Gratitude Monday: Make way for goslings

Dunno what was going on in the Branta canadensis world this weekend, but twice as I was driving around, there were little goose parades across NoVa highways.

Saturday morning I was heading south on Route 28 (speed limit 55, meaning everyone’s doing 60 or better) and exiting to Old Ox Road. That exit is one of those buggers where you have less than a quarter of a mile to sort yourself at highway speed in the turn-off lane with people using that lane at about 35 mph, having just made a cloverleaf turn to merge into highway traffic. So it’s always a bit of an accident waiting to happen.

Well, there I was signaling to get into that merge lane, eying the cars coming off the cloverleaf, when I spied a family of Canada geese (the scourge of NoVa)—mama, papa and about three or four goslings that were maybe a couple of months old—leaving the verge and starting across the merge lane and heading across Route 28. I began to break and looked for a place to get out of their way, because remember: there are flocks of rednecks and techies speeding along that road, and I did not fancy the notion of saving the geese at the expense of my car and me being rear-ended. Drivers coming off Old Ox also did the same, but of course they weren’t yet at 55, so it was a bit easier for them.

Well, something must have clicked in the little bird brains, and the family reversed course and retreated to the verge, I hope to consider whether they really wanted to cross three lanes of southbound traffic, the median strip and another three lanes of northbound traffic. Me—I got onto Old Ox and proceeded to Trader Joe’s.

Then yesterday morning, on Hunter Mill Road in Reston, another gaggle—several adults and several goslings—were about 60% of the way across the road. The one car headed toward me and I both stopped and waited until the little trail of webbed feet had safely cleared before we continued our journeys. At that time of a Sunday morning, at least there wasn’t the line of cars in both directions unable to see why you’re stopped in the middle of the road and laying on the horns.

And here’s what I’m grateful for: that considering the impatience-level in most conurbations’ drivers, people (myself included) were willing to slow down and stop for our feathered friends. Maybe it was just that they didn’t fancy having to hose down their cars, or to deal with wailing kids for the rest of their journeys. But we all made way for goslings, at least twice. And the 20 second pause didn’t ruin anyone’s day (to my knowledge).

In fact—the very fact that for 20 seconds or so, on busy roads in the shadow of the District They Call Columbia, we managed to get along with immigrants to our land, gives me hope.