T
he light was low: I had 87 minutes to spend at the marsh. Not a second more, or I'd miss the only ferry, still 3 hours north, to that night's accommodation.
My map-reading skills had suffered a painful defeat to the back roads of Dodge County, but that was behind me. I was now on a small hill overlooking what had to be the flattest land in Wisconsin (which is quite a contested qualification; that's a title that carries weight).
The marsh that lied ahead—Horicon—was part National Wildlife Refuge and part State Wildlife Area. It's an amazing wetland; its 21,400 acres make it the largest freshwater marsh in the United States. And I only had 87 minutes.
I like to think that this'll be the album cover of some indie band's northwoods bluegrass album.
Here's another red-winged blackbird singing its heart out. I really like its haircut. Very Garfunkle.
Right off I was mobbed by red-winged blackbirds (Agelaius phoeniceus). Nesting in the shrubs and cattails along the gravel causeway, they would call, take flight, and dive-bomb me. Not until I had long passed their nests did they leave me alone.
Red-winged blackbirds are painfully hard to photograph. Not for lack of presence—they're everywhere on the marsh—but rather for their dark plumage. While the sky and foliage are often bright, blackbirds are just the opposite, and correctly exposing them is very difficult.
Despite this, with lots of practice, good weather, and trial and error, I've managed to get some decent shots. A good photo of a bird isn't just a snapshot; it should highlight some bit of character, some scrap of the essence which makes that bird unique. These blackbird were easy to capture once I got to know them, saw that their colorful wing-patches often matched the foliage and that their harsh song never ceased.
After spending some time with the red-winged blackbirds, I continued on my way, in search of more encounters.
This is one of my favorite photographs. I took it in the evening light, just as the double-crested cormorant took flight over the golden marsh. Its wingtip extends the curve of an ancient tree's weathered husk, which highlights the harmony between subject and environment, between the wild animal and its natural home.
A great egret soars above the waving cattails.
A fawn walks along the edge of the marsh, struggling to keep up with its mother.
I saw many other species in my walks through the marsh. Double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched on dead trees branches, great egrets (Ardea alba) skimmed the cattails, and white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) wandered the footpaths. And those are just some of the species that I photographed.
Many other creatures appeared briefly, curious, only to recede back into the world as I raised my camera. As I rounded a bend one day I saw ahead a dark brown rock, about the height of my knee, upright and still. As I slowly approached, it turned and slumped into the reeds on the side of the path. I saw first its nose, a spot of wet darkness in the waving green. With a start, I realized the rock was a beaver (Castor canadensis). Just a few meters away, I raised my camera, but the cattails were too dark, and I couldn't manage to focus in time. When I looked up again, the dark shape was gone. I heard a faint splash and saw ripples in pond scum. I continued on the path, more enchanted by the experience than disappointed at my having nothing to show for it.
Canada geese (Branta canadensis) frequently involved themselves in my walks. In gaggles of 10 or 15 they paraded down the gravel causeway, grey goslings in tow. Every few minutes I would encounter a new trailblock and would have to stop. Geese are irritable and stubborn little creatures, and never seemed to like the idea of letting me through peacefully, despite my clear advantage in height, weight, strength, and charisma. Only within a few meters of them would they take notice of my presence. Almost close enough to touch them, the little napoleons would look up and start to hiss. Now, I've never been one to bother animals, and as such I've never heard a goose hiss; you can imagine my surprise when the largest male reared its head and cleared its long, serpentine throat. Its tongue wavered in its mouth as it hissed. It seemed to be challenging me; I had no idea how to respond. So I hissed back.
The goose's surprise was visible. It paused for a brief moment, flapped its wings once, and moved to the side, just enough for me to squeeze past on the narrow causeway. I had out-goosed the geese.
The strangest and most entertaining species I found on the marsh was not, however, the Canada goose.
This pair, a pelican and an egret, look straight out of an old cop movie. Maybe they're evil henchmen, or maybe they're a detective duo. In keeping with the trope, the egret is probably the brains and the pelican is probably the muscle.
On a low muddy flat, inches about the marshwater, I came across a group of American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos). These birds are peculiar. They are the longest species of bird in North America, and it shows: they're lanky and ungainly on land, and look far from aerodynamic.
Despite all this, they're charismatic creatures. Their orange boots, drooping chins, and scruffy haircuts give them a sort of lovable character, out-of-place enough to be comical but not too much to be other-worldly. They're quite practiced in the art of the hairy eyeball, and they liked to show me their prowess, which added to their cartoonish nature.
Each time I'd visit the marsh, I would see 10 or 15 of them hanging around together, cleaning each other or just simply resting. More often than not, They'd be joined by other long birds. Great egrets, which look like pelicans on a diet, frequented their group. Great blue herons (Ardea herodias) were more shy, but would visit every once and a while.
This is my favorite shot of the pelicans. The golden light, smooth water, and silky foreground create an ethereal portrait of the American white pelican. By nature ungraceful animals, this photo shows a pair looking their best; confident, they seem to pose for my camera.
Horizontal, buggy, and damp in the marsh grass, I watched this great blue heron for about 10 minutes. It didn't seem to mind my presence, although it certainly was vocal. I like the flowery backdrop, as it helps to accentuate the heron's blue-toned plumage.
In the end I didn't make the ferry I needed that first night. If I had kept a better eye on the time, maybe I would've been fine, but frankly, I'm happy I spent the extra half an hour swatting mosquitoes on the marsh. I'll always remember to check the time and return with enough, but I'll also always remember the extra treasures I found that day, the time I spent with the pelicans.
Off into the evening glow they fly.