My Witt's End

Soaring Above It All

2012-01-26T16:37:00.001-05:00

120 feet straight up--you can't beat the view

Rain stopped the afternoon of the day before, yet, we were admonished to arm for Tuesday morning with our usual kit: SPF, bug dope, snake boots, rain gear, cameras, binoculars and lightweight clothes. Thus, prepared for anything, we set out at 0-dark-30 for the Canopy Tower.
Canopy towers have become de rigor in many places catering to birders throughout South America. The primary reason being that many species of birds and other animals rarely come down to ground level. If you want to see them you have to ascend to their level.
In the case of Napo Wildlife Center—a place so deep in the Amazon basin that it’s a two-hour canoe transport from the nearest motorized boats—the canopy tower is about 120 high. Climbing what equals a 12-story building could be fraught with hazards, or so some of our participants imagined. Little did we realize the day’s dangers would be found at ground level.

Safe in the arms of a 400-year-old Kapok tree

Fishing bats and Long-nosed bats flapped past at ear level, accompanying us along a tannin-stained stream that lead deeper into the jungle. The stream narrowed and the water thinned until we reached a point where the canoe bottomed out. Wisely, the guide said we have to hike in from there, about 800 meters, to the base of the tower.

Spix's Guan seen from above

When you approach a canopy tower, it’s best not to look up. When you make it to the platform above, it’s best not to look down. As I stood on the platform, 120 feet above the ground, a gentle breeze rustling my hair, I thought about how this Kapok tree was getting its start about the same time as America—when Jamestown was being settled as the first permanent address in Virginia. It was easy to imagine that no matter which direction I looked, white men had probably never walked.
We spent about three hours watching a variety of birds and monkeys move among the tree tops. The occasional breeze was welcome as it blew away the pesky stingless bees. Then it was time to descend.

This Cinnamon-throated Woodcreeper seemed as interested in us as we were of him

On our return to the canoe, our guide, a member of the indigenous Kitchwa community and known throughout the area as the Bird Whisperer, sensed (I can’t find a better word for his uncanny ability to locate birds) a rare Grey-winged Trumpeter. This velvety-black and white bird the size of a really large chicken or a small turkey sports a greenish bill and has a penchant for bugs kicked up by wild pigs—Piccaries. Heedless of danger, and thinking we were of like mind, Jorge plunged into the jungle.
We had little choice but to follow. The irony of a pack of bird watchers fearlessly bushwhacking through the Amazon jungle, chasing wild pigs, really didn’t set in until later that day—when we stopped shaking. No way could we keep up with the guide. Suddenly we realized we were all standing still, listening to far-off thrashing and grunting sounds, some of which were probably generated by the guide.
About the time I was going to ask my colleagues what we’d do if the pigs ate the guide, he popped up, grinning like he was having the time of his life. It seems the herd of pigs went further into the jungle and the chase was over. He easily walked us out to the trail, leaving us with a tale to tell. Just another day in the jungle.

More on Ecuador

2012-01-25T10:37:00.000-05:00

A name like Purple-bibbed Whitetip says it all

Thanks to all the readers who sent notes and made comments about the colorful bird pix in my latest blog. It’s true, the birds of Ecuador are fabulous. It’s also true that many of the more than 400 species we saw were rather nondescript. Here are some more birds and observations from birding two weeks within a few kilometers of the middle of the Earth.

Tawny Antpitta

Rufous Antpitta

In our experience, we saw every shade of brown known to the art world. Most of these species had the word rufous in their name to describe the head, wing, breast, tail or some other body part. As one of our non-birder participants said as we labored over our daily sightings, “Why are you bird people so fascinated with bird rumps?”

Just another day in the cloud forest

It’s hard to describe some birds as pretty. Birds such as the One-colored Becard, Drab Water Tyrant, or Dull-colored Grassquit are not as beautiful as their names might imply. If you’re a “lister,” however, they all count as another checkmark on the scorecard.

At this reserve, to prevent bird-window strikes, the folks tied rocks to ribbons. So, the bird flys toward the window, hits the ribbon and the rock goes ...

So Many Birds—So Little Time

2012-01-22T17:55:00.000-05:00

Bizarre, yet beautiful: Hoatzin

Birding Ecuador is like drinking from a fire hose. With more than 1,600 bird species in an area smaller than the State of Nevada, and dozens of habitats (compared with half that number of birds in all of the United States and its half dozen or so habitats), a taste is all you’re going to get. But it’s a taste that makes you want to go back for more.
Susan and I just returned from two weeks of Ecuadorean birding, along with friends we met on our Cuban adventure two years ago, and some new friends. We split our time between a week high on the northwest slopes of the Andes, trekking to as high as 11,500 to see the Sword-billed Hummingbird, then a week in the Amazon jungle; two more diverse habitats would be hard to find.
Since a photo is worth a thousand words (or whatever), here’s 10,000 or so.
Enjoy!

The Sword-billed Hummingbird, with its 4-inch bill, is unmistakable, even in the rain

Blue-winged Mountain Tanager

Booted Racket-tail

Capped Heron

There's a reason they call it the Cloud Forest--10,000 feet up and panting

Red-capped Cardinal

Snail Kite

Velvet-purple Coronet

Violet-tailed Sylph

No Free Lunch

2012-01-05T13:24:00.000-05:00

Cooper's Hawk+Northern Cardinal=lunch

At the lunch table this afternoon I was joined by Mr. Cooper. He’s becoming a regular tablemate these days. I was enjoying a hearty bowl of soup, while he opted to bring carry-out—in this case a Northern Cardinal. We chose not to share tastes as some of my luncheon regulars do.
I find it interesting, people who enjoy watching film of Bald Eagles plunging to catch a fish, or Cheetahs whacking a Springbok, get all squeamish when looking at or talking about birds eating birds, especially at the bird feeder. Hey, why do you think it’s called a feeding station?
Anyway, while Mr. C and I were enjoying our meals of choice, one of our not-so-bright squirrels decided he wanted to get in on Mr. Cooper’s catch. We both watched as this guy slowly climbed the tree—as if no one could see him. Mr. Cooper paid less attention than I and continued to work on the packaging surrounding his lunch.

At least his packaging is biodegradable

When the squirrel got within about three feet of the hawk, tails flared. The hawk flared his wings as well and said something in animalese that gave the squirrel pause. I used my magic decoder wristwatch to interpret what he said. Here it is, verbatim: “If you want a free lunch, become a politician.”

This story ends with Mr. C flying off to a nearby fir tree, me catching my breath, and the squirrel checking MapQuest to see how long it will take to get to New Hampshire.

Why Little Birds Have Heart Attacks

2012-01-03T15:41:00.000-05:00

Cooper's Hawk, up close and personal

The familiar and unwanted thud of a bird hitting our picture window caused me to glance up. When this happens I usually walk over to the window, look at the ground and try to guess the specimen we’ll next be donating to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History.
Before I got out of my chair, however, I saw the cause of the window strike. A Cooper’s Hawk had scattered the feeder birds, one of which hit the window and dropped into the hedges, thinking it was flying to a safe haven. The hawk opted to land on a nearby branch and contemplate the vagaries of life, I suppose. He seemed in no hurry to leave in search of lunch elsewhere.

I watched as he watched, trying to see what he saw. I detected movement in the hedges about the same time he did. He launched from his perch directly at me. Granted, I outweigh this guy by about 168 pounds and more than four feet in height, plus I was well ensconced behind a couple layers of glass, yet I still jumped.
He landed atop the feeder array, and stared straight at me. Thinking what? I wondered what might a Dark-eyed Junco or House Sparrow feel as those talons and beak approach at lightning speed.
Welcome to the natural world.

And your problem is?

Learned Behavior

2012-01-03T14:41:00.000-05:00

Tufted Titmouse on the job

Nothing like a bit of snow to bring the birds flocking to the feeders here in northeast Ohio. The Lake Erie Snow Machine is giving us a show of what winter is supposed to be, not what’s it’s been.
This morning, as I glanced in the direction of the feeders between other tasks, I kept thinking I needed to refill one or two of them to see if we could attract a Red-breasted Nuthatch or maybe some Pine Siskins. I was reluctant, however, to go out in the horizontal snow storm to do so. They’d get by without my help. In fact, I’ve read various reports on how much birds depend on us humans for food in winter months and the number seems to be someplace between 10 percent and 20 percent.

White-breasted Nuthatch gets by with a little help from his friends

Then came the not-so-gentle tap on the window.
We have a Tufted Titmouse that visits regularly. He (or she) has taken it upon himself to be the conscience of the neighborhood, making sure the feeders are full and the water right up to the edge of the bird bath.
His way of signaling the need for replenishment is to sit on the windowsill edge at the top of our picture window and tap on the glass, not always lightly, until he gets our attention. This 6.5-inch, 0.75-ounce ball of fluff can hammer loud enough to call me up from the family room in the basement. He goes through a series of gyrations until I get the message.
Lesson learned.

Hang on guys, he's putting on his coat

A Sight for Sore Eyes

2011-12-29T00:33:00.000-05:00

No law about blocking another guy's trash with your trash in Missouri

Eastern Kansas. I’ve been on the road for a couple weeks. Sitting in the hotel’s dining room (sorry, it’s the only descriptive word I could think of that would pass the censor) this morning, unabashedly listening to the conversation at the next table, glad that the knife I was trying to saw through my waffle with was plastic, gave me pause.
The woman at one table was from Iowa, the couple next to her from South Dakota. They were in agreement on a number of things: The Interstate highways were wonderful, large round hay bales in the field were so scenic (I held my peace, honest), and the open spaces were just like home.
I wanted to join in but was in a bit of a hurry to head back to St. Louis so I opted for I-70 rather than the back roads I prefer. I decided to take in the scenery that so enchanted these people who spoke like visitors from another planet.
My conclusions are: The Interstate highways are as exciting as watching clothes in a dryer, gimmie square hay bales any day, and where the hell are the open spaces?
People who only travel the Interstates in the cities can’t see the scenery to begin with because of the sound barriers (don’t get me started on those atrocities) blocking the view. And when they do get out in the country, billboards, actually litter on a stick, blocks and distracts what might pass for something interesting. It’s a toss up which state tosses the worst visual crap in the face of drivers, Indiana or Missouri.
Why, as taxpayers, suffering to use these highways, do we have to be assaulted by junk mail? Talk about exploitation of the 98 percenters.
I tried to find a number for how many billboards there are in America and it’s not an easy chore. The number is someplace between 500,000 and a million. Close enough for government work. And a lot of it is government work. Laws regulating how close trees can be planted to the highway so that they do not intrude on the drivers’ view are in place in 28 states. Florida has a law that prevents trees within 500 to 1,000 feet of the “view zone” of a message telling you something you don’t really care about.
Four states, Vermont, Hawaii, Alaska and Maine prohibit billboards. Any wonder why they’re at the top of everyone’s most beautiful list?
And who doesn’t love those fancy new brilliant, giant, flashy pieces of trash made with light-emitting diodes? You can see them from 20,000 feet in the air, or a half mile away on the ground. They’re billed as energy efficient because they consume only 4.8 kilowatts of electric power per square yard per hour. To put that into perspective, the average household in America uses 950 kilowatts of energy per month. A sign measuring 30 feet x 90 feet would use about 1400 kilowatts per hour, or 34,500 kilowatts per day or more than a million per month. These numbers are based on my proper use of the kilowatt conversion tables.
These disgusting signs are huge money makers for the billboard industry because they can change messages rapidly, attracting more advertisers. Forget about safety and distracting drivers. We’re only going to see more of them.
It’s time to deal with this litter on a stick as we would with any other trash found along the highway. Let’s put it all in a bag and send it to the recycle center. Let the kids in the minivans watching senseless videos look out the window and see something they can’t identify—like a cow or a barn. They might even have to talk with their parents.
Where’s the Monkey Wrench Gang when we need it?

Gentelmen, start your engines

… And We Lived to Tell the Tale

2011-12-08T18:10:00.002-05:00

Long-tailed ducks, Niagara River

Oscar Wilde said, “Niagara Falls is the bride’s second disappointment of marriage.” Well, to my knowledge, he was not a birder, nor was his wife, so her disappointment would have been understandable—for several reasons. Before this gets too complicated I think I’ll move on to our latest adventure.
Susan and I, along with birding buddies Karin and Pat, are freshly back from a trip to the wilds of Niagara Falls, Canada. The falls is viewed as the place to go for sighting gulls in winter. Any wife who is a birder, as is mine, and picks up three life birds as Susan did, would hardly consider a trip to Niagara Falls a disappointment.
Our trip was weeks in the planning and seemed like a good idea at the time. However, when we were trying to keep warm in 37-degrees, fog and rain so hard we couldn’t keep the binoculars clean, no one would admit they were first to suggest the holiday.
Going all the way to Canada did seem a bit peculiar. Currently, here in northeast Ohio, we have some great birds visiting from the Arctic. Adventure, however, can be like a drug, the desire for which increases with the habit.
I was particularly excited about going. A Razorbill, a bird of the high Atlantic regions, had been seen off and on for a couple weeks. It would be a lifer for me; one I missed this past spring while working on Project Puffin in Maine.
One requirement for these kinds of adventures, along with checking the weather, is to constantly check updates on the rare bird alerts. I’m beginning to think neither is a good idea after all. First, the weather promised to be about as miserable as it can be. Second, the day before we left, the Razorbill was seen—floating belly up in the Niagara River. These were not exactly good omens.
I’ve been at the birding game long enough to know, however, like the line from that great Rolling Stones tune says, you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need. And, to keep the musical metaphor rocking and rolling, you get by with a little help from your friends. We ran into a mixed flock of birders from New York and Canada. They helped us spot some rare gulls—Iceland and Franklin’s to name two. They also gave us great directions to find the Little Gull.
And, while we might not have logged the species we were hoping for, in the end, after we dried out and stuffed ourselves full of food and Guinness in a great Irish pub, we got what we needed—a great time.
There was one last thrill to be had. Coming back into America from that foreign country to the north, with all the current border security these days, Customs Agents are definitely no-nonsense kind of people. So, when the serious-faced agent, wearing a gun belt with more tools hanging from it than a house carpenter asked if we had anything to declare, I was more than relieved he did not hear the quip from one excited person in our car, “Just a Black-legged Kittiwake.”

