Of birds, wetlands, and fall.
As leaves start to turn on warm colors and days are shortening, Linnunsuo is getting silent.
The wetland was a busy place a few months ago. In the spring, before the ice of the pools even melted completely, a myriad of birds arrived one after the other from their wintering grounds. It's always a warm feeling to welcome back those feathery friends after a long and dark winter, and I wish they could tell me the tales of their long journey - what an adventure it must be! Ducks, swans, cranes, passerines, waders, gulls, geese, terns, birds of prey: some are just passing by, aiming for the vast spaces of the Arctic, but others settle in Linnunsuo for the warm season. They immediately claim their breeding spots, and the area soon becomes filled with life. Tens of bird species nest here every year. Among them, gulls (mostly black-headed gulls, Chroicocephalus ridibundus, and small gulls, Hydrocoloeus minutus) are worth outlining, as they form large breeding colonies whose squeaking hubbub composes the soundtrack of the summer.
Over the summer, gulls gather, eggs are laid, chicks are born, parents protect and shout, juveniles grow, and one day this cheerful band flies away for warmer lands. And suddenly, silence fills our ears. Only the alarm calls of the occasional ducks or waders, some of them being later migrators, trouble the new quietude. Until one day, in the evanescent time between september and october, V-shaped squadrons blacken the sky.
Honking noises, flapping wings. After a couple of recon flights, the coordinated flock lands (more or less) elegantly. Almost every year at this period, thousands of barnacle geese (Branta leucopsis) meet on the Linnunsuo wetland for a few days in order to rest and gather into a larger group before heading South.
North Karelia, Finland's (and the EU's) easternmost region, is a crucial stopover territory for hundreds of thousands of migrating geese. As climate change intensifies and natural habitats become scarce, the migratory patterns of those birds are increasingly disturbed, creating new challenges and fostering human-wildlife conflicts. In Eastern Finland, the arrival of these huge flocks is a relatively new (and significant) parameter to consider for farmers, as the geese can cause heavy economic losses in their fields. This context creates ubuesque situations, with some landowners using laser cannons to try and scare the barnacle geese off their crops. The pressure to obtain hunting permits at sensitive times of the year is on the rise regarding this species, which is protected under the EU Birds Directive and the Bern Convention. Rewilding offers solutions to mitigate this kind of impact by providing suitable habitats for the birds to rest and feed, and reshaping the way we consider wildlife. Linnunsuo is a great example: duplicating its model, along with developing better compensation systems for farmers, would certainly allow for a better coexistence in the face of ongoing environmental changes.
Let’s go back to our flock. The geese, strong in numbers, seem unbothered by the humans watching them without even trying to hide. There’s something hypnotic about this spectacle of nature. The superposition of black and white from the contrasted geese plumage makes you lose track of where one bird ends and the next starts; the constant honking, in tune with the breath of the south wind, puts you in a meditative state only disturbed by the occasional landing of newcomers. The birds seem impatient, ready to go. I wonder if they feel just like me when my suitcase is packed and there’s still a couple hours to kill before starting a long trip. I smile at that thought but don’t have time to elaborate further: suddenly, one goose emits a different kind of honking, beats its wings, and takes off. Before I even realize it, the wave propagates, and within a couple seconds, the whole flock is in the ether.
I’m enthralled by this organized chaos. Black beaks are wide open, feathers are everywhere, webbed feet pedal the air, and poop is dropped all over the water. As the flying mass heads towards me, I can feel in my bones the sound of these countless wings flapping in panic. The geese pass over me, and as amazed as I am, I can’t help but feel lucky not to have been crapped on in the process. Miracles do happen. I scrutinize the shore to understand the reason of this dramatic escape. No fox, no wolf, no wolverine. The answer is in the sky: way above the geese, a white-tailed eagle soars majestically, looking for an easy meal.
It won’t have to wait for long.
The eagle did not need to approach discreetly, as its goal was to be seen. The momentary departure of the flock revealed the eagle’s next prey: one of the geese stayed on the ground.
Statistically, in a group of thousands of birds on a migratory stopover, there will always be individuals who can’t pursue the journey because they are injured or just too weak. For those individuals, it’s game over. A goose is nothing alone, powerless against a large bird of prey or even a determined fox. Do the predators instinctively know that easy hunts await them in these strategic sites at this time of the year, or are they just opportunistically drawn to them by the sound and smell of prey descending from the blue? In any case, no miracle this time: a few days later, the meticulously-cleaned remains of the geese lay by the shore. Clean bones, no teeth marks, feathers plucked and displayed around the carcass: this is the work of a large bird of prey. Maybe the young white-tailed eagle observed earlier ?
it’s not a nice feeling to see this lone goose (in French we’d say that “it pinches the heart”), but I try as much as I can not to project my own conceptions on the bird. I have no doubt it feels all kinds of things, maybe it could even sense - or understand - that the end was near. Nevertheless, the way we experience such a natural phenomenon depends on the prism we use to interpret it. One could limit themself to cry for the butchered goose, but there’s much more to it. This story does not have to be sad: the arrival of these birds is a blessing for local predators, at a time when food becomes scarce. These migrations also represent incredible flows of nutrients that benefit multiple ecosystems.
Branta leucopsis, as a species, is a concept. It’s an idea. A population of barnacle geese is more than a sum of individuals. The barnacle goose is not just this poor lad, the barnacle goose is the flock itself. I may be a scientist, but the animist part of my brain likes to think that what I witnessed was a tribute of the flock - the barnacle goose - to the wetland that sustained it for a few days on its great journey.
It was wonderful to be in the middle of such a frenzy in Linnunsuo again.
Until next time!
