Chapter II : The Iron Trees
Reported location N54º
38.7' W004º 50.6' Activity level: 9. Ambient: 17 DegC. Days since
reset: 26. Daily VMG: 13.2 km/h
Making no excuses, you understand, but my first
day of migration was a rather slow and meandering flight. Prior to
this I had not ventured very far from the nest and, while I had
learned the positions and shapes of all the hills and other landscape
features in the area (as we must), I did not even know what the far
side of those hills looked like.
It soon became clear that the world was bit larger than I had expected.
Beyond those same hills were... more hills. And mountains. And more rivers and forests and lakes than I could have believed there was room for. I soon gave up on trying to memorize each and every one, concentrating instead on more prominent or unusual features - the ones I could use for my return journey as an adult in a few years' time. (Although I was careful not to count my chicks before they were hatched, which is a proverb among us that you humans may not know.)
And as I progressed southwards, it was the evidence of human activities and habitations that came to dominate the ever-changing scene passing under my wings. As I crested yet another line of hills, I saw what I now know to be a city:[1] it was huge, extending as far as the eye could see in every direction. And it thundered.
The cacophony of sound assailed my ears from every direction: shrieks, crashes, long drawn-out wails and an all-pervasive low frequency roar. I was shocked, and turned towards the west in an attempt to avoid the worst of the racket.[2] This turned out to be a fortunate diversion because in due course it brought me along a south-going coastline: exactly the sort of terrain that we find easiest to follow on a first migration.
So follow it I did, flying by night as well as by day - luckily the moon was waxing, and rising early. Oddly, I was not tired: the excitement and novelty of this adventure buoyed me up and seemed to imbue my flight muscles with extra strength. All of this came to an abrupt end when the coastline ran out: I found myself on a narrow peninsula, with nothing in front of me but an empty and featureless sea.
It's at moments like this when a young osprey looks to instinct for guidance. I looked to mine and - rather annoyingly - did not receive any help at all from it. My still-developing navigational sense told me that due South was the preferred direction but, looking out over the grey water, my nerve failed me.
Instinct may be our guiding force, but it is not immutable. To the east I could see land in the distance, and - crucially - a slightly better pattern to the sky down there. That was the way I would go, even though instinct told me that it would add extra flying days to my journey. This proved to be another good choice.
As I flew, it became evident that I was on the north side of a huge estuary, one that narrowed gradually the further I went.[3] There were rolling hills to my left and, near the base of one in the distance, I spotted a prominent osprey nest. I diverted inland to take a closer look (the way we always do) but it turned out to be occupied and the resident male chased me all the way back to the foreshore. Still, it was valuable information: this must be a good location for ospreys and the impression was confirmed as I flew over wide flats of salt-marsh and reed, both holding more different species of birds than I even knew existed.
By the next day the estuary had narrowed to the extent that I was able to turn southwards again. More mountains were in the distance (I was beginning to believe that everywhere had “mountains in the distance”) but an obvious route lay to their eastern side. Human habitations had become sparse again, but there were sheep everywhere to be seen – sheep in numbers beyond counting: even morethanfour. Away from the sea's influence it became much warmer and Rory's forecast was shown to be accurate: the winds continued in my favour, sweeping me over moor and sheepfold. The absence of good roost sites was a constant daily problem but eventually I discovered an answer to it: the iron trees.
They were not common but never wholly absent either. Best of all, their distinctive bright[4] was visible from great distance – something that also made it easy to avoid the heavy cables strung between them. These cables did not make good perches as they were the wrong shape for my feet and seemed to be covered with a material that flexed when one tried to stand on it. But the iron trees themselves were perfect...
For roosting, we ospreys like to find a high perch (if one is available) that offers some shelter from the elements and yet affords a good vantage over the surrounding landscape. Such ideal sites are rare enough in nature but these human-made structures might have been purpose-designed for the job. They appear to be spindly and exposed but, close to, the angled metal parts that form the corners are almost as wide as an osprey wing on each flange. So in this niche, one can be invisible from the ground, protected from wind or even rain, and yet have good commanding view out. Best of all, no ground-based predator or enemy could possibly climb such a thing, so they are very safe and I took to using them for sleep whenever I could find one.
