He is the mountain streams’ own darling, the humming-bird of blooming waters, loving rocky ripple-slopes and sheets of foam as a bee loves flowers, as a lark loves sunshine and meadows. Among all the mountain birds, none has cheered me so much in my lonely wanderings, —none so unfailingly. For both in winter and summer he sings, sweetly, cheerily, independent alike of sunshine and of love, requiring no other inspiration than the stream on which he dwells. While water sings, so must he, in heat or cold, calm or storm, ever attuning his voice in sure accord; low in the drought of summer and the drought of winter, but never silent.
John Muir: The Mountains of California The Water-Ouzel
Our weekend in the mountains contained a dramatic animal rescue attempt. Off highway 88 at about 4000 feet is a lovely rushing river, meadow and campground. We went to check under the bridge to see if the American Dipper who nested there last year was back again. Dippers are amazing birds, and you would know them instantly if you saw one. In addition to their “namesake” dipping kneebend, they can actually walk along the bottom of the stream bed, under rushing water, hunting for bugs. They typically nest along rockfaces over streams, but have recently been studied using bridges more often. This female had laid her remarkable nest in the underside of the bridge at the middle of the stream, some 40 feet in the air. We watched her bringing food to the young ones, and heard their lovely singing.
Then it happened. PLOP! A hatchling fell from the nest and landed in the rushing snowmelt, quickly sinking. We generated enough public interest to get the young boy wading near it to fish the fellow out of the water and bring it over. Then PLOP! A second casualty. We didn’t know what to do. It would be impossible to put them back, and cruel to leave them to drown. They were so small their eyes weren’t even opened. We weren’t sure why they fell but there were a number of bees circling the nest and that might have had something to do with it. Or there may have been some interloping cowbird eggs laid in that nest who grew faster and pushed the rightful residents out. We will never know.
.
So we tucked the bedraggled pair into a bowl, and kept them warm while driving down to the local wildlife rescue center in Jackson. Tri County Wildlife has helped us with several rescues in the past, and are on our regular donations list. I first learned about them when we stumbled acrossed a trapped cornsnake and called the Lindsay Museum for advice: they directed me to the nearby facility. Sadly, one of the hatchlings died in transit, but the other one seemed fairly strong. He was singing and pecking my finger for food all the way down. I’m hopeful his story will have a happy ending. I was reminded though, when I saw the awed faces watching the rescue, that taking care of wildlife nurtures a deep place inside humans as well. Holding those fluttering wings gently in my fingers is a feeling I’m not likely to forget.
I eagerly await the day we see a dipper at the beaver dam. It could happen…
