TERN LAKE

Yesterday I stopped at Tern Lake: at the junction of the Sterling & Seward Highways, on the Kenai peninsula in south Alaska. I’ve taken photographs there before and anytime, every time, rain or shine, snow or blow: it’s an awesome place. Vertical slopes, tundra above and wetlands below, you know it’s special even when you don’t know why. There are bears; there are always bears and they’re always special but yesterday was not about bears. On a sunny day the water sparkles: reds, golds and browns of the marsh highlight mountain greens. Up in the chutes, snow still crowns the valley. But clouds were low and it was windy yesterday. All the trees, even the grass waved down the valley under the wind, still I had plenty of time. 

Clouds and wind didn’t promise much  but I stopped simply because I could. I knew with patience, something good would follow. Other cars stopped but only to roll down a window and click a picture, then move on. I was the only pedestrian, walking the shore line. There were birds out, over the lake but too far, even for my big lens so I was studying ripple patterns on the water. Something flashed through my field of vision and I looked out from behind camera. A medium size bird was hovering, not a hundred feet away. My companion in the car, with binoculars and bird book identified the bird, all the birds, as Arctic Terns; why not . . . it was Tern Lake. 

Terns are sea or shore birds, depending on where you find them; famous for marathon flights from the far north to the far south of the planet, and back again with season change. Sometimes confused with gulls, they are more streamlined with unparalleled acrobatic talents. Standing on the lake shore, I was witness to that aerobatic display. They were nesting in the wetlands, away from the the parking lot but food is where you find it and they were looking everywhere. Wind conditions were just right: their swoops, hovering with abrupt stops and intricate changes of direction were entertaining at the least, spell binding at best. Comparing Gulls to Terns is like comparing Pigeons to Swallows. 

I took over a hundred photographs, knowing most of them would be blurred or out of focus still, the more frames you take the better chance of getting a really, good one. There must have been a dozen good shots, a couple of really good ones and one that left me slack jawed. There, just a few feet off the water, working the air like Peggy Fleming worked the ice in long gone Olympics; the Tern was frozen in time and space. When I was a child, I’d tell my mom that I would trade places with any bird, if I could just fly. When she reminded me of all the human attributes that I’d have to give up I would relent, grudgingly. Watching the birds at Tern Lake yesterday, I relived those childlike emotions and aspirations all over again; Deja Vu.