Geese

After dinner I set the dishes to soak and stole a walk along the Snake, nostrils filled with an evening bouquet of willow and grass, and a late June river now warmer than the wind.

Mid-channel, where a less sensitive fisher might have cut doughnuts and shattered the day's-end respite, a lone jet sled planed, sedate and respectful.

As it passed, a black periscope suddenly rose out of the weedy bank, then two more: the half-honking sentries of a squadron of Canada geese. Odd, there in canyon country, where such large, horde-inclined birds might be supposed few and temporary. But these were clearly local, bedded down in the casual trust of home. I later learned this resident flock was new, having landed one spring day, literally out of blue, and set up a permanent summer headquarters.

Military types, geese. Not the cocky commandos of war movies, but the steady, steely soldiers of real life, more resolute than brave, given to objectives and logistics and calculated risk. No other culture could sustain a nation like theirs: bulky, soft-sided airframes blacking the sky twice a year as they cross and recross a predatory planet. Evidently, Chief Timothy State Park was one place in the Snake River Canyon that met their criteria: food, water, and cover, with a wide approach that favoured landing and take-off.

And, critically, an acceptably low incidence of shotguns.

(Adapted from Rough Around the Edges: A Journey Through Washington's Borderlands, copyright RK Henderson. Canada goose courtesy of Albert Stoynov and Unsplash.com. Snake River at evening courtesy of David Dugan and Wikimedia Commons.)