Although I had seen what I thought was the last pair of bufflehead ducks on the river in mid March, on the first of April one lone female remained. She looked so alone I felt a pang of sorrow if indeed for some reason she had been left behind by the rest of the migrants.

A host of questions flooded my mind. Was she injured and unable to fly properly? Had her mate been killed? Had she elected to remain near the place of his death? Did she feel any fear in being alone on the shifting waters? If she could fly, would she fly on to northern migration places alone?

We don't know much about whether birds mate for life, although it is recognized that Canada Geese apparently stick with one mate. The whole process of how a mate is selected and the understanding they have is rather mysterious. We do know that bufflehead ducks migrate to wooded swamp-places in Canada or other northern retreats and choose a cavity in trees for nesting, as does the goldeneye and wood duck. Unless we visit those nesting sites, we only see them come in the California autumn and go in the spring.

Buffleheads are jaunty little ducks, and it is always a pleasure to see their arrival in the autumn. Not only does a couple dozen appear on the Feather River at Oroville every winter, but Lake Merritt in Oakland always has buffleheads diving in the shallows and frolicking among the other migrants during the winter season. They are not much larger than a robin, but their fluffy hair-do and plump overcoat over-lain with the vivid black and white design give them greater status.

In spite of their tidy appearance, they are not reluctant to dive to the muddy depths and sort through the slime in search of food. I have watched them disappear into those murky perils as they behave more like a fish than a duck. But they quickly regain their dignity on the surface and shake off the contaminants of the underwater world.

Next day on the river, I couldn't find the lone bufflehead, and even more questions bothered me. Had she gone on alone to some distant hangout where others of her kind were busy surviving? To take to the sky without one ounce of baggage, completely dependent on finding random food, traveling without road map or compass, is a phenomena beyond description.

How uplifting it would be to be a spirit bird and follow along to see what they do and where they go! Every year for the 32 seasons I worked at Oakland's Lake Merritt Wildlife Refuge, I watched the migrants go every spring, feeling like old friends were departing on a long trip and that I might not ever see them again. They disappeared like loved ones I have known who have slipped away in death, or others that moved far away never to be seen again. Paul Covel, Bill Mott, Josh Barkins, Dana Morgenson, Robert Rishell...you wonder if they, too, flew away on spiritual wings...somewhat like the old hymn..."Some glad morning, when this life is over, I'll fly away..." John Muir said, "This good and tough mountain climbing flesh is not my final home, and someday I'll creep out of it, and fly free, and grow!" What does a duck know of religion?

Then in the fall, it would be like a resurrection and a re-creation and a reunion to see them fly in again and grace the waters with their liveliness and beauty. You habitually depend on the grand return and joyously greet those colorful ambassadors of the wilderness.

The world seems so vast when you think of the winged viewpoint and the multitude of choices available.

You think of that "Great Unknown" whenever you see a lone bird interacting with its environment, such as the water ouzel in the mountain streams, or the rock wren searching the stones, or even the lone greater sandpiper that I saw probing the edge of the gravel bar one day. All up and down the river I could see no other shorebird, and again I was struck by the emptiness of its apparent situation. It plied the sandy shallows seemingly unconcerned about loneliness, if indeed that was the case.

Perhaps that sandpiper had a plan, and others were expecting its appearance at some rendezvous. I do not know. All I know is that one sunny springtime day I saw a sandpiper standing at the edge of the rapids apparently satisfied with its place in the world. If it felt alone like a lost soul on the desert, I could see no outward sign of concern.

From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman:

Animals

"They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the

mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to one another, not to his kind that lived a

thousand years ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth."