great blue neighbors

Great Blue Heron - Photo credit: Susan Rouillier | Mobile Baykeeper

It was a glorious late summer afternoon when I stole away from the trappings of my busy house off Shoestring Bay for a voyage down the Santuit River. I launched into the water from the marsh on the Mashpee side of the bay where a wall of phragmites camouflaged my secret port hidden from the houses occupied only seasonally on the bay with docks that dart out into the water holding power boats and jet skis and a landing for Adirondack chairs, gulls, and cormorants. On the Cotuit side, a singular swan floated, pruning and dunking for algae. 

With the high tide waning I stroked against the mild current of the Santuit River flowing into the Bay through the narrow opening at the School Street bridge. From the span, a small group of anglers dropped lines into the water fishing for bass. Some dropped traps to lure blue crabs.

I paddled between the lines and ducked to pass under the low bridge, emerging to a very different environment. The river in its brackish phase is lined by tall pines and conservation trails on the Cotuit side opposite condominiums high on a hill in Mashpee. The river widened into a vast wildlife habitat where I heard the splash of otters ducking under a log and the birds calling out to announce my arrival. Kingfishers, hawks, and osprey, and my favorite, the great blue heron. 

In the middle of the river, the branch of a fallen tree poked through the surface and there perched an immature heron that posed long enough for me to capture video of it before it took off with fledgling elegance. 

As I rounded the corner beyond the condos, I found myself in a section of the river where there was no sign of the modern world. No cars or houses, docks or boats, and I imagine this is the world my ancestors would have seen. Pristine wilderness, the water lapping softly at the side of my canoe and the cattail, bulrush, and phragmite bending, gently in the breeze. 

I rested my paddle and ahead of me at the edge of the wetland was a stand of tall dead pine, a favorite of the great blue heron for nesting. 

They are magnificent birds, but from a distance, it is difficult to discern their soft blue, nearly grey feathers from the weathered old pines where they perch. They stand like statues searching the wetlands for fish, crabs, and frogs. But If I am watchful and keenly aware, I spot them before they take flight. I was quiet and detected a huge bird on a branch resembling a hunch-backed grimacing old man. (The sedentary bird is quite contrary to the bird in flight.) Then, as it launched into the air the transformation was spectacular. Its long legs darted out from behind and its outstretched wings pumped its long-craned neck in an s formation. It made an awkward gravelly croaking cry but in flight, it was perhaps the most graceful and beautiful bird I have ever witnessed. No matter how many times I see one I am always in awe. And when I see one on the Santuit River I will typically see several others, often six or eight or more of them. 

And on that trip, I was not disappointed. Several more of the birds followed.

According to Mass Audubon, some great blue herons migrate here in late March and stay until late September, but some will stay in coastal areas where freshwater remains open like on the Santuit River. I hope these birds will be my year-round neighbors.