ESSAY: Osprey On The Clackamas

 

OSPREY ON THE CLACKAMAS

JULY 2023. Added to Saltarello Vol II 02.22.26

The river begins on the slopes of Olallie Butte at 6000′ and meanders some 80 miles from the west slope of Oregon’s Cascade Range through canyons and bluffs to the once forested rolling plains of the Willamette Valley until it debouches into the Willamette River just below the falls at Oregon City, elevation 12 feet.

The river is called Clackamas, an approximation by Lewis and Clark of the tribal name of the indigenous people who lived in the area before American colonization. The name appears as Clark-a-mus most often in the explorer’s journals, their daily logs which are rife with phonetic attempts to record the names of people and places. Clark-a-mus comes from gitláq̀imaš meaning ‘those of the Clackamas River’ according to Michael Silverstein’s Handbook of North American Indians which is something of a tautology. The translation, not the book. A web site called Access Geneology suggests that the origin and significance of the native name is, in fact, unknown.

Willamette is another such name derived from a garbled version of Wallamt meaning still water, a river place name near Oregon City. Multnomah, too, is a derivation. Hood, the name of the mountain that dominates this geography, is not. Lord Samuel Hood was a British vice-admiral. The locals called it Wy’East among other descriptive monikers; but, alas, to the victors go the spoils.

Peregrination is a journey, one that wanders from here to there and there to here with, apparently, no fixed destination. The word is from the Latin peregrinari which means, roughly, to travel abroad especially on foot. The Romans had no buses. Peregrination aptly describes a river’s hydrologic business; and the course of the Clackamas proves to be no exception. It meanders, as we have seen, from the Cascades to the valley, looping here and there and back again.

This essay, too, seems to have meandered. Perhaps a mention of avians is now in order. Along the river’s length lives a healthy population of birds. Eagles, hawks, mallards, egrets, owls, flickers, killdeer and various others all who manage to thrive despite an encroaching population of that most invasive of species, Homo sapiens. Ospreys were once quite common.

In the summer of 2003, I surveyed the river from its mouth to South Fork, some forty miles of shoreline, looking to document the number of nesting pairs on that stretch. Fourteen nests were spotted, from a shopping center’s parking lot light pole in Oregon City to the top of a snag up river from Promontory Point Marina. Not all of the nests, it seemed, were occupied. Ten pairs were identified, but no more. Most of the active nests were clustered near McIver Park and the dams at Timberpark and Faraday. The nests are easy to spot, usually built in an open space atop a tree or tower of some kind. Many are found on the dolphins in the Columbia River.

Osprey are colloquially known as fish eagles, and dive for their meals. Bald eagles, though the proud emblem of nations, are primarily carrion eaters. Osprey feed on fresh caught fish. Eagles may skim the water and dip daintily for a catch; but osprey actually take the plunge. With folded wing they smack the water, on the attack, sometimes submerged entirely, fishing.

Osprey are also a more social creature than most predators. No need to scale some cliff face or penetrate some dark wood. Already mentioned is the nest on a parking lot light pole. A pair occupied that site for years. Near the confluence of the Clackamas with the Willamette, those birds knew a good fishing spot when they saw one.

Smaller than the eagle, Pandion haliaetus was named for a mythical Greek king, Pandion, whose two daughters got into mischief, offended some god or other, and were turned into birds. Halos is Greek for sea and aetos means eagle. White breasted with wings and tail feathers of black and brown hues, the osprey’s most distinctive feature is their black eye band. Biomechanically, the birds are also distinguished by the ability of their rear talons to articulate, not unlike the opposable thumbs of Homo sapiens. This gives osprey the ability to align a caught fish with its body for flying efficiency. Vocalization mark the osprey as well. From the rapid peeping of fledglings to the less urgent peeps of adults, and the angry krees of agitated birds, they seem to have a remarkable vocabulary.

They are aggressive and territorial birds, the osprey. Camped on the beach on the lower Columbia at Skamokawa, another native name, it was a bald eagle that showed us where the osprey nest was located. Obvious once spotted, the large nest of intertwined twigs was right in front of us on a dolphin that marked the edge of shoal water.

