Great Blue Heron
Ardea herodias
A natural history of the great blue heron and an individual's journey from hatchling to adult.
Hatchling
A storm approaches, and the scent of ozone fills the air. A great blue heron emerges from her shell in a high, swaying nest atop a great, creaking sycamore tree. Wind meets the young bird before she can stand, and her parents clack their bills in triumph. Just beyond the cradle of her home are dozens of nests overlooking river backwaters, many of which hold eggs yet to reveal their young. Herons have nested in this colony for generations. The sycamore trunk is speckled with decades of whitewash, and the ground underneath holds the bones of fledglings that did not survive. The young heron will not see this with her own eyes for many weeks. Her world consists of the bluish-green egg of her yet-to-hatch sibling and her parents’ bodies as they take turns brooding her, keeping her warm and dry.
Nestling
Down gives way to feathers, and she no longer needs her parents to protect her from the spring chill. She tests the edge of the nest—claws curling around bark, wings fanning in clumsy bursts that rattle the neighboring branches. Her sibling, four days younger than herself, is not ready for such adventures and toddles about the nest, unsure of her feet. Though the young heron is older, she will spend many more weeks learning balance and coordination before true flight. She must be patient with herself, for one misstep can mean a fatal fall. She freezes when a shadow passes. Is it a hawk, an eagle? She learns that stillness is as important as motion. Lucky for her, the shadow is not a predator, but her father returning with a meal that smells of the river.
Fledgling
One morning, as her sibling practices feeling the air under her wings, the pull of air under her own meets her courage. She lifts away from the nest. Neck curved, legs outstretched, she skims awkwardly above treetops and mudflats, avoiding fatal obstacles. Over the next few weeks, she will explore the mosaic of river, slough, and field as her flight muscles and knowledge of the world strengthen. For now, she circles just far enough that the nest is a faded blur between leaves. She dares not leave the cacophony of the colony too far behind. Her heart racing, she turns back home.
Fishing
In the humid late summer, she stands ankle-deep where river meets slough. She is slow and unsure, but intent upon watching the flashes of silver that dart about her legs. Her neck is pulled back in a tight S, ready to strike, but she misses more than she hits, and more often than not, she goes hungry. She smells the abundance of the wetlands, an earthy mix of mud, algae, and prey. She’ll eat anything she can catch—crayfish, frogs, turtles—and knows, by frightful experience, not to take prey she cannot swallow. A faster strike forward, and she hits after an afternoon of trying. Hunger and patience speak the same language, and she is nearly fluent.
Flying
As the season turns and mornings are met with ice, she lifts her broad wings just before dawn, following a path she has never seen, only feels in her bird bones. Her wingbeats are slow and steady. Though she flies alone, she enters a migratory path shared by herons, egrets, and bitterns. They disperse among milder marshes and backwaters, areas the ice does not know. In this new place, she roosts among strangers in unfamiliar trees. She must learn the story of a new place and find its hidden treasures in waters that don’t smell like home.
Returning
In mid-spring, she flies north over the backwaters where she was born. Her colony is already full of new life, and she is not ready for mating yet. Older adults must feed and care for their young and, with harsh rok-rok calls, defend their hunting territory. She is not welcome, so she finds a quiet oxbow far from the colony, where other juveniles feed, and she perfects her hunting skills. She learns that prey does not just come from the water. It can also be found on land, though she must be extra cautious. There are many perils—dogs, people, fences—but it is safe here. She eyes a hole where she spotted a ground squirrel emerge and stands stock-still until the sun rests behind the trees. Later, she roosts, content with her catch.
Mating
Another year later, a new urge calls. She comes back to a familiar bend in the river. Long, feathered plumes spray from her chest and back, and her bill flushes red. She has chosen her mate, and they roost in the great sycamore tree, the tips of their bills locked as they move their heads back and forth in a dance of seasonal commitment. Over the next several days, they renovate an old nest. She stands tall on a nearby branch, and her mate presents her with twigs to add to the weave. The air fills with the calls of other pairs. The noise of the colony brings comfort. There is safety in numbers, and she will lay her eggs soon.
Circling
Last night, she fended off a hungry great horned owl, and one wing aches from the effort. Still, she must care for her young. They are always hungry. She returns with a salamander meal as her mate stands guard. The sharp kak-kak-kak of her nestlings breaks against the heavy air. She feeds them and settles close as storms gather again, the air smelling of rain and memory.