Black-legged Kittiwake from above the Whirpool, Niagara River

Preparation+Opportunity=Luck

2011-11-19T18:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you can't see the birds for the birds

Whether birding or fishing, often it’s better to be lucky than good. To take advantage of luck, however, one must be prepared and in the right spot at the right time. So it was for us today.
Susan and I, along with birding buddies Karin and Pat, joined about 50 other intrepid souls for a day of pelagic birding on Lake Erie, sponsored by the Black Swamp Bird Observatory. By definition, pelagic means, “found in the open sea,” or “deposited on an ocean bed.” Here in northeast Ohio, Lake Erie is as close as we can conjure up for an ocean. And with gull season heating up, getting out into the open water heightens your chances of seeing lots of species. It also affords the opportunity for a rare spotting of a jaeger species, either Pomarine or Parasitic.
Both jaeger species have been seen in our area this season so we had our hopes up and our fingers crossed. Well, actually we had the hoods up on our jackets and our fingers held a death grip on the gunwales of the good ship “Holiday.”
Thousands of Ring-bill and Bonaparte Gulls escorted us nearly the entire day, hoping for some free popcorn--chum. Streams of Red-breasted Mergansers in flight, estimated in the thousands, stretched for miles in all directions. Sharp-eyed ornithologist Dr. Andy Jones located a Red-necked Grebe among hundreds of Horned Grebes.

What's hiding in the trough of that wave?

Finally, someone in the stern of the boat shouted that he’d seen a jaeger resting on the water. With astute handling, our trusty, fearless captain swung the ship about and we approached a first-year jaeger who seemed as curious about us as we were of it. Cooperatively, it lifted off the water so we could see its diagnostic markings. I hope our waving and shouting meant something to it.

Pomarine Jaeger

Golden Opportunity

2011-11-18T13:43:00.000-05:00

Silver dollars--honest

It’s not everyday you get to witness a new piece of currency being entered into the American system. In fact, it’s quite rare. So, Thursday, when the opportunity availed itself, Susan and I flipped a coin and it landed obverse—that’s heads in coin talk.
The occasion was the introduction of the President James A. Garfield silver dollar, issued at Lawnfield—his family home, Mentor, Ohio. The U.S. Mint has been quietly issuing dollar coins honoring the presidents, four per year, in their order of election, since 2007. And before you government-conspiracy types get your underplunders in a twist, the reason you haven’t heard of this is because the program suffers from lack of publicity.
Thursday was the fourth visit to Ohio for the folks from the U.S. Mint, with more dedication ceremonies to come, since Ohio has had six or nine presidents, depending on whether you want to count the state of birth or where they lived when elected.
"The Presidential $1 Coin series connects Americans to inspiring life stories like President Garfield's," said United States Mint Acting Associate Director for Manufacturing Marc Landry. "He was the last President born in a log cabin, fatherless by the age of two, drove canal boat teams to earn money for college, became a classics professor and college president, rose to major general in the Civil War, and enjoyed a long, distinguished career in the U.S. Congress."
 In addition to Landry, speakers at the event included Rudolph Garfield, a great-grandson of President Garfield, and Dr. Allan Peskin, professor emeritus of history at the Cleveland State University, and officials from the National Park Service.

From left, Dr. Allan Peskin, Mark Landry and Rudolf Garfield

Peskin, who served as the event's keynote speaker, is the author of "Garfield," the definitive biography of James Garfield. He noted that because of Garfield’s shortened term as president, cynics might say, “Garfield should not be honored with a silver dollar. Maybe a dime would be better. Well, Garfield is not to be shortchanged.”
Among Garfield’s many accomplishments was the fact that more than 80 percent of the voters turned out for the election in 1880, hard to imagine in this day.
About 150 people, including many descendants of President Garfield watched the “pouring” of the coins, a huge bucketful, at the end of the ceremony. Kids 18 and younger all got a free silver dollar. The new coin is not actually silver. It’s gold in color and made of copper, zinc, manganese and nickel. And the late president would appreciate that it will have a life span of 30 years, is totally recyclable, unlike paper money he vehemently opposed and which only lasts three years.
If you’re interested in the Presidential Coin program, check it out at www.usmint.gov.

Visitors had an opportunity to tour Lawnfield, Garfield's family home

Lucreia Garfield's talent showed in painted tiles framing the fireplaces at Lawnfield

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

2011-11-17T20:03:00.000-05:00

There's a bird out there--honest

The wind was blowing hard, an estimated 30 knots out of the northwest; temperature 34 degrees and waves of lake-effect snow blinded Susan and me, along with a couple other dozen birders this afternoon. A perfect day for birding along Lake Erie. Today was special.
On Tuesday, intrepid birder Craig Holt reported a Black-tailed Gull, sighted in Ashtabula Harbor. Alarms went off all over the nation. This is an Asian species seen on rare occasions along the west coast of America, and on even more rare occasions in the northeast. Never, until Tuesday, in Ohio.
For us, Ashtabula is only a bit more than an hour’s drive. We talked to one chap who’d just driven straight through from Hendersonville, North Carolina, 600 miles away. He was only one of many birders making the pilgrimage to northeast Ohio to see this rare bird.
I’ve had my share of easy lifers, the kind you just accidently find, or chase down and there it sits, smiling, waiting to be photographed. Today’s bird was more of a challenge.
When we got to one of the more-reliable places where the bird had been seen, yesterday, we saw a flock of birding friends huddled next to a building, trying to stay out of the wind. Friend Dwight Chasar said he’d been on the spot almost seven hours and no bird was to be found. Not a good report.
Within 20 minutes our fortunes changed. A birder from another group came running over to us, arms waving, shouting mostly intelligible words. It went something like this:
“It’s up! The bird’s up.! Right side of that pond!”
In unison scopes and binoculars swung to the right. People started shouting, “Where? Where?”
“To the right of that pole.
“Which pole?”
“Right!”
“I thought he said left!”
“The one to the left of the yellow pole?
“Right!”
“No, left of the one on the right!”
“There he is! Right behind the Herring Gull to the left of the light pole on the right side of that coal car.”
Well, there were an estimated 300 Herring Gulls in the flock in front of us, more than a quarter mile away, through a maze of wires and cables and coal cars. And did I mention it was snowing like crazy?
Suddenly the snow stopped and the sun popped out. Everyone caught their breath. The semi-cooperative Black-tailed Gull moved just enough for us to see the color differentiation of its mantle compared with hundreds of other gulls. And as a final salute, in a bird manner, he mooned us, or turned and wagged his black tail.
It don’t get much better than that.

End-of-the-Season Fantasies

2011-11-05T15:09:00.000-05:00

So I asked the farmer’s daughter about her cup size …
Oh, maybe I should back up a bit. Here in upstate New York it’s the end of the trout fishing season, but that doesn’t stop guy from dreaming. When I got up this morning, with dreams of the nearby Battenkill River dancing in my head, it was just barely 30 degrees. I was not prepared for Arctic conditions, which meant the whole fishing expedition would probably be a fishing expedition.
Driving east out of Saratoga Springs, just before the town of Schuylerville, thoughts of the two brown trout I had managed after a million casts last fall had me planning for battle. I came up over a rise and there, on the south side of the road she sat; the Farmer’s Daughters’, so I had to stop.
This little shop has about the best ice cream east or west of the Hudson River. The Maple Walnut flavor is to die for. I asked for a medium. That’s when she handed me this huge, overflowing cup and I said something like, “That’s really huge for a medium.”
What did you think I was talking about?

This Land is …

2011-10-28T17:16:00.000-05:00

Along the Clear Fork

I wanted to get an early start on the day. It started as one of those mornings when you’re unsure if you ever went to bed the night before. I stayed up to watch Game 6 of the World Series, which might go into the books as the best World Series game ever, or at least until another thriller comes along. The alarm went off before dawn and I was a bit rattled with less than five hours of sleep.
It was a gorgeous, star-filled sky that greeted me as I loaded my fishing tackle into the car. All those stars, not the kind for navigation, necessarily, more like the kind you can wish on. I was heading back down to the Clear Fork, a branch of the Mohican River, where Susan and I fished five days ago. I used to fish the stream a lot and our excellent day last Sunday whetted my appetite for more.
A giant go-cup of Starbucks in place, and Adele blasting out of a half dozen speakers in my car—I was on the road. Temperature just lifting it’s head above freezing guaranteed I’d be warmer in the water than on the land.
Ninety minutes later I swung into the dead end gravel drive that skirts the grain mill in Bellville and was on the water a bit after 8. Not bad.
On my third cast I had a great strike. The kind that keeps fisherman on the water longer than they should stay, and brings them back next week, filled with hope like a high school kid who thinks the best looking girl in the class winked at him and it was not some dust in her eye.
Some law-breaker was burning leaves at this early hour and it gave me hunger pains. Power to the people.
I worked a familiar stretch of water for four hours with nothing to show for my efforts save a squeaky rotator cuff. I managed to get myself into a spot that was deeper and a bit more challenging than I anticipated so I opted to head back to the car by cutting across an open field, rather than negotiate my way back on the stream. That’s when I saw the sign. Make that plural, signs.
Square, cobbled together pieces of wood that had nothing on them, at least from my vantage point, spaced about 10 feet apart. I walked over and read the other side. It said, in effect, No Nothing, Especially Fun. The stream was posted! No trespassing.

Immediately, Woody Gutherie’s comment came to mind. When he saw a sign that read “No Okies,” he said what was on the other side of the sign was meant for him. I wasn’t trespassing anyway, I was fishing.

A beautiful stretch of land forbidding fishers and anyone else from entry. What are the property owners afraid of, litter? So they mess up the place with hand-made signs and pieces of twine, guaranteed to keep the likes of me out—unless one approaches from the other side.
Songs can be like tattoos. In 1943 Woody wrote, “This Land is Your Land.” The song is as relevant today as it was then. It was and is about greed; the haves versus the have nots.
We are the 99%.

Perfect Timing

2011-10-24T10:11:00.000-05:00

Susan Fishing the Clear Fork

So, when I reached the top of the mountain after an arduous climb, I asked the guru, “What’s the secret to lifelong happiness?” She put down her Kindle, looked at me and said, “Timing.”
That’s it? I’ve long understood that. If I’m ever lost in the woods, someplace where there’s not another soul in sight, I know I can always draw a crowd if I stop to pee. Simple.
Fishing Sunday I proved my theory and wasn’t even out of sight of the car. In fact, I was leaning against the car.
Susan and I spent a glorious day challenging trout on the Clear Fork River in central Ohio, one of few streams in our state cold enough to support browns and rainbows. Fishing should not be about competition; it’s about sport. And in true sport there are no winners and losers. But people always ask. On this day, Susan had a half dozen fish caught and released before I had a line in the water, almost. By the end of the splendid day we both had caught enough fish to brag about, saw plenty of birds to compare notes on, and had full tummies after a well-earned streamside lunch.

A Great Blue Heron fishing buddy

Within the six-plus hours we fished I saw maybe four cars pass along the road. A couple guys stopped to fish, then headed downstream from our spot. We had a spectacular stretch of river all to ourselves, all day. So, when It was time to take off our waders and head for home, I thought the two-hour drive would be more comfortable if I removed the sweat pants I was wearing inside my waders and slipped into my jeans.
Standing on the road, not a soul in sight, I proceeded to undress. About the time I had one leg out of the sweats and the other stuck in the cuff, along comes a giant silver Cadillac creeping at about five miles per hour, driven by a little old lady on Sunday. Classic. She was so low in the seat she had to look through the steering wheel to see the road. The window slowly lowers and, grinning, she says, “Fishing?”
Seems that the lady really wanted to chat and stopped right next to me as I balanced on one foot trying to preserve some dignity.
I thought Susan was going to choke with laughter, instead, she came to my rescue. She dashed around the car, set up an effective screen and chatted it up with the woman who was bent on telling us her life story—a long life story, it was, too. When I realized that the odds of this action to draw a crowd were not in my favor, I managed some fancy footwork, for a guy my age, got into my jeans and acted like nothing much out of the ordinary happened.
Just another day when my timing was a bit off the mark, or on, depending on one’s perspective.

