Life On the Lake 

Dedicated to the Joys of Waterside Living

436

Miriam Lancaster's delightful picture of a great blue heron. No, it was not taken at the lake, but at the Japanese Gardens in Seattle's Arboretum . (It appears to me to be a young bird because it is lacking long, black crest feathers. (She is a neighbor, down on the lake's Lavender Cove, and can often be seen kayaking in her bright yellow craft, snapping pictures.)

The lake has numerous resident pairs of herons. Once I saw a pair mating; I was in a row boat, fishing for trout, and they appeared above me, briefly coupled, came to the ground nearby, and separated, seemingly indifferent to each other. But not to me. It was like an aerial dogfight, or a brief skirmish between ancient pterodactyls.

Unforgettable.

Late autumn sunset; that speck on the horizon is our resident osprey

435

At mid-week the lake temperature was in the mid-Forties, or 8 degrees C. The trout were still taking, but not avidly; I remembered from spring how they began to hit again first time I gave them a try, and the lake stood at 42 degrees. F. Now, with some nights near freezing and clear skies, the lake must be a bit lower in temperature.

Just before dark, I took three nice rainbows of about 12 inches. All were brightly colored, but had lost their spawning appearance. Pretty fish, they fought well and often went into the air, but lacked a certain zip and dash. They had not put on much growth since April, and I wondered if the algae-killing devices we are using might have contributed to this factor, though, and we are certain whether they are working at all, and  have reduced the zooplankton population of the lake enough to cause this lack of growth.

And hatchery trout of this size might well not feed on zooplankton still and need larger food, such as mollusks, spinyray fry, and various insects.

The winter visitor returns

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The cormorants returned to the lake last week. Well, two of them did. That is enough. They are a sinister looking bird, what with that hooked beak designed for ripping flesh. Last spring I hooked a trout on a set line and, the fish struggling down deep in the lake, a cormorant nailed it. And I inadvertently hooked the cormorant, who wouldn't (or couldn't) let go. It was quite a fight. Gradually I worked the bird into shore, but couldn't land it. A neighbor, a 14-year-old boy, helped bring the bird to another neighbor's dock, where the struggling cormorant reluctantly gave up the fish. It was almost dead, of course. I released it to the lake to die.

The cormorant deserved it, of course. And needed it for his next meal. I fish catch and release, which I am beginning to think is ignoble. That being what it may be, I welcome the cormorants back this winter, though a bit reluctantly.

An odd bird, it swims with its head up in the air, a bit snootily, I think, and often am given the impression it is wearing a monocle, as though it were an actor in a British movie from the Thirties. (I have trouble shaking this illusion.) And the way the bird frequently rearranges its wings, as though dissatisfied with their position, or else soiled with oil or some other undesired substance. . . .

I find them fascinating, never the less. In flight they often are not far off the ground, or water, but when they are, they fly magnificently swift and economically. Not a wasted wing beat.  And though they reduce the lake's fish population considerably, why not? They, rather than me? It is part of the ecological balance of the lake--which I should be not a part of but, alas, am. Perhaps I am the enemy of the lake I so love.

Hope not.

Thanks for the visit,
Robert C. Arnold, Editor