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Open water. Blue skies. And high times around Hideaway pond. Only two weeks ago it was a white snow covered sheet of ice. But a warm welcome breath of spring air intervened for a few days. It left a stretch of open water about 6 feet wide between the ice and the “mainland”. An island dwelling squirrel, accustomed to rapidly crossing the ice from island to shore, failed to notice this and took an impromptu dip. It was not amused. No laughing matter to the squirrel. And take my word for it. Never piss off a wet squirrel. However, we smiled discretely behind our hands as we sat in the warm observation perch of our newly winterized “sun porch”. A name gifted it by my lovely bride. I might have suggested something a bit more original. But I won’t.
And we awoke this morning to find clear evidence that a bear had destroyed one of the solar units lighting the sidewalk last night. Paw prints and other signs, so to speak, of its clumsy nocturnal invasion gave it away. What kind of a self respecting bruin would destroy a light and leave a bird feeder intact? Really disappointing. We raise our bears to be smarter than that. But the birds were happy as they enjoyed their morning snack of suet and sunflower seeds. As a matter of fact, those seeds look pretty good. I may try some on my yogurt tomorrow morning. Maybe not.

Very quiet around the pond these days. Winter doldrums, we used to call them during our erstwhile sailing days. The clear cold winter skies sometimes yield a beautiful sunset. Its bright colors complement the muted neutrals of winter.

Most of the action occurs in and around the hanging bird feeder. Cardinals, goldfinches, woodpeckers, chickadees, and tufted titmice are the major customers. They need suet at this time of year for insulation. Some of the smaller birds climb right into the seed cage. I guess they never learned not to play with their food.

Of course, there’s always the prospect of a nocturnal blitz by a male bear. One who has eschewed the warmth of a winter burrow. Some are poor sleepers, I guess. We’ve wakened on more than one occasion to find our bird feeder strewn across the lawn and up the driveway. Smokey is not well acquainted with the social graces. Not even a thank you note.

Two turkey hens pecked their way into the yard today. Looking for some of Mother Nature’s cold leftovers, I assume. Finding little, they pecked their way out.

A few squirrels have been racing erratically around as though they had been quaffing jet fuel. Lacking GPS, they have apparently lost the acorns they stashed underground late last summer. Hard to believe. There was a glut on acorns at that time. They now appear to be very scarce. And, if squirrel behavior is an indication, very valuable. Hmm. Not sure what the exchange rate is for acorns these days, but maybe I should consider trading in some of my 401K assets for acorns. Maybe not.

A very light snow covered the Hideaway last night. And seventeen spine chilling degrees. Old Man Winter has put his heavy boot down on the Catskills with serious resolve.
Nonetheless, with the exception of the snow on the pond, it had sublimated into the thin frigid air by noon. Even after the air had crept to a balmy 35 degrees, six inches of ice kept a sub-zero grip on the snow. And there it still lies in a solitary white blanket, as the attached photos show.
Still, the intrepid critters of the Hideaway have, for the greater part, gone about life as usual. Those who haven’t resorted to flight or hibernation, that is. Wimps. I suppose one could count the fish among them. They lounge in the relative warmth of 25 to 35 degrees at the bottom of the pond. The dark slumber of a winter long dream.
A few does and a spike buck often drop by. They can easily go unnoticed until they move. Their winter gray wardrobe makes them almost disappear against the grays and browns of the winter woods.
“Spike“, as we call him with our usual flair for originality, should soon be losing his spikes. The rutting season being over, a buck’s testosterone levels drop, as do his antlers. And whatever. No, it doesn’t hurt. Or so I’m told. But word has it that it can cause some serious cervidian neuroses. And make it difficult for some bucks to get a date. Included in the following photos is half of an eight pointer’s erstwhile pride and joy. We found it abandoned on our property a few years ago. Is there such a thing as half of a neurosis? Or half of a date?
A morose old Tom turkey slumped through the yard yesterday. All alone. Testosterone a long fading memory. Must be a very drab life. But there is a bright side, of sorts. He doesn’t have to worry about his antlers dropping off. Gotta find joy where you can find it.

It’s windy and sunny on the pond today. A cloudless blue sky. Open areas of water are rumpled by the breeze. Contrast to the usual gray and soggy limbo that separates Christmas lights from the soft colors of Easter. Not to omit the raucous bacchanal of Presidents’ Day.

One might have thought, given the grumpy dark days of November and December, that Mother Nature had moved into menopause. We could have used a hot flash or two during that frigid dreariness. Yet, soggy and gray or not, as Woody Allen said, “80% of life is showing up.” I’m happy to have done so.

Moving on. Mother Nature has obviously changed her mood and today she’s clearly showing her sunny side. The winter solstice is in our wake. Summer is on the way!

Just kidding.

