to the house, I notice wild daffodils had bloomed in the front yard, their yellow flowers bright against the wintered foliage. The little mouse I saw just before heading into the woods had departed, as in dearly departed, his neck snapped by the innocuous-looking plastic trap. I disposed of it, washed my hands, and got back to work.
In the evening, I went out into the woods at last light, making my way to Beaver Tooth Rock. It was dusky and the forest would soon transform into dark mode. Luckily, I brought my Petzl headlamp with me so I wouldn’t have to run through the jungle like yesterday. Great song, by the way.
In the distance, I heard hounds barking. Their sounds were faint, but common. The dogs belonged to a neighboring property and came in handy when I tracked deer. When I heard them bark, I knew a herd was heading out or arriving at the north end of my place. I also heard gunshots from various directions. In the country, it was pretty common to hear them through all hours of the day, although early mornings and nighttime seemed to be bullet-free.
When I trekked back to the house, it was already dark. My headlamp did an amazing job of illuminating my path, so it was an enjoyable walk home. Walking through the forest, I noticed several glistening reflections coming off the ground. They reflected my light the same way a bicycle reflector or street sign brighten with light. The small lights were light green, the color of the old soda bottles they used to make. When I found one near me, I stopped to see what it was, finding a small spider where the light had flashed. Reflective spiders? Nature is so cool. I spotted hundreds of them on the walk to the house, noticing there were few in the pine grove.
When I arrived home, I split some firewoods, made some kindling, and fired up the pit. Looking up at the stars, I saw Venus had moved again while Orion looked faint. The stars, I thought to myself, will be a little brighter tomorrow night. Tomorrow was Friday, and my wife would come home for the weekend. I would likely do the same thing as tonight, but oh how different it would all feel. Tonight, there were hints of loneliness; tomorrow the feelers would all be full.