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In
the company of swans
There is something powerful that happens in one’s soul while in
the company of swans, especially in winter, when the landscape so imitates
the swans themselves—the purest of whites with shades of soft rust
smudging the gentle curves of the snow-covered landscape with its drifts,
forming peaks like the edges of feathers.
I’ve been in the company of swans.
Once, on a warm thirty-degree sunny winter day, perfect for a back country
ski, I decided to ski along the Indian River, hoping I could find swans.
Skiing along the ridge abov e
the river, I kept searching the black water below for a glimpse of a
swan. Then I saw it. A lone, white U-shaped feather floating on the
satin blackness.
Such a small, fragile little thing, viewed from a distance; could I
find in the company of swans what I sought?” Somehow I knew if
they were here, I would find them, or, they…me. The floating feather
said it all. And so I skied on, rarely taking my eyes off the partially
frozen ribbon of river far down on my left.
A coyote had been walking toward me on the trail, and may have gotten
within view of me before climbing the bank on the right, since I was
downwind and moving almost silently. I was searching the river so closely,
that for a while I had released my awareness of other surroundings.
The coyote tracks snatched my attention.
Conditions were ideal for viewing tracks. Buried beneath a layer of
deep snow were old snowmobile tracks and what could have been a lone
skier. I was glad they were from the past and that I was alone and in
good company, if only vicariously through tracks.
I skied out of the dappling shade of the woods into the brilliant sunlight
to one of the lakes along the river. I stood on the shoreline and let
the sun’s warmth soak into my face. The exposed ice and newly fallen
snow sparkled in the sun, almost blindingly. I heard a distant raven
call, so I tried to quiet my breathing to listen. I became very aware
of how quiet it was; except for a couple chickadees earlier, nothing
had interrupted my thoughts since I left the truck back on Hwy 13.
Not a rustling leaf, not a gurgling from the river.
I entered a beautiful stand of pines and continued to follow the river
upstream. I’ve always loved this section, and often have sat under
these pines by the shore and sipped hot drinks from my little stove.
This is where I expected to see swans. I circled around the little widening
of the river to the right. Last year I skied over it only to find myself
sinking through the snow and slush until my boots were submerged. This
time I went around instead.
As I came around and looked back, I saw them. Two swans, floating not
far off shore. I watched for a long while and took pictures—if
only my camera could capture even a tenth of the beauty I saw. My photographs
would be as priceless as my experiences. I was standing near a pine
that framed the swans. The blue of the sky, the wisps of white clouds,
the silence are beauties that cannot be captured, only experienced.
As I watched the swans, I was intrigued by their mannerisms. They didn’t
seem disturbed by me, and that was a great honor. Consequently, I was
able to observe them being themselves; swans. They got up on the edge
of the ice, and I recognized male and female, not so much by the size
or physical traits, but by behavior.
She seemed so naive and innocent, and he so doting and affectionate.
After a while, probably to regain warmth, they each brought one foot
up and tucked it completely under their feathers.
They stood there for the longest time, as one-legged birds. Then both
tilted their bodies sideward, exposing their under parts towards me
(and the wind). Then slowly, together they twisted their long necks
around tucking their heads on the backsides of their bodies and appeared
to sleep. An oval of white on one leg.
Not wanting to violate their acceptance, I opted to go on. But I had
a problem—there was a tributary close by and the snow bridge that
I had used in the past years was reduced to a snow-covered log, far
too narrow to try to cross. Down further there was what looked like
a man-made submerged board walk. Maybe this was my old snow bridge.
The bank there looked somewhat familiar, but very steep, and I wasn’t
sure how to approach it. I found out there was no good way to approach
it, not on skis anyway. I ended up sliding down to the creek. I poked
at the snow on the structure, only to have my pole poke through to water.
At some point, I slid farther down, putting one ski in the water, and
the other stuck in the snow of the bank. There was nothing for me to
hold on to. I was in a mess.
The more I tried, even though I didn’t panic or move quickly, the
more I gravitated to the water, which was probably knee-deep and six
to eight feet across. My hands only sank into oblivion when I tried
to brace myself to scoot up.
After some calculation and with a wet butt for motivation, I finally
freed my skis, twisted around, and climbed back up the bank. I could
not see how I could get across without a lot of inconvenience and difficulty,
and with the sky clouding up, I figured I’d save it for another
day.
I putzed around the point a little more, taking pictures of the swans
from a distance. My body temperature had dropped considerably while
laying on the bank getting wet, so I retraced my trail back to the pines.
While weaving under some thick branches, I didn’t realize it, but
a branch had grabbed the hose of my camel back and torn the mouthpiece.
Before I knew it, water from my pack bladder was pouring down my pack,
back, butt and leg.
Now the sky was completely clouded over, so there was no solar heat.
I adjusted the hose and returned the pack to my back and wrote it off
as par for the course.
Rustling through those trees had awakened the swans, who were very close
now, and I wondered what they must think of this human being fumbling
through life, while they stood so unencumbered and stately in their
simplicity. I got to the edge of the shore where they were and unloaded
my pack. I got out my stove and heated the remaining water and made
cocoa. There were patches of exposed grass, so I got comfy and sat and
watched them. They didn’t seem interested in me. And contrary to
human behavior and logic, that flattered me. Even when I spoke to them,
they barely acknowledged it. This time, I was accepted, almost welcomed,
but not significant, which in itself gave me peace.
The world sees the dove as the symbol of peace and love. I see the swans.
Doves are fearful and flighty. Swans, for the most part, are calm, affectionate
and the epitome of grace.
I hadn’t warmed the cocoa enough nor drunk it faster than the chill
of the air, and I knew I had to leave, but it was so hard. I thought
about them and how they didn’t leave. This was not only their world,
it was their home. There was no other place they needed to be. And I
thought about the night settling in, how they might be just as awake
or resting during the night as during the day.
Would the coyote, whose tracks I’d seen, visit them? Would they
be slipping into and out of the river all night? I know they have their
threats, but their lives seemed of such peace and simplicity that I
envied them. I’d like my life to be so simple. Sometimes life can
get so caught up. Oh, to let go and just be in the company of swans.
As I glided back along the river again, I noticed swan tracks on the
edge of the ice—swan tracks that had not been there when I skied
in. It was then that I realized I had not found them, they had found
me.
—Jude Holloway
Identifying invasive
species key to elimination
The ground may be covered with ice and snow and the temperature still
may be cold, but it is never too early to think about what plants may
pop up in your yard.
Invasive plants are species that have been introduced to an area where
they do not occur naturally, they have no natural enemies, produce large
quantities of seed that have high germination rates, and sprout early
in the season making it difficult for native plants to compete.
Billions of taxpayer dollars are spent annually to combat the devastating
effects of plant invaders. Unfortunately, it is not only a national
issue, but one found in our own backyards. We can find these plants
in our forests, wetlands and lakes.
Garlic Mustard, Purple Loosestrife and Eurasian Milfoil are a few of
the most aggressive and problematic plant species to invade Marquette County.
Although infestations are relatively small at this time, the potential
to take over large areas of native habitat is inevitable. In just the
last five years, Purple Loosestrife populations have increased dramatically
in our area.
Garlic Mustard, Alliaria petiolata is an invader of the forests. It
was introduced to the United States in the 1800s from Europe. Though
garlic mustard is a biennial, it can produce up to 3,000 seeds per plant
each year.
The seeds remain viable in the soil for up to ten years, leaving a seed
bank for future germination. The plant grows up to three feet tall,
has four white petals and a triangular stem. The leaves are coarsely
toothed with long stalks and have a strong garlic smell when crushed.
Garlic mustard alters the soils by releasing chemicals that prevent
other plant species from emerging.
Once established, it is difficult to eradicate. One promising control
method is cutting the plant to ground level before it goes to seed.
Purple Loosestrife, lythrum salicaria, is a beautiful wetland plant
also found along stream banks, lakeshores and ditches. The magenta flowers
have five to six petals that bloom from mid-summer to late fall. The
leaves are lance-shaped and clasp a square stem. It is sometimes confused
with the native fireweed, epilobium angustifolium. Introduced as an
ornamental from Europe, it has become a destructive plant, out-competing
native vegetation found in wetlands. One plant can produce more than
two million seeds each season leaving an enormous seed bank.
Once established, Purple Loosestrife forms single species stands and
outcompetes native plants.
At this time, biological control is the best method to combat large
infestations of this species.
Eurasian Watermilfoil, myriophyllum spicatum is a submerged aquatic
plant that is native to Northern Europe and Asia. It can grow up to
twenty feet long and has skinny stems with many feathery leaves. “Milfoil”
forms dense stands under the water surface entangling itself in boat
motor propellers. It reproduces from stem fragments and spreads quickly
shading out native aquatic species. It is used commonly in aquariums.
Mechanical and hand-pulling methods are the most successful tools to
keep Eurasian Watermilfoil at bay but effective long-term control methods
are being investigated.
Grant funding has been provided by the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation
to collect data and monitor invasive species in Marquette County. The
Marquette County Conservation District has partnered with a number of
agencies and organizations to gather information on invasive plants
in our area. Data collected will be prioritized and entered into a user
friendly Web-based information site. Infestations of Garlic Mustard,
Purple Loosestrife and Eurasian Milfoil can be reported to the Marquette
County Conservation District at 226-2461, ext. 5.
—Renee Leow
Editor’s Note: The article was submitted by the Marquette County
Conservation District in honor of National Invasive Weed Awareness Week,
from February 25 through March 2.
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