Since the temperature dropped so low so fast, the water left in the river froze completely across the surface—something it rarely does—leaving a smooth coating of ice, completely clear and glassy. Then the sun came out and lit it all up at an angle, like a magnifying lens; even if you stood on the banks you could see all the way to the bottom of the riverbed right through the ice, as if there had been a giant piece of polarized glass placed flat on the water’s surface. It was amazing. The sunshine melted just enough of the ice surface to make it really slippery; if it had been thick enough to skate on, I don’t think I’d have been able to look anywhere but down. It was a rare occurrence to see ice form that quickly on the river; usually it stays warmer all winter and we only get ice formation along the banks. This was different, though—tempting to walk out on, or try to navigate across. It must have looked fairly tempting to the great blue heron that was trying to fish on it, too.
This poor bird picked his ungainly way out to the middle of the river, skidding like Bambi all over the slick, wet surface. He kept his long wings slightly unfurled, for balance, baring the bluer feathers along their outer edges. I watched him stalked along the ice, picking up one articulated stilt of a leg up after the other slowly and gingerly, as if he walked through something thick and gooey; every so often his foot would skid from under him and he would lurch forward or backward and thrust a wing out at a weird angle in order to remain upright. It was a comical thing to see, though I was more entranced than amused at first—I’ve seen plenty of herons, but they’re usually so skittish they don’t stick around to allow themselves to be watched while they fish. This poor heron, however, was probably too frustrated to care. Especially just after I walked to the edge of the river. As I emerged from behind the trees, the heron became alerted to my presence, and stretched his neck up and his wings out in order to fly off—but when he did, he lost his balance and his gangly legs did a cartoon-like dance under him and he nearly fell on his blue-feathered butt. There should have been music for that—or at least sound effects. His legs pedaled so fast they looked like the Road Runner escaping Wile E. Coyote. After ruffling all his feathers in indignation, he finally settled back down and began to fish.
This was even worse. He could see all the way to the bottom of the river too. But he couldn’t get to the bottom, not even when he could clearly see swimming food. His long beak could be heard clacking against the ice when he stabbed forth with it in order to pick up whatever it was he wanted—and he got knocked senseless each time. The poor bird didn’t give up, though—he methodically stepped those long lanky legs over several dozen square feet of ice, stabbing here or there when he saw something swimming—keeping his neck and beak stretched out in front of him for the instant when food came into view—and each time coming up empty-beaked.
It was getting funnier by the minute. Each time he would stab out for a fish, he would slip on the ice and flail about, and each time he would hit the ice with that long hard beak. Though I laughed, I felt very sorry for him. He was trying so hard, and it wasn’t clear to him why he couldn’t get the food tht was moving around right under his feet. I wonder if he understood that the water he was looking into was hard enough to stand on and that it wasn’t normal to stand on top of the water—or if that conclusion didn’t bother him. He tried for the better part of an hour and a half to find some hole somewhere where he could spear a fish. Every once in a while, he would find a small pothole in the ice and sink up to a knee—but it was never big enough to find a fish in as well.
The cold was intense and I couldn’t stand outside any longer. And the sun was setting. I reluctantly turned away from this scene, glad I had been there to see it, even though I knew the heron probably didn’t get any dinner that day. I wish I’d had some fish to throw out there for him. I even considered shattering the ice with a large rock, just so he could get underneath the frustrating barrier. But Nature doesn’t really need my interference. If I had thrown the rock, it would have scared the bird, and probably just stirred up a bunch of mud on the bottom of the stream; so I let it go, knowing full well that herons are pretty resilient birds; what he didn’t find below the ice on my creek he would find elsewhere. And the next day, he was back—the ice had melted enough to let him stand up to those bony knees near the shore again, waiting for the fish he knew would eventually swim his way. We should all be so persistent.