Hey! Wasn't there a fish on the end of that line?

Netting Birds in Cleveland

2011-10-22T10:34:00.001-05:00

Rare Hudsonian Godwits at Ottawa NWR made a spectacular appearance, thanks to northwest winds

Anyone familiar with bird banding knows birds must be trapped in fine-mesh mist nets before they are banded and released. And while banders do all they possibly can to insure the safety of the birds, accidents occasionally happen and birds die. I try to be philosophical about the process and hope the banded birds, or at least their bands, provide important data for the birding and science communities.
There’s another type of net out there, following if not trapping birds—capturing information and more. The mesh of the net has just tightened a bit. It’s part of an electronic net; another connection among birders in the local patch of birding networks. This net does no harm to the birds, although it might cause some frustration to birders—all part of the game—when a rare bird’s name pops up.
For those of us who enjoy birding, the current top spot for following what’s happening is the Ohio Ornithological Society’s list server at www.ohiobirds.org. There are regional and national lists as well, but the closer to home you can find information, the better.
Now, thanks to the efforts of two of our area’s premier birders, Jen Brumfield (www.jenbrumfield.com) and Gabe Leidy, we have a great source, www.northnw.wordpress.com. What Jen and Gabe have done is add the weather to their bird reports, a critical element to birding that everyone talks about, but until now, few have done anything about.
Knowing which way the wind is blowing is key to locating rare birds in this area where we, ornithologically speaking—live or die at the mercies of Lake Erie.
Jen and Gabe seem to be prowling the edges of America’s north coast, constantly, regularly posting information for those of us who would like to be out there, facing those 30-knot winds in 10-below temperatures. Right. Some things are better left to the young and intrepid among us.
And if you’re interested in great bird art, check out Jen’s Web site. This artist’s talent belies her age. She has an international reputation for her art and her skills as a birding guide.
Now, we no longer need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

This Yellow-rumped Warbler rides the winds of migration through northeast Ohio

When is a Tunnel Not a Tunnel?

2011-10-15T22:30:00.002-05:00

The ones what got away

This is one of those fishing stories that says a lot about great scenery, etc., and not much, make that nothing, about catching fish.
Friday, I was standing on the banks of the Middle Fork of the Red River in east-central Kentucky. A more beautiful spot to fish for trout would be hard to find. As fishing buddy Tom says, “Trout don’t live in ugly places.” This spot was beyond gorgeous.
I had been warned that the water was low, however, as I examined a fishy-looking place just up from a foot bridge that crossed the stream, I was sure I could walk across the stream and not get my boot laces wet. Low water was an understatement.
It was obvious that the water was too low to support anything, especially trout. About that time a dozen brown trout shot past me heading for who knows where. It was one of those moments when all you can say is, “Hmmmm.” Fortunately, I had a camera in hand, not a fly rod, so I guess you could say I caught a dozen or so fish on electrons …
When you’re in a foreign country, like eastern Kentucky, and want to find fish, it’s always best to ask the locals—assuming you speak the same language.
Here’s the way the conversation went:
Local: Well, ya can git out there on the four lane and head up to road 77. It’s aways, just past, well that’s not a tunnel up there.
Me: Huh? It’s what?
Local: Not a tunnel.
Me: Aaa. If it’s not a tunnel, what is it?
Local: It’s not a tunnel.
Okay, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck so I knew when I was being the butt of a joke.
Off we went, up to road 77 and sure enough, what we found was Nada Tunnel. Not only was there a tunnel, there was a whole town called Nada Tunnel.
Damn fine day to find anything, even Nada Tunnel, if not a fish.

No Bad Days for Birders

2011-10-10T10:51:00.000-05:00

American White Pelicans in formation over Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge

I think it was Lance Armstrong who said words to the effect, there are no bad days. Some days are just better than others. And while the bicycling great was referring to life in general, maybe racing in particular, it also applies to birding.
Sunday was one of those rare days when lots of things came together to make it one of the better days: It was to be our first birding day with friends Pat and Karin, recently returned from a 14-month hiatus in Africa, weather was about as good as it gets in northeast Ohio in the fall, and Jason Lewis, manager at Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge (ONWR) opted to open this sprawling natural area to cars—a rare occurrence.

A Great Egret does its morning stretching

Typically, ONWR does not allow auto traffic into the interior of the refuge. You can hike the area if you’re among the intrepid. This fall, Lewis and his ambitious crew worked especially hard to control water levels to encourage shorebird habitat during migration. The results of their efforts, especially after many battles with Mother Nature, were some dynamic birding spots.

Any perch works for a Great Blue Heron on a sunny morning

Loaded with high spirits and plenty of coffee, we packed into Pat and Karin’s new birding car well before dawn for the two-hour-long trip west. We anticipated a day of hectic hunting for small birds usually seen at a great distances, lots of walking and some great food. And while this was partially the case (especially the food), it proved to be a quite relaxing day with larger birds putting on spectacular displays, the kind that had the crowd oooing and aaaing.
Birds rarely seen in this area were a bonus: Red-necked and Wilson’s Phalaropes, Hudsonian Godwits and American White Pelicans all were crowd pleasers. In fact, the pelicans put on a better show than the Navy’s Blue Angels, according to some birders.

Colors of fall warblers can be confusing. Here, a Cape May Warbler

Warbler migration is about finished in our area, however, some late moving birds provided accents of color—and identification challenges—in the wooded areas. The day ended with about 70 species recorded, full stomachs and even a bit of sunburn. We’ll be replaying this day in our brains a lot when the snow flies.

Hardly a back-breaking day of birding

No More Sunsets—Maybe

2011-08-29T21:20:00.000-05:00

Driving up to western Michigan this week for some R&R (that’s retirement and romping), I promised myself that I’d skip taking photos of that big, hot glob of gas. I’ve expended way too much film (in the old days) and too many electrons in the past 20 years on pictures no one wants to see. Or, they’re tired of seeing them, especially in those dreaded PowerPoint presentations.
I stuck to my guns and held out for all of 15 or 20 minutes the first night. The sun is picturesque and such a willing subject. I figure she likes to have her photo taken because she’s still a hot babe (with the occasional hotter flashes), lives out of town—way outta town, and everyone talks about her being the center of the universe.
So I really had no choice. I had to take some pictures—maybe just one or two I told my 99+-year-old mother-in-law. She didn’t pay any attention to me because sunsets are the reason she comes to western Michigan each summer as she has for more years than anyone can remember—including her.
As those of us from Cleveland are so fond of saying, just wait ‘til next year.

When the Going Gets Good …

2011-08-04T19:14:00.002-05:00

The bee balm still offers food for migrating hummingbirds

Maybe because I’m a creature of habit, I enjoy the habits of other creatures. In particular, the migration habits of birds. I had a reminder this evening that The Great Mandala is still in spin.
I was minding my own business, trying to get some reading time in while watching Common Grackles head to their roost, and Chimney Swifts and Tree Swallows seine the air for bugs too small for me to see (go get ‘em guys!), when a Ruby-throated Hummingbird chose to hover about 12 inches from my face.
Whoa there, buddy! Do I look like a flower? Not hardly.

Don't need GPS to find Central America

I blinked once or twice and he was on his way—but where? We’ve had a healthy crop of hummers all summer and they are a pleasure. Too bad we get only one species here in Ohio. But ya take what ya can get. I commented to Susan just a couple nights ago that it seemed like suddenly we had a lot of male hummers hanging around, make that chasing around, the feeders the past few days.
Sure enough, in spite of the record-setting high temperatures (or maybe because of them) hummingbirds are on the move, headed for Central America, mostly. According to available data, hummingbirds start moving out of this region as early as July. It’s all about available food supplies and these guys need as much food as possible since they really don’t store fat for the multi-thousand-mile trip like other birds.

Look Ma, no hands!

In fact, don’t look now, but almost all the migrating birds are on the move. Shorebirds from northern breeding grounds, local nesters and first-year birds from all over are making a pit stop here in Ohio, on their way to the places where they spend most of their lives. We have them here for a short time, breeding season, then one day you go looking for Red-wing Blackbirds for example, and you learn the train has left the station.
Better check the garage this weekend for those snow shovels.

Voice at the End of the Tunnel

2011-08-03T10:05:00.000-05:00

As an early adopter of GPS technology, about the first thing I did after installing the device in my car was to turn off the voice that tells you what to do every driving moment. I’ve heard the voice referred to as, “the bitch in the box,” in my estimation an apt description by those who opt for the female rather than male voice. I’m not sure what the male voice is called, other than irritating.
Recently, two friends added GPS devices to their lives—for better or worse. Both these people are the kind who would resent (for lack of a better term) someone telling them what to do, especially when it comes to driving.
After the second of these folks extolled the virtues of the voice in breathless terms “… and she knew right where the ally was!” I decided to re-examine my life as it relates to the pleasant British-accented lady in my GPS, aka, the bitch in the box.
On a recent 350-mile trip that had a total of six turns to get me to my destination, I opted to turn on “the voice.” Packed and ready, humming the opening bars of John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads,” I backed out of the drive as “the voice” delivered her first instructions. I was ready to shut “the voice” off within 50 feet. “Honestly lady, I know how to get out of my own condo complex!” I said to the colorful, glowing box and the stunned neighbor who happened to be walking her dog near the spot where I began my rant.
For hundreds of miles she rode along, pleasantly enjoying the endless miles of corn and soy beans, didn’t have much to say and made only a few, unnecessary interruptions to the book I was listening to. It was at the point where she was telling me to go straight (I wanted to say, “Go forward, never straight,” but I didn’t think she would appreciate the humor.), the protagonist of the story was in a heap of trouble and my cell phone was ringing with such enjoyment I thought it would leap off the dashboard, that I decided she had to getouttathecar!
Fortunately, this all happened as I was about to enter a rest area. I managed to push the wrong button on my fancy new phone and dispatch the caller. Ooops. Next, I sent the finely tuned British babe packing so I could pay attention while my hero extricated himself from a jam that would have taken my life.
So, the experiment lasted only a few hours, probably not time enough for true evaluation. Guess what? I don’t care. I dug around in the four, count ‘em folks, four, map pockets in my car for a map of Indiana. Then, like a blinding flash of the obvious, it hit me: Why would a car manufacturer carefully engineer four map pockets into a car with only two doors? Duh.
I unfolded the map of Indiana, a state more vertical than horizontal, which makes it easier to drive and read while you’re going 70 miles per hour and don’t have a passenger to hold the steering wheel.
First thing that hits you is the aroma of a map. Like that first cup of coffee in the morning that awakens your senses in anticipation of the mysterious, unknown day that lies ahead. Second, there’s the peaceful pleasure of paper maps—they don’t talk back. They allow you to make your own decisions.
And maybe best of all, paper maps can be shown to people who might not otherwise speak the your language, like folks in North Carolina where you’re trying to find some trout stream that does not seem to exist.
Take me home country roads.

Defining Patterns of Change

2011-07-14T17:33:00.001-05:00

Like a blinding flash of the obvious, I figured out why our country is having its current budget crises. I know, you’re thinking that politics is a bit outside of where this blog usually takes you.
Well, not so. Explanations of the budget crises and lots of other things can be found out of doors. Here’s the secret: I have evidence of what makes politicians so whacky. It's a pending alien invasion. And I have proof.
We happened upon the first piece of evidence Tuesday. Fishing-buddy Tom, along with my everything-buddy Susan, and I were driving back from a special trout stream, arms tired from hauling in fish all day, energized by gorgeous weather, when we saw it; a landing strip being prepared by aliens.
It was all I could do to convince the others that we needed to stop and get some photos—just in case. Look at this photo and tell me it’s something other than preparations for alien landing craft.

What’s happening here?

Then today, Susan and I were doing some work on the Ohio Breeding Bird Atlas II in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park when we spotted more evidence, only beneath the water this time. The place we were doing our census work was along a section of the Ohio and Erie Canal. Because of construction south of our location, water in the canal has been drawn down, enough so that we could clearly see tracks being made by alien submarines. Honest, I’m not making this stuff up. Here’s a photo for proof.

Obvious signals to alien landing craft

We even watched little creatures, neatly camouflaged as fresh-water muscles, as they created patterns, probably signals for their fellow creatures to home in on.
Okay, what’s the key here? How do these two observations correlate?
A century or two ago, British novelist-turned-politician Benjamin Disraeli noted, “We all live too much in circles.” Then, in the late 1960s, Joni Mitchell wrote a gripping song, “Circle Game,” about youth coming of age.
So, to bring this around to where I started, how do obvious preparations for an alien invasion impact politicians, isolated from the rest of us by the beltway?
It’s all about circles. The answer is simple as pie. First, pie are not square, pie are round. Next, politicians all talk too much, particularly around subjects that really matter. Next, they are always reaching out for the brass ring of their merry-go-round of lives.
PR flaks spin stories so fast, scenery changes before our very eyes. Aliens have convinced our elected officials, if they can keep us folks out here in the hinterlands spinning, we’ll forget the visions we all had when they were elected. Then they can easily change those visions to fit their current reality. Simple enough.
So, what are we to do? What’s the antidote? How do we hold off the aliens?
What if, just this once, the whole Washington crowd would stop talking in circles, stop spinning, stop heading out on some mission without a road map or even a star to guide them? What’s so tough about crafting a new vision that defies, not defines, political boundaries? What if?