There’s a surprising amount of action around the pond today in spite of all that winter entails. The fish, of course, sulk in their dark torpor at the bottom of the pond. Out of sight, but still members of the local critter cult.

The squirrels are especially busy. One pair seems to have struck up a mid-winter romance. They chase each other around the yard, up and down trees and elsewhere. We leave them to their squirrelish ardour. What can one say to a pair of love sick squirrels.

Chuck, the resident groundhog, occasionally rouses himself to forage briefly on whatever mid-winter provender he can find. He then returns to his luxurious digs in an abandoned drain pipe next to the woods.

On the cervidaen front, a pair of does drop by every evening. I think that they’re casing my lovely bride’s azaleas. Bad idea.

Female bears are bedded down in their winter homes, either pregnant or already new mothers with cubs. Must be a restless sleep. Do bears have labor pains? I’ll ask. At this time in their growth the cubs look more like escapees from an Oscar Mayer sausage line than the furry little critters they will eventually become.

Meanwhile, the dreaded Hideaway Beast remains in hibernation, frozen solidly to its tree. It dreams ominously of spring when it can again thaw and haunt the poor denizens of the Hideaway. Be afraid. Very afraid.

Finally, we’ve been very surprised and pleased on three separate days by the arrival of large flocks of robins, roughly 100 in each. They linger for several hours, filling the yard and trees with birds, totally occupied by whatever edible detritus summer left behind. Climate change or the sheer pleasure of our company? Your guess is as good as ours.

All of which proves, in spite Jack Frost’s occasional incursions, that “Winter is not a season…. It’s a celebration.” Anamika Mishra

Cold, damp and foggy around the pond today. The eight inches of beautiful snow that fell a week ago has melted. Gone. Given way to a night of rain and soggy leftovers. The local critters have retreated to the warmth of their winter homes. The fish slumber in the dark at the bottom of the pond. And the birds are flying on instruments. December.

So where are the chestnuts roasting on an open fire? The ten maids a-milking? The right jolly old elf? The holly? I guess they’ll have to rest in our childhood imaginations for now. While visions of sugar plumbs dance in our wee little heads. Delicious anticipation. The best part of the Holidays. And, I guess, of many things.

But now that I think about it, we can’t live in a constant state of anticipation, can we? Not much wrong with the warm here and now. If we’re fortunate enough to have it. I think of the homeless. Those who will sleep on a bench in some cold, dark, dangerous place tonight. A newspaper for a blanket. I hope some kind soul finds them. Gives them a warm bed and a hot meal. I hope they find peace. And a better life.

Well, the pond hasn’t changed much while I was away for a few days. We were met by a young spike buck immediately upon our arrival. It’s well into rutting season, so he still had a smile on his face. Shows you what goes on while your back is turned. Down right shameful, if you ask me. Recent low temps have left a nightly skim of ice on the pond. It reflects the sky and pond edge trees before the sun rises and melts its colors.

The beast of Hideaway Pond we found frozen firmly to the upper branch of a nearby tree. Now, some of you who have not closely followed this blog may not even know that there exists a beast of Hideaway Pond. But there does. Every early spring, it thaws and begins its annual assault on the local Hideaway critter population. This lasts until late autumn when it freezes again. Much to critter joy and celebration. It has no nose, no legs, no mouth and no–um, well, you know. So one might be curious as to how it handles normal biological processes. Well, it’s all based on osmosis. Osmoses in, osmoses out. OIOO. Much like the GIGO of the human critter species. And thus it bays to the moon, as well. Oiooo. Oiooo. It’s omnivorous and asexual. No problem there. No fun, either. Unfortunately, if it has recently eaten a gaseous food–or a critter who has recently done so–it will emanate a deadly aura. A warning to other critters in the neighborhood to scram. It has the pursuit options of levitation and running on its hands, so listen up. Or odor up, as it were.

OK, just kidding. Or maybe not. Or, as my lovely bride says, “You crazy, man!”

It’s been quiet around the pond. Mother Nature’s mood swings seem to have slowed. Her transition from the warmth of late summer to the cool of autumn has taken a little longer than usual. Maybe it’s my imagination. Or maybe, like me, she’s a bit reluctant to move on. It was, after all, a beautiful summer. The autumn colors have clung until the last minute. After weeks, the oaks have dropped the last of their acorns. And with them went the rattle of their percussion on the roof and deck. Silence.

Even the critters have been relatively quiet and retreated further into the woods. Probably seeking a little privacy. It’s the time of year when family planning goes on. I think we owe it to them to avert our eyes and leave their modesty intact.

All of this, until last night. Mother Nature finally threw a tantrum and a noisy cold front roared out of the southwest. Sixty knot gusts, the weather gurus tell us. And swirling winds banged hail off of the sides and roof of the house. All night. By morning, many of the trees had been stripped naked and their colors had fled northeast. Poor things. Must have been embarrassing.

