Driving across the isolated dirt-packed prairie road in South Dakota had been sublime, not a soul had been seen all afternoon. I was alone but not lonely, I had Betsy, my camper van, for company. She was old and fat and comfortable; we had shared many adventures together.

 

    Today, Betsy and  I were nearing the end of a 4,500-mile journey of discovery; we were retracing the Lewis and Clark exploration trail of 1804, we were doing it in reverse from the mouth of the Colombia River in Oregon, to St Louis, Missouri.

​

    The late afternoon sun was erupting into a spectacular display of gold and russet. It was time to pulled off the track, parked Betsy on some soft scrubland and make camp for the night.

​

Already the the thermometer had dropped below zero. I was ready to sit with a welcome mug of soup and watch the sun's final rays settle whilst enjoying the solitude.

​

     I switched off the blanket of country and western music pouring from the radio, but instead of the expected tranquil silence, the air was alive with the mass 'honking' of Canada Geese.

​

      Migrating groups of geese had been spotted flying overhead for the past three weeks; usually seen in social groups of 20–40 birds.  They would occasionally give out a solitary ‘honk’ as they changed leaders in their trademark vee formations.

​

 However, the 'honking' I heard now was as thunderous as the traffic on Broadway.

​

      They were a quarter of a mile west of me in countless formations, circling and dropping to land in what looked like a newly ploughed field, thousands more were arriving in a convoy that followed the path of the Missouri River.  

 

    I crossed the dirt track to the fence and saw that the 'ploughed field' was in fact a recently cropped field of maize that was now covered by a heaving ocean of birds already on the ground.

​

    This was no isolated gaggle of geese; it was a highly organized mass migration of fowl escaping the frozen climes of Canada, on their way south to the warm lushness of Louisiana. 

​

     They had dropped into this ‘Maize Motel’ to rest up for the night, to dine on the freshly cut stalks and seek safety away from human habitation. Already there were 15–20 thousand on the ground.

​

    The noise and din of their cackling conversations from a quarter-mile away was extraordinary; I imagined shouts of:

    "Hey! This Maize is great, better than last night’s sagebrush."        "God! It's good to stretch the legs again."  

     "Yeh, it's not a flap too soon, I'm exhausted."

     "Did you see that amazing lake in North Dakota?"  

     "Has the Gander Family arrived yet?"  

     "Hey! Keep an eye on Donald, or we'll lose him."  

     "Clear a space, here come the Quaker clan."  

​

    This was too good an experience not to be a part of.

 

     I grabbed a thick fleece to guard against the gusting wind, and a video camera to capture the phenomenon.

  

  As I leapt the fence to make my way to the greatest pow-wow in North America, I spotted an owl sitting silently on a pole, mesmerised by what was taking place.    

​

      I crept to within 100 feet of this cacophony of sound and stood in awe of what I was witnessing. Suddenly, the honking ceased, all was silent, an eerie hush hung in the chill dusk sky ... then without warning, a death-like screech went up, followed by a huge rush of air – the geese had spotted me and were panicking.

 

   Total chaos and confusion prevailed as 20,000 ungainly Canada Geese tried frantically to become airborne at the same time; wings beat and churned the air, collisions and cursing occurred, a whirlwind of feathers and fluff welled up as distraught screams and shouts were made in an effort to gather themselves into family clans and formations.

​

  Don't panic! Stay together guys.

​

     What had I done? The natural order of nature should never be tampered with. I had broken the rules and approached too close. Pandemonium reigned. It was a sad sight and I was to blame.

​

     I could do nothing. I stood there in a pool of shameful guilt, there was nothing I could do but watch helplessly as they gained height. They grouped and regrouped, until at 500 feet they finally headed westward desperately hoping to secure a little more daylight in their search for food and a safe haven.

​

      Slowly, I turned toward the waiting warmth of Betsy and followed my own lengthening shadow across the loam, the last of the sun’s rays cast a cold mocking sting of scorn on my neck.

​

     "I'm sorry!" I cried out. "I'm sorry!" 

     But they didn't hear. No one heard.

   

     “YooTwit! Yootwit!” Cried the owl. Then swooped away.  

      I was alone on a vast cold plain.

​

     "I'm sorry," I whispered.

     But there was no one to hear, no one to know.

​

     Except the owl ... it knew.  

     I dragged my feet ... I knew.  

    A milky moon gazed down ... and He knew.