I have to turn off the lights now. I used to right this stuff with crayon, but since I traded my crayons for this computer I get a lot more done. And I don’t have to ask the staff to mail the envelopes …

Pickin’ n Grinnin’

2011-07-10T19:09:00.000-05:00

Making music with a little help from their friends

It’s hard to imagine a more pleasant setting, or better weather, for live music than the Hale Farm Homestead in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This weekend was the 36th Annual Music in the Valley event. All acoustic, all traditional.
At this venue there’s no central stage where big-name performers do their latest hit from their latest CD. No flashing lights. No microphones. These are real people playing and singing real music. They’re accurately called, “parking-lot pickers.”
To say the event is informal is a bit of an overstatement. Essentially, the performers get in free, find a shady spot, snap open their instrument cases and make music. Friends and family join in. Even the audience joins in, assuming they brought an instrument along. Whenever someone wants to join a group, the circle just expands a bit. And yes, the circle remains unbroken.
Throughout the grounds of this 19th Century homestead bagpipes competed with banjos for listeners’ attention. A standup bass player lugged his monster fiddle into place, probably wishing he’d learned to play the piccolo instead. Guitars, dulcimers and more gorgeous banjos than I could count came to life with seemingly no prodding by talented players. Musicians moved from group to group, playing with friends, or making new acquaintances. Music was the common denominator.

Summer in Northeast Ohio at its best

Musical selections ran from Woody Guthrie’s, “Do Re Mi,” to Ry Cooder’s “Footprints in the Snow,” to the unknown composer who never earned a penny from a song, yet everyone seemed to know the chords. Of course, if you wrote a tune with the words, “It’s hard to be sad when your momma doesn’t die,” you might rather not be recognized.
Sitting in the shade, feeling the summer breeze rustle my hair, listening to traditional music got me to thinking about how much better it is to celebrate America in this fashion, than to celebrate wars and glorify killing, which we seen to do, most often. How much better it is to honor freedom by getting out to hear live music, see live birds or chase after live fish—all with free air conditioning.

I’m a Human, I’m Here to Help—Honest

2011-07-06T21:13:00.000-05:00

Atlantic Puffin

I knew, if it came to hand-to-hand combat, I could probably take her. I outweighed her by probably 170 pounds, but her reach was better than mine. Standing beak-to-beak with a Great Black-backed Gull, her 65-inch wingspan and a beak that could crack open an oyster shell, is a daunting, humbling, if not a bit scary experience. It was all in a day’s work for Susan and I in June.
The first week in June we had the honor to work (as volunteers) on Project Puffin (www.projectpuffin.org) off the coast of Maine. The program we participated in was a joint effort by Road Scholar (www.roadscholar.org) and the National Audubon Society (www.audubon.org). There are books available discussing Project Puffin, however, in an egg shell, it’s an effort, started by Dr. Steve Kress, to reintroduce Atlantic Puffins to barren islands off the East Coast.

An Atlantic Puffin fly by

The program is more than 30 years old and, after years of false starts, is proving that birds, with a lotta help from dedicated humans, the species that helped wipe them out, can make a comeback.
Working with Steve and a host of other noted ornithologists for a week was a thrill in itself. To be standing next to the largest gull species on the planet was equally thrilling. I was sure the ornithologists wouldn’t bite. The gulls had yet to prove themselves.
As with most pleasure-filled outings, our week seemed to be over before it began. Yet, unlike many experiences, because we did about three weeks worth of things in 6 days, it felt like so much longer. A typical day started with a bird walk at 5:45 a.m. and ended with a superb lecture on seabird conservation at 9:30 p.m. In between there was little time for rest, which suited most of us just fine.

Gulls nest among the collection of trash that washes ashore

One of our service projects on an uninhabited (by humans) island was to census the nesting gull populations and remove trash that accumulates. The primary nesting species were Herring Gulls and Great Black-backed Gulls, the largest of its kind. As our leaders told us, all we had to do was look into the nest, determine which species had laid the eggs, and call out the information to a fellow volunteer acting as the designated recorder. Sounds easy. Getting onto the island, however, from a rocking dory was just the first challenge. And since the Herring Gull and the Great Black-backed’s eggs look virtually identical. The only way to be sure which species, was to pick up the egg and measure its circumference with your fingers.

Great Black-backed Gull egg

Hmmm. This definitely fell into the easier-said-than-done bucket. And did I mention the hazardous, rocky shores these birds nest on? Or the cacophony of sound surrounding us? Or the drop-dead gorgeous scenery that pulled us away from our task?
Being a peace-loving, tree-hugging, left-leaning, non-aggressive individual, I thought I could talk my way past some of the bellicose birds. That’s when I remembered I are a righter and not a talker. I learned, after a few tension-filled moments, that the gulls were bluffing—most of the time. If we walked slow, said nice things about their parents and children, and how we were just trying to help them—not eat them, everyone seemed to play nice together.

Herring Gulls fight for space among abandoned lobster traps

The day we headed out to East Egg Rock, the major site of Project Puffin, the weather was not in our favor. Through the skillful handling of our boat by the captain, we got relatively close to the island and saw some puffins, most of which were currently attending nests in burrows in the rocks.
These days, when it seems any news about humans and animals is generally about destruction, I urge you to take a look at Project Puffin’s web site, www.projectpuffin.org, to see what one man’s faith in his beliefs can do to change the world.

Dr. Steve Kress (center) could easily give a field lecture on botony as well as birds

Well, If It Was Easy …

2011-07-01T13:14:00.000-05:00

Tom pinpoints his cast between rock and tree

To paraphrase Yogi Berra (I think), I’ve been so busy of late I don’t have time to do anything—like post to my blog, for example.
One of the things that recently kept me away from the keyboard was a fishing trip to the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. It’s been my experience that most fly shops sort of live up to their names, at least geographically, if nothing else. Mountain Angler in Breckenridge, Colorado, or, Lakestream Fly Fishing Shop in Whitefish, Montana, as a couple of examples. I try to stay away from places with names like “BIG Fish,” etc., for the same reason you should not eat at a place called “Mom’s.” So when fishing-buddy Tom called and said I had to drop everything unessential in my life because he had an opening on a trip with fishing experts from the Trophy Water Guide Service in Boone, North Carolina, I was a bit dubious.
As luck would have it, we had a great time. Rhett Shroyer, along with his brother, Justin, run Trophy Water (www.trophywater.com), or maybe it’s more accurate to say they “float” trophy water, which in our case was the Watauga River.

This will catch what?

My first inkling of challenges to come was when Rhett showed me the fly we’d be using. I’ve always subscribed to the theory of “big fly, big fish.” I looked at this bug, which was nothing more than some tan thread, thin gold wire and a tiny bead on an obvious hook and figured it would take about 10 of these babies to cover my thumbnail. This was not going to be easy fishing. But then, if it was easy, the place would be crowded. I quickly learned that this kid has not been fishing these waters for eight years without learning a thing or two. We were still within sight of the boat trailer when Tom hauled in the first fish of the day.
The end of story is that we probably did not set any world records for numbers of fish caught or for size of fish caught. We did catch some super wild trout and plenty of them; a nice mix of rainbows and browns. As often happens on fishing trips, the largest fish were the ones that got off the hook, or, as in this case, never see the hook. We had just reeled in our lines so Rhett could safely navigate us through a dicey stretch of water, when a huge splash near the stern made all three of us turn to look. Beyond our wildest fish-dreams, a huge brown trout, doing a great imitation of Jaws, was chasing a small (maybe 10-inch) rainbow. The rainbow was in such a panic it nearly beached itself getting away. We three humans could only offer deep, philosophical utterings, like “Wow!” or, “Holy Shit! Did ya see that?”
After the fact we tried to guess the size of the brownie, and like witnesses to a crime, we all have different stories. I’m sure the fish was at least as large as one of my grandkids. Tom and Rhett have their own size guesstimates and they’re stickin’ to them.

Size doesn't matter if you're wild

We spent the next couple days floundering around small, off-the-map mountain streams, picking up a few fish here and there, seeing some of the most beautiful backwoods scenery in the country. (I saw a bumper sticker that sort of defines it: Paddle faster. I hear banjo music!) When I commented to Tom on how drop-dead gorgeous this place was, he said, “Lad, I keep tellin’ ya, trout don’t live in ugly places.”

The Changing Landscape

2011-05-24T17:27:00.000-05:00

I’ve done a lot of fishing, not enough really, in my time, and I’ve used, even abused, just about every excuse there is for not catching fish. So when I find a new excuse, I feel it my duty to share with others, just in case you’ve used all the old ones and even your spouse no longer believes you when you said you got skunked.
Today’s excuse happened on the second fishing day of my somewhat irregular regular trip to the East Coast in lust of the Striped Bass, a worthy opponent. Yesterday hardly counts as a fishing day since I was only on the water for about an hour. I’ve learned, however, to some people, just having a rod in your hand counts as time fishing if there is some other chore that needs doing.
So today was more of an all-out effort. Having learned that stripers fish best on the incoming tide, it was pleasant knowing that I did not have to get to my favorite spot before noon. Time for plenty of coffee, reading and contemplating the vagaries of life before the battle. I got to the spot about an hour into the changing tide, lined up my rod, checked the clouds for wind direction, then had a minor coronary at the sight before me.
Someone, since last I was here, has built a house smack in the middle of my favorite fishing spot! How can this be? It’s not a houseboat or floating casino. It’s a functional house in the middle of—well I can’t tell you where since it’s a secret spot. There it sits, picture postcard pretty.
Truth be told, even on my best day I could not hit it with a cast. Maybe fishing buddy Tom could hit it with his double-hauling whatever cast. But then what would we do with a hook up on the front door?
And that’s why I didn’t catch any fish today. Honest.

Childhood Memory

2011-05-20T08:32:00.002-05:00

Early this morning I caught myself channeling my great grandfather, Ed Court, whose name, in-part, I carry, and who could be celebrating his 134th birthday this year, had he lived.
Friday is trash day in our neighborhood. I went to retrieve the trash can (Is it still a can when made of plastic?) and decided to hose the thing out— just as I remember Grandpa Court doing some 60-plus years ago.
Since all things, real and imagined, are attached, the trash can memory brought back other memories of great grandpa: always spitting chewing tobacco on his worm when baiting a fishhook, using turpentine to cure all external cuts and bruises, plus his staunch Republican politics.
These things I can remember, yet am challenged to find my car keys …

It’s All About Layout

2011-05-15T11:54:00.000-05:00

Northern Parula, Magee Marsh, May 13, 2011

Dear Readers:
Several faithful followers have commented about the layout of the blog they’ve been receiving since signing on as camp followers—or whatever the proper term might be. I, too, have been receiving mywittsend.blogspot.com via eMail and the layout really stinks. It’s a pain in the neck, sort of like the experience for this Northern Parula I photographed last week, struggling for a bug (of all things). You should not have to struggle to read the blog. In the lower left corner of that eMail blog you received there’s an unsubscribe block to check if you want to make a quick departure.
Or, you can hang in there as a follower if you choose, however, I’d just make checking the blog on a regular basis part of my daily routine rather than using the eMail notification. I’m checking to see if there’s a way for you to just get a short eMail note telling you something new has been added to … I’m also contacting the BlogSpot folks to see what can be done about that lousy layout. I guess it’s the price you pay for a free service.
In any case, thanks for reading and thanks for the great comments. It all helps to make for a better blog.

Clyde the Guide

That feels better. Any questions?

The Name Says it All—Usually

2011-05-14T19:10:00.000-05:00

Black-throated Blue Warbler

It was the Biggest Week in American Birding for a lot of reasons, starting with the fact that the week was a 10-day-long celebration of bird migration. Big crowds and some of the Big super-stars of the warbler family in Eastern North America for entertainment.
It was fun listening to the many conversations surrounding us, especially the new birders who most frequently asked, “What kinda warbler is that?” Most are easy answers, like Black-throated Blue, Black-throated Green, Chestnut Sided, etc.

Chestnutsided Warbler

Some names don’t always fit, like Prothonotary Warbler. I heard someone call it a “lemon head,” which sort of fits.

Prothonotary Warbler

Susan and I did an unofficial survey of license plates in the parking lot and found only 10 states missing. We’ll give Hawaii a pass. We saw two cars from Alaska! People from all over the globe migrated to northwest Ohio for a few days of intense birding. We talked with a wonderful group of birders from Scotland. I even spoke with a woman who works in Antarctica and came up for the event.

More than one person wondered if the event was not getting too big for its own good. I think we’re safe until the politicians get wind of the gathering and the fact that about 60 million people in this country consider themselves bird watchers—and we vote.