The morning aftermath of the storm greeted us with three large tom turkeys. They wandered down the mountain and pecked their way across the yard. Oblivious to the drumbeat of approaching Thanksgiving. And well they should be, really. It’s much easier to hunt down a dressed turkey at the local supermarket than to trek the Catskills for one. Most folks opt for the supermarket species.

Joining us to share the sunny afternoon was a beautiful six point buck. He strolled past the pond and through the woods next to the ledge, stepping over one of last night’s blowdowns on the way. Then silently up the drive and into the woods beyond.

Well, it’s been an interesting time around the pond. Slow on a daily basis, but, in total over the last week or two, not so much.

For example, the turkeys have been very active. Their raiding parties have frequently come down the mountain and brutally laid waste to the seeds, dry berries and other delectable detrititus of summer‘s remains. Don’t even say thanks. Still holding a grudge about that Thanksgiving dinner business, I guess. Grumps.

One especially intrepid group flew from the lofty promontory of the ledge. Which is now graced by my lovely bride with the name “Willy’s Leap”, borrowed from the eponymous whale, Willy. He of Warner Bros movie fame. If one squints very hard and has had, perhaps, a little too much orange juice, or whatever, the vague image of a sperm whale gradually materializes. OK, Willy was an Orca and the ledge is a rock. Nobody’s perfect.

The pond, on the other hand is now a vast wet wasteland. The tall pondside grass has long ago gone to seed and turned brown. The grass carp no longer scan the surface for their elusive green prey. They and the bass have begun the annual descent to their dark bottom refuge. There they’ll decline into a state of torpor, little activity or nourishment needed in their semi-animated state. As will the turtles, crayfish, minnows and other denizens of the deep. How monotonous is that? The only thing now disturbing the pond is an occasional flock of ducks. With increasing frequency, a cool breeze now occasionally ripples the surface. Jack Frost’s announcement that his frigid grasp is on the way.

A raccoon was recently seen seeking shelter under our porch (now called the “sun room”, by the way, after a winterization upgrade). Hopefully, Chuck, the groundhog, has made a permanent move from there to his winter home in a nearby unused drainpipe. Otherwise, things might erupt into territorial warfare down there. Mammalian mayhem.

On sunny days we have occasionally noticed very fine single strands of silky spider web floating in the air among the falling leaves. If one looks closely, an almost microscopic juvenile spider can be seen on one end of each strand. These webs are the conveyance, with the help of a breeze, that carries the little guys to a new home. Away from the nest and the cannibalistic inclination of their parents. This is called ballooning. These tiny arachnid aerobats are probably orb weavers or linyphiids. Or so they tell me. There. You never know what gems of wisdom you’re going to acquire from this humble little blog. I know. You didn’t ask.

On the cervidaen front, a doe and her spring fawn visited about a week ago. The fawn had lost most of its spots and both wore their dark winter garb. Obligatory wardrobe of the season. The eight point buck visited us again the night before last, just as light fled altogether. His third visit in two weeks. We almost failed to see him due to his camouflaged winter coat. His royal rackness loitered, grazing in the front yard. Then gradually faded into the dark.

It’s been a quiet and colorful Sunday around the pond. The green leafy cocoon that surrounded us during the summer months has changed into a riot of reds, oranges and golds. Autumn foliage. It should reach its peak in a week or so. Then the color will slowly taper off to expose a view of Overlook Mountain. Our “back yard” and front face of the beautiful Catskills. Sunrise will turn it pink during cloudless winter mornings,

The sun has dropped further south, casting a lengthening shadow since the long bright days of June. And sunset has moved from behind the mountain, now peeking through a patch of trees on the island. Darkness creeps in an hour earlier. Time moves hand in hand with the onset of autumn chill. Harbinger of the gradual approach of Jack Frost’s cold grasp. (Shudder).

Meanwhile, much of the wildlife has abandoned us for the time being. The bears focus on fattening up for their long hibernation. Mom will be house hunting for a warm den in which to birth her cub(s). The deer are in the process of guaranteeing a healthy population of spring fawns. Rutting season is in full swing. Happy days are here again.

We received a pleasant surprise when we moved to the porch for lunch today. What appeared at first to be a duck was a juvenile sharp shinned hawk. The little guy was taking a bath in the shallow water next to the island. It continued to enjoy itself for about 15 minutes, apparently unconcerned by our invasion of its privacy. It then flew to a nearby pine to dry off. It may have been taking a time out from hunting local prey such as small birds and rodents. Or it may have been visiting our little road side rest en route to the south with its fellow raptors. Whichever, we welcome it and hope that it fares well. Anywhere, according to our local field mice, but here.

Skip ahead one day:

As we drove away on an errand in the early afternoon, an eight point buck stood at the end of the driveway. He remained still as a statue and watched us for a full minute before dashing off toward the pond and into the woods. Thus filling our drama quota for the day