OLDSQUAW AT FARMINGTON BAY

March 7
Somewhere south of Turpin Dike, the oldsquaw was among the thousands of migrating and resident waterfowl that were rising and settling in great waves across the Bay. It was almost sundown before the small sea duck with mottled black and gray feathers came toward the shore of the dike. The head and body close to the water, with scarcely any wake visible, the oldsquaw seemed to be drifting rather than swimming. The bill, stout and stubby, was pink tipped. It did not have the long pintail (one-third length of body) for which the species was famed, but rather short white outer tail feathers. It was a juvenile male in its second winter plumage.
The oldsquaw swam toward the culvert where I stood partly concealed by a natural blind of tall wheatgrass. He seemed alert and aware, but unafraid. He swam directly into the running waters of the culvert, dived, and surfaced in a few seconds. The water was quite clear and shallow near the shoulder of the dike, and I could see him swim underwater with wings half spread. In a flopping manner which attracted the attention of two hungry California gulls, the little stranger dived and surfaced frequently. The gulls circled above, and since the bird was not injured, they flew away.

March 14
The day was stormy. Choppy waters of the Bay seemed to accelerate the activity of the oldsquaw. A considerable distance from the dike, the young male swam in the company of common goldeneyes and coots. Once he took wing in a quick tilting flight for about 20 yards. He seemed attracted to a female goldeneye, and swam beside her. When separated from her by a flock of scaup, he quickly swam around them to rejoin the goldeneye. This was the only instance observed of an attempt to establish a relationship with other waterfowl.

March 23
The oldsquaw was preening in the same area on the Bay where first sighted. He splashed himself vigorously, then reared up from the water to shake the excess from his plumage. One white feather stuck out from the nape of his neck, and his breast seemed to have darkened a trifle. Having finished his bath, he swam out toward the swarms of ducks that set down but soon rose again in their nervous feeding activities. The arrival of a large spring migration of avocets added to the clamour of the Bay. Although this lone wanderer was silent, its species are very vocal -- hence the scientific name Clangula hyemalis, and are the only duck considered to have a song, a loud musical call or pleasing yodel, depending on the listener. A flock of these ducks, the Indians said, sounded like a gathering of squaws gossiping, and named them Old Squaw (now oldsquaw). Some modern birders would have preferred the name "the long-tailed duck", but the Indians had the last say.

March 30
In the canal curving by an island of cattails at the entrance of Turpin Dike, several Western grebes floated by, their long black and white swan-like necks arched gracefully. In the shallows where both cattails and aquatic grasses were abundant, toads and frogs in their insistant rhythmical repertoire of croaks and chirps called out their territorial and mating needs. Attracted by their reverberatory calls, great blue herons stalked the area to feed on them.
Beyond the third footbridge near a culvert, the oldsquaw was feeding alone in the waters along the shore. The two central feathers of his tail were now almost as long as those of the drake pintails. He dived and surfaced with food in his beak. Along the banks and in the water flowing through the culverts, dace, red-sided shiners, snails, fresh-water shrimp and other invertebrates were abundant. The duck continued intent on his feeding, but a muskrat, alerted to my presence, dived into its burrow with a loud splash. The oldsquaw immediately began swimming out, but parallelling the dike for some distance. As he swam away, I thought his dark cheek patches gave him the appearance of wearing earmuffs. After swimming rapidly for a short time, the oldsquaw in a swift flight close to the water, of about 500 yards, returned to the culvert at the far end of the dike. This was the longest flight I had observed him to undertake, and it assured me he was not remaining at the Bay because of an injury.
At the big bend in Turpin Dike, a pair of ravens were building a nest in a Russian olive tree. A long tailed weasel lived in a burrow beyond the tree. In a slow loping gait, a skunk moved along the dike until it found vegetation in which to conceal itself. Several pairs of Canadian geese had claimed a section of the dike for nesting. The oldsquaw, whistling swans, goldeneyes, the regal canvasback and his mate, and other migrants would soon depart for their breeding grounds, and Farmington Bay would become a nursery for all the creatures that depended upon the flow of life-giving energy that is unique and irreplaceable in the environment of the marsh.