Catch the Wave on America’s North Coast

2011-05-06T08:56:00.000-05:00

Blackburnian Warbler

When surfers talk about memorable moments on the water, conversation usually involves catching the wave. Same for birders, except we do it on land—and keep our clothes on, most of the time.
Our talk is about catching the wave of migrating birds—hitting the right spot at the right time. It’s tough to do, maybe a bigger challenge than that faced by surfers. Ours involves wind and weather, fronts and precipitation, plus a healthy dose of luck. Getting into the right spot is the easiest part.

Black-throated Blue Warbler

Yesterday at Crane Creek in northwest Ohio (chosen as one of those spots in the world you have to bird before you die) was not necessarily a wave day, however, it was a damn good day for birding. It has been so long since many people up here have seen the sun, I watched several take pictures of the unfamiliar yellow globe in the sky to show their grandchildren some day.

Blanding's turtle and bullfrog in standoff. Turtle won when frog blinked.

Susan and I have had bigger days on the famous boardwalk at Magee Marsh, only two hours from home for us. It’s just that for many reasons, yesterday’s 14-warbler species, plus another 60 or so non-warbler species felt good. It was good to get out in the sunshine and see familiar feathered friends, as well as human friends.

Eastern Screech-owl Checks his camo outfit

If you haven’t heard, this is the Greatest Week In American Birding (www.greatestweekinamericanbriding.com), in-part sponsored by the indefatigable folks at Black Swamp Bird Observatory (www.bsbo.org). If you check its Web site, and that of author Kenn Kaufman (http://cranecreekbirding.blogspot.com/), our in-residence birder extraordinaire, you can follow the excitement or learn when to catch the next wave.

Black-throated Green Warbler

Fire is Its Own Reward

2011-04-22T12:00:00.008-05:00

Prairie fire, east-central Kansas

“Takin’ pictures, huh?”
“Yep.”
“What of?”
“Well, I …” and thus enabled, I launched into my litany of wanting to see and photograph a burn, to use the local terminology. Those of us not familiar with a burn might call it a prairie fire.
I had just stepped out of the Flint Hills Restaurant, Strong City, Kansas, having consumed more breakfast than two normal people might eat, all for less than $8, when a local cowboy leaning against his pickup spotted the arsenal of photo gear on my front seat.
“Well,” he said, looking skyward “ya might want to try north and east of Zerd. I come down that way this morning and they was burning something up there.”
I was excited. This was the best lead for seeing a fire that I had in days.
“Tell me, again, sir, where is Zerd? I don’t recall seeing that on the map.”
He looked at me, then over my shoulder as if I was hiding a troll, leaned forward a bit and said in a hushed tone usually reserved for revealing the true meaning of life, “It’s probably not on the map.”
Glancing to his left as if checking to be sure the sun was still in the right location, he said, “Go east on 50 here, about two mile. Turn north on the first road. That’s Zerd. If ya git ta Yerd you’ve gone too far. Turn around and come back.”
I thanked him and set off on my search for the Holy Grail. Almost to the inch on my GPS, a road heading north popped up at two miles. As I made the turn a road sign caught my eye: ZZ Rd.
Oh, ZZ road, not the mythical Land of Zerd. I zigged and zagged, following the billowing clouds of smoke. At one point I even crossed YY Rd, a bit disappointed there would be no Land Of Yerd, either.
The fire, like a slender bloody gash in the earth, six-inches tall, stretched across a pasture as far as I could see. It was a curious juxtaposition of towering white clouds rising from the interface of tiny flames and scorched land, into a cobalt sky. Above it all, Swainson’s Hawks hovered, dipped and danced on the 20 miles-per-hour wind. My cap went into my pocket before it could get into the flames.

After 15 minutes of making pictures, stoked by the excitement of hopping over small, fast-moving flames, which showed no respect for my presence, I jumped back onto the dirt road and headed for my car. An Oldsmobile one might expect to see in an antique car show rolled up next to me, window down, tattered elbow showing, a couple equal to the age of the car and land.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Out here, near the top of any conversation is an introduction. After the part about “Yer not from around here, are ya,” a statement, not a question, the conversation got pleasant, as if we were old friends.
When Mr. Moore said, “Well, I’ve lived here all my life. Well, that ain’t true since I ain’t dead, yet.” I looked over at Mrs. Moore, hands in lap, eyes assessing her muddy boots, a coquettish smile on her lips, a fringe of silver hair showing below the out-of-season red wool hat she wore. How many times had she heard that joke?
When he launched into how his grandfather had come to this place, right after the Civil War, the Mrs. (as he referred to her) was grinning and nodding. Another story, familiar in the retelling.
I was trying to do the mental math of how old he must be if he was third generation from a Civil War vet, when he said, “Well, enough about history. We’ll be gitting outta yer way young man.” And off they went, disappearing into the cloud that was the smoke-blanketed road.

Swainson's Hawk makes a close inspection of me

As I packed up the photo gear I saw two aberrations coming toward me from across the smoking field. Turned out to be Mr. Horton and his son, owners of the land. They walk the edges knocking down small fires that might want to jump the road, he explained. He kindly educated me, as if talking to nine-year-old kid, about fire and its beneficial purpose. Leaning on his all-metal rake handle, acting as if fire was not licking at his pant’s cuffs, he said, “We burnt about 3,000 acres this year, leaving the rest for next year.”
Again I was trying to do the mental math of how much pasture must burn in this one little spot of Kansas. I let it go to enjoy the moment.
We talked about the hawks circling above and I was pleased to be able to add to his storehouse of knowledge, that these were Swainson’s Hawks. Something he could pass on to the other ranchers.
Three of us, all grown men, stood there on an April morning, in a smoldering field, surrounded by smoke, watching birds do what they’ve done for eons. Finally, Mr. Horton kicked at a particularly stubborn patch of fire the size of a softball and said, “Well, it’s a mystery.”

Swainson's Hawks work the edges of the fire

Why the Prairie

2011-04-20T22:26:00.005-05:00

I checked my not-so-smart cell phone to see how much further I had to go. One small bar still showed, like a nasty smudge, in the upper left corner, telling me I’d gone far, but not far enough. Good. A bit further and what passes for civilization would be a fading image in my rearview mirror.
Kansas, a great place to go when just going is the goal. A place to get off the highway, where you can stand on a rise of land and see beyond your dreams; where the distinctive song of a meadowlark interrupts then overrides the fluttering of flags, where the best view does not have to compete with litter on a stick.
It’s a place where you can stand and look inside yourself when the outside you is not what it used to be.
It’s a place where you ask yourself if you’ve gone the right direction, then realize, it doesn’t matter. The choices you made would put you right where you are—all roads lead to where you stand.
And if you stand at the right spot in Chase County, as I did, listen to history that might be wind in the barbed wire, or maybe music coming from an open barn door, squint your eyes a bit, tilt your head and give free reign to your imagination, ghosts of the past in this western land might come into focus.

How a Slow Birding Day Picks Up Speed

2011-04-20T21:01:00.003-05:00

Swainson's Hawk

It had been one of those days that if you judge it by unrealistic goals you set for yourself, would best be described as a flop. I’m currently in Kansas, trying to get some pictures of the spring fires intentionally set to burn off last year’s grass stubble, which renews the soil in the process. Sorry, that’s the layman’s unscientific explanation.
True to form, I’m about a week late. I did see some burning, too far out of camera range, or too small to look like anything more than a trash fire. One of the rangers at the Tall Grass Prairie Preserve in Strong City explained that most burning is finished now because pasturemen have to wait a couple weeks before putting cattle onto burned pasture, and the cattlemen are anxious to get those beefies out there, now.
One thing I did observe is the way various raptors work the burned fields. Makes for easy pickins when rodents have no place to hide.
Late this afternoon I found a wide spot in the road where I could safely wait for a flock of Swainson’s Hawks to work their way over to me. I had never seen so many of this species at one time in one spot. I counted 35 birds all swooping and hover-hunting a burned pasture.
While my attention was focused on the hawks, a flurry of activity passed behind me and landed in the field on the other side of the highway in an unburned area. I could not believe my luck: More than a dozen Upland Sandpipers, a species we rarely get in Ohio, all in alternate plumage.
When I returned to watch the hawks, there one sat on the utility wire, watching me.
As Lance Armstrong says: There are no bad days; some are just better than others.

Upland Sandpipers, east-central Kansas

Ignore Reality, Find Deeper Truth

2011-04-01T16:48:00.003-05:00

Wilson's Snipe

It was a dark and stormy night. I well remember my first snipe hunt. I was maybe a dozen years into my first-remembered incarnation, enjoying my first camping adventure as a Boy Scout, filled with the knowledge that I knew everything important enough to matter.
It was our first night in camp. One of the older scouts suggested a snipe hunt. It sounded like fun, dangerous, rewarding—all the things youth looks for in life.
Of course, we had to wait until it got dark. And it gets really dark in the woods. Dark enough to give one second thoughts about crawling around on the ground, armed with stealth, a paper bag and a multi-bladed knife.
The older guys dropped we fearless hunters at various posts around the perimeter of the camp’s parade ground. We were to keep hunting until we heard the “all clear” whistle, then run onto the parade ground with our sack filled with snipes.
The fact that we were never told how one actually captures and subdues these creatures, nor even how large they might be, didn’t seem to occur to us at the time.
If you ever want to know how long forever really is, I suggest you grab a paper bag, head out into the dark of night on your hands and knees, wait and hope for someone to blow a whistle that never happens.
Eventually you figure it out.
In my current incarnation as a birder I’ve learned the truth about snipe, Wilson’s Snipe in particular. While birding in the Big Island Wildlife Management Area (Marion County, Ohio) yesterday, Susan and I happened upon a nice flock of snipe making use of a puddle left behind by Ohio’s recent rains. As I watched them, I figured out the reason we young scouts were unable to catch any on that dark and stormy night more than a half century ago. I think the older guys dropped us in the wrong habitat.

Wilson’s Snipe Big Island Wildlife Management Area

Shooting the Moon

2011-03-20T10:01:00.003-05:00

Even if you’re not addicted to the Weather Channel, don’t have the “What’s Up” app on your iPhone, or consult the Old Farmer’s Almanac before you venture out each day, you no doubt heard or saw some news report that last night was to be a big deal—moon wise.
Since I’m guilty of all of the above, I was more than primed for this closest visit from Luna in the past 19 years. And significantly, she’d not be back this way again for another 19 or 20 years. I did the math and figured I best make a date now, while we were both young enough to enjoy the evening.
She did not disappoint.
After consulting maps, Web sites, even my own memory banks, I opted for the Cuyahoga Valley National Park; the former Richfield Coliseum site in particular. Where once stood a massive sports and entertainment complex now resides prime open field habitat with mostly uncluttered views in all directions.
Armed with my arsenal of photo gear, waiting for Luna to arrive, I was entertained by three Short-eared Owls and more American Woodcocks than I could count. Romance was certainly in the air.

Shortly after 8 p.m. Luna arrived, resplendent in red. What an entrance she made on this evening of perigee, living up to the hyperbole that she would appear 16 percent larger and 30 percent brighter than usual. Truth be told, the difference between 221,565 miles and 250,000 miles is tough for me to discern. Plus, I have to admit I was caught in her grip of moon illusion as she climbed over tree tops on the east rim of the Cuyahoga Valley.
As her colors changed from rubber-ball red to cheddar-cheese orange and eventually shine-on silver, I thought about what life must have been for people who once lived their lives by the phases of the moon, not some human-concocted time warp made crazy twice a year with the misnomer “Daylight Savings Time.”
Saved for what, I asked the darkness.
Luna laughed, too. Daylight is daylight, just as moonlight is moonlight. And it’s all sun light and it’s all right, she said.

Look, Up in the Sky!

2011-03-14T12:18:00.005-05:00

Saturday was one of those rare, northeast Ohio March days when the typically gray sky takes on a hue of azure, often referred to as cobalt blue by the weather folks (who don’t understand the meaning of redundancy, either), or gorgeous by the rest of us.
I’ve forgotten what the day’s plans were, however, Susan and I dumped that plan, grabbed our binoculars and headed for an open trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Recent flooding has cut off a lot of trails, so we opted for one that is away from the river—Horseshoe Pond—a great spot to see Red-breasted Nuthatches, of which we’ve far too few this winter.
Susan’s feet were barely out of the car when she shouted, “Look!” As a proficient birder and trained husband, I did not ask what or where. I could hardly believe my eyes when a Bald Eagle, which must have been perched in a tree near the parking area, took off, huge, graceful, spectacular.

As recent as 1979 the entire state of Ohio had only four nesting pairs of eagles. Now, that number is closer to 200, usually seen from a distance soaring, sometimes perched in a favorite tree near a nest site.
As we scrambled for our binoculars, cameras and breath, two young women started down the trail. As birders are wont to do, we jumped and yelled and pointed for them to look right over their heads to see the eagle. They looked at us like we were from some alien planet, speaking a language and making gestures of which they had no knowledge.
Oh well. Whatever they were listening to on their iPods must have been, well, interesting is a word that comes to mind.
We did not see the Red-breasted Nuthatches we set out to see, however, when you’re close enough to a Bald Eagle to see its red eye, well, all else pales.