Near the end of my second week on migration, I was roosting in a very nice and well-situated iron tree, overlooking a long narrow lake near the south coast of England.[5] (England is the same as Scotland, except that Scotland is better in certain abstract and detailed ways that I won't bore you with.) From my elevated position, I could see that this lake was home to a good number of small but well-proportioned brown fish and, though I was still not really hungry, it occurred to me – having nothing much else to do that morning – that I might catch one by way of a light snack.
While I had never caught a fish for myself, I understood well enough the principle of fishing, for it is knowledge that we are born with: you fly along fairly slowly at a suitable height; the fish obligingly swim up to the surface; you dive down with feet forward, fold the wings at the last moment, and, bosh! - the fish is there in both talons, quiescent and ready to be ate at your earliest convenience.
Well, that's the theory.
I soon found that the practice is rather different.
Our skills at catching fish have evolved through countless generations. However, the fish have also had countless generations to avoid being caught by predatory birds – and some of them have developed the ability to a high level. Add to this the problem that I couldn't actually see where the fish was before my final dive (because it was below and behind me), the sunlight reflecting off the water surface at exactly the wrong moment, and the annoying discovery that even AFTER being caught, a nabbed fish struggles like blue blazes to get away and jump back in the water – and the embarrassing truth started to dawn...
Fishing is really really difficult. And I was not much good at it. With the day's final score standing at Trout: 4, Carron: 0, I returned to my roost a sadder but wiser osprey.
I didn't really want the stupid fish anyway.
It soon became clear that the world was bit larger than I had expected.
Beyond those same hills were... more hills. And mountains. And more rivers and forests and lakes than I could have believed there was room for. I soon gave up on trying to memorize each and every one, concentrating instead on more prominent or unusual features - the ones I could use for my return journey as an adult in a few years' time. (Although I was careful not to count my chicks before they were hatched, which is a proverb among us that you humans may not know.)
And as I progressed southwards, it was the evidence of human activities and habitations that came to dominate the ever-changing scene passing under my wings. As I crested yet another line of hills, I saw what I now know to be a city:[1] it was huge, extending as far as the eye could see in every direction. And it thundered.
The cacophony of sound assailed my ears from every direction: shrieks, crashes, long drawn-out wails and an all-pervasive low frequency roar. I was shocked, and turned towards the west in an attempt to avoid the worst of the racket.[2] This turned out to be a fortunate diversion because in due course it brought me along a south-going coastline: exactly the sort of terrain that we find easiest to follow on a first migration.
So follow it I did, flying by night as well as by day - luckily the moon was waxing, and rising early. Oddly, I was not tired: the excitement and novelty of this adventure buoyed me up and seemed to imbue my flight muscles with extra strength. All of this came to an abrupt end when the coastline ran out: I found myself on a narrow peninsula, with nothing in front of me but an empty and featureless sea.
It's at moments like this when a young osprey looks to instinct for guidance. I looked to mine and - rather annoyingly - did not receive any help at all from it. My still-developing navigational sense told me that due South was the preferred direction but, looking out over the grey water, my nerve failed me.
Instinct may be our guiding force, but it is not immutable. To the east I could see land in the distance, and - crucially - a slightly better pattern to the sky down there. That was the way I would go, even though instinct told me that it would add extra flying days to my journey. This proved to be another good choice.
As I flew, it became evident that I was on the north side of a huge estuary, one that narrowed gradually the further I went.[3] There were rolling hills to my left and, near the base of one in the distance, I spotted a prominent osprey nest. I diverted inland to take a closer look (the way we always do) but it turned out to be occupied and the resident male chased me all the way back to the foreshore. Still, it was valuable information: this must be a good location for ospreys and the impression was confirmed as I flew over wide flats of salt-marsh and reed, both holding more different species of birds than I even knew existed.
By the next day the estuary had narrowed to the extent that I was able to turn southwards again. More mountains were in the distance (I was beginning to believe that everywhere had “mountains in the distance”) but an obvious route lay to their eastern side. Human habitations had become sparse again, but there were sheep everywhere to be seen – sheep in numbers beyond counting: even morethanfour. Away from the sea's influence it became much warmer and Rory's forecast was shown to be accurate: the winds continued in my favour, sweeping me over moor and sheepfold. The absence of good roost sites was a constant daily problem but eventually I discovered an answer to it: the iron trees.
