Winter Chatter
By Dana Christianson
Originally appearing in Slackwater, Volume 5
Photo by Charles Jackson on Unsplash
When we talk about preservation, we rarely stop to consider how different types of preservation might conflict. A moratorium on goose hunting in Maryland was designed to stop the decline in the wild goose population, but farmers paid the price as the rebounding birds feasted on their crops. In a system where the profit margin is already so thin, few farmers can afford to feed the wildlife. Dana Christianson considers this problem as it plays out in the rural community of Park Hall. Her appreciation of the geese’s remarkable performance in the sky is tempered by her conversations with a farmer concerned about his emerging wheat crop.
Drive through Park Hall in December and you are bound to spot more geese than locals. That may not be saying much, since there are only a couple handfuls of houses, an elementary school, and a rundown bar planted along the two and a half mile stretch of Route 5. But in December, the human-to-goose ratio is so unbalanced you’d think the folks down there are growing them.
There are days when entire fields are covered in blackish-brown bodies, necks bent over, beaks attached to the ground. A night under the moon, Farmer Stone’s winter wheat acts like a florescent billboard in the dead of night, attracting every goose within a fifty-mile radius, no matter what their altitude.
The state placed a moratorium on goose hunting ten years ago when only 16,800 birds were counted passing through Maryland on their way south. The moratorium has been lifted, as the Canadian-goose population mushroomed to 102,800 birds. This reproductive success doesn’t excite Mr. Stone. He complains about the destructive nature of the “honkers.” And his farm is too close to the highway and too close to the neighbors to use his gun.
Stone’s farm encompasses about 60 acres of land given to soybeans from May through September and winter wheat from October to June. But this December, he can’t grow much of anything with all the chatter. Stone says the geese honk all night long, “going through a field of winter wheat like a heard of buffalo grazing.” He and his wife can’t sleep at night because “the nuisances just keep coming.” The Stones are frustrated that the geese pick their farm instead of the one next to theirs, as if geese recognize property boundaries.
Just the other day I danced the waltz with a goose flying over head. He did the singing. I did the dancing. I wonder what it is they honk about. Are they telling each other which direction to fly, where to fill in the V, when to take the lead? I know they are saying something. I just never imagined that one would be humming a tune.
I was walking along when he flew overhead. I heard a honk, then a pause, then another honk, then a pause, and before long, my feet were counting one-two-three, one-two-three. That’s right, I caught a goose keeping time; it was the perfect rhythm for a waltz. Sure enough, my hand and hip could predict his next honk every first count. He kept it up at least as long as my ear could hear. Nature plays a waltz if you just listen.
This year, more than any other, I have heard the winter chatter. I imagine the honkers keep coming until at least late February. Just last Thursday, at around six p.m., they called me out. Louder than a plane from the nearby naval base, hundreds of birds filled a darkened winter sky.
It was just after dusk, those few sacred moments when they sun had set but the sky remains lit with leftover light. Layers upon layers of goose-made Vs filled the heavens from one horizon to the other. The mass moved like a giant storm, shaking my entire being. They flew so high it was as if the night’s starry sky had been inverted: black dots peppered a lightened sky.
Their chatter echoed against trees, water, rocks. All I could do was listen, neck bent skyward in total awe, hoping that even Mr. Stone was thinking this moment was marvelous. The geese kept coming for twenty, then thirty minutes. Like ships lined up for battle, they seemed ready to overtake anything. When the night finally fell and I could no longer see vessels, I could still hear their triumphant cry: layers of sound echoing in the heavens.
Canadian geese are becoming year-round St. Mary’s residents. As strange as this may sound, these wild birds are having a negative effect on the environment. Even though I appreciate the geese, I recognize the problem. The geese have destroyed the farmer’s crop of winter wheat. Without the crop, the nitrogen in the soil will not be replaced and the soil cycle will be disturbed. Thus, the land will not be as nutrient-rich, and Mr. Stone will have to use fertilizers for what could have been accomplished naturally. It may mean a financial stress on the local farms, like the sixty acres belonging to the Stones. It also means another invasive species in the area. Without a natural predator to keep the population down, the geese may start to seriously damage the livelihood of other farmers.
In order for me to better understand all the facets of our eco-system, I have to consider other perspectives, not just the one that seems “right” or appealing to me. Even though I find them wonderful to watch, I know these creatures are pillaging the land of helpless farmers. The geese fly by in ignorance of the problems they cause for local farmers, chatting away carelessly in the winter sky.
