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The Geese of Beaver Bog By Bernd Heinrich
Reviewed by Clea Simon, SF Chron., June 6, 2004
Sometimes the only way to see nature is up close. That's Bernd Heinrich's take on the wild, and one this award-winning naturalist has already shared with readers in such books as the best-selling "Winter World."
It's an approach that can differ from the more objective observations of stricter scientists, and its tight focus on small ecosystems also sets Heinrich's work apart from that of other literary ecologists, such as David Quammen.
But what this approach lacks in scale, it makes up for in warmth, with the result that Heinrich's latest book, "The Geese of Beaver Bog," is as much a loving memoir as a naturalist's log.
Heinrich's ninth book chronicles the life and loves of the Canada geese that nest each spring in the Vermont pond by his home. It begins in 1998, when the author's young son adopts two goslings, Poop and Peep. Poop doesn't survive infancy, but Peep grows up to leave the humans who have raised her and return to the wild. When she reappears as an adult in 2000, she mates first with one gander and then another (contradicting the accepted lore that geese mate for life), and Heinrich chronicles the next two years of her life, through the various cycles of nesting, feeding, territorial posturing and migration.
Peep, recognizable because of a scar on one eyelid, remains fairly tame into adulthood, allowing Heinrich to spy on her nests (notably one ill-fated group of hatchlings) and social behavior. Through her, the author becomes involved in the pond life, learning to recognize several geese with various habits, including widely diverse parenting styles. Some of his digressions (such as when a resonant chorus of bullfrogs piques his interest) lead to pages on other species. Peep, however, remains the emotional core of the book -- you could call it Peep's diary -- and it's her tale that readers will connect with.
This style of writing, with its detail-oriented first-person narrative, evokes a gentler time. Although Heinrich is a professor of biology at the University of Vermont, he seems to have endless hours to devote to observation, and no qualms about rising at dawn or just before in order to sneak up on a nesting couple. It can be charming, both personal and warm, as when a gander, whom the author has named Pop [
], starts to honk and nod his head in the direction of the pond.
"Even I could read his body language," he writes. "It said: I want to go! " Often, this simple style approaches poetry, with images that raise his subject from pond level to history. "I awoke on the night of June 10, 2001, hearing deep resonant tones like those from the plucking of giant bass fiddle strings," he writes, upon hearing bullfrogs. "A Silurian swamp could have sounded like this, I think, as I lean out the bedroom window and listen to the beat. This is a concert I cannot miss."
That same detail can drag, however, especially when the author becomes so involved in the geese's social interaction that he seems compelled to describe every move. "Slowly Pop walks toward me and stops within about twenty feet." Such detail is often enlivened by an observation of another species -- a woodcock or the pond's beavers -- but not always.
As these examples demonstrate, although Heinrich draws on a prodigious scientific background, he is far from an objective observer. Even beyond his initial relationship with Peep, he likes to interact (and sometimes interfere) with the life of Beaver Bog. Playing tug-of-war with a weasel, using a mouse the tiny carnivore has killed, he comments, "This could be fun!"
After tying the mouse carcass to a tree with a shoelace, he then steals the weasel's next meal, a baby vole, to see what it will do. The weasel is eventually chased off by a gander, and leaves bereft of either of his prizes. Beyond a natural sympathy for the underdog (or under-mustelid), such behavior contrasts starkly with the kind of studies done by such naturalists as Jane Goodall, who became aware of how her presence influenced the animals around her and did her best to mitigate this influence.
Neither weasels nor Canada geese are endangered species, of course, and perhaps this kind of involvement is more permissible when it takes place in one's backyard. As presented, it is perfectly understandable -- playing with a weasel does sound like fun -- and contributes to Heinrich's friendly appeal. Throughout this book, in fact, the author comes across so much like a curious neighbor that when his erudition shines through (as when he explains the flashes of lampyrids, i.e., "lightning bugs"), it's a bit startling. Still, such explanations are interesting to hear, and Heinrich remains the kind of neighbor one would love to have -- unless one happens to be a weasel.
Clea Simon is the author, most recently, of "The Feline Mystique: On the Mysterious Connection Between Women and Cats" (St. Martin's Press).
