Nov. 8th was one of those unique late Fall days in North Central Massachusetts when temperatures rise to uncharacteristic warm levels. A calm, sunshiny, blue skies day that imparts an appreciative feeling for the privilege of wandering through the woods. With abandon, squirrels and chipmunks noisily rustled through crispy dry leaves strewn thick on the forest floor searching for acorns to store away for a coming winter that humans wondered about.

Descending from a place called Jacobs Ladder in Royalston, Massachusetts into the swampy valley at the northern edge of Long Pond I began to see Ruby Meadowhawks flittering about in the sunlight. These are most probably the last dragonflies to survive the freezing nighttime temperatures in this north country.

Around noon I came upon a wooden bridge spanning a brook whose flow was stilled by a backed up beaver dam. An enchanting vista of 'swamp' trees rising defiantly from the blue water beckoned me to stop and enjoy. Four or five dragonflies were sunning on the wooden planks of the narrow bridge.


Unconcerned by my intrusion they continually sprang into the air, chased each other and landed as abruptly. One caught my eye as it touched the water as if to deposit eggs, but something went terribly wrong. It lay atop the water fluttering frantically, its body and hind wings encapsulated by surface tension. It struggled repeatedly to take flight, but it was unable to break free. Minutes went by as its front wings worked against this unknown enemy to no avail.

I thought, should I try to save it? No, don't be so sentimental. It's only a dragonfly. How much longer would it live anyway?

A group of four dragonflies, sunning themselves only four feet away were oblivious to their friends plight. Do they know, I wondered? Couldn't they see this grand struggle for life? Or did they know and not care...some primitive sense that it was over for their friend and there was nothing they could do? Not a one appeared disturbed by the commotion.

For 10 more minutes I watched it struggle. Each fluttering attempt to escape became shorter, then stopped altogether. Though somewhat dismayed and saddened by its predicament I was determined not to interfere with the way of the wild. This was the natural end for such creatures, I reasoned. Or was it? No frogs around to gobble it up. All burrowed away for winter. No flycatchers to snatch it. Long gone.


So there it lay, it's front wings drooping into the water now, a sad sight. Spurious intermittent breezes nudged it a few inches this way and that as the same force that would not allow it to fly now kept it buoyant. I sat, watched, and wondered how it would die? Would it eventually become water logged and sink into the shallow bottom. Or would it simply slowly decompose by bacterial infestation?

Then, something extraordinary happened.

Did I really see that? I tried to focus, squinting my eyes against sun rays reflecting from the waters surface. Yes. It had raised its front wings toward the the sun's warming rays. A slight nearly imperceptible fluttering, a tiny effort to fly. Not dead, but very close I thought. Yet it managed once more to raise its front wings and hold them to the sun.

This tiny creature, now a half hour without sign of life, exhausted, soaked, but unwilling to die. I was touched. That did it! I jumped to my feet. Any creature with this much gumption deserves another chance. Looking through a pile of small saplings cut down by beaver, I grabbed the longest one I could find. How am I going to get this weakened, waterlogged creature onto the stick without drowning it, I worried. Reaching out as far as I could, the toes of my shoes slowly sinking into muck, I was able to just touch the front of the dragonfly. It grabbed on for dear life. Just stay on there! No need to worry. It hung on and I gently deposited it onto the wooden planks.

Casting the stick aside, I knelt and gingerly lifted the dragonfly by its body into the warmth of the palm of my hand and held it into direct sunlight. It just lay there, its wings glistening with water. Within a minute, without warning and so much as a thank you, it darted skyward so fast I didn't even see where it went?

Is such a creature capable of learning from its mistakes, I wondered? Will it have learned more than the others who forsook it? The thought brought a smile. If there be any truth to those dreams, then this will indeed be...the last dragonfly.


Dick Cooper, Nov. 8, 2001