They were not common but never wholly absent either. Best of all, their distinctive bright[4] was visible from great distance – something that also made it easy to avoid the heavy cables strung between them. These cables did not make good perches as they were the wrong shape for my feet and seemed to be covered with a material that flexed when one tried to stand on it. But the iron trees themselves were perfect...
For roosting, we ospreys like to find a high perch (if one is available) that offers some shelter from the elements and yet affords a good vantage over the surrounding landscape. Such ideal sites are rare enough in nature but these human-made structures might have been purpose-designed for the job. They appear to be spindly and exposed but, close to, the angled metal parts that form the corners are almost as wide as an osprey wing on each flange. So in this niche, one can be invisible from the ground, protected from wind or even rain, and yet have good commanding view out. Best of all, no ground-based predator or enemy could possibly climb such a thing, so they are very safe and I took to using them for sleep whenever I could find one.
Near the end of my second week on migration, I was roosting in a very nice and well-situated iron tree, overlooking a long narrow lake near the south coast of England.[5] (England is the same as Scotland, except that Scotland is better in certain abstract and detailed ways that I won't bore you with.) From my elevated position, I could see that this lake was home to a good number of small but well-proportioned brown fish and, though I was still not really hungry, it occurred to me – having nothing much else to do that morning – that I might catch one by way of a light snack.
While I had never caught a fish for myself, I understood well enough the principle of fishing, for it is knowledge that we are born with: you fly along fairly slowly at a suitable height; the fish obligingly swim up to the surface; you dive down with feet forward, fold the wings at the last moment, and, bosh! - the fish is there in both talons, quiescent and ready to be ate at your earliest convenience.
Well, that's the theory.
I soon found that the practice is rather different.
Our skills at catching fish have evolved through countless generations. However, the fish have also had countless generations to avoid being caught by predatory birds – and some of them have developed the ability to a high level. Add to this the problem that I couldn't actually see where the fish was before my final dive (because it was below and behind me), the sunlight reflecting off the water surface at exactly the wrong moment, and the annoying discovery that even AFTER being caught, a nabbed fish struggles like blue blazes to get away and jump back in the water – and the embarrassing truth started to dawn...
Fishing is really really difficult. And I was not much good at it. With the day's final score standing at Trout: 4, Carron: 0, I returned to my roost a sadder but wiser osprey.
I didn't really want the stupid fish anyway.
_________________________________________________________
Editor's notes:-
[1] Glasgow
[2] The effects of environmental noise pollution on wildlife have been poorly studied, and perhaps deserve more attention from the scientific community.
[3] The Solway Firth
[4] At various points in the narrative, Carron appears to misuse the word “bright”. Birds of prey have photo-receptors in the retina of the eye that are sensitive to light in the near ultra-violet spectrum, suggesting that they can see four primary colours whereas we perceive only three. The electricity transmission pylons (“iron trees”) are made of mild steel with a protective galvanized finish. After weathering, this zinc-oxide coating has a distinctive UV reflectance peak at a wavelength around 318nm which birds would be able to see from a considerable distance.
[5] It is not easy to identify a place matching this description. We know that Carron was in NW France on the following day, so it is possible that his "long narrow lake" may have been the upper part of the Salcombe estuary, in Devon.
[1] Glasgow
[2] The effects of environmental noise pollution on wildlife have been poorly studied, and perhaps deserve more attention from the scientific community.
[3] The Solway Firth
[4] At various points in the narrative, Carron appears to misuse the word “bright”. Birds of prey have photo-receptors in the retina of the eye that are sensitive to light in the near ultra-violet spectrum, suggesting that they can see four primary colours whereas we perceive only three. The electricity transmission pylons (“iron trees”) are made of mild steel with a protective galvanized finish. After weathering, this zinc-oxide coating has a distinctive UV reflectance peak at a wavelength around 318nm which birds would be able to see from a considerable distance.
[5] It is not easy to identify a place matching this description. We know that Carron was in NW France on the following day, so it is possible that his "long narrow lake" may have been the upper part of the Salcombe estuary, in Devon.
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