Photo by Dana Critchlow on Unsplash
Ages ago, I came across a little book called The Snow Geese, by William Fiennes, at a second hand book shop. I’d never heard of it, but I like books that are a hybrid of memoir and nature writing, and it was only $5 AUD, so I bought it and added it to a pile of books on my desk, waiting to be read.
A year or more went by while I read other things. It never felt like the moment to delve into a book written 20 years ago about the writer’s journey across North America to follow the migratory path of snow geese. Then I finished a book by an American essayist – intelligent, critical explorations and analyses of society and culture – and felt like shifting to something that would immerse me in nature.
Lo and behold, there was The Snow Geese, quietly waiting under a stack of other (louder) books.
The book opens with Fiennes, in his early twenties, recovering from illness and multiple surgeries, convalescing in a hotel, accompanied by his parents. He finds a book there, remembered from childhood – The Snow Goose, by Paul Gallico. Perhaps because of his restrictive convalescence, the snow goose in the story resonates. His ongoing recovery is spent with his parents, in his childhood home, and there he bonds with his father over birdwatching, the younger Fiennes developing interest for the first time.
After so much time stuck in one place, restricted and cared for, he feels an urge for freedom, movement and new surroundings. His lingering fascination with The Snow Goose prompts a decision that, when recovered, he will follow snow geese as they travel their migratory route across North America.
In this sense, the story is simple. Man follows migratory path of snow geese from Texas to the Canadian Arctic. Outwardly, nothing that most people would find exciting occurs in the narrative – unless you are a bird watcher! (I certainly can’t claim the ornithological knowledge that title would imply.) Yet only a chapter or so in, I was enjoying the book so much that, when not reading, I’d be looking forward to getting back to it, to find out what happened next.
What makes this book compelling, I decided, is the richness of detail – the attention that Fiennes pays to all manner of things: birds, certainly, but also landscapes, interiors, and people met on his travels across North America. The accretion of detail becomes a rich experience the reader wants to stay immersed in.
Descriptions are rich without ever being overblown, melodramatic or sentimental. Here is Fiennes’ first sighting of snow geese, at Eagle Lake, Texas:
‘It was half past six. I leaned back against the blue car, waiting.
The first sign was a faint tinkling in the distance, from no particular direction, the sound of a marina, of halliards flicking on metal masts. Drifts of specks appeared above the horizon ring. Each speck became a goose. Flocks were converging on the pond from every compass point, a diaspora in reverse, snow geese flying in loose Vs and Ws and long skeins that wavered like seaweed strands, each bird intent on the roost at the centre of the horizon’s circumference. Lines of geese broke up and then recombined in freehand ideograms: kites, chevrons, harpoons. I didn’t move. I just kept watching the geese, the halliard yammer growing louder and louder, until suddenly flocks were flying overhead, low over the shoulder, the snow geese yapping like small dogs, crews of terriers or dachshunds – urgent sharp yaps in the thrum and riffle of beating wings and the pitter-patter of goose droppings pelting down around me. …’1
The book is full of scenes like this – so carefully observed, and so full of detail – that I wondered what Fiennes’ writerly method was. How did he recall or capture so much intricate detail? Copious note-taking, during and after events? He mentions time spent, usually in the evenings, in rented cabins, motel rooms, and cafes, writing. Filming? (If he did film, I don’t think it’s ever mentioned.)
I suspect Fiennes diligently practiced the skill of paying attention. I’ve been thinking about the concept, and skill, of paying attention, as I joined a wonderful online writing course called Essay In 12 Steps offered by Jeannine Ouellette (to paid subscribers of her Substack) on Writing In The Dark and last week (the first week) the exercise was devised to get participants attuned to paying attention.
We all know that Mary Oliver said, Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it. But most of us skip quickly to telling about it, without nearly enough attention…
Jeaninne Ouellette, Writing in the Dark
Ouellette says learning to pay attention will transform our writing and our lives. She acknowledges that statements like this can be an overstretch, but says, in this case, it’s true. From my own experience of a stressful and grief-filled period that altered my perspective on a place I thought I knew well, I can believe this. In that brief period, it was as if the devastation of grief was balanced by the revelation of paying attention. Suddenly, the world seemed full of physical/material elements I’d never properly noticed before. It’s probably not coincidental that it felt impossible, at the time, to bear delving into my internal thoughts or feelings. Turning outward, and observing the world around me, was a sort of restorative balm. Maybe Fiennes’ long illness gave him the same renewed observational power.
