I was sitting in my living room the other morning, reading the latest issue of The Conservationist magazine, when I heard a fairly loud thump on the side of the house.
Upon investigation I found a sharp-shinned hawk lying on the ground below our sliding glass doors. I watched it for a few minutes. Luckily, he was only stunned and still alive, after flying headfirst into the unforgiving glass doors. Before long he stood up, shook his head, flapped his wings and flew up onto the electric lines on the side of the driveway.
I had seen this beautiful raptor several times this summer. It would fly down and feed on small rodents in the yard and occasionally catch a swallow that had taken up residence in one of my bluebird houses. After all, songbirds are one of the main items on their dining menu. Their flying ability allows them to fly right into a bush to catch prey.
The male of the species is the smallest hawk in the United States and Canada, and is often confused with its larger cousin, the Cooper’s hawk, which was named after Judge William Cooper of Cooperstown fame, who collected and described the species.
We have a large variety of hawks on the hill. There was a beautiful red-tailed hawk sitting in the hedgerow the other day, as I was mowing above the pond. Suddenly, it swooped down into the freshly cut grass and caught its dinner. This has happened several times over the years, and my mowing doesn’t seem to scare her. She’ll spread her wings, covering her prey and wait for me to drive by.
Yesterday, there were four red-tailed hawks circling over the pond, riding high on the thermals. They nest every year and raise their young in a big, old maple tree along the edge of our hardwoods. It’s fun watching the young ones learn how to fly.
Several years ago, we saw a hawk circling above the pasture. It would whistle, calling to its young offspring. Soon the fledgling summoned enough courage to leave the nest. On unsteady wings, it ventured forth, gliding down over the hill. There was a downed pine tree in the pasture, and the young hawk headed right for it with its feet stretched out. As it attempted to land on an exposed branch, it flopped down into the branches below. But with sheer determination, the young hawk climbed up and soared on down the hill, flapping its wings. Soon the youngster was doing circles along with it mother high overhead.
Before we tore down our old dairy barn, we had a at least a couple dozen pigeons that called it home. They nested up on the old hand-hewn timbers in the loft. Each fall a Cooper’s hawk would come and land in a big white pine tree in our yard. From that point, she would wait for the pigeons to return from feeding in the meadow. As they flew onto the roof and into the upper barn window, she’d make her move. With talons extended, she would fly in and catch her dinner. It got to the point that the pigeons were afraid to leave the barn, but the hawk wasn’t deterred. She’d fly right in and pick a bird off its roost. By spring there would be far fewer pigeons in the barn. She kept their numbers under control.
We also have American kestrels that live on our hill. They aren’t a true hawk. They are actually a small falcon. They are a neat bird to watch. They hover like a helicopter over the meadow and then dive down to get their prey.
I feel blessed to watch the show right in my own backyard. It truly is nature at its best.
Recently on Facebook, there were pictures and an article about a giant brook trout that was caught in the Adirondacks on July 5. It was 22 inches long and beat the previous six-pound record by three ounces.
Now, before you ask, where it was caught, let me tell you. You’re wasting your breath. Guys who fish for record book trout will never reveal the name of the pond they were fishing. Look at it this way. If they told you where it was caught, you would tell a friend who would tell his friends and the next time the fisherman went back to that particular pond, there would be two dozen others fishing that water.
When I moved to the Adirondacks back in 1969, I asked an old timer and guide who lived across the road from me where I could catch big brookies.
“Oh, there’s plenty of places to go if you don’t mind hiking a few miles in, but right out there about three miles is a good place to start,” he said, as he raised his hand and pointed. The trouble was, he cut his index finger halfway through on a chain saw, and it pointed at a 45 degree angle from the second joint, So was he pointing straight with his hand or off to the left with that crooked finger. Well, it took me about three years to find that particular pond, and by then it was pretty well fished out.
So, Benjamin Ferguson and his buddy will never tell anyone where they were fishing. Heck, there are easily a couple thousand back-country ponds in the Adirondacks. Sixteen of them are named Mud Pond or Mud Lake.
They fish where no man in his right mind will go. Using 20-pound Hornbeck carbon fiber one-man canoes, they hike in eight to 10 miles. Sometimes they fish all day and never get a bite. That happened the day Ben caught the record fish. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that the monster hit his bait. Being too late to hike out to have the fish weighed on a certified scale, they filled the canoe with water and floated it out in the lake so nothing would eat the fish.
Now, most guys who catch big brook trout use a lure that was made right here in Gilbertsville by Art Freer. He was the postmaster there for many years. The lure was called the Lake Clear Wobbler. It is a shiny silver spoon, pointed on each end, that attracts the fish to a nightcrawler on a hook that is trailed a foot or so behind the lure. It is the go-to lure for most brook trout fishermen. It’s trolled slowly behind their canoes. I caught most of my brook trout over the years on that same lure while slowly trolling in the cold, clear mountain water.
The previous record brook trout was supposedly caught in Silver Lake, north of Benson along the Northville–Placid Trail about 12 years ago. I doubt it though. Fishermen lie. I fished that pond years ago and never caught a thing.
There was a time when you couldn’t find a brook trout. Acid rain killed the lakes and most of the fish. The coal-powered power plants of the midwest polluted much of the water, but ways of producing electricity have changed. Today the lakes and ponds are alive with fish. But as you can see, it takes a bit of effort to find them.