Big Surprise

2011-03-11T10:31:00.004-05:00

Downy Woodpecker contemplates a snowy treat

One of the better parts of being retired is listening to traffic reports on snowy mornings, designed for those folks who have to get to work—or else. From the warmth of our living room we turn the pages of the local newspaper and listen to classical music until the inevitable question comes up, usually after the most-gnarly traffic jam, “So, should I make some more coffee?”
Most people outside of northeast Ohio don’t know that “Cuyahoga,” the name of our major river, in Native American speak, really means, “parking lot.”
So you get days, like today, when we haven’t had snow for three or four days and people suspend the rules of sanity, drive like it was August, and generally assume the attitudes of extras from the movie, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Makes for great traffic reports.
Meanwhile, the local bird population (too early for cuckoos) take it all in stride—or flap as it were. Four more inches of the white stuff does not seem to faze them.
I did notice our resident Cooper’s Hawk is wearing his “Ya Gotta B Tough to Live in Cleveland” T-shirt this morning.

Expect the Unexpected

2011-03-01T17:19:00.006-05:00

Cedar Waxwing

The admonition, “expect the unexpected,” works well whether you’re fishing, fighting a war or birding. It even provides a fairly good guideline for blind dates.
Birders seem to take it as a matter of course that when you set out to see one thing, you're often rewarded with something else, maybe something you don’t expect. Unless, and it’s a big unless, you’re carrying a camera. Then, there’s a strange, inverse, unwritten, little-understood rule that applies: The bigger the camera you’re carrying, the less likely you are to see whatever it is you set out to see. Something like that.
So it was this afternoon when I set out, loaded with camera gear, to get some pix of newly arrived Red-winged Blackbirds. I really enjoy these noisey little guys, sharp black suits with red and yellow epaulets, constantly advertising for a mate, defending the nest territory against any and every thing. It’s strange how, in the fall, you never see these birds depart. One day they’re out there in the wetlands squawking up a storm, the next they’re gone.

Eastern Bluebird

Similarly, in the spring, one day it’s quiet along your usual walk, the next there’s a racket that can only mean one thing, the boys are back in town—and welcome back fellers, there’s a lot of quiet space out here that needs to be filled.
Saturday there was not a Red-winged Blackbird to be seen, Sunday they were all over the place and I did not have a camera. I planned to get some pix on Monday, but then the sky opened and the Cuyahoga River jumped its banks by a whopping 22.7 feet, second highest flood stage since someone started keeping records.
So today was the day, bright, sunny, crisp, some high cirrus clouds, light winds. A day filled with promise. As I started down the bike/hike trail near my house I realized something was missing. Not a blackbird to be heard. I thought I detected one calling way off. A half mile into my walk and still not a peep, or aarrraaakkkkk, as it were. Things were not going according to my plan.
A mile into the walk I was having serious second and third thoughts about getting those blackbird pictures. I heard some rustling and high-pitched squabbling in the bushes behind me. I turned to see what all the chatter was and faced an estimated 50 Cedar Waxwings, eye level, paying no attention me.
Five minutes later a took my first breath. Whew! What a rush. Then Eastern Bluebirds got off the bird bus and flew into the bushes now vacated by the waxwings. There were not as many bluebirds, however, a little bit of that azure color goes a long way in the drab days of early March.
I turned at my 1.5 mile spot and headed for home, thoroughly satisfied, even without the Red-winged Blackbird photo I came for. Aarrraaakkkkk, right on cue he arrived. One bird. But one was all I needed.

Red-winged Blackbird

Spring’s True Harbinger

2011-02-23T10:33:00.004-05:00

Northern Cardinal, leader of the spring chorus, and fanciest dresser

I was out walking early this morning, well, relatively early, about 8 a.m., when I noticed one of those spring harbingers. It was not one many people talk about. Forget about that first-robin-of spring myth. American Robins can be found year round in northeast Ohio.
No, for birders, I think the first indication, the promise that we will not freeze to death or run out of food before winter’s end, is the dawn chorus; that glorious sound of birds competing to see who has the loudest, best song among their own kind and among all the other singers. The chorus lasts not long enough.

American Goldfinch preparing his spring outfit

It can bring about one of those whacky challenges when you’re camping, before the sun has made it’s decision to brighten the day, birds start singing and you and your tent mate try to name as many species as possible. Sometimes it’s that incessant cardinal perched on the railing outside your bedroom window at 4 a.m., unsure if he’s getting home late or getting up early, who wants to be sure everyone else in the world is there to celebrate the crack of dawn with him.
Hey, we’re retired. We know how to find fun, wherever.
This morning I stopped in my tracks, single-digit temperatures aside, to listen to the dawn chorus, an unfamiliar sound from familiar birds. It was all the usual suspects, cardinals, chickadees, robins and titmice. The song they sang, “It Won’t Be Long Now,” is one of my most favorites.

Carolina Wren, a welcome, unfamiliar voice in the dawn chorus

Snow by Any Definition

2011-02-16T22:19:00.004-05:00

Western Snowy Plover

Snowy does not always mean what you think. California, a land of contrasts if there ever was one, plays host to two highly endangered birds: the huge California Condor and the tiny Western Snowy Plover.
With a name like Snowy, you’d suspect the bird had some connection to lands farther north than California, especially the beaches of California. Not so. Linnaeus named this small bird (Charadrius alexandrinus) in 1758 (Syst. Nat. 10(1):150) for its presence in Alexandria, Egypt. It’s found, in small numbers, worldwide. I suppose it got the snowy part of its name from its ghost-like color.
The Pacific Coast population of the Western Snowy Plover is federally listed under the Endangered Species Act of 1973 as threatened. The Western Snowy Plover is a Bird Species of Special Concern in California. Snowy plovers were listed as endangered under Washington’s (state) Department of Game Policy, and as threatened by the Oregon Fish and Wildlife Commission. A lot of folks are concerned about this tiny bird, only the size of a fat sparrow.
Plovers will use almost anything they can find on the beach to make their nests, including kelp, driftwood, shells, rocks, and even human footprints.

Footprints make a great spot to rest

Although it was not nesting season while Susan and I were recently in California, we visited a protected area near Isla Vista where we had found the bird in the past. Sure enough, a few birds were hanging out, eating bugs, doing all those plover things, paying little attention to us humans.
Unfortunately, that could be the birds’ downfall. It tolerates us, and other creatures, to the point of its own demise. It nests in piles of dead kelp, even human footprints. It’s easy pickins for dogs, and many other introduced predators. When disturbed enough they will run away, leaving the nest and eggs vulnerable.
I sat and watched the birds for a while to see what they do, since surfing, texting and television do not seem to be part of their game plan. It seems what the do best, or most, is watch. They watched me watching them. They watch the tides and the foaming waves. They seem to like to stand and feel the wind and its direction, then turn accordingly so their feathers can ruffle. They watch each other for companionship and to initiate a chase for no reason I could determine. They particularly watch human activity. They watch people walk past. They watch dogs on leash and off leash, it doesn't make a bit of difference to them.
The longer I watched the more I realized I was getting a life lesson here and I better pay attention.

Feeling the wind, checking the footprints, another busy day for a Western Snowy Plover

Looking Forward to the Past

2011-02-12T09:32:00.005-05:00

The La Huerta Project at the Mission of Santa Barbara, California

While Susan and I were in California recently, recharging our solar-powered batteries, we paid a visit to an interesting gardening project she read about. It’s called the La Huetra Project at the mission in Santa Barbara.

Upon arrival at the mission, our first challenge was finding a way into the garden area. Had it been left to me we’d still be wandering around the parking lot looking for the gate. Susan wisely asked directions of the first person she saw. Turns out she asked the right guy. It just happened to be Jerry Sortomme, professor emeritus of the Santa Barbara City College Environmental Horticulture program. He’s been the spearhead of this project to locate and propagate plants for a new mission garden since 2003. The original idea-seeds for this project were sewn in 1999.

We could not have asked for a better, more genial host or more-informed guide. Jerry not only gave us a history lesson in gardening, I think during the more than two hours we spent with him, he brought us up speed on everything that’s happened along the California coast since 1769.

The heart and soul—you might say the mission—of the mission project is to recreate the huerta, or garden, (some Spanish translations of this word say it is like a door or entrance way) where friars cultivated food and other usable crops required for their daily life in the early 1800s. Jerry said the garden has, and will have, no plants that arrived in California after 1834, about the time when the Mexican government, which achieved independence in 1822, took a hard look at what was known as Alta California and decided to secularize the missions.

Jerry and his team of volunteers do a lot of spade work even before the digging starts outside. They research long lists of plants grown during the mission era, delving into the writings of church officials as well as early visitors and residents. The array of non-native and native plants grown on mission property is long and interesting. Some records go back as early as 1769. Of special interest to Jerry are heritage plants. These are species that represent living material, obtained from unaltered plants documented to be from a particular place and time. He uses modern DNA testing to verify cuttings, like that of a 100-year-old grapevine to assure that it is the authentic ‘Mission’ grape.

Through the dedicated efforts of volunteers, this project will keep alive a part of history rapidly being lost not only in California, but all over the planet as we—for better or worse—alter the structure of plants. So, if you’re in the area of Santa Barbara and you want to see what life, garden life, was like before 1834, stop in at the mission’s La Huerta garden. And, if you can’t suppress the urge to get your hands dirty, pull a few weeds, or dead-head flowers, visit on a Wednesday morning. Jerry can always use another volunteer.

Jerry Sortamme, who has headed the La Huerta Project for nearly a decade, answered all Susan's questions--and more

Feeding in February

2011-02-10T09:58:00.006-05:00

Downy Woodpeckers on a lunch date

This morning I was reminded that February is Bird Feeder Month for those of us in the birding world. It’s time to pay a bit more attention to our feathered friends, I suppose because we’re often snowed in and can’t do anything else but sit at the window and dream of sunny days to come.
Around our place we long ago realized that by adding a water element, i.e. a bird bath, to our array of feeders, we attract more than our share of birds and other critters. Along with birds we get most of the squirrels in northern Summit County, as well as, per tracks in the snow, the occasional White-tailed deer.
It’s the birds, however, that provide the most entertainment. Often American Robins, four or five at a time, line the edge of the bird bath (heated in this weather, of course) and drink in unison, picking up beaks full of water, then tipping their heads back like a chorus of gospel singers to drink. Fascinating are the Mourning Doves, one of the few species of birds that can swallow, thus dipping their heads in to their eyeballs to suck up their drinks.
Most impressive is the politeness of it all. It’s not uncommon to see a half dozen species of birds sitting in the branches waiting their turns at the water. I think our politicians could learn a lesson in deportment here: Wait your turn at the public trough, there’s plenty for everyone.
This Winter we’ve had our quota of the usual feeder suspects, plus the occasional Pine Siskin along with a single Common Redpoll who put in a cameo appearance a few weeks ago.
So, if you’re thinking about feeding birds during these harsh winter months (you can do it year round and enjoy the antics youngsters in the Spring), consider adding a heated bird bath. It will increase your enjoyment and add, measurably, to the birds’ ability to survive.

American Robins with an invited European Starling guest

Two Questions, Maybe Three

2011-02-03T19:02:00.004-05:00

Red-tailed Hawk

I’ve been fortunate to bird in California for the past 10 days or so, long enough to get that California-mellow feeling about most things in life. So, this morning, birding a spot I had not visited for several years because of fire damage, I was Mr. Mellow, more or less ready for anything. I was hit with a couple questions, questions I seem to hear wherever I bird, questions I was able to answer in a laid-back manner, not the usual smart-ass replies I prefer to give. When it was all over, I thought about the questions and tried to find some common denominator.
Question one, from two women walking what I suppose were dogs.
Them: (All eyes, smiles and excitement.) Seen any good birds, yet?
Me: (Thinking all birds are good. And what’s a good, or bad, bird? And ‘yet’ implies that I will.) Oh yeah, but then, I’m from Cleveland so …
Them: (Mumbling something about Cleveland.) Great weather. What didja see?
Me: (Always ready to educate.) Well, there’s a nice Spotted Towhee just ahead of you, and Lesser Goldfinches seem to be everywhere.
Them: (Already disengaged.) Well, have a nice day!
Me: (Somewhat baffled.) Ah, thanks.
The second question of the morning was one our birding buddy, Pat Coy, absolutely loves, looks forward to, stays up at night in anticipation of.
Man walking his dog: (Making a statement, not asking a question.) So, you’re a bird watcher?
Me: (Being mellow.) Yup.
Him: (Authoritatively.) So, ya seen any eagles, yet.
Me: (Trying my damndest to repress a laugh.) Well, no. Don’t really expect to. It’d be nice, of course, but …
Him: (Not letting me finish.) Hell’s bells, they’re all over the place. Look right over there.
Me: (Always ready to educate.) Ah, that’s a Red-tailed Hawk.
Him: (Turning to leave in a huff.) Bullshit.
Me: (Being mellow.) Ah, have a nice day.
The third question was similar to the first two, really more of a statement than a question. Three well-dressed (for walking) ladies with one white dog smaller than most cats I’ve seen.
Lady with the bluest hair: (Eyes on all my cameras, binoculars, etc.) Are you looking for birds?
Me: (Asking the higher powers not to say, ‘No, fish, actually.) Yup.
Lady #2: (Trying not to have her kneecaps sliced by the frigging dog that kept yapping and running around.) Do you need all that stuff?
Me: (Suddenly feeling the various straps cut into my flesh.) Well, I take a lot of pictures and …
Lady #1: (Trying to skip rope with the dog leash.) Why don’t you just look them up in the internets? That’s easier. Besides, where are they?
Me: (Blinded by this flash of the obvious.) Ah, well, ah, all you have to do is look up …
The trio: (Satisfied they had given me necessary advice to succeed in life.) You just have a nice day, young man.
I had to sit on the nearest log, totally exhausted, and think about this last hour of conversations. These people were all out walking in a county park, so how could they be so oblivious to their surroundings?
That was when I remembered something a botanist told us yesterday, “There are a lot of people suffering from NDD around here.”
I had to ask what NDD was, and prepared to stop at the local pharmacy to get some protection.
“It’s Nature Deficit Disorder,” he said.

