Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa: Cinnamon Teal, Yellow-Rumped Warblers, And Gander Battle

28 April 2010

Cinnamon Teal, Yellow-Rumped Warblers, And Gander Battle

IIII ) lllllllllll Cinnamon Teal, Yellow-Rumped Warblers, And Gander Battle (27Apr10)

1829 Sspopiikimi – it’s been three sleeps since our last visit, which is too much. We know from experience that in this season a lot can change occur daily

1831 Walking in at midpond, we find the resident mallard couple, whose nest got eaten out, feeding just off-shore of the wet meadows. And with them is a new face, the first cinnamon teal to return to the pond

1842 We head north to check the oldest asparagus plant and find that it's sent up a lot of new shoots to replace those we collected. Some of this growth is probably also related to the fact that Mahoney generously cleared away all the tumbleweed stems from prior years

1848 Since we're moving in that direction anyway, we decide to hike a sunwise loop tonight. This brings us very quickly past the north end of the pond and up onto the steep cutbank overlooking Oldman River. Here we see that panicles of the cottonwood and poplar flowers have elongated, and that the chokecherry trees have raised their own flowering panicles from between their new leaves. I will have to watch for their pollinators over the next while

1853 The geese at the river island seem to be doing well, at least those on the two nests we can see from our shore. There should be two nests on the other side of the island as well, but I haven't dressed appropriately for wading out to check their status without making myself very uncomfortable for the next couple hours

1858 At the downstream end of the river island, where the flow spreads and shallows-out a bit, there's a congregation of twenty pelicans. They're not fishing at present, just sleeping and grooming, and looking as prehistoric as ever, but surely their presence is an indicator that the fish run which began last week is still on-going

1901 Standing beside the pelicans are two ring-billed gulls. Mahoney smartly points out that they're probably there to snag scraps of fish retrieved from the depths by the larger birds, although in that respect I’d be pretty surprised to learn that the pelicans ever spared much

1902 It feels warmer out here than we expected, so after surveying the river scene we turn around to make our circuit in the opposite direction again, bringing us back to midpond so we can stash our jackets in the truck. Though we've only been away a couple minutes, there are already additional faces. The first yellow-headed blackbird of the season is here, perched on a cattail, and our scabby redhead couple has just flown in. They paddle like an advanced guard in front of us as we head south, stopping for Scabby herself to dive for food in certain pools

1913 As we near the ksisskstakioyis, we overtake the redheads. Scabby is more interested in eating than she is in maintaining the distance between us. Her husband's not so sure, but there's nothing he can do... she's going to feast Right Now. At this point, we also pass a coot couple who are heading in the opposite direction

1920 With my head down, trying to keep up on these notes, I inadvertently pass right by two male yellow-rumped warblers who are sitting on a low branch of a cottonwood beside the trail. Mahoney is not so unaware though, and she’s able to take a nice picture to show me

1925 There’s no sign of the midpond aapsspini couple whose nest was recently destroyed, at least not in their territory. But when we get to the south-pond bench, we see both island nesters and their ganders, as well as the canal couple and sixth pair, the latter of whom are standing in the shallows. Also on this side we find the mallard pair of the peninsula, another coot couple and, surprisingly enough, a second redhead pair. One of the coots is giving its mating call, the kind of chuck-chuck-chuck that often incites an orgy

1937 Sitting on the bench, watching all the birds below, it seems the two island ganders are getting along pretty good, floating together in the space between their respective nests. The big island gander eventually drifts away, and the small island gander starts bathing. The splashing of the bathing bird is enough to upset the other, who flies back over. It looks like nothing is going to happen as it lands beside its neighbor, and I comment to Mahoney on how well they're getting along. Just then, almost as on cue, all hell breaks loose. The two go head to head, biting and locking on to one another's necks, clawing with their feet, and beating one another with their wings. It's the worst goose fight we've ever seen. The mama of the small island, nearest the fight, jumps off her nest to try and help her gander. Right away the couple of the shallows moves in to attempt a theft of the nesting site. But mama's too quick, she spots them and fights them off, continuing afterward to move between trying to help her husband and fending off the potential nest wreckers. The two ganders, for their part, remain locked. They wear each other down, their wing beats becoming very struggled. This has gone on too long, and I'm thinking that they're stuck and in danger of drowning. So while Mahoney continues to video-record the event, I dash off down the peninsula, prepared to hazard the muck and leaches to tear the suffering ganders apart. But I don't have to. When they see me coming, they break up on their own accord. Though I'm sure they're both hurt, the small island gander is definitely the victor. His opponent slinks off in the water, soon to be joined by its mate. Now both males are far apart from one another, tending their wounds. There’s a film of downy feathers floating on the water

2008 After the goose fight, I stroll into the bulrush thicket above the peninsula to check for more warblers. What I find instead are lots of the resident mountain cottontails. They’re eating grass and allowing me to come insanely close. After watching them a few minutes, I figure I'd better go get Mahoney. She wouldn't want to miss this

2016 Of course, when I get back to the bench, Mahoney has her own excitement underway. There's a muskrat cruising the shoreline just below her and a lone, male northern shoveler has just flown in

2020 The shoveler is feeding, and when the muskrat swims away we head back into the brush. The golden currants are flowering out now in yellow blooms, which will become the first berries we collect. This evokes another thought, why are the bulberry the first to bloom, but the last berries we gather? It takes them the entire summer season to produce the fruit we eat

2023 The cottontails are no longer being as careless in our presence. Though we spot a couple of them, they’re cowering in the dense buckbrush. Others we only hear move far into the bulberries

2030 With the entire coulee now in dusk's shadow, we start our walk back to the truck. Along the way, we see another two muskrats, each swimming independently along the shoreline, stopping to rub their bellies on all of the projecting rocks and logs. We also pass by the merganser couple, who are usually to be found only on the river. It's odd to see them here

2036 Directly across from the ksisskstakioyis, one of the residents is out on shore, eating absinthe greens. It casually returns to the water at our approach and swims back to the lodge. Then, a little further on, nearing midpond, two coot couples are engaged in an orgy. They move back and forth toward one another, heads low to the water, displaying the white spots on their bums. Occasionally one will make a dash toward a member of the opposite couple, sometimes mounting briefly. Then the couples separate and sing, and the whole routine starts over again

2040 The coots are such characters, we love watching them all summer - from these early orgy dances, to their nesting in the reeds, the dunking of defensive males by new mallard mothers, the eventual emergence of bald-headed babies, and the way the parents train them heavy-handedly to share food, and finally the period before they leave, when they're feeding the wigeons who pass through on their way south. Coot watching is never dull, and we're so glad the fun is just starting again

2131 The tick check pays off again, Mahoney got the one off the back of my leg tonight before it decided to sink in for a meal

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.

Akayo'kaki A'pawaawahkaa

28 April 2010

Cinnamon Teal, Yellow-Rumped Warblers, And Gander Battle

Please Donate To Support

About Me

Blog Archive

Obsessing On Purpose

Followers