DR. ROBERT & ELMA SCHEMENAUER AWARDS

RAMBUNCTIOUS TRANQUILITY

By Rita Joan Dozlaw

Sun glistened like a good luck omen through the picture window. I took it to be a sign of something special and with my mug of coffee I shuffled out to the sundeck. Looking over the South Thompson River flowing past my home in Kamloops British Columbia, I sensed what would be special about that morning. I heard a far-reaching call echo downstream. Trumpeter Swans (Cygnus Buccinator) were tuning up their vibrating windpipes. It was migrating season for the protected species. The river frontage of my acreage on east Shuswap Road was secluded and offered a natural fueling station for swans to have one last reprieve to rest and feed before traveling great distances over migratory flyways.  

I saw my breath as I curled up in the twig chair on the deck. Despite the November chill freezing my bones, it was an ideal hour for a swan-watch. Mother Nature’s brush streaked a blaze of sunrise colours on the empty canvas of sky. In the silence I listened intently, and I watched eagerly for the buglers’ eminent arrival.

Trumpeting sounds came closer as the swans flew high and swiftly. A pair of classy black-and-white clad sky divers trumpeted loudly while swooping in tandem to survey the river. Mates for life, the male and his practically identical female partner sounded like noisy brass trumpets. Could I assume the crabby male and his contradictory mate shared a difference of opinion? Dressed formally for dinner, were they bickering about where to dine?

In his white jacket and black trousers the gallant gent, with a horny bill and the tolerance of a naïve suitor, flew just a wing-tip behind the sophisticated lady in her striking black stockings and winter-white feathery shawl. Coming up behind them, a whole band of North America’s Trumpeter Swans flew in a migratory V formation. Each liberated chorister, five-and-a-half-feet of solid bird with a wingspan of ten-feet, made the upstream trek against sweeping valley winds. Long, outstretched necks and slow, wide, methodical wing-beats broke through the gusts. From my vantage point, the flock was framed by variegated clouds floating on a magnificent sunrise palette of peach-gold. The surreal spectacle plastered itself over my mesmerized mind as though a frenetic artist had mixed the mediums to be madly unforgettable.

Over the years of living in Kamloops where a good number of Trumpeters make their home, I learned that by points of a compass programmed directly into their DNA, the migrating swans stay the course and arrive exactly where they need to be. Their excellent sight and strength and a keen sense of atmospheric phenomena make them adept at maneuvering through turbulence, strange air space and weather patterns. To prepare in advance for long journeys, they select sites where they can feast on a perfect buffet of water-logged cuisine.

I watched in disappointment as the majestic flock bypassed my beach and headed further upstream. I supposed their innate serendipitous instincts were leading them to a finer landing strip. I held my hand to my throat where a palpable pulse of unguarded emotion escaped in a breath of hush.  

At noon, while I raked the yard, the same Trumpeter maestros who conducted the flyover at daybreak returned from the east. They hovered gracefully over the sorrowing willows and bare-limbed cottonwoods and glided into the blurred mist shrouding the river. A loud ensemble of rare instruments and harmonious tones summoned the flock together. I was certain I heard ivory and horn trumpets of Africa, French trumpettes along the Riviera and other exotic utterings from the round-belied birds—or was it just my imagination?

Instinct led the water-birds to dabble and grub beneath the surface at this particular location. In the past, they were seen swimming in front of our chalet east of the Rivershore community on Shuswap Road. Just off our shore specific, delectable aquatic plants were in season, easily accessible and in abundance. To bob by in a manner similar to a celestial bird choir and nibble politely was not their style. The ravenous swans uttered argumentative sharp grunts between themselves. Moving rapidly, they up-ended and dunked headlong upside down into the frigid feeding grounds. With bottoms up, the vegetarians satisfied their palates on the delicacies. For Trumpeters, luscious leaves, shoots and roots rich in nutrients and carbohydrates are a necessity against fatigue.

A blast of wind came up and the frenzied pace of feeding changed. I wanted to get out of the cold but a rather awkward parading-on-water swan got my attention as it gave an after-dinner speech. I’d never heard such shrill tones. I brought my binoculars up to my watery eyes. As if in an aerobic workout, the uninhibited bird spread its huge wings and exhibited all manner of contortions which I like to think was the inspiration for the other contortionists. One by one, each swan reared its curved neck, hiked one webbed foot over its back and, all together now, performed hilariously under the glare of the mid-day sun. The flailing and flaunting troupe of pathetic wannabe Rockettes eventually settled in the shallows and halted their antics. I imagined they reconciled with their state of fitness and with satisfied bellies had no more funny business on their agendas. They stood erect to groom, their ballerina limbs taut. Stately and deliberately they fused their downy bouffant buttocks to the wide angle reflection on the water’s surface. Reaching with their necks, they picked and combed with their beaks through the flawless back feathers. Were they gloating over their refined precision as they twisted their long necks? They did everything with such dignity!

Did I dare to get closer? Would my curiosity ruin the watch by spooking the flock? I decided to keep my distance, and I stayed on the deck. The railing creaked loudly and the disturbed flock turned away from the shore. I went down the steps to watch them more closely through the field glasses. It seemed completely illogical to me that those heavy primped-up creatures would not capsize. I had to assume their steady sense of balance combined with the dense mass of thousands of waterproof body and wing feathers gives them the ability to be buoyant. 

While the flock tended to their immaculate plumage they rocked serenely on the shimmering river, and I heard their deep dark nostrils interject snores. Were they ready for an afternoon nap? Aquasize, followed by the rolling motion of the water could certainly make you doze off, I thought.

I moved to the tree-lined fence to see what the demure birds would do as they paddled to a partially submerged log. The bird I called an ‘unofficial fitness instructor’ easily climbed over the log and launched onto a grassy knoll. With the last swirling whirlpools murmuring all ashore, the former members of the defunct dance troupe took to the bank. Taking their queue, in wringing wet play clothes the young birds straggled behind playing follow the leader over the log. Catching up to the rest of the flock, they splashed onto the scalloped bank. Shuddering from shoulders to boot tops, the flock shed the bathwater from their cosmopolitan garb and moved along in single file. I noticed their gait changed—to a strut no less. It is fun to think that for swans to smirch their reputation for sophisticated elegance by appearing ungainly or clumsy on land would be against their nature. They trod, as I expected, graciously exuding an aura of dignity.

I had been told that Trumpeters are generally quite sociable creatures. It is a natural tendency for them to remain standoffish though when they are alert for predators—particularly if a male has his eye on a certain female. This group didn’t appear to be interested in checking each other out. They checked out the lay of the land. Assured of no surprises, they took the corridor through the tall grass and extended their arched necks to peer over it. Dark facial markings give them a look of confidence and indifference. Snooty, you might say. Suddenly, their nonchalance transformed into territorial behavior. It wasn’t hard for me to see why. They encountered a couple of gangly ganders, beak to bill. The breeding-season posturing obviously provoked aggression in one of the elderly male swans. His body language clearly established who the suitors of the beauty queens were! Devilishly two of the mottled-grey young’uns gave chase successfully ostracizing the annoying gate-crashers. With the bill-boxing match thwarted, the once brazen contenders cowardly shuffled into the alfalfa field. Showing typical swan behavior, several high-spirited prideful males announced the winners by exuberantly tuning up and pitching their famous triumphant call, their exultation echoing over the water.

Collectively, in their showy way, the succession of mature swans and their groupies left the tall grass and headed for shore to take the easy way downstream. The bewitching birds waded in to the river until their derrieres drifted in oneness with the shimmering steel grey glaze. Afloat on its swift currents, intuitively they would arrive at their favorite nesting areas near MacArthur Island Park and Riverside Park in Kamloops. Anyone viewing the rapturous waterfowl in their rightful place on the water, their heads high and their ebony beaks defined against whipped-cream plumage, would agree the birds appeared as in a glossy National Geographic photograph. No airbrushing required.

By the powerful spirit of Mother Nature beneath the swans’ rested, languid bodies, reflections of clouds on the surface of the water presented a fascinating perspective. My imagination allowed me to visualize the birds afloat on cloud nine! When they retreated into a shaded eddy, they took on the appearance of strings of white buoys bobbing past the olive trees. Devoid of foliage the dark branches etched as eerie calligraphy against the sky. I moved from the grove of trees because my view was blocked by the overhanging willow that wept yet had no regard for my yearning to see the enchanting water birds’ kinetic goodbyes as they swaggered through the water and disappeared.

The passion and romance reminiscent of late-autumn on the shores of the South Thompson River remained long afterward. The following spring, I wandered the beach in front of my acreage and recalled the scenes I witnessed from the sundeck of the chalet. On those same banks, Mother Nature’s songs played their encore as I paused to search sky high with hope of the Trumpeters’ return. One could be sure that the rollicking river with its mass of glistening diamonds in motion would excel at extending a cordial springtime welcome to swans coming back home to Kamloops and region.

Over the years, my mind’s romance-prone gallery of memories has prompted me to revisit the secluded stretch of beach where, during a divine appointment, the mother of nature endowed inspirational gifts. I need not ask for anything more than a flourish of trumpets. Someday again as morning dawns, keeping in mind so far as good omens go, the seasons and planets may align for another memorable interlude of rambunctious tranquility by Trumpeter Swans.

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