Lesser Goldfinch

Breakfast Banter

2011-01-01T14:20:00.006-05:00

I was having breakfast, so was he, each on his chosen side of the glass. He watched as I spooned in oatmeal, coffee, juice, toast, the whole deal.
I tried not to feel guilty. The feeders had been filled the day before so there was no shortage of dusty, dry sunflower seeds and ice-cold water.

When he was sure I had finished, he began to examine the branch he had perched upon. He thoroughly inspected each new bud, then, finding one to his liking, assaulted it with vigor.

What better way to take on the new year than with a full belly.

End of the Year

2010-12-31T17:49:00.005-05:00

Northern Shovelers, Castalia, Ohio

It’s not uncommon at this time of year for birders to take a look at their life list and contemplate adding one more bird, or maybe chasing after a rare sighting in the area to sort of pump up the yearly species total. This past week I found myself guilty on both counts. The end result can be both good and less than good.
First, I thought Santa was going to deliver an early Christmas present to me. A few days before the holiday word popped up on the Ohio Ornithological Society’s hot line that several Ross’s Geese were at Castalia Pond, about 75 miles away, along with several Cackling Geese. The alarm bells sounded in our household and it wasn’t the jingling of sleigh bells. While both Susan and I have tallied the Ross’s Goose, the Cackling variety of Canada Goose has eluded us.
Plans were made, snacks packed, car gassed up and off we went. Oh, we did have company for the holidays, my brother in from the nation’s capital. He had heard of this bird-chasing habit of ours but had never witnessed it. I might add that he hates cold weather and the day’s temperature was 18—not a good combination.

American Wigeon, Castalia, Ohio

The end of the story is that it turned out to be a wild goose chase. The “target” birds were nowhere to be seen. My brother could not understand why we were not dismayed at driving all that distance and not seeing the bird. I tried to explain it’s an acquired skill, missing the target but hitting something else, like stunning Northern Shovelers and American Wigeons.
Then, on New Year’s Eve day, we had a repeat performance, sort of. This time it was a Golden Eagle reported at Mosquito Creek Wildlife Area, about 75 miles in the opposite direction. Again, we’ve both tallied the golden, but it’s so rare in Ohio, you just have to chase it—if at all possible. Our first in Ohio, several years ago, was on a day when the thermometer never got above minus 13. Now, that’s chilly—but worth it.
Again, to shorten the story, the beautiful Golden Eagle was not to be seen. In its place we tallied six Bald Eagles, an equally rare sight in Ohio.
All of which goes to prove, sometimes you win and sometimes you win in the birding game—true sport has no losers.

Bald Eagle, Mosquito Creek Wildlife Area

Not Just Another Sparrow—Part 2

2010-12-02T17:04:00.004-05:00

Eurasian Tree Sparrow

For many birders, making a trip to St. Louis was, and still is, akin to a trip to any spot of birding where a rarity can be found. It was, is, the only place in the U.S. where you could tick the Eurasian Tree Sparrow off your life list.
A lot of mysteries surround this diminutive bird, the greatest for me is why the bird does not expand beyond its current range. Twenty-five years ago there was an article in the American Birding Association’s newsletter about the sparrow and how to locate it—within a well-defined neighborhood in St. Louis. Over the years the article has helped a lot of birders track down this little guy.
Now, it seems the bird is expanding its range from the three-block area where it has thrived. We’ve seen it across the Mississippi River in the Riverlands Project area and, fortunately, in the suburbs—right at my mother-in-law’s feeder on occasion. Today was such an occasion.
How the bird got to St Louis is not a mystery. In the 19th century, south St. Louis was the home of many European immigrants who wanted to see familiar birds from their homeland. So, on April 25, 1870, 12 Eurasian Tree Sparrows were released in Lafayette Park in south St. Louis. Numbers of other European birds were also released (European Goldfinches, Eurasian Bullfinches, Chaffinches, Greenfinches, and Linnets), but only the Eurasian Tree Sparrow successfully established a breeding population.
The birds are not physically remarkable, only rare—which makes it remarkable, I guess. It’s still somewhat secretive out here in the ‘burbs, so any sighting is worth recording. As luck would have it, the trio I saw this morning was cavorting with some House Sparrows allowing for great size and color comparisons.
I suppose purists complain about these essentially invasive species, however, the diversity crowd seems to have assured the continuation of these critters, based on the notion that a life bird is a life bird.

Hunting for Ghosts

2010-12-01T14:42:00.004-05:00

Woodson County courthouse, Yates Center, Kansas.

I stood looking at the imposing red brick courthouse, probably, possibly, where my father stood nearly 95 years ago during the Kansas-life he had, and I never knew about. He was a kid fresh into his teens in 1916, anchored by so many loose ends in his life we can’t begin to imagine—or long for. The building stands in the near-geographic center of Woodson County, Kansas, where my genealogy research has most recently taken me.
Looking east, the direction from which he had somehow managed to navigate, colorful buildings built in the late 1880s, restored numerous times, blocked my view of the rising sun. Looking west, were his future with disappointments he’d yet to discover, lay, dark clouds and unrelenting winds welcomed me to late-November Kansas.
The streets are, were, uneven, made of solid, unspeaking bricks, darker in color than those used to build the courthouse building, designed to keep secrets intact. No stop signs around this square to impede traffic or progress, one might guess. Angle parking on both sides of the street still left plenty of room for modern cars to make U-turns. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what might have been when the dirt streets were crowded when long-horned cattle passing through from the no-longer existing railroads to the tall grass prairies north and west of Yates Center.
My camouflage, head to toe, seemed a bit off the mark—again. First, my car was the only one of its kind in this land of seriously big pickup trucks and SUVs I'd need a step ladder to get into. I’m no slave to fashion, so when I entered the Feedbunk, the only place around to get breakfast, I donned the obligatory baseball cap, however, mine advertised striped bass, not some cattle feed or farm implement. I had on my best Justin boots, only to learn natives dress in real camo and wear Nike and New Balance. Since I was relatively free of mud at 6:30 a.m., they probably sensed I was an outsider. (Full disclosure: I’m something of a city guy so I had to ask what a “Feedbunk” was. The waitress looked at me like I might be from outer space and said, “Well, honey, it’s where we put the feed for the cattle,” which I guess is better than calling your restaurant the Food Trough.
I ate at the Foodbunk two mornings, noting that the same guys sat in the same spots, wearing the same clothes both mornings. The things that changed were the conversations, which extended from one table across the aisle to another, booth to booth. I noticed the waitress never offered the locals a menu. She’d just ask, “Are ya eatin’ this morning?” then bring a customer a plate of food.
Conversations ranged from lost dogs, “Yer dog ever come home, Bill?” “Yep. Never did tell me where he’d been for three days,” to hunting; “Yer nephews get any birds yesterday?” “Those two fools? First the young one shot up a trash bag that was blowin’ across the field, then the otherun shot two crows, then they complained ‘bout not seein’ any pheasants.”
I’m not sure if the conversations were real or just for my entertainment. Doesn’t matter, really. As writer William Least Heat-Moon says, “You can worry about every twist in the road, or you can sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

Where my dad’s dreams of being a cowboy began 95 years ago.

When Size Doesn’t Matter

2010-11-27T15:03:00.002-05:00

When it comes to singing, the tiny Carolina Wren can yodel with the best of them. This diminutive bird, about 20 grams soaking wet, 17 centimeters long, might not be the largest of wrens, however, when it comes to singing, it’s in a class by itself. Its song is said to be one of the louder per volume of bird. One male was know to sing about 3,000 times per day. Songs of these birds can vary regionally and contrary to the way humans speak, birds of the north tend to sing slower than birds of the south.
Winter weather takes its toll on this species in northeast Ohio where I live. Visiting with my mother-in-law in St. Louis is always a treat if we haven’t had a large enough Carolina Wren fix back home. I recently read that climate change might in fact help this species to move and stay in more northern climates as things warm—globally.
The Carolina Wren is primarily a southeastern species so seeing them as far west as St. Louis is pushing the limits of their range.
Another unique thing about this species is that pairs will bond for life, often staying together on their territory year round.
Although the birds are primarily insect eaters, you can lure them in with seed, as I did. If you’re out in the woods and you hear a song that sounds like teakettle-teakettle-teakettle, or, like someone running their thumb along the teeth of a comb, it’s probably a Carolina Wren. Stop, look and listen.

Stalking Wildlife

2010-11-23T19:57:00.004-05:00

Fox Sparrow, St. Louis, Missouri

My heart was pounding. The quarry was a Fox Sparrow, not uncommon, however, uncommon enough for us that we tick off only one or two per season. As sparrows go, this one is right near the top in good looks. Its feeding habits, much like a towhee, don’t make getting these guys on film (a photo term from the last century) easy. They hang out in deep brush, scratching among leafs like they hadn’t eaten in a couple weeks.
This one, however, opted to hunt closer to me than I could believe. I was ensconced in a comfy chair with a good book, wearing my best camo outfit, jeans and brown chamois shirt as he approached. I was completely hidden behind a blind of glass, unsure of where my camera was. Well, maybe the camo and the blind were not the best, I should have been better prepared.
I dropped to the floor and worked my way behind the chairs, then sat still, watching the bird snagging bug after bug in the leaf litter. Well, hardly was I still. I was burning up electrons like they were free—which they are. I wondered if he could hear the camera’s motor. Suddenly he seemed interested in what I was doing behind the glass blind. He moved closer and closer, stalking me.
At the point we both became cross-eyed, he went back to his bugs and I took my first breath in about two minutes.

Fox Sparrow, St. Louis, Missouri

Learning Something New

2010-11-21T19:01:00.003-05:00

Every now and then, as in once-in-a-blue-moon, I learn something I thought I already knew. I was having a sort of routine chat online with fishing buddy Tom when for no apparent reason he brings up the fact that tonight, November 21, is a blue moon. I didn’t know if he wanted to get together and howl a bit, or what?
I realized, too late, he had trapped me since I like to think I know most of this kinda nature stuff and he tends to be the willing student—well listener at least. Fishing is another matter.
No way is this a blue moon month, says me. Ya haveta have two full moons in the same month for it to be a blue moon. Not so, says he.
Former editor that I am I immediately asked him about his sources.
Dang if he isn’t right. The presumption I’ve lived with for eons has been wrong! We can blame a lot of the confusion on those Gregorian monks’ party planner and their calendars, which did not quite sync with the moon’s cycle of 29.5 days. Those dudes planned all kinds of feasts, planting and who knows what else around the moon’s cycle, usually on the last full moon of the season.
So, to bring a little chaos to the orderly pattern of the moon, the monks opted to make the third full moon in any season, the blue moon. When an extra full moon happened in a season (and screwed up the party plan) they called it a blue moon—an unusual event. By doing so, they could stick with the established name of the last full moon in a season—The Last Full Moon of the Season.
Well, this full moon in November is the only blue moon of the year 2010, reason enough to celebrate. I stepped outside a few minutes ago to explain all this to Luna, who really didn’t care. She lectured me about the loony confusions of man—like calendars. “Live your life by the cycles of the moon. Forget numbers. This is the full beaver moon, last month it was the hunter’s moon, and when next you see me it will be the full wolf moon. Wrap yourself in some cold sheets and dream. I’ll be on my way, now.”

Once More, With Feeling

2010-11-19T18:27:00.005-05:00

Clouds and trees offer an artistic challenge to astrobirding.

