(Photos 1-- Wiggly and Honker, hungry after the storms. 2-- Little Brad. He may be a "lame duck," but nevertheless, a survivor. 3-- Little Brad and friend.)
I went with my two dogs to Central Park the last two night about 8 PM.
On Saturday evening, temperatures tumbled through the 40's and a brisk, cutting wind blew in from the north. Perhaps just a tiny taste of what occurred in NYC just five days before.
Entering the park at 90th Street and Fifth Ave, the first thing noticed was the absence of any people.
No runners, no cyclists, lovers or even people walking dogs.
It was as if the city had not gotten the message that Central Park was officially open after being shut down for 5 days following the angst and anger of hurricane Sandy passing through last Monday.
And "anger" it apparently was in the wake of the storm that in some higher level areas, barely touched Manhattan.
But, Sandy did indeed impact Central Park.
Piles of split and broken tree branches had apparently been gathered by park personnel to be picked up later in some spots.
Other areas were heavily strewn with twigs and leaves violently ripped from trees. Large open gaps among skeletal trees created the memory of what one typically sees in December, not the middle of fall.
"Foil foliage on steroids," one might say. Almost all the trees had been stripped bare in a matter of days.
The path around the Reservoir was closed due to damage and/or danger and weakness of still vulnerable tree limbs..
Nevertheless, I thankfully did not see many downed trees on the walk from the Bridal Path in Central Park through the East Meadow, along the park drive and towards Harlem Mere.
Actual arrival to Harlem Mere, however, told a far different story.
Because it sits as a kind of open space at the very north tip of the park (without protection from nearby buildings or plentiful trees), Harlem Mere is particularly vulnerable to violent storms and strong winds.
At least two large trees were pulled from their roots and lay on the ground like dead dinosaurs. Elsewhere along the paths leading to Harlem Mere, felled branches and twigs were strewn all about as if caught up in violent whirlwinds and having lost the battle.
Slow dread began to creep into my consciousness when seeing the vast destruction around me. I began to doubt.if the two domestic (flightless) ducks and one recovering mallard at Harlem Mere could have survived such wrath and sheer violence of nature.
Walking down a path leading to the lake, I was first struck by how still and empty the water appeared -- with the exception of tossed and floating tree branches.
But, then I suddenly noticed a few ducks swimming near the water's edge.
Walking quickly under a park lamp to get a better look, my heart suddenly leaped.
There, in the small flock of about a dozen ducks, were Wiggly and Honker! The two flightless, barnyard ducks had miraculously survived!
All the ducks followed and immediately hopped up on the embankment even before I could secure my dogs to a park bench.
It was then I noticed one of the ducks with a limp. Little Brad had apparently hunkered down with Wiggly and Honker through the hurricane and like them, survived! Glory be!
"There you are!! Wow, miracles of miracles. How did you guys ever make it through the hurricane?" I asked, bubbling over with sheer delight and relief.
Scampering up to me excitedly, Wiggly and Honker were chattering a mile a minute -- but I am not sure they were actually answering my question.
Rather, if forced to guess what the two noisy ducks were squawking about, it was probably something like this:
"Where have you been? You have no idea what we have been through! Its been horrible here for the past week! Almost all the mallards left. The storms came. We were barely able to hang on. It was SO terrifying! And we have barely anything to eat! Where was the help when we needed it?"
I scrambled for cracked corn and sunflower seeds in my bag. Wiggly and Honker were seemingly devouring it before it hit the ground. Little Brad wedged himself between the two voracious domestic ducks to grab whatever he could. The other mallards clustered around in a circle and likewise, grabbed whatever they could.
I had never seen ducks so seemingly famished with the possible exception of the deepest and most bitter days of winter.
There were no "silly duck games" or "bar room brawls" Saturday night.
Rather, it was time to get serious and fill to any degree possible, very empty bellies.
Last night (Sunday), I returned to Harlem Mere and it was nearly an identical repeat of the night before.
Only this time, Little Brad was the first duck to greet me on the embankment, followed closely behind by the two Khaki Campbell girls, Wiggly and Honker.
Once again, I could not seemingly get the treats out fast enough for the dozen or so ducks who swooped them up like mini vacuum cleaners. Wiggly and Honker were the hungriest and grabbed the most.
After some minutes, Little Brad and a couple of the other mallards, apparently satisfied, left the embankment and returned to the safety and "warmth" of the water.
I gathered my two dogs and began to exit Harlem Mere.
As he always does, Little Brad followed me in the water -- so reminiscent of his name sake who sadly perished in September.
This is still a hard thing to wrap my head around -- the eeriness of how Little Brad is so much like the original Brad who was not even a wild mallard, but rather, a domestic Rouen duck. Its almost as if some of Brad's semi-tame spirit has somehow morphed into the little lame drake. Little Brad seems far more like a domestic duck than the typically cautious and wary mallards.
Wiggly and Honker, although they usually follow me in parting gesture, remained on the grass last night, still grabbing what remaining cracked corn or sunflower seeds could be mustered.
So much for "loyalty and gratitude" I laughed to myself.
Although most of the mallards apparently left Harlem Mere either prior to the storm or shortly thereafter, (there were at least 40 mallards prior to the hurricane) I am guessing the dozen or so observed the past two nights probably returned during the last week (though not sure about Little Brad).
I noted a few more new arrivals last night when leaving the east side of Harlem Mere.
But, more startling than a few returning mallards, were three Canada geese lazily swimming in the middle of the lake!
Migrants I wondered, just stopping over for a brief rest?
Over the past few weeks, a few gaggles of geese have stopped by the Mere, but none seem to stay more than a day. It was good to see things slowly getting back to normal in Central Park.
But, if I am delighted and relieved to discover all my special ducks survived at Harlem Mere, I am downright shocked to hear from my friend, Lianna, that both Jack and Jill (the new domestic ducks at the Boat Lake) survived the vicious storm. I did not think that two flightless, Khaki Campbell ducks would survive a hurricane after only two months of living in the outdoors and not having previously dealt with extreme weather.
It is strange that although so much more "intelligent" and progressed than animals in our so-called, "control" over our environments, we humans are seemingly far more vulnerable than animals to the actual challenges and surprises that nature sometimes has in store for and wreaks upon us.
Mighty and powerful trees come down, but tiny ducks and sparrows survive.
Fascinating.
Perhaps it is true that God sometimes grants favor and blessing to the meakest and most vulnerable of His creations than the more knowledgeable and powerful.
Perhaps we should strive more to live in harmony with and learn from nature than to think we can ever overrule and fully "master" -- or even understand it. -- PCA
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