Another very enjoyable element of The Snow Geese are the interactions with other people Fiennes encounters on stopovers or bus rides. I feel sure the author must have relied on observational skills and recall – I doubt these conversations were recorded on devices. I imagine Fiennes scribbling furiously in notebooks in the evenings, to capture such a lively sense of people’s personalities through physical description and recalled conversation. The accumulative effect of these is that the reader senses the author’s curiosity and openness towards other people, which is reciprocated in the things they, in turn, share with him.
Eleanor, for example, is a sixty-seven year old woman Fiennes has never met before. He was put in touch with her through her nephew. “Eleanor had offered me a place to stay if I passed through Austin on my way north with the snow geese.” This was on Fiennes’ first night staying with her.
She was holding the skillet’s handle with the black sheep, watching the water.
‘Sometimes I think it’s amazing that water boils,’ she said, ‘All those little bubbles suddenly appear. What tea would you like?’2
Fiennes stays for days with Eleanor, waiting for the snow geese to move north again. As with most of the people he stays with, the connection between them seems immediately open and easy and it’s tempting to imagine that they stayed in contact.
The author successfully conveys personalities through reported conversation, often, when it’s warranted, with a lightly humorous touch.
‘This guy’s come from England to watch geese,’ Ken said.
‘Is that so?’ Jack replied absently, smoothing his hair back, gazing out over the lake and flat fields.
‘He’s going to follow them from Eagle Lake to Canada, Hudson Bay, maybe even the Arctic Ocean.’
‘Each to his own,’ said Jack.
‘He just flew in. Hasn’t event seen a snow goose.’
‘Is that right? Sometimes I wish I’d never seen a snow goose.’ 3
Of these portraits, my favourite is the Viking. Fiennes stays with the Viking’s daughter Karen, and son-in-law, David, in the Riding Mountains, 150 miles north-west of Winnipeg. He is, once again, in a holding pattern, waiting for the snow geese to move north.
‘Why the Viking? I asked.
‘All my ancestors are from Iceland!’ the Viking said, as if he’d clinched an argument.
Moments later, the Viking hears that Fiennes is following snow geese.
‘Geese!’ the Viking exclaimed, slapping the pine tabletop. ‘Jesus Christ! What the holy smoke are they up to, those geese? That’s a wild goose chase! Geese, geese, geese! So many damn geese! Holy Christ!’ He slapped the table again. ‘Those godforsaken geese!’4
A few minutes later, David prepares to show Fiennes his cabin.
“Ok.’ I said. ‘We can talk about geese later.’
‘Holy Smoke!’
This sets the scene for a delightfully funny moment later, when Fiennes has been out walking the family’s dogs. On returning, he finds the Viking cleaning his pickup.
‘You!’ he shouted as we approached. ‘Have you looked up lately?’
‘Where?’ I said.
‘Right here! Holy Christ! Look!’
He pointed. I looked straight up at the sky. Snow geese were flying overhead, blue-phase and white-phase birds, three distinct Vs, coming from the south.
‘What took you so long?’ the Viking yelled at the geese, shaking his sponge at them. ‘You’re late! Jesus Christ! You got people waiting for you! Holy Christ!’5
He could have missed them. Fiennes does not labour over this scene to turn it into a meaningful moment but I, being far less sophisticated, am going to tie it into a conclusion, by noting that paying attention is not just an exercise to do in week 1 of an essay-writing course. If you are a writer, it’s an exercise to do daily.
- Fiennes, William, The Snow Geese, Picador, 2003, p27 ↩︎
- As above, p36 ↩︎
- As above, p24 ↩︎
- As above, p129 ↩︎
- As above, p145 ↩︎
Blathering About Nothing 
Blather away!