Reviewed by Clea Simon, SF Chron., June 6, 2004
Sometimes the only way to see nature is up close. That's Bernd Heinrich's take on the wild, and one this award-winning naturalist has already shared with readers in such books as the best-selling "Winter World."
It's an approach that can differ from the more objective observations of stricter scientists, and its tight focus on small ecosystems also sets Heinrich's work apart from that of other literary ecologists, such as David Quammen.
But what this approach lacks in scale, it makes up for in warmth, with the result that Heinrich's latest book, "The Geese of Beaver Bog," is as much a loving memoir as a naturalist's log.
Heinrich's ninth book chronicles the life and loves of the Canada geese that nest each spring in the Vermont pond by his home. It begins in 1998, when the author's young son adopts two goslings, Poop and Peep. Poop doesn't survive infancy, but Peep grows up to leave the humans who have raised her and return to the wild. When she reappears as an adult in 2000, she mates first with one gander and then another (contradicting the accepted lore that geese mate for life), and Heinrich chronicles the next two years of her life, through the various cycles of nesting, feeding, territorial posturing and migration.
Peep, recognizable because of a scar on one eyelid, remains fairly tame into adulthood, allowing Heinrich to spy on her nests (notably one ill-fated group of hatchlings) and social behavior. Through her, the author becomes involved in the pond life, learning to recognize several geese with various habits, including widely diverse parenting styles. Some of his digressions (such as when a resonant chorus of bullfrogs piques his interest) lead to pages on other species. Peep, however, remains the emotional core of the book -- you could call it Peep's diary -- and it's her tale that readers will connect with.
This style of writing, with its detail-oriented first-person narrative, evokes a gentler time. Although Heinrich is a professor of biology at the University of Vermont, he seems to have endless hours to devote to observation, and no qualms about rising at dawn or just before in order to sneak up on a nesting couple. It can be charming, both personal and warm, as when a gander, whom the author has named Pop [
], starts to honk and nod his head in the direction of the pond. "Even I could read his body language," he writes. "It said: I want to go! " Often, this simple style approaches poetry, with images that raise his subject from pond level to history. "I awoke on the night of June 10, 2001, hearing deep resonant tones like those from the plucking of giant bass fiddle strings," he writes, upon hearing bullfrogs. "A Silurian swamp could have sounded like this, I think, as I lean out the bedroom window and listen to the beat. This is a concert I cannot miss."
That same detail can drag, however, especially when the author becomes so involved in the geese's social interaction that he seems compelled to describe every move. "Slowly Pop walks toward me and stops within about twenty feet." Such detail is often enlivened by an observation of another species -- a woodcock or the pond's beavers -- but not always.
As these examples demonstrate, although Heinrich draws on a prodigious scientific background, he is far from an objective observer. Even beyond his initial relationship with Peep, he likes to interact (and sometimes interfere) with the life of Beaver Bog. Playing tug-of-war with a weasel, using a mouse the tiny carnivore has killed, he comments, "This could be fun!"
After tying the mouse carcass to a tree with a shoelace, he then steals the weasel's next meal, a baby vole, to see what it will do. The weasel is eventually chased off by a gander, and leaves bereft of either of his prizes. Beyond a natural sympathy for the underdog (or under-mustelid), such behavior contrasts starkly with the kind of studies done by such naturalists as Jane Goodall, who became aware of how her presence influenced the animals around her and did her best to mitigate this influence.
Neither weasels nor Canada geese are endangered species, of course, and perhaps this kind of involvement is more permissible when it takes place in one's backyard. As presented, it is perfectly understandable -- playing with a weasel does sound like fun -- and contributes to Heinrich's friendly appeal. Throughout this book, in fact, the author comes across so much like a curious neighbor that when his erudition shines through (as when he explains the flashes of lampyrids, i.e., "lightning bugs"), it's a bit startling. Still, such explanations are interesting to hear, and Heinrich remains the kind of neighbor one would love to have -- unless one happens to be a weasel.
Clea Simon is the author, most recently, of "The Feline Mystique: On the Mysterious Connection Between Women and Cats" (St. Martin's Press).
, it sounds like a fascinating book! I'll have to pick it up. 
