Sanctuary of Sands

When My Stewardship Comes In

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Sanctuary of Sands

– Field Note by Justine Kibbe April 30, 2017.

It was always a sweet spot of mine-this Sanctuary of Sands as I call it. The same tidal pools are here, where as a kid, I tipped barnacled rocks years ago with my neighbors. We spent hours searching for crabs to fill our buckets-bait for catching blackfish. It was also the best viewing for the Friday landings of Jock Whitney’s Jet. Oh, it even could be I recollect sneaking a kiss or three here during my early teenage years; we “west- enders” of summer and all those bonfire nights.

But I also remember Fishers Island’s premier Naturalist Ed Horning – seeing him here with his binoculars spying various species of sandpipers from the dune grasses. It was probably a sweet spot for him too; actually Southold has documented notes of his, that it really was his favorite for observing shorebirds feeding within salted kelp and eelgrass berms.

Now decades later, the same three tiny coves parallel to the Elizabeth Field Runway, with sands that have shifted and sifted these past years after Hurricane Sandy have become the spot where at long last my ship has come in- Stewardship.

If I were to name this ship it would be christened Atukan- Akun or “We Are One” honoring my Unungan tribe of the Bering Sea. It’s an Island environment, the Aleuts taught me, that can uniquely exemplify this universal “gift” of knowing AND seeing we truly are ONE. An opportunity to live and breathe the Natural world of sea and sand, the rhythm of sun and moon, wind and wave; where its wildlife and habitat naturally brings out the unity in community-or tribe.

Atukan- Akun, embracing the integral qualities of tribe is an even sweeter spot not unlike a very unique classroom; placed upon the hearts of students here on Fishers Island. We are together Leaders and followers, Teachers and learners, all striving to glean the local traditional knowledge of our native land and preserve it.

And so with sails set and trimmed this Spring, signs have been placed throughout this Sanctuary to help steer Island stewards as we stand watch over our precious cargo-treading lightly, respectfully, and navigating this voyage with a certain hopefulness; taking the helm towards “future history” of our Island.

Otter Crossing

My Significant Otter & the Other Side of the Tracks

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Otter Crossing

– Field Note by Justine Kibbe March 03, 2017.

It’s often during the dead of winter here on Fishers Island when it appears everyone wants to know everyone’s every move; just exactly all the “he saids” and “she saids” and of course the who saw “so and so” with whom. Sometimes I think just the opposite -that surviving the harsh and desolate comes with minding our own business like nobody’s business; to lighten up and see it’s truly in our own NATURE-the real things to talk about and perhaps put out there:

My S.O. and I have been in a discreet relationship for nearly five years. In August 2012 River Otter biologist Mike Bottini visiting from Long Island introduced the two of us. Admittedly in the beginning, I did enjoy the thrill of the chase; a bit exciting as we both have a reputation for being elusive. Islanders whispered that we were on- again, off- again, that I ran hot and cold. That’s all a bunch of “scat”! Especially up by Oyster Pond and Middle Farms.

I took a leap of faith with tips from local residents, thinking living west on the other side of the tracks really didn’t matter and apparently it doesn’t. The two of us have been sighted enjoying each other’s company at Duck Pond before the morning ferry.

Who knows maybe there is something to the whole idea- Ignore the Otter, Get the Otter: The Art of No Contact…at least another book.

Signage: Williams Timber Corp.

Meeting Intuition Out In the Field

Meeting Intuition Out In the Field

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– Field Note by Justine Kibbe February 28, 2017.

You are the fog horn of my heart. You wait in silence, then respond, thru thick and thin I know you. You are there.

As thought gives birth to grand ideas – you give a wider berth.

When I think I know exactly where I am headed with all this precious cargo, you remind me to take it slow – especially amidst the rip tides.

Yes, I am always listening. You have reminded me “again and again” just how to take direction.

Yet, you have trusted me at the helm.

A Little Bird Told Me

A Little Bird Told Me

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– Field Note by Justine Kibbe January 14, 2017.

I agree it’s not an image that would have made the cover of Audubon and there is not even enough flashing of chimney for Sweeping Magazine. But there it perched; this bright blue harbinger waiting to crown this Happy New Year.

Fishers Island has not seen the Eastern Bluebird in quite some time and for me these past six years- it is a first. Oh, there are though many vacant bluebird boxes standing within dense grass fields alongside empty estates waiting and waiting for a sign of its return at long last.

I was winding and rounding my way towards West Harbor across from the Softball field when four vibrant visitors flitted across the hood of the old beach car and darted upward.

