STALKING THE HERON

A friend and I are out kayaking on a local pond.  This pond is actually the size of a lake, so there's a lot of acreage to cover, even more so since the water specialists treated the overgrown plant life a few weeks ago.  The pond is sort of out in the woods, and I say "sort of" because it seems like it's secluded, but it is surrounded on all sides by residential homes, busy side streets, and two major interstate routes.

The wildlife that lives here apparently never got the memos about pond status nor proximity to the hubbub of human life.  The pond is loaded with fish that jump out of the water, turtles that sun themselves on rocks and branches, dragonflies that land at will, a cacophony of songbirds, possible beavers (though their dam/den looks a little less active this season), and at least one heron.  The best thing about the pond is that swimming is prohibited, which means its pristine silence and nearly glass-like surface are rarely interrupted by (in)humanity.

My friend has never been kayaking on this pond before, so I tell her about the heron that I've seen on occasional visits.  Maybe we'll see it; maybe we won't.  Instead, we go on a turtle hunt.  I'm not sure this is the best idea in open kayaks since a couple of the snapping turtles I've seen wandering around the pond have shells the size of large pizzas.  Those snappers could probably take a toe or two off if they happened into our water crafts.

Venturing into one of the half-dozen coves, we finally spot two turtles sunning themselves and are also treated to a show of fish jumping out of the water, grabbing water bugs and attempting to snack on the dragonflies that skim the surface.

(Heron in flight on right side, halfway up about 1/4 from edge)

Suddenly, I spot the heron.  This surprises me because usually I hear it before I see it.

Okay, to be honest, the first time I heard the heron's call, very close to me when I kayaked near the water's edge, I was a bit frightened.  There are trails deep into the woods around the pond, and it may not be the smartest thing for a lone kayaker to be out that far into the coves and away from spotters in case of a disaster (not unheard of -- this pond is infamous for the death of at least one person in recent history) or worse.  I mean, the pond is near several getaway routes for insane stalkers (and is very close to the scene of a drive-by body dumping).  The first time I heard the heron near me, my immediate reaction was, "Holy crap, can I out-paddle a crazy person swimming toward me, and will I be able to beat someone's brains in with this plastic paddle?"

All for naught.  No insane stalkers.  It was just a heron, who didn't seem remotely put out by my presence but made it known by its throaty protest that I was in its personal space.

Today, though, the heron doesn't let us get as close, but it also doesn't make a sound.  It simply cranes its neck then takes a short flight around the bend to the next cove.  My friend and I don't get good enough pictures, so we carefully and slowly and near-silently paddle-drift around the corner after the heron.  When it sees us again, it casually flies low to the water and lands in a tuft of trees between the pond's edge and the road.

I am grappling with a new waterproof camera, so I zoom in with my viewfinder, which I later discover is not the camera's most reliable feature.  I get close to the heron again, and still the bird is totally disinterested.  For the third time, the fabulous heron takes flight, this time up and around back from the very first cove.  My friend gets decent pictures and videos; I do not.

After this last flight we decide to leave the poor heron alone.  Even though we never get close and we never hear its call, we also recognize that maybe, just maybe, stalking the heron might be considered bizarre ... or invasive ... or mean ... or insane.

And, dagnabbit, it may well be illegal.