The eagle had flown from the woods at river’s edge out over our camp and on to mid channel, then looped back around the dolphin; the nest, apparently, was its objective. Angry krees came immediately from the female in the nest. The eagle continued to circle. Moments later the male osprey appeared answering with a kree a notch lower in tone, a response perhaps rather than a challenge. The male flew directly at the eagle and the larger bird took evasive action, banking away from the nest, the osprey breaking flight to raise talons, the eagle indifferently—so it seemed—gaining height, turning to the shore to return to its perch in the trees. The male osprey took a rising loop around his nest then landed on the edge of the pylon, job done.

Osprey come north to feed and breed. Those seen in the Pacific northwest in spring and summer, travel to southern Mexico and central America in the winter. Apparently, their numbers are on the increase. According to a report by the USGS, the count of nesting pairs on the Willamette River between Eugene and Portland went from a low of 13 pairs in 1976 (pesticides the main culprit in their decline) to 234 pair in 2001. This trend is the same across North America.

Plans are afoot to retrace my steps and do another count on the Clackamas. I get on the river three or four times a year for a paddle, and my impression is that there are fewer osprey now than in 2003. Then I was greeted inevitably by the peep peep of circling osprey. Nowadays, a sighting is more remarkable, the nests unused. Time, I think, to go have another look.

STORY: excerpt from THE RUCKUS OF BIRDS

 May 1, 2023 

The following is an excerpt from my book THE RUCKUS OF BIRDS (2024). The book is available at The Book Patch Bookstore and through Kobo eBooks and other ebook retailers. Originally posted to majikwoid.wordpress.

The history teacher, union man, something or other with the CTA, pushing for the Road Act, or Rhode, or rode, or … that business, he couldn’t remember, Jerry Brown signing just before running off with that singer, what’s her name, Arlo his name like the singer or not, too pat, Arlen it was, befriended me, gave me a bit of trivia saying mnemonics most helpful for the lumpenproletariat, and so it was I told the class that Shakespeare whom you might have heard of, was a poet, yes, but also, among other things, a well versed birder. The natural world playing its part in the man’s productions, if you haven’t read Romeo and Juliet perhaps you have seen the movie, a nod or two, and perhaps they managed to include this scene, the fifth it is, from Act III, the orchard of Juliet’s family what’s their name nevermind, you’ll remember the setting, the scene, early one morning, four or five when the cows get milked, a laugh then, the couple having this secret nighttime tryst arguing about a bird they hear outside the window, or rather, that is, Juliet is in the window and the bird is in the orchard and Romeo has climbed a vine or somesuch and says or Juliet says … anyone remember? The movie … nevermind, Romeo says, Is it a nightingale or a skylark? The question, of course, is a matter of life or death for Juliet’s father is coming with his shotgun bringing a snort and guffaw, and Romeo says, If it’s the lark singing, that means the dark is passing, the day is breaking and I must flee. Juliet argues for the nightingale, you see, wishing to prolong … but Romeo insists on the lark, the hearald of the morning and Juliet the night and the arrival of the nurse, caring soul that she is, ends the discussion, this little tete a tete, falling for the most part on deaf ears.

He preferred onomonopea wouldn’t want to be ya, his little list of sounds they make squeaks and squawks, gurgles, warbles, trills, rattles, gulps and pops, whines, clicks, croaks, drums, whistles and howls, tremolos, thumps, honks and many other sorts of sounds. As many as the words—often neologisms, Carroll again—the words we create to define them.

Words, mnemonic or otherwise, he thinks, are all too often ambiguous, just saying hi how are ya can be frought with hidden agendas and seeing the word on a page no help, the confusion persists and ignorance more likely for the spoken word provides some context at least like plays, but the modern play, especially the modern play, Pinter say, or Beckett’s regurgitations and the like, leave so much to the reader’s imagination or the watcher’s that it becomes burdensome, onerous. Shakespeare, too, for that matter. Perhaps it is the nature of plays. Or, if looked at from a … if all we say or write is considered objectively, if that could be done, what we say or write is often like the modern play, and the sounds reosnate with ambiguity, cryptic, enigmatic, so much left to connotation, decoding, we hear what our experience allows us to hear, education and experience providing context, a function of human language unlike the language of birds, or so it seems, melodious phrases and distinct almost syllabic calls. Do gulls ever misunderstand the message as they strut upon their windswept beach or joyously riding the sweep of wind?

Pang, pang, pang. Tilt of head, bleak black eye, cawing, then suddenly up and away.

Told me, ha, so he did.

STORY: Any Man's Death

ANY MAN'S DEATH fromPlump Black Crows (2015)

Post to KBWtoo 01.22.25; post to majikwoids 04.01.23

1258 words  1986?

One day, I met a man with a mule. The day was sultry, and I sat in the shade of a narrow draw watching the heat waves ripple off the talus. It was plain how the lava flow had come down the mountain to the slope above the draw, had reached out to embrace and isolate the spot, and how the Doug firs surrounding the flow had matted the earth with windblown needles. Cool, shaded air gathered beneath the trees, sinking finally down slope to wash the draw. I sat alone in the shade watching marmots play jack-in-the-box from their holes in the talus, popping up here and there to scold and chide. I sat in a stupor, pack still on back, water bottle untouched. I sat and ravens cawed and the jays flitted from limb to limb.

I heard a mule bray and a man cuss routinely, the pair in concert. They weren't too far off. I hoped they would stay on the trail and go on by. I listened for their passing. A grey bearded marmot popped up, listened, yapped, and ducked down his hole. Jays screeched up the ridge and then came winging down through the draw. I could hear the clip clop hooves and some crude rhyme from the man.

I watched the talus. Waiting. I could hear the creak of the harness and the tink tink tink of a tin cup and then another round of braying and cussing. I tossed a rock at the talus and up popped the grey beard to chatter at me; then, just as quickly, quiet and gone. The old man and the mule appeared, ambling cross slope and down into the hollow.

I wished for a hole to hide in.

“Hot,” the old fellow said. He lifted a battered straw hat and mopped his forehead with his forearm. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from beneath the hat. He swiped a hand down his bewhiskered chin. “Meet my mule,” he said. “Name's Done 'cause his work never is.”

The mule snorted.

I said hello to the mule.

“He's not so bad,” the man said. “You just got to know mules. My name's Jake and everything usually is.”

I said hello to Jake. “Name's Will,” I said.

The old man squinted up some at my name, his eyes appraising me, boots to backpack. He smacked the mules hindquarter and reached under to loosen the pack straps around the mule's ribs and belly. “A carrot for you, Done,” he said to the mule. “Loco for carrots,” he said to me. He drank a long pull from his canteen, offered it to me. He shrugged when I passed on the water, then plopped down on the ground with a grunt. He sifted a handful of dirt and pine needles through his palms and patted the ground affectionately. “Good ground,” he said. “Old, like me. Climbing?” he asked.

“Just a gut check,” I said. “See how high I can go before spooking.”

He grinned. “Done it,” he said.

The mule brayed.

“Damn you ya hyper shit. Put a sock in it.” He swiped a hand across his face. “Never took to those namby-pamby group excursions myself,” he said, “taking forever and then some just to walk up a little old hill. Been up Rainier fifty times or more, dozen times solo and lived to tell about it.”

“I see that,” I said.

“Working up the northwest ridge?” He caught my eye. His were pale blue, but bright. His right eye narrowed to a squint.

“Ridge was working me.”

A grin began playing about Jake's mouth. “Do the couloir?”

I laughed. “Wind scoured bitch. Snow hard. Bits zinging down. I tucked into that little alcove about two-thirds up and thought about it.”

Jake smiled. “Prudence always a bitter pill.”

“Sure.”

We sat a bit and the marmot popped up, then down; the jays circled; and the mule stood stock still with his head down. I slipped out of my pack straps. Jake sifted some more dirt.

“Heard about Unsoeld?” he asked.

