OVERHEARD IN THE HERONRY
By Jim Gerwing
The first Great Blue Herons in Beacon Hill Park begin to gather atop an enormous Atlas Cedar across the road from my balcony on Douglas Street in Victoria. Like great gray blobs they scrunch up, catching some rays, seemingly ignoring each other even though their growing numbers force them into close proximity.
They come out of isolation for the breeding season. They aren’t really ignoring each other, of course. This guy is sizing up the chicks out of the corner of his eye.
“Nice one. Graceful long neck, slim outline. Yup, I’m gonna watch which nest she chooses.”
She’s doing the same. “That looks like a good provider. He’s even kinda cute.”
Finally she selects a nest among the Douglas Firs. He notes the location and lumbers off to find branches for her approval.
“Is this one good enough, huh? Neat, eh?” (He’s a Canadian heron, that’s why he says, “Eh?”)
She frowns disdainfully, “I know I said bring whatever you can, but where in heaven’s name did you find that piece of crap? You want me to build a decent nest with that? What were you thinking anyway?”
“Jeeze,” he thinks. “I thought that was a good one.”
“Oh well, give me the stupid thing and I’ll see what I can do.”
He smirks, “I knew she’d take it.”
Before long, other pairs are at it too. Having built their nests, they flutter over each other, mating vigorously.
A bald eagle has been making reconnaissance flights over the rookery to see if young heron will be on the menu this summer. Nervous tension rocks the elders of the rookery.
“Bloody eagles! They’re such a menace.”
Within days, the brooding begins. Sitting deep in her nest, she mutters, “Oh God, how did I get myself into this mess again? I should have learned from last year.”
The furry chicks emerge. Ugly as sin. Their click-clacking shatters the silence day and night. Wobbling uncertainly on the ragged mass of sticks, they still manage to yank their parent’s head down violently, forcing him to disgorge. “Come on, Dad. Cough it up. I’m hungry.”
One chick shoves his sibling over the edge of the nest. “Sorry, Bro, but you are eating too much.” He doesn’t even look down as his brother topples awkwardly through the branches and lands with a heavy plop.
From a lofty perch nearby the eagle has been glaring down into the rookery for what seems an eternity. The initial alert from the guards has quieted down. Now she swoops, talons bared, undeterred by the sudden yelling or the mass of thrusting beaks. She is up again in a flash. Burdened by the weight of a plump young heron, the great bird wheels for home. A pair of raucous crows follow, threatening the destruction of the entire eagle population of Canada. Or at least of Victoria. Or maybe just Beacon Hill Park. Oh, what the heck. This is just a demonstration, not a real attack.
By mid-summer, the chicks that survived the deadly bushwhacking of their siblings and eagle assaults have outgrown their dad and mom. They flap their great wings, strengthening their muscles. One’s first foray out of the nest has landed him down a few branches. He can’t find his way back up. His mother has had misgivings about his intelligence all along. “I don’t think this kid was dealt a full deck.”
“Hey, I’m down here. Feed me here.” He’s not that dumb.
He botches his first fishing expedition to Sooke. “How are you supposed to catch those things?” he asks, arriving home with an empty crop.
But even he learns.“Boy, I hate this place,” he mutters in the August rain. “I’ll never come back.”
He will return next year. And the year after, and the year after that, for a long time. After all, it’s home, and there ain’t no place like it.