As we walked slowly along the north berm of Dalmead Lake, an irrigation storage location of the Western Irrigation District, the increasing warmth of the sun chased away the early coolness of a late July morning. Heading east, we hoped to see species unique to the quiet pastoral farm and ranch lands bordering the lake. Miles from any paved road and with farm houses distant, the songs and calls of each bird, coupled with the buzz of insects made our morning music. Out on the lake small islands, weed beds and spits of land were being frequented by wildfowl and shorebirds. A variety of butterflies danced along the path edges, using unpredictable flight plans, landing unexpectedly on clover, dandelions or goat's beard.
Speaking in hushed voices, the sound of our footsteps on the graveled berm alerted the Savannah Sparrows, Willets, Killdeer, Red-winged Blackbirds and Spotted Sandpipers of our presence. Young sparrows flitted quickly over the maturing wild grasses and clover, landing on the barbed wired tightly strung between the grey fence posts. Killdeer alerted other birds and a Ruddy Duck family headed away from the shoreline. Red-necked grebes moved slowly out into the depths of the lake, past the floating weed beds. A nervous Willet, called twice before leaping from the rocky shoreline, heading out onto one of the sand flats.
Stopping here and there to snap photos for identification purposes of what we could see several yards out onto the lake or small islands, we realized we were in the company of several species. While looking down the nearly half mile long gravel path, the brilliant hues of purple clover, the bright yellows of tall dandelions and goat's beard flowers, all caressed by the dark green of the long grasses, themselves heading out with seedpods, I came to the realization that peak summer for life had arrived.
A hollow feeling, that of knowing that bird migrations were just weeks from beginning, amplified a sense of loss which consumed my thoughts. Migration. That loss of two thirds of Alberta's species for several months, reminds me that I am aging. A year is slipping away. A cycle in the life of those free to fly is about to enter its last chapter for the year. It's in the solitude of this quiet location, a personal favorite of mine, that I find unease, yet clarity and inner peace, each arriving in gentle waves.
We are back at our Rusty Red Focus, ready to drive home after a few hours of immersion in the magic of a quiet place. It's been an incredible adventure. As we crawl north, windows down, heading away from the lake, two amazing scenes lift my thoughts. A Swainson's Hawk with a fresh kill in its talons, lands on a nearby post, posing momentarily. Less than fifty yards away, a Loggerhead Shrike appears in the mid-morning sunshine, eventually leaving its perch, likely finding we were lingering a little too long to take photos. A melancholy morning, has given way to the majesty and beauty of life.