The secret language of birds

It’s become something of annual tradition: Make plans to visit the Cosumnes River Preserve on the first day of the year and, as New Year’s Day always has the gall to follow New Year’s Eve, eventually scrap said plans in favor of couch rehabilitation.

TV marathons and an evening trip to Zelda’s Gourmet Pizza, it turns out, are usually preferable to nature after a festive night celebrating auld lang syne.

This year, however, we resolved to be different and managed to keep the celebrations and libations (mostly) in check. And so, even with only six hours of sleep behind us, we hit the road in time for a late-morning trip down the freeway. Certainly, a hearty breakfast of cheesy scrambled eggs, biscuits and Bloody Mary’s helped for motivation.

Normally, this time of year the grasslands surrounding Interstate 5 are damp and swaddled in fog. At the dawn of 2012, however, the sun burned bright and warm in a clear blue sky—perfect conditions for viewing the preserve’s wealth of avian life. This time of year, in particular, there are countless ducks, numerous geese, herons and, of course, the ubiquitous sandhill crane.

The Nature Conservancy first purchased land for the wildlife sanctuary in 1987, and in the years since the Cosumnes River Preserve has grown to include thousands of acres of seasonal wetlands and rich, riparian forests, all home to a wildlife kingdom that, in addition to its foxes and coyotes, rabbits and mice, hosts more than 250 species of birds, approximately 230 plant species, and dozens upon dozens of fish species.

But you don’t need to know any of that to take in the beauty at the preserve, which is located south of Elk Grove. After a quick trip to the visitor center, where we are issued maps and a brief explanation of what to expect, we hit the nature trail for a leisurely walk.

At first, we have company-solitary bird watchers, adventurous, sporty couples, entire families—but soon find ourselves alone in a wooden thicket with only a lightly worn path to guide us. As we make our way through overgrown marshes and around small, swampy inlets, the sound of crying children is muted in favor of various birdcalls.

Here, there are high-pitched tweet and twitters, throaty melodies and guttural, indignant squawks and battle cries. There are the sounds of lazy ducks at the river’s edge and the melody of hungry hawks soaring overhead in search of mousy prey.

There are, too, noises that defy easy categorization. A loud and fast rustling—the sound of tiny feet trampling on leaves-stops us cold, but even after peering into the brush for several minutes, we find nothing but a wavy choreography of branches and wind.

After an hour or so the trail brings us back to civilization—in this case, a wide expanse of marshy bays populated by birders armed with binoculars and an endless array of preening, feeding ducks and geese. Preserve volunteers have set up telescope stations, and we stop to view the swimming waterfowl up close.

Somewhere up the road, a guide informs visitors, there are swans but, tired and thirsty, we finally trek back to the car, ready for the couch at last.