My Great Blue Heron

Video Version Here

There is one, solitary great blue heron that stalks the edges of the island that is directly in front of my lake house. A lovely shade of slate-grey, with a white head and elongated black “eyebrow” that extends beyond the head, and lacy white feathering on the chest, he (she?) is a large and beautiful bird. His neck is usually pulled into a tight S-shape curve, spring-loaded to spear a fish in the shallows. I can sit for hours, with or without binoculars, watching him stand as still as a statue or gracefully wade in the shallows, legs like bent stilts. I’ve watched him spear a fish, then fly off with it in its beak. And oh, his flight! So elegantly, he beats his wings with slow undulations.

He needs a name, but for now he’s “my heron.”

Other than the shore of the island, I’ve also seen my heron perched in a pine tree behind my house and on the roof of a neighbor’s boathouse. I’ve startled him off the edge of my sea wall early in the morning a few times. I don’t yet know where he nests.

Beyond his beauty and grace, the most arresting aspect of this bird is the sound he makes. For all my heron’s loveliness, his harsh squawk is pure pterodactyl roar. He roars whenever I startle him, but he also roars every time he flies, just letting everyone know he is on the move, I guess.

I bought this lake house almost a year ago, and I have watched my heron throughout autumn, winter, spring, and into summer—always in the same location, always the same patterns of stalking, flying and screeching.

Having arrived late one evening in early March, I settled in for my coffee the next morning on the porch, and heard lots of squawking coming from the island. It wasn’t the usual grunting of the cormorants who inhabit the island; they were the dinosaur squawks of several great blue herons. I counted sixteen herons that day, each one a part of a nesting pair, all in the same two pine trees. They weren’t scattered across the island; rather, they were all congregated in the tops of those two spindly pine trees, displacing the cormorants to a nearby dead tree. More showed up as the month progressed, maybe twenty-four in all; it was hard to keep count as they came and went so frequently. I had no way of knowing which one was my heron, but I’m sure he was up in the treetops with the rest of them when he wasn’t hunting on the island shore.

Then a few pair of great white egrets joined the nesting herons in the same two treetops. Neither of these are small birds, and I was amazed that the trees could withstand the weight of that avian community. The bickering between the herons extended to the egrets, but I witnessed no fights or bloodbaths.

The babies were either too far away or were eventually so large that I couldn’t tell who was an adult and who was a fledgling. When I returned one day in June, the two pine trees had been retuned to the cormorants. Only my heron was left, staking in his same spot across from my house.

I was fascinated with all of this, so of course I had to research these behaviors. Herons do nest together each year, usually in their same nest, in the same tree, year after year, but with a different mate. Instead of a “rookery,” it is termed a “heronry.” They prefer to nest on islands to avoid predators. Males’ mating behaviors include stretching their necks skyward. (“Look at my beautiful long neck! I am the most handsome great blue heron you ladies will ever see!”) It takes about 27 days for a clutch of 3-6 eggs to incubate, with both parents taking turns with this job. The hatchlings fledge at about 55 days, but return to the nest to be fed because their fishing skills do not match their parents’. After another 3 weeks, they are ready to leave the nest permanently.

Sometimes I feel like that heron, solitary, but content to follow my own path. I am self-reliant and listen to my inner wisdom, making my own way forward. I don’t need solid strength to keep upright, just balance, patience, and determination. Then, when I have had enough alone time, I am happy to join my family for a bit of squawking.

Mainly, though, I’m just grateful that my heron has a home directly in front of my porch, and that he allows me to observe him so closely. What a gift!