By James McGuire

Contributing columnist

October is off and running!

On the very first morning of this brand new month, I stepped outside with the dog, glanced at the nearby Stillwater River—and saw a pair of ducks paddling warily along the far side of the big pool in front of the cottage.

They were odd ducks, out of the ordinary. Smaller than the common mallards who are always around, but bigger than the blue-winged teal that occasionally show up. Yet superficially, perhaps reminiscent of both.

As an incorrigible fisherman, I’ve spent a huge part of my life on and around water. Moreover, for nearly two decades, I’ve lived less than a dozen yards from this pastoral, moderate-size stream.

I’ve also always paid fairly close attention to birds—not to the point of thinking or calling myself an “expert” or even a “serious” birder, but I’m at least a fairly well-informed amateur.

Yet, in spite of these facts and my bird-watching experience, I’m not very adept at waterfowl identification.

While becoming a serious duck hunter was always a desired aspiration, I’ve never done enough of it to recognize more than a few species of ducks and their kin at a glance.

Here along the river, the usual waterfowl fare is pretty limited. Besides resident Canada geese and mallards, regulars are pretty much limited to wood ducks and blue-winged teal.

Of course, waterfowl are migratory—free-as-a-bird wanderers who can come and go as they please. Creatures of instinct and practicality, they heed the inherent pull of the seasons. Additionally, they follow the dictates of food, weather, and whatever other restless itch or whimsy stimulates and stirs them to take to their wings and fly elsewhere.

A secluded river pool is often a sort of stopover motel for these journeying birds—a safe, comfortable place to temporarily rest and refuel. Their stay is strictly short-term—a few hours, maybe overnight.

It’s a matter of pure luck whether or not I happen to notice these transients. But over the years, my list of infrequent, or one-time visitors includes black ducks, pintails, shovelers, a ring-neck, a few redheads, lesser scaup, common goldeneyes, buffleheads, and both common and hooded mergansers.

There were also a few strange ducks I never could identify, even with the help of various field guides. Some were hens, others were…well, I don’t have a clue; forever mystery birds.

Thankfully, the pair I spotted the other morning were pretty easy to I.D.—though I did ease back into the cottage and grab my copy of Peterson, just to make sure.

It turned out my early-morning visitants were wigeon! A new species to add to my Cottage Pool list.

American wigeon are the ducks many old waterfowl histories, and similarly the era’s hunting literature, often referred to as “baldpates” because of the male’s white head patch.

While drake wigeon may not be as gaudily plumed as some duck species, I considered the pair a rare and delightful gift on this fine October debut morning!

Moreover, their sudden, unexpected appearance carried a phenological message, indicative that time and season had turned a corner.

October was here—fall’s first full month. And so far as I’m concerned, autumn’s real beginning.

Sure, I know that technically speaking, fall officially commenced two weeks ago, during the latter days of September. But that was just an astronomical mile-marker, a mathematical contrivance for the calendars and almanacs.

Merely proclaiming something doesn’t make it so; there’s often a critical difference between abstract facts and boots-on-the-ground truth.

I’ve never been able to fool myself into accepting September’s final few days as being genuine, bona fide autumn—not even when a handful of scarlet leaves suddenly appear on a single precocious swamp maple branch, or I pass an equally premature sumach sporting a head-dress of crimson.

No, it takes October’s coming to turn that hope into personal belief. Surely the pair of southbound wigeon paddling on the pool were as emphatically precursive as the rising sun now lighting the tops of the tall sycamores towering over the water.

Autumn had arrived—bustling, perky, ardent, just starting to show a few merry hints as it began to decorate the landscape for the annual gala a few weeks hence.

My droopy pokeweed has finally fallen, its magenta stalks and purple-black berries lie in colorful disarray on the ground near the woodpile.

Any day now the row of sugar maples along my neighbor’s fence will start to turn—first one bright leaf, then a whole limb-full, and finally an entire tree of fluttering orange, red, and yellow. The hickories on the hill will dress in rusty gold. The few remaining ashes will turn amethystine.

Two or three weeks hence, the landscape will be at its full patchwork dazzle—a technicolor fantasy no painter or photographer can ever hope to capture.

Meanwhile, plump orange pumpkins sit stoically in tawny fields, awaiting their upcoming call to jack-o-lantern duty.

The backdrop to October’s colored-leaf tapestry is always a vast sky—often an edgy cerulean, occasionally a deep cobalt. Intermittently clear and luminescent, or filled with haze, as if the atmosphere above was laced with wisps of smoke from distant campfires.

Dawns are apt to be foggy. Dusks soft, swelling with mist, and loud with the final stridulations of crickets and katydids.

“October has so many virtues,” writes naturalist Hal Borland, “one scarcely knows where to begin.”

True, indeed. October is a wealth of sights, smells, tastes, and activities. Choices must be made. Each moment counts. Beauty and adventure beckon from every quadrant. You simply cannot experience October’s abundant riches in a day, a week, or even a full month.

But you need to try! Get outside. Savor and enjoy every dollop you can!

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