The first essay assignment in my writing class was on travel writing. We were to go somewhere that we had not been to before, sit for about an hour, and take detailed notes on everything that we were experiencing through our five senses. Then we had to turn that into a 1200-word essay. The following text is what I turned in, but I get to illustrate with photos on the blog. Enjoy:
Pray For Osprey
Oregon has the most fickle weather I have ever experienced. For instance, last weekend in one day, we had a cold gray morning, light drizzles, periods of intense sunshine, and a brief hail storm that melted into rain, followed by more sunshine, then rain. Usually Portland’s spring is a soggy season requiring a raincoat and puddle-friendly foot gear. To keep my Hawaiian bones warm I have to suit up in long underwear, a fleece pullover, and my cozy hat fashioned out of recycled wool sweaters.But today, none of those garments would be necessary. Earlier in the week the weather forecast said sunny and seventy degrees for the weekend, and it looked like the Meteorology Gods were going to deliver on that promise. Shorts! Could I actually wear shorts today? In Portland? In early April? Still leery, I settled for thin Capri pants, a t-shirt under a light hoodie, a cap, and the crowning summertime accessory: sunglasses. I grabbed my camera and headed out to Kelley Point Park.
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I have lived here for eight years but have never been to this park. If you look at a map of the city, the peninsula that makes up North Portland looks like a profile of a giant thumb pointing to the left. To the west it caresses the Willamette River’s last bend, and along the east side the mighty Columbia flows by. At the very north corner of the peninsula, the tip of the thumbnail, if you will, is Kelley Point Park digging into the armpit of the confluence of these two busy waterways.
I had expected to photograph ships and piers, or beautiful industrial rust, seeing as two major terminals of the Port of Portland were nearby. But I had also hoped to see some birds: gulls, geese, hawks, or herons since the park was also sandwiched between two wildlife refuges.
I entered the park through tall bare-branched trees which looked caught off guard, naked and without leaves to shield the sun. The vista widened as I approached the Columbia’s edge where logs were strewn about the gray sand beach. I sat on a large one facing the river with my back to the warm sun. To the east I saw Mount Hood’s full form pointing into the cirrus-streaked sky. To the north was Mount St. Helens’ unmistakable mound of white behind the thin veil of deciduous trees that lined the far side of the river. Even the nearby foothills were covered in snow, still donning their winter wardrobe.
The port terminal upstream was a mess of buildings and barges, cranes and cargo containers, large ships and steel. Airplanes roared overhead, coming from my left if they were landing at PDX, and from my right if they had just taken off. Old pier pilings stood just off shore, lonely and stuck.
A large bird flew overhead from the trees behind me. In a flash I tried to identify it: white underside, dark feathers near wingtips. It could be a gull, although I thought I saw a dark mask on its white head which would suggest it was an osprey. Oh I hoped it was an osprey! It had already flown out over the water and I cursed that I had forgotten my binoculars. Other birds that soared overhead were definitely gulls. A small flock of cormorants barely grazed the water with their rapidly beating wings. Their long sleek necks pointed straight out when they flew, but once they landed on the water they created shapes of question marks. They were all black except for their bright orange cheeks. One by one they dove down and resurfaced with small fish shimmering in their bills.
Small boat wakes queued up from across the river and made frequent wavelets lap on the shore. A large boat motored by and minutes later its wake created miniature pipelines. The sound of the splashing was comforting and reminded me of home, but the view was incongruous with that sweet memory. Instead of an idyllic white sand beach peppered with shells and chunks of coral, there was dull gray sand littered with twigs, bits of tree bark, and scraps of green moss.
I strolled down the beach passing couples with dogs playing fetch, families with kids, sunbathers, and other photographers. They were all enjoying the day as if it were the middle of summer, the middle of a string of gorgeous fair-weathered days. I made eye contact with a passerby and we exchanged a knowing glance that this day was exceptional, a seasonal fluke, like a crisp white sheet hanging on a months-long laundry line of dreary wet rags.
At the corner of the park I stopped to eat lunch. I sat on a high retaining wall made of rough-hewn lumber. Two long rows of pier pilings jutted out into the water from here. Almost every stump was capped by a black cormorant or a white gull sunning itself. I thought it would make a great photo, so I planned to snap one after I had eaten. While I enjoyed my turkey sandwich and cassava chips, an enormous green barge materialized out of the gentle Willamette and merged into the bustling Columbia. At the same time a couple of jet skis buzzed by, disturbing the rows of birds and foiling my photo opportunity. They took to the air in a spectacular pattern of black and white.
As the birds settled back to their posts, one flew toward me. I assumed it was another ubiquitous gull, but I gasped when I spotted its eye stripe, that distinctive Zorro mask of the osprey. It was clenching a fish in its talons, holding it in line with its body instead of across – another osprey trait. To my delight it landed on a nearby tree branch maybe forty feet up. The top of its wings were dark brown, and its belly white except for a speckled band across the breast. I wondered if this was the osprey I thought I saw earlier. It was exhilarating to see a large raptor in such close proximity.
The fish it caught was about ten inches long and already headless. After surveying the scene, the osprey resumed eating its meal safe from the scavenging gulls at the old pier. While its left claw pinned the fish to the branch, it would reach down with its neck cranked to one side, planting its bill into the fish to torque and tear off tiny bits of flesh. Before taking each bite it would scan for scavengers. Every once in a while, perhaps at the slightest glimpse of a greedy gull, it would give a loud call and ready its wings, but would settle down again and continue eating.
After several minutes it gave another cry and threatened to take flight, but that too was a false alarm. I wondered at how such a magnificent bird, with its discerning eye and sharp bill, could have such a vulnerable voice. After another mouthful it cried aloud again but this time it shook out its wings deliberately, and with a few strokes it leapt off the branch and soared away, its translucent wings resplendent against the sky.
