THE LAST ONE



Fred Sterling was obsessed by a rare bird, not to mention young, wealthy, and doomed. Isabel Hicks shares his obsession, but can she escape his fate?



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Isabel Hicks
Journal, April 3, 2017
Day one – in search of Sterling's purple heron!


Arrived at Sterling Boathouse. Windows open, doors unlocked, but no electricity. Note on the kitchen table, prob. from caretaker: “Gone to get new generator. Use attic bedroom. OK to take canoe out.”

Hopefully the caretaker gets back to hook up the generator before dark. But I’m at Glasmere Pond with a canoe and a waterproof notebook, so I’m elated.

This place is magnificent! Gilded Age, robber baron luxury, the only property built on the pond. The dock has three slips designed for yachts—empty except for a rowboat, and a lone canoe, stored upside down on a couple sandbags.

Unfortunately, the bedroom I’m in must be the servants’ quarters (!). It’s tiny, with just a cot, a bureau, a framed photo of some elderly relative, and a tarnished silver hand mirror.

Sterling was a Yale freshman in 1915 when he identified his new species of heron. I was a freshman too when I fell in love with this bird. I would sketch the specimen in the natural history museum, and dream of coming to this pond to prove the species survived. Five years later, I’m here.

Fred Sterling was the first to see the purple heron, and so far, he was the last. Why no sightings since 1915? Maybe after Fred died suddenly the next year, the family didn’t allow other naturalists on their property. All we know is the mounted specimen in a glass case. The deep amethyst hue of its wings, the elongated neck and ballerina legs, the feathery white plumes sweeping over the nape— magnificent.

I’d love to get a visual ID and DNA sample of Sterling’s heron this week. More likely I’ll just get a perimeter survey of the pond.

I wonder how Sterling felt when he heard the call of the purple heron. “The heron’s call is just as if a flute could laugh,” he wrote. He wanted to collect the bird for science, but he must have also admired its beauty. How long before he fired his gun?

7:45 pm
Still no caretaker. Phone service nil. Will annotate today’s notes in the last daylight. It’s been a strange day, but thrilling.




I.S. Hicks
Field notes, 04-03-2017

2:15 pm. I take the canoe to the south-east quadrant where Sterling made his 1915 spot. A hundred meters from the shore, I drift, so I don’t disturb nesting birds. I hear a grebe, a moorhen, bullfrogs. I listen, I wait.

At 3:47 pm, I detect an unfamiliar call, a rippling, lively sound, with a hiccuping rhythm, and breathy musical tone. “Just as if a flute could laugh,” Sterling said. I agree.

I can’t tell where the heron is situated. The sound bounces on the water. Is it an echo, or multiple birds? Tree branches empty. Marsh grass is still. The sky is clear. I don’t see any birds, but the trilling call rises and rises.

The high-pitched keening gets louder, hysterical. It’s literally painful; I cover my ears with my hands. Where are the herons? Is this an alarm call?

The banshee dies down. I return the canoe to the boathouse, 5:20 pm.



Journal, April 4
Day two, dawn

Yesterday afternoon I came back to the boathouse exhilarated and soaked with sweat. No hope of any more work. I lay down on my cot in the attic, but somehow I felt the eyes of the old man in the photo penetrating me. I turned the portrait face down and slept.

Woke up at first light today. No caretaker = no generator. No generator = no coffee. No coffee = migraine.

Despite the headache, I couldn’t be happier. I’m almost positive I encountered a colony of Sterling’s heron. I have all week to take photos, maybe get a DNA sample if my luck holds.

The herons are out there. I can feel it.



I.S. Hicks
Field notes, 04-04-2017

Entering boat slips at 6:20 am, I am struck by a smell of decay in the water.

A massive bunch of algae bloomed overnight near the docks. Rotting duckweed floats on the surface. Maybe my migraine is to blame, but it smells like rancid oil.

(The following notes have a personal tone, but I include them to explain why no observation occurred today.)

As I examined the algae, I thought I glimpsed another canoe. I guessed the paddler might be a local who could tell me the algae infestation. I shouted and waved.

The canoe drew closer. The paddler didn’t acknowledge my wave. Her slender arms, like a dancer’s, flashed in the sun as she paddled. The smell of algae grew stronger. Taking up the the binoculars, I saw her long hair was wet, dripping into the canoe. Wet hair, tangled with duckweed, oozing mud.

My headache throbbed. I stumbled to the bushes to throw up. When the nausea passed, the canoe was gone. The algae had spread.

No further observation today.


Journal, April 4
Near midnight

I must have slept thirteen hours. My headache is gone. The house is pitch black, of course. Using my headlamp to make journal entry, though it needs recharging badly.

Thinking more about Fred Sterling tonight. Yesterday I felt troubled by the photo on the bureau, a portrait of a white-haired gentleman. Now I feel compelled to look at it again. I think it could be Fred.

In the unsteady lamp light I read the inscription: “Fred, 1916, sophomore year.” He’s just 19, but his hair is as white as an old man’s. Later that year he would be dead.

I wish to God I could turn on the lights. Why am I here all alone? The headlamp flickers, and dies away. I hold up the silver hand mirror to my face. Even in the dark, I can see what I fear. I am a young woman whose hair has gone white, all white.




END