The beach in winter

Looking for a snowy owl + plant of the week

This past weekend, Priya and I drove south to Duxbury Beach—a long, thin barrier peninsula that shelters a large bay and salt marsh from the breakers. In the summer, we would have set up beach chairs and Priya may have first gone for a run while I tested out the water. The plan was only slightly modified on this visit: she ran down the peninsula and I stumbled down the beach under a stiff wind and drizzle, vaguely looking for an owl and getting fairly damp. Besides the swimming, essentially all the same summertime activities one remembers fondly.

My goal during Priya’s run was to scout out the salt marsh, beach, and dunes and see if I could spot a snowy owl from a distance so that we could then see it together. The dunes shield the beach from view of the road, so I had to search the beach on foot.

This time of year, snowy owls are fairly easy to see in the Northeast. Having moved south from the Arctic tundra, they spend their time on open habitats including beaches, salt marshes, and airports. Circumstances the past few years have kept me from getting a good look at a snowy owl—in the Midwest, they’re less common, sometimes appearing in the grass of highway cloverleafs and other open spots.

I should note that there are often issues with photographers creeping up extremely close to get a mind-blowing shot of a snowy owl’s face. This stresses the bird out, just like it would stress you out. Duxbury specifically has had issues with people walking right onto the dunes and unleashing dogs near owls this year. One of the best ways to see an owl and other sensitive birds is to stay in a car, which birds sort of consider a part of the landscape rather than a potential threat.

Unfortunately all I was seeing on the beach was seafoam blowing around like bath suds being thrown by a toddler, extending south for miles. I shouldn’t say unfortunately. The amount of foam was a spectacle in its own right. The granite stones, cloud-colored sand, the foam, and dark stormclouds above—they all fit together in a mysterious way, a counterweight to July’s blue skies and clear green water. I watched a small shorebird try to fly straight into the wind towards the sea, get blown upwards, try to fight its way to sea, and get pushed higher and higher in the sky.

I took the walkway through the dunes to continue along the road. The summer’s seaside goldenrods and beach roses had all gone dull brown. Among them, though, wormwoods set out tentative winter leaves atop dead stems. I spotted a black-bellied plover along the bay, but still no owl. Priya ran past me and waved, now on the last part of her run. I knew I should turn around soon.

I saw what seemed like a white fencepost a quarter mile away in the dunes. It appeared so large that I was pretty sure it wasn’t a living creature, but I looked through binoculars just to be sure. It seemed to have a round top, black flecks on the white background, and to shuffle around a bit. Could that actually be the snowy owl? I wondered. One good thing to do when you’re unsure is to ask another birder. This you can do even from a quarter mile away. I shifted my binoculars to the road parallel to the shape and saw a lengthy telephoto lens sticking out of a car, aimed at the shape. Confirmed.

I turned around to meet Priya at our car, which was in a lot near a long wooden bridge across Duxbury Bay. Around this time, the sun broke through the stormclouds—first creating a dramatic scene in grayscale, then in full color.

I met Priya as she ran back along the bridge. We shared stories of the odd weather. I told her about the owl and we agreed to drive down and see it. The gravel road was riddled with large potholes, but our low-clearance hatchback managed. We pulled over near a few other cars for a head-on view of the owl (head-on being an imprecise term with an owl, which can look over its back). The extensive black barring marked the bird as either a female or immature male. The owl swiveled its head and fluffed its feathers to stay warm — the wind was still strong. After snapping a couple pictures and passing the binoculars back and forth, we drove home with a new sense of the beach’s strangeness.

Plant of the week: Wintergreen

Being more aware of winter-growing plants—in order to bring them as gifts to you, dear reader—has helped me learn a raft of new species this season. One of my favorites so far has been wintergreen (Gaultheria procumbens), a member of the blueberry/heath family that’s green all year and grows close to the ground.

The leaves produce minty oils that appear in chewing gum. The flowers are white and urn-shaped—something I’ll have to look for this summer.

Having once seen the plant, I now see it all over—right now it’s thriving in the increased light levels that reach the forest floor. The berries are edible to humans as well as ground-foraging animals like deer and grouse. I have often wondered—how does an herbivore make a living all winter besides chomping on dead grass and ancient acorns? Wintergreen berries are one way. It would be nice to know what a deer knows about finding fresh food in January.

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Possum Notes is a weekly newsletter about wildlife and landscapes around where I live. It’s produced on occupied Massachusett and Wampanoag land.