The weather for the last few weeks has been predictable only in that it was cold and usually wet. Snow, slush, rain, wind, ice, snow, rain... We weren't getting out much. But last Saturday, the sun came out from behind the clouds and looked like it was planning to stay out.
We bundled up, just in case, and went down to Boundary Bay.
We stopped at the first parking lot, at the head of the shortest path to the beach, a wide, straight stretch between the mud flats on the left and the grassy, scrubby dunes on the right. A flock of sparrows hidden in the dry blackberry canes at the entrance chattered as enthusiastically as if it were mid-summer. A good sign.
Out on the mud flats, Canada geese lined the waterways, mostly asleep.
Closer to the path, a sole yellowlegs (greater or lesser; I can't tell the difference) waded in the shallows. A pair of teal, the first I've seen in some time, splashed around just beyond.
And in a ditch through the dunes, a heron was fishing.
It was enough. I was content.
But -- wait! What do we see next?
On a dead tree, against the light, a small bird perched. An odd shape; that is all I could distinguish at that distance. I took a photo, anyhow, to see if I could blow it up at home and get a better look. And before I could get a second shot, he dropped off the branch and flew into the blackberry canes right at our feet.
A kingfisher. I had never been so close to one.
While we watched, she (I think, because of the hint of rust on the breast) dove into the water, fishing, several times, each time moving to a different cane with her catch.
Easier to see than to photograph; the cameras kept wanting to focus on blackberries and grasses, and she kept moving on. And here, Laurie's camera began to give problems. While he wrestled with it, I scrambled down the bank ahead of the bird, and tried to get into a position where I had a clear view.
Not quite. But here she is, diving. A bullet-shaped bird going down; wings spread coming up. (Do click on that second shot, to see her clearly.)
And then she'd had her fill; she flew off into the bushes, out of sight.
And that was only the opening act. Down at the beach, we had another treat coming.
Great flocks of dunlins were feeding in the shallow bay. They would stand, all together, at ankle depth (to them) poking at the sand for a few minutes, then lift off suddenly, all together, and stream quickly a few dozen meters down the shoreline, land and feed again. (Click on these photos to get the full picture.)
Feeding. One yellowlegs in front. Looking like a conductor with his orchestra, all of them in tidy brown and white. Note the seagull, just a bit beyond, on the right; it gives an idea of the relative size of these little birds.
Farther out, we could see great grey rafts, mostly resting; the more successful hunter-gatherers, perhaps, sleeping it off.
When the dunlins flew, they looked either black against the light, or as they turned, exposing the underside of the wings and bellies, flashing bright white. All at once; the flock was either white or black in its entirety. And the change was instantaneous, like an electric light switching on and off.
Black. One flock flying, another feeding. Beyond, in the deeper water, a group of Canada geese.
White. Flying just a few feet up, so that their brown upper parts are reflected in the water as they turn.
We followed them down the shore, almost until sunset, never getting close; they took it in easy stages down to the point, then turned and flew back again, always just ahead of us. Laurie was berating his camera; it kept sticking, refusing to zoom, refusing to focus. But no matter; it was glorious just to watch the show; the flocks moving as a unit, a flying raft, stretching out into a line, then bunching into a speeding grey cloud just over the water, flashing white again. And then alighting in a great flapping frenzy, to stand quietly in the mirrored bay, as if intending to fall asleep like the geese. Until, as if blown away by a sudden gust of wind, they were off again...
At one point, another viewer came up to us to ask if we'd seen them in the morning. No. He explained that every morning they are there early, in flocks of thousands, wheeling and flashing over the water. One of these days we must go see.
A photographer loaded with equipment, including a large tripod, and wearing big boots for the mud, made his way down to the water's edge; like us, following the flocks. But by the time he had set up, the dunlins were far away. I felt sorry for him; all that persistent work. But as we reached the straight stretch back to the parking lot, I turned for a last glimpse of the birds.
Payoff! The flock was landing at his feet. I watched him for a while, turning his long lens this way and that, surrounded by feeding dunlin.
On the way back to the car, we noticed a bald-headed eagle standing in the water near the geese. Just standing there. Odd.
We drove home in blissful silence, too full for words.