Startled by brilliance of blue and of course smiling, I was “invited” to capture this one moment; these Bluebirds of happiness accomplishing their mission with such finesse. And while we humans are at it –giving wildlife our own attributes-this happy “subject” even appears stalwart.

The Island’s got a very different even unusual feel these days- and not just of winter. The Big Club up east has been razed; torn down, newly designed to be rebuilt and raised up again. Out with the old, in with the new this 2017.

With all the construction activities, the gate house which for decades has delineated Town of Southold from Private-remains manned which is also a first for winter. To me, still monitoring by bicycle in January, there is no feel of east meets west- ask any Bluebird!

I continue to record remarks on this change of climate, these moments of renewal and we Islanders resolve that happiness doesn’t come and go-but remains a constant for all.

 

I’ll Have a Blue Heron Christmas*

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12/21/16

Without you
I’ll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a tall Pepperidge tree
Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me

And when those bluefish start migrating
That’s when those blue-jays start calling
You’ll be doin all right with your Christmas of white
But I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas

* From an Island Naturalist who hasn’t sighted and documented Elvis – yet.

Seeing beyond exclusive, catching the elusive

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11/06/16

It was the “Autumn of our content” with foliage reminding me of the best of a preschooler’s sponge paintings; the coral, reds, and orange that blend together so magically. Nor did it appear an illusion, the season’s Hunter’s moon; the push and pull of superior tides finally exposing the hidden mystery behind those Hungry Point Harbor seals — lush eel grass meadows so near to shore and laden with fish. There was, indeed, such fullness this peculiar October.

And for me, the certainty of warmth captured within certain shifting shadows felt like an Indian summer for all times. For weeks I could not help but imagine the Pequot people here on Fishers Island those hundreds of autumns ago. I felt a sense of viewing island vistas as others might have centuries before. There were odd moments when I didn’t see a mansion in sight, when crickets out-chorused leaf blowers, calm lapping waves south-side drowned out even the thought of a cigarette boat and, of course, Mother Nature could not help but to chime in.

I shared that sense of time and space on a recent afternoon during a class with local third and fourth graders. As I encouraged their mastery of indigenous storytelling and stewardship of the earth, I drove home the message with added lore and lure of the seals.

“Island clans of Scotland tell of Selkie folk-seals in the sea, shifting shape to humans on land. The Aleuts in the Bering believe they too are people of the seal,” I told them. “Here on Fishers Island, a seal appeared before my very eyes in a place where I imagine it may have appeared to the summering Pequot tribe hundreds of years ago — the very same seal!”

There was a hush and then a circle of raised and waving hands.

“I counted 500 jellyfish on the ferry ride this morning,” said one student.

Another said, “It was getting dark and my Dad saw an old sweatshirt lying on the bike path — it turned out to be a growling fisher!”

And another: “I heard a whole bunch of baby coyotes. Oh, and we got a new kitten named Autumn.”

And there was time for one more: “I saw a unicorn in Silver Eel Cove,” a student reported.

The next morning while monitoring up east, it appeared the island was busy telling its own story. Houses being winterized with plumbing drained, drapes drawn, and gardens still in bloom, all so hesitant to be tucked in so soon.

And the Big Club beach was shifting scenery too. Umbrellas furled and stowed, patio planks disassembled and stacked, windows boarded up, with herds of golf carts rounded up and corralled for storage.

Wait a second, I thought. The ending to this Indian summer can’t be so predictable; it was too special, too different. Besides it’s been around for hundreds of years, and I’m not done enjoying it!

Just then Islander Trudi Edwards stopped me; not coincidentally we spoke of islands — this one and another in Bahamian waters.

Suddenly, another voice — a loud “cr-r-ruck” as two ravens swooped over our heads, so close I could hear feathers rustle. Their echoing gurgle and croak startled Trudi sitting in her car.

“What was that?! Were those just ravens?” she asked.

I nodded, equally amazed as I knelt down to pick up a tiny gifted cedar twig that one of the talking birds had dropped in front of me.

I stared in awe and watched the ravens veer south, leaving enough anthropological (even biblical!) symbolism for winter.

I realized this was the perfect ending to the “Autumn of our content” but not before I ran down the beach and snapped a photo for my third- and fourth-grade tribe.

Oh, and the unicorn?

How could I not believe it?

spider

Along Came a Spider

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Safe within your eye of storm no tangled web here to weave.
Where shade and lichen have drawn the line
Here, morning’s ray can’t deceive;
October’s feel is more August real.
So deep within the pitch of dark and pines
Autumn’s Jay just can’t believe.

hummingbird

Hummingbird’s Great Spirit Too

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9/4/16

In a blink of an eye, that’s how summer has gone by so far. For me especially on a 9 by 1 mile stretch that is Fishers Island, where the human element swells and surges and by Labor Day, you just want to sit in the froth of that mountainous wave and ask “Wow, did I just ride that?”

The Island’s so small that you can truly believe in asking it for a Do-over and have one too. Like the other evening I spied a Ruby-throated Hummingbird hovering in and out of Hosta beds searching for something sweet.

“Wait just a second while I get my camera” I whispered.

But that was actually on my back porch – 2 minutes down the lane and 2 minutes back. Of course upon returning, the sweet bird had already buzzed by for the night. I have also asked myself for Do-overs. To be more patient with seasonal bicyclists that aren’t paying attention – after all I have pedaled in those shoes. And rather than imagining there is an “only catered to” atmosphere sweeping me under again; this August morning I smiled at a simple but rarely seen box of Familia Swiss Muesli on a store shelf and was grateful for all the other “delicacies” the market carries these days. Another feature of this small stage set of an Island is that certain qualities – nice ones – will resonate bigger and brighter if you’re observing closely.

As naturalist here I often find expressions of “family”; both with wildlife and the human in unique places out in the field and they find me!

Yesterday, a longtime friend Carl (he and my brothers grew up fishing for King Mackerel from the Ferry dock back in the day) took the time to stop by my neck of the woods on Silver Eel Cove.

“I found the most unbelievable Hummingbird nest!” He then started to give me directions up Island by the Driving Range before I blurted enthusiastically.

“Wait! I’ll get my camera”.

“Grab a ladder if you have one”.

I dashed inside for the camera and threw an old rusty hinged wooden ladder in back of the beach car.

Carl sat in his truck waiting for me patiently; I then followed close behind 20 minutes up east.

I remember thinking this is my wonderful get to Do-over in real time on a real tiny Island.

The afternoon’s west wind had picked up but the sun’s foggy swelter stayed its course while branches swayed and bobbed up and down.

It was nearly impossible to figure how this minuscule lichen covered nest designed with such precision was discovered. Then I remembered how tall Carl is. I started laughing when he offered to catch and bend the tree’s limb for a perfect shot.

“No, this is like National Geographic” I jested. “We can’t just interfere with nature’s rhythm and timing”.

Propping the old ladder, he agreed.

I climbed to the wobbly top step. “This is right up there with the Snowy owl’s great spirit – that moment! I whispered excitedly.

And it is.

Bear

Bear Crossing & Citizen Science

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8/22/16

I dubbed him Admiral Bering (pun intended) and quite honestly I knew better when someone insisted “every naturalist should have a stuffed bear”. It’s just not me. But even this unpleasant thought of taxidermy didn’t stop my heart from persuading my head that I would rescue him from probably some smoke – filled bar or a boring life in some overly decorated “den” stacked with volumes of books – even if it did have a spinning globe that lit up. So the Admiral wrapped snuggly in a gray moving blanket set sail on his maiden voyage; disembarking from an antique dealer’s dusty display across choppy Fishers Island Sound aboard the ferry Munnatawket.

We have kept an eye on each other during long quiet winters. A perfectly gnarled piece of driftwood props the Black bear just high enough for his gaze to continue to encourage me to write.

I have felt though that there might be some other reason or purpose for us both – together. Then quite appropriately one morning it dawned on me: Educational Outreach and public awareness.

The idea and commitment of recording observations and trends of this marine environment and its unique ecosystems should not be done singlehandedly. We need each other – ok, and a bear! Much of my work on Fishers Island would not be possible without the support and efforts of the community. I am grateful to recognize that together we can bridge local traditional knowledge with Science; helping to preserve natural history while nurturing stewardship for all generations.

So this summer, keep a look out for bear crossings on a boat’s bow: and a poster that encourages ferry captains and commuters to continue to remark on unusual wildlife sightings and marine debris across our Fishers Island Sound.

And Admiral “I salute you!”

A Welcome Messenger Of Hope

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8/08/16

I knew right away it would have to be a message of hope, this very simple story; in a way, perhaps I insisted on it…

It was during early July – a week of particularly sorrowful news: police shootings in Dallas, unspeakable violence going viral on video, racial tensions taut. I had just received an email that informed me of a double suicide within my Bering Sea tribe. That would be five now, familiar faces with strong ties to their own island, disappearing in their own despair; all gone in just a year and a half.

And the glimmers? They all started with a phone call from Fishers Island summer resident Bob Meyer.He reported a banded pigeon huddled beneath the telephone pole and osprey nest outside West Harbor.

