Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

One week ago, I was outside grilling hamburgers. It was not ideal grilling weather, in fact it was miserable, as the wind had picked up and the temperature dropped precipitously. The wind began to howl even stronger out of the northwest, bringing dark and fast moving clouds with it. My yard, where I was grilling, overlooks a small lake.

I was grumbling about the conditions when I heard a whistling chortle. Then I heard several of them. Looking up, a large flock of Great Trumpeter swans came barreling out of the clouds just above me. They had broken their V formation and were banking against the wind, back towards the lake. As they passed over, each one of them was taking turns squawking, as if they were having a conversation. A couple of their wings collided which caused some more agitated chortles. They appeared to be tired. Stands to reason I suppose, since after all, they may have taken off from northern Manitoba that morning. They circled the small lake several times until the lead swan decided to touch down in the far bay. The rest of the flock circled one more time and came in to land around their leader, loudly squawking and chortling. It seemed celebratory. After awhile, they quieted down to just a low honk now and then.

   

I really hate Google, although I admit to using it often enough. It has destroyed many a great story teller’s tale by someone calling into question certain details of the story that may have been, um, exaggerated, by pointing to their phone and saying, “well, Google says . . .”

In the case of the swans, I did Google how long they or waterfowl in general had been migrating in North America and the answers ranged between thousands of years to a million years. So, we can easily say – a long time.

Yesterday evening, with the forecast indicating that the temperatures were going to plummet heading into this week I was outside putting some things away in preparation for winter. The swans on the lake, who had been there during the whole, warm week began a raucous chorus of honks and squawks. Soon, they took to the wing in an unorganized mass and began circling the lake, gaining more and more stragglers from the bays and shorelines. They continued to gain numbers and altitude as they circled. Their billowing formation began to take on the shape of two large V’s and their honking slowly subsided to a few random chortles. On their sixth and final lap around the lake they turned due south. I watched them until they were out of sight. I knew I was witnessing something primitive and ancient, something that far pre-dates modern humanity. I bid them farewell as part of me wished I was going with them. The lake, in its still grayness, lay quiet and empty. The next morning, all was frozen solid.

The swans will be the first to arrive in the spring, even before the ice is completely gone. With any luck, I’ll witness their arrival and revel in their joyous chortles on that day.

A day, after all, guaranteed to no one.