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There are some things I wish I could share.
Last week, after two days of a hard wind out of the north left a large open patch of water on Olson Lake, we had about a bazillion waterfowl hanging out. Ducks, snow geese, Canadian geese and a few swans, all intermingled and all added their own distinctive noises. Every now and then a threat of some sort would be detected and the whole enormous flock would take off and circle around the open water a few times before landing again.
I didn't get much done that day, because I spent a lot of time just sitting and watching. I flashed back to about thirty years ago when I was hunting ducks in the same body of water. At that time, no one called it Olson Lake because it was about three feet shallower and almost completely covered by cattails that loomed far out of the water.
Just like the other day, a huge flock of ducks rested there. With my waders firmly cinched up, I sneaked through the cattails to see how close I could get.
I was in two feet of water and about another foot of mud, moving slowly, one step at a time, wending my way through the thickets of reeds that towered four feet over the top of my head. I couldn't see anything, but I focused on the gabbling of the ducks and headed toward the loudest sounds. After what seemed like a long time, I could dimly see their silhouettes as they swam back and forth through a thin screen of cattails in front of me. There were thousands of them, and they were loud. I took one more step forward, and the entire flock, thickly crowded on an opening about the size of a football field, erupted upward. I was so close that I could feel the air pressure from their wings against my face.
It was a rare and magical moment, and it's one that I wish everyone could experience. I don't often use the word transcendent, but it seems appropriate. I know that through the wonders of the internet there is no end to the number of videos that feature flocks of birds, but videos are a pale shadow of the real thing.
I'd gotten turned around out in the swamp, but I saw the top of a tree near our house, just visible over the cattails. I headed for it and splashed out on dry land around dark, only to discover I'd slogged toward the wrong tree, and instead of being nearly home I was a mile and a half away, at the wrong end of the slough. I plodded home, the last half hour under a full moon. When I finally made it back, it took a couple minutes to get my waders off, and I stood outside in soggy socks while the warm light from the kitchen spilled out the window over my head.
I don't care which model phone you have, I'm confident you've never seen what I saw. But I wish you could.
Copyright 2025 Brent Olson
I love this. The home I grew up in sat near a slough, this story brought back many memories.
There's something magical about the return of spring and the beautiful combination of all the nesting ducks, geese, and swans. Thanks for your story. Time in the outdoors is one of the few things that can lift my spirits. Thank goodness, we live near a lake just outside of town that hosts all of the above plus egrets and herons. After the baby geese hatch and are out and about on the road (the lake is divided by a road), the parents are very territorial and nip/chase and honk at Don when he tries to get by them to finish his daily run. It's pretty humorous when he returns and tells me about the interactions.