By Amy Thomas
It’s time for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center.
It began with a heron.
It was an unseasonably warm first week of January. One late afternoon, as golden sunlight hid behind grey stratocumulus clouds hanging over the Clark Fork River, I came upon a Great Blue Heron. I had rounded a bend high up on an embankment, and there it stood in the river right below me, neck stretched up high. Its size stopped me dead in my tracks. Then, as if in slow motion, it spread its wings and took flight. An adult heron has a wingspan of about six feet, with some spreading nearly seven feet wide. This, combined with its deep wingbeats, its elegant neck held in an S shape, and bits of blue sky reflected off its slate blue feathers, left me standing in absolute awe.
Throughout the remainder of winter, I continued to seek the heron. I found myself climbing through underbrush, crouching in the cold riverbank mud, almost feral in my desire to catch it in flight again. I did see it with some frequency; always it stood in the frigid water, motionless as it hunted. I was learning to be as patient as the heron, though it never did catch anything all the while I was watching. Meanwhile, my family began to learn patience with me, getting dinner on later and later, often burned, out of distraction.
But I wasn’t hungry for food.
My heron encounters had made me feel a connection to something bigger than myself. I realized a deep longing to engage more with nature; to observe more, to know more. I enrolled in a Master Naturalist course, and it quickly became apparent that even of the things I thought I knew, I knew nothing.
Robins don’t all fly south for the winter, contrary to what I’ve believed my whole life.
A hummingbird uses spider silk to bind moss and lichen into its walnut-sized nest.
A heron, though a solitary hunter, sleeps in a heronry during breeding season, where nest counts can be in the hundreds. I’d never heard of a bird that fully hibernates, like the poorwill, nor of a bird tunneling in the earth, like the kingfisher. Baby birds sleep soundly under my feet as I walk along the river each spring. I have been on this earth for more than four decades and only recently discovered that ducks and many other birds are crepuscular; the most active during dusk and dawn. Where have I been, really?
I used to walk outdoors with my earbuds, always tuned inward. I am amazed at how much I was missing before, now that I instead tune into the song of birds. I’ve found it makes me feel grounded, and comforts me to know they are there. A whole new world has opened, an aspect of the divine. But the best part is being able to share it.
The last time I saw the heron, I was standing on a bridge with my husband at sunset. It was the first time it had appeared to us both, together. As we watched, it spread its wings and gracefully flew to a shallow area, and this time it was my husband’s turn to be amazed as he exclaimed a drawn-out “Wow!” of admiration. My heart fluttered like so many feathers.
And for the first time, after all the weeks of waiting, the heron shot its neck out and caught a small, silvery, shining fish.
Shining in the last rays of golden light.
Shining like the joy that filled my soul.
Today’s Field Note was written in the Master Naturalist Course at the Montana Natural History Center. I’m Amy Thomas for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center, providing natural history education for schools and the public throughout Montana. For information about upcoming events and programs at the Center, call 406.327.0405 or visit our website at MontanaNaturalist.org.