It felt like the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday evening, but the day had been a scorcher and thunder showers were expected to blow in, so I drove right away to meet Bob who was standing watch over this worn out feathered messenger.

Before I knew it I scooped up my now-passenger pigeon and headed home with the bird in the front seat, avoiding two unsettled ospreys circling overhead.

Swinging by the Village Market at closing hour I ran in and grabbed an empty Harpoon I.P.A. box from the help-yourself corner. I smiled, thanking the universe for any humor: I.P.A. – Island Pigeon Association.

By nightfall, tucked cozily in the box in a terrycloth nest, Harpoon sipped lots of water, poked and pecked at a bird seed mix with an added concoction of cracked corn, dry peas, grains, wild rice, even a plain Cheerio or two.

Clearly exhausted, this winged voyager would not fly. Looking like its city-pigeon cousins, Harpoon sat for days with feathers puffed up just outside my cottage under the shade of an elm tree.

While this particular naturalist doesn’t happen to have a pigeon coop set-up, the neighborhood soon found out there was a grounded visitor and kind folks took the bird under their collective wing by keeping a careful look-out.

Marj Beck texted one evening and asked if I knew about a banded bird and sent a photo of what turned out to be Harpoon at the school playground! I could’ve sworn the pigeon was nestled just outside. By 6 a.m. the next morning I rode my bike by the school, but there was no sign of my feathered friend. By 6 p.m. Harpoon appeared back at the cottage, perched under the elm tree. The next day, pedaling east past the Parade Grounds, I waved down school custodian Tommy Doroshevich who was mowing the lawn.

“Hey Tommy, did you happen to see a banded pigeon around the playground yesterday?

“Yeah! It sat all day right outside your classroom – the third and fourth graders you always visit – right there under the window, all day.

I thought it fairly amazing: a bird walking what looked like two football fields away and later returning “home.” Then I got goosebumps – the nice kind – when I remembered the date: the day my Mom had passed a couple years before.

I turned around and headed back home to catch Harpoon and decode the bright yellow band around its leg, labeled “49 IF NLI 2016.” I jotted the numbers and letters down on scrap paper.

The “NL,” which I supposed would be for “New London,” turned into North Long Island.

The “IF” originally was the “Iffy” sensation I felt while trying to locate Harpoon’s owner, but that turned into “International Federation.” It appeared my messenger was of thoroughbred racing stock.

So I searched the internet, piecing together lost banded racing pigeons of 2016 and flight distances across Long Island Sound and Fishers Island Sound. After a few emails and phone messages, I tracked down Tom Newman, the head of the North Long Island branch of pigeon fanciers. Our conversation was pleasant, and of course I made sure to add a few remarkable elements.

“I think this bird is a bit special. It survived two cranky ospreys, walked to the school playground AND back, thankfully outwitted the dog next door chasing a tennis ball through the yard AND there is even a ‘dove interest’,” I said. (Harpoon being a fancier too.)

Then Mr. Newman added his own remarkable element: Harpoon originally had flown from Smithtown, N.Y. I did my own quick calculating: 151.3 miles away, 2 hours 54 minutes – but that’s if the bird took I-95! Someone suggested the pigeon got blown off course and found Fishers Island.

But the question remained: Would Harpoon take wing and return to Long Island?

“Well, I know the owner and he’ll have to figure out how to get the bird back,” Newman said. “Does Fishers Island – I don’t even know where it is – does the island ship live (animals)?”

“Wait a second. I’m not packing this pigeon up to be sent UPS,” I said. “I think its owner should come pick it up. I don’t think it wants a life of competing and racing around anyways.” I was trying to be funny, but really wanted the owner to take some responsibility.

Days turned into weeks. I sent clever updates with photos to Mr. Newman, narrating Harpoon’s love affair with a mourning dove, documenting my first ever Amazon order of pigeon grit, how far the bird walked as it rejuvenated. I even confided that on my birthday, Harpoon happened to fly for the first time up to my open window – the nicest present.

If it’s true that home is where the heart is, then this creature must have felt comfortably at home because we formed a sweet bond – of hope I think it was. A simple pigeon trusted it would be cared for; in return, those heavy sorrows of early July that I has been carrying began to feel lighter with each day I spent with Harpoon.

One evening, three weeks to the day of Harpoon’s arrival, I leaned my bike against the cottage gate and gave my routine call of “Harpooooon,” with a bit of cooing.

Bursting out from atop the canopy of one of the tallest elms on Fishers Island, soaring and tumbling with what appeared to be effortless joy against a purple sky, there went Harpoon!

“May wherever you land feel like home,” I thought.