Gearboat Chronicles

Winding Waters River Expeditions runs the Snake River in Hells Canyon, the lower Salmon in Idaho and the Grande Ronde River in northeast Oregon. The guests tell me it's very luxurious, floating through all this wilderness in style. I row the gearboat, so I wouldn't know. These dispatches are a behind-the-oars view of life in the cargo barge.

Raptor Hanky Panky Sunday, April 15, 2012

Time for another episode of Birdwatching Gearboat Chronicles-style, which is fun because I don't know anything about birds.

Take this one, for instance. When I first saw it swooping around over my yard I thought: hawk.


But crikey, I don't know. My bird-wise friends are always throwing around fancy words like "ferruginous" and "falcon" and blahty-blaah. I feel good about the hawk part, but what kind I dunno.

My second thought was: Go get your camera. Whatever this creature is, it's flying really low and looks cool.

As you can see in this next photo, he comes in to land on a treetop . . . w-a-a-a-i-i-t just a tic . . . is that . . . are those . . . ?

Oh my.

Ummm . . . I'm not for sure about this, but it appears I may have unwittingly photographed some hanky panky amongst the raptors. Or courtship. Ohhh boy. Who's embarrassed now? Me.

But in the interest of science I feel I must go forward with publishing these images, so shoo the children from the room because while I'm no good at IDing birds, I do have some facility with the art of reading beaks. Similar to lip reading but with less frowning and smiling. 

So I will now translate this exchange going on here.

Looking for mice . . . looking fo– What in the? . . .
Heya! Did you miss me?
Stan, I told you I need time to figure things out.

Belinda, have you done something new with your feathers? Highlights?
Stanley, you know I – what's over there, on your left? . . .
I don't . . . oh, sure, just fly away . . . re-a-a-a-l mature.

I'm going to my sisters nest. Don't call or text me.
Perfect.

I'll just watch sports or . . . are those mice?

They ironed things out enough to have a chat in the top of a dead Cottonwood tree later on. They're working things out. One day at a time. It's tough. But I have a feeling they're going to be just fine. A little birdy told me so.

Hey, look at me . . . I know you can see me. We have excellent eyesight.

[Update: I called Google and asked, and now suspect what we've got here are Swainson's hawks. Could be wrong. It wouldn't surprise me at all.]

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