I had left the ranger station ten day ago. Had avoided the few hikers passing through. Jake looked up the talus, squinted, and tossed a rock. “Heard what?” I asked.

“You know Rainier?”

I nodded. “Some.”

“Cadaver Gap?”

“Sure.”

“Big old slab of snow come rumbling down and caught him in the Gap. Willi was leading a party from that school of his. Been stormin' some. Thought it best to get them off that rock. Didn't make it. Good place to die, Cadaver Gap.”

A stillness then. I stared off. Heat rippled from the talus. A raven shadowed through the hollow to alight on a low limb. I remembered a photograph in a magazine: Willi and his daughter, embracing, laughing smiles, down from the mountain. The daughter named Nanda Devi, named for the mountain of his dreams.

Unsoeld had climbed Everest, that impossible traverse with Hornbein and a night out at 28,000 feet. He had lost a few toes, but had survived. He had come back to the Pacific Northwest to teach philosophy and climbing. He led people up mountains. He led his daughter up mountains. They dreamed together of Nanda Devi, goddess mountain of the Himalaya. Dream became reality, and they had gone together to climb the goddess mountain. And there, high on the mountain's flank, death had come, come to embrace the daughter. She lingered, weakened, and died. There was nothing to be done. Willi survived. Helpless. Desolate. He returned alone to teach philosophy and climbing. His hips failed him and were replaced with artificial joints. On he climbed, his gait awkward, but steady, always steady, steadfast. Until now. Now, finally, no more.

Jays screeched through the low limbs of the fir trees, and the mule brayed. Jake ran dirt through his fingers, talking, “ … and what's the first thing I do but run smack dab into you, name of Will. Damned if any of it makes sense. Here, you, Done, a carrot for you mule.”

“'Any man's death … '” Will, running a thumb across his forehead, muttering.

“What's that?”

“Nothing. A line of poetry. That's all.”

The grey, bearded marmot popped a head up and barked. Jake squinted at me, nodded. The mule brayed.

“Done, damn it all to hell.”

The marmot stood frozen, poised at the edge of his rock.

“Which way you headed then, Will?”

“South. Three-finger Jack maybe.”

“Figures. Me and Willi fell off that little knob more times than I care to tell about. Had to take a couple of goes at it. Only two kinds of climbers. Them who've fallen, and them waiting to fall. And none of it carries any more import than the tinking of a tin cup.”

Jake slapped the dust from his hands. “I'd be pleased to travel with you, son, if you're so inclined.”

The greybeard watching from the talus barked once again, went to all fours, and scooted along a narrow shelf. He stopped and stood, chattered and barked. Then suddenly gone. Heat waves rippled off the talus.

I took up my water bottle and drank.

“If Done doesn't have any objections,” I said, “I'd be pleased to have your company.”

We looked to the mule. Done snorted softly, head down, tail swishing the still air.

“I believe we can take that as an affirmative,” Jake said.

We drank some water.

WHY KNOTBUCHWERKS

Over the past fifty years, I have written twenty books. This website is intended to provide information on the fifteen that are available. A list of the books each with its own synopsis can be found in the March 2023 archive (right side panel) if that post is not visible.

The title of this web log is odd, intentionally so. I enjoy wordplay, and the sheer number of 'blogs' makes new titles hard to come by. KNOTBUCHWERKS originated with a rejection slip. Scrawled on the cover letter of my submission was this: ... 73 pages is too short for a book.

Samuel Beckett notwithstanding. Or sitting. Or lying prone.

The sixteen 'books' on my shelf---most of which are only 100 pages or so---were offended. They were no longer books. Now we know, they said, how Pluto felt. So ...

'Not books' became knotbooks---it is a tangled web we weave---became Knotbuch Publishing. I paused a good while over that word 'publishing.' Not the right word at all. Too highfalutin; and not what I intended for my knotbuchs. So ...

Knotbuch Publishing became Knotbuchwerks.

And for your edification: About 25% of English vocabulary has a Germanic origin (buch, werk); 45% comes from Latin-French infusions (flute); the remaining 30% is usually labeled 'native' and comes from a variety of sources. More or less.