The caller didn’t identify himself, which made me feel like I’d walked into the middle of a conversation. It went something like this:
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello
Him: You wrote about it a couple years ago and now I got a telescope and I want to try it.
Me: Aaaaaa, I’m not sure …
Him: You know, looking at birds through the scope with the moon in the background.
Me: Oh, yeah, right. I called it astrobirding and …
Him: That’s it. So how do I do it?
I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation. I tend to get calls and email like this when there’s a full moon. I looked out the window and, sure enough, a full moon was rising in the east. In spite of the low-40s temperature I went out to see what I could see.
So for the caller, and anyone else who needs a refresher of that November 3, 2009 blog, here’s a re-write.
Birding in winter months is either tough in the extremis, or boring to tears. Our part of the world here in northeast Ohio offers little middle ground. Watching House Finches at the feeder every day is not exactly challenging. Feeling tears freeze to your face while standing on the shores of Lake Erie looking for gulls is more challenge than many people want.
Well, here’s a dimension to birding I suspect you’ve not tried. It offers an opportunity to see things you’ve not seen before. Or, more accurately, to see them in a different light. I call it astrobirding. Here’s how it works.
It so happens that winter months offer excellent opportunities for astrobirding. On nights with a full moon, such as last night, or near-full moon, haul out your spotting scope. Focus on the nearest astronomical object we have—the moon. If you have an eyepiece that gives you 30X magnification you’ll see sights you might not expect. It also works with binoculars, however, it’s not as exciting since you can’t get the high magnification.
Although looking at the moon before and after the midpoint of its near-monthly trip through the sky yields more exciting moon views, it’s when the moon is full that you have the best chance of spotting birds.
Actually, the moon’s not really full. It’s a half moon since we can’t see the backside, but that’s another story.
This time of the year, with clear, stable air, is ideal for astrobirding. Birds in the night sky drift overhead. Our nearest celestial neighbor makes the perfect backdrop. The next couple months provide us with some great opportunities. You’ll have about seven hours of full-moon time to stare through your scope and watch for owls, swans, cranes, flights of ducks and whatever else might be slashing through the late-fall night sky.
Check an almanac, your local paper or www.weather.com for moon rise and set times. The next three months will be great because the moon rises in the late afternoon or early evening, perfect timing.
Birds crossing the face of the moon move fast, or so it seems. They appear more as impressions than actual sightings. When you see something, back away from the eyepiece, reflect on what you saw—or thought you saw—and take an educated guess.
Silhouettes: fleeting as memories; elusive as dreams.
Any night, two or three nights on either side of the full moon work for astrobirding. In November we hit the full moon on the 20th. In December it’s the 21st.
I keep watching and hoping for a loon to cross the face of luna.

Last night’s full moon

Death as a Destination

2010-11-11T11:56:00.004-05:00

Fatso getting ready for a long winter's nap.

For some animals, humans in particular, sleep is like a temporary death. It’s one way to get through the long night, albeit, haunting, mesmerizing, sometimes undisturbed. For chipmunks, getting through the night is about as close to death as one can be and still think about a future.
At this time of year we still see the furry creatures scurrying about, gathering seeds, cheeks stuffed to beyond belief with that meal they hope will come in seven or eight months. Proper planning prevents piss-poor performance as my hiking buddy, Tom, often says.
Some place along the evolutionary continuum, chipmunks faced the decision: Migrate, adapt or hibernate.
I can imagine the scene, representatives of all 24 species of these furry critters are seated around a table having coffee and sunflower seeds. “Let’s migrate, guys, just like the birds and Wildebeests,” says their democratically elected leader.
“Can’t, Fred, our legs are too short,” comes a shout from the far end of the table.
“Okay then, let’s make peace, not war, and adapt to this cold, white stuff,” comes a cheery suggestion.
“Can’t Cindy, we have hair and you need fur to withstand that cold stuff. Plus, all our food is buried,” says Charlie.
“Okay, why don’t we just snuggle in and take a nap. A nice, long nap,” says the voice of reason.
“Hmmm, that sounds like a good plan, Susie. Let’s go for it!”
The meeting ends and everyone evolves happily ever after.
These random thoughts came to me as I watched one of our local chipmunks (we’ve named him Fatso) clean out the bird feeders this morning. He’s putting on the fat that will carry him through. According to online sources, chipmunks, also called ground squirrels, normally have a body temperature of 37°C. Getting through the winter requires he double his body mass.
During the winter his heart beat drops from 350 beats per minute to 4 beats per minute. (How ‘bout that, Lance Armstrong!) Also, Fatso’s body temperature will drop from 37°C, to an incredible 3°C.
As one might expect, all of his body processes slow so less fat will be consumed. In Spring, little Fatso will wake weighing about 160 grams, down from the plump 300 grams he started with in December. Unlike humans of a certain age, he will wake only every couple weeks to urinate. (No, I don’t know where. I assume he has a toilet someplace in his underground nest.)
Scientists estimate about two-thirds of the chipmunks never see the light of a spring morning. They die because their bodies run out of food reserves or some predator such as a fox finds them while they are asleep.
Other than that two-third dying part, it sounds like the Chipmunk Strategy has some merit.

Drink all you want when you only have to pee every two weeks.

Easy Come, Easy Go

2010-11-07T10:04:00.003-05:00

It was the first snowfall of the season and it won’t be the last snowfall of the season. It was the snowfall all children long for, greet with words like “Oooohh mannnnnn,” imagine three-segment people with top hats, days without teachers. It was the kind of snowfall adults of a certain age anticipate with dread, conjuring moments of stark terror in an automobile, late or missed appointments, scuttled hope-filled dates.
It was the snowfall we all know will arrive, yet never seem prepared for, clothed for, provisioned for, or desired for.
It was the snowfall, that for adults of a certain age, generates images of simpler times, deeper snows, visions of three-segment people in the yard, and words like, “Oooooh mannnnn.”
It was the first snowfall of the season, the one that on the next day reminds us and leaves us with the unanswered question: When the snow melts, where does the white color go?

Room with a Limited View

2010-10-31T20:31:00.001-05:00

A big number four.

An unanticipated physical detour has kept me off the road to Blogosphere for the past few weeks. It’s reminiscent of that famous statement by Don Rumsfeld, secretary of defense, (and little-known wannabe birder) back in ‘02. Most people thought he was talking about challenges in Iraq, when actually he was reporting on why his Audubon chapter missed seeing a Slatey-back Gull at the Tidal Pool in Washington: “As we know,  there are known knowns.  There are things we know we know.  We also know  there are known unknowns.  That is to say,  we know there are some things  we do not know.  But there are also unknown unknowns,  the ones we don't know  we don't know.”
Being in the hospital and having a computer and free WiFi (At what this is costing they should toss in WiFi.) is a mixed blessing. Not unlike having grandchildren. Hourly, rather than watch political commercials on a blurry television (It’s not the TV’s fault, my nurse says.) I read through the bird sightings on the Ohio Ornithological Society’s ListServ. I’ve missed Cave Swallows, Red-throated Loons, Red-necked Grebes, Pine Siskins, Snow Buntings and who knows what else.
To compensate, I’ve opted to keep a list of what I see through my limited angle of view, which my nurse calls the window. Rock Pigeon (or is it back to Rock Dove, it’s been so long) seems to be the dominant species. Maybe I should subdivide them into colors or patterns, or both. American Crow is close at number two, with European Starling coming in a distant third. Fourth, with only six entries is Turkey Vulture. There is no number five, yet, but it’s only been four days, so I’m hopeful. You’re bored, says my nurse.
I’ve also been able to give career advice to two young hospital volunteers, called Comfort Runners. We used to call them Candy Stripers. I had a hard time keeping a straight face when they said they were “Comfort Runners” and was there anything they could do for me. Anyway, we chatted and it turns out they’re sophomores in college. One was actually thinking of heading down the path to Journalism. I told her to run down some other path if she wants comfort in the future. Forty years of experience, ya know.
One of the aides caught me standing next to the window this evening, looking longingly at the sunset while trying to run up the numbers of my Hospital Window Life List. She made some joke about the windows being locked so I could forget about trying to escape. Had I known being hospitalized would be so much fun I would not have waited 68 years for the experience.
The good news is that Susan reports that we had our first Purple Finch of the winter season yesterday at the home feeder. I missed it, too.

Expect the Unexpected

2010-10-12T08:25:00.003-05:00

Yellow-billed Cuckoo

In the ancient, now-defunct language of the Wiggidy Warriors, a tribe that inhabited the entire globe at one time, the word “birding” meant, “expect the unexpected.” The elders of the tribe would take youngsters aside and quietly tell them, “When you’re out hunting for truth and goodness in the evil world, and you hear hoof beats, think of horses, not zebras. However, to be successful you must always bird.”
So it was yesterday, another day when striped bass were no place to be found in New England, when what was required was a good book, a glass of wine, a relatively comfortable chair and a stunning view of Ipswich Bay, that the unexpected, which I should have expected, happened.
Here’s what happened I think before the first glass of wine was finished: According to various charts, tables and reports from unbiased sources, 4:25 p.m. was supposed to be the prime fishing time of the day, sun would pop out, wind would drop to zero and fish would leap from the water, dying to, well, die. I had already proven that the preceding three hours of the morning, also listed as excellent, were definitely not prime time. I was, I thought, finished fishing for the day, settled into other activities, thinking about dinner and tomorrow, when I glanced at my watch to see what time it wasn’t—precisely 4:25 p.m. So why not take another stab at it, I thought.
As I unloaded my butt from the comfort of the Adirondack chair in search of my rod, I spotted what I thought was a Northern Mockingbird, a quite common creature in these part, on the fence rail. I mentioned it to Susan, she deep into a novel, glanced up, confirmed my sighting—and shot me that look as if to say, “We’re reading, here!”
There was something wrong with this bird, however. I mentioned I’d never noticed how yellow the mockingbird’s beak is. Then it hit me, those words of wisdom from the ancient, lost tribe of Wiggidy Warriors, “Expect the unexpected.”
“Whoa,” says I, “that’s a Yellow-billed Cuckoo!” which was more than enough to pull Susan (vertically) from her book about girls with tattoos kicking hornets’ nests or something, binoculars from under chairs and cameras from backpacks.
Later, I happened to be checking the dictionary of the Wiggidy Warriors and noted that another definition of “birding” is: “Sometimes you just get lucky.”

Yellow-billed Cuckoo

Better and Better

2010-10-06T11:02:00.003-05:00

Northern Gannet

It was a dark and stormy morning. Fishing remained out of the question with rain and winds hitting 40 mph. Not that I didn’t have better things to do, I was fixing a balking toilet when I heard Susan yelling about something on the rock. Then I heard plenty of running from downstairs, coupled with plenty of door slamming by her and our friend, Ciba, who owns the house where we’re currently mooching a vacation stay. (Toilet repair is one way of paying back—and paying forward.)

Northern Gannet

I dashed downstairs to see a gorgeous Northern Gannet perched on the rocks in front of the house. This is one of those birds we see often enough, usually hundreds of yards away. This guy, too, was seeking shelter from the storm.
There’s that threadbare adage about silver linings … blah, blah. I prefer to think of it as good karma, generated by fixing friend’s toilets.

Northern Gannet

Some Days Are Just Better

2010-10-04T09:36:00.005-05:00

Black-bellied Plovers

As Lance Armstrong says, “There are no bad days. Some days are just better than others.” Ain’t that the truth?
I was hyped up for this fishing trip to the Atlantic Coast. I had (make that have) boxes of hand-tied flies of my own design, my new hand-built rod for saltwater fishing and more ways to figure tidal movement than the U.S. Navy. Of course, the one thing no one can control is the weather. When I got up this morning to fish the incoming tide, the storm that had started the night before still raged. Winds were a steady 35 knots with gusts beyond belief. And rain. Fly fishing would be confined to magazine pages this day.
Well, with gourmet coffee, a good book and the love of my life beside me, I settled into a pleasant morning. Then we noticed movement in the granite boulders 100 feet in front of us. A flock of migrating Black-bellied Plovers had taken refuge in the nooks and crannies of the rocks. Braving the elements (which is a bit of an overstatement) I captured an image of these birds whose mental state best reflected my own, except that I had coffee.
And when I was about to head back for the house, a flock of 50 Common Eiders passed by. No shelter necessary for these huge sea ducks. Storm? What storm? Bring it!

Common Eiders

So, Where’s the Answer?

2010-09-15T18:17:00.004-05:00

Two related, yet not related, stories popped up in my local papers today. The theme of both is the same; harnessing the wind to produce electricity. One is a story about big money, the other about not so big money. One is about pumping money into the pockets of people we’ll never know—for who knows how long. The other, about pumping electricity back into the grid—now—on a manageable budget.
First, about the fat cats who need lots of food. According to a story in this morning’s Cleveland Plain Dealer, a new industry is about to launch here. The Lake Erie Energy Development Corp., was formed a year ago to seek developers for a wind turbine project off the shores of Cleveland. Today, they announced three major players have been signed up, headed by the Bechtel Development Company of San Francisco. These are the same folks that brought us Hoover Dam, the Chunnel and thousands of other major projects. They, and their partners, will build five turbines for a demonstration project, seven miles off shore at an estimated cost of $100 million.
Stay tuned. The above story will take a while to develop. The other story is about what’s happening now. That story appeared in my local paper, The News Leader, here in Sagamore HIlls. It’s about a local dentist who has installed two vertical wind turbines at his office to generate electricity, at a cost of about $15,000 for each. I saw these turbines a day or so after they were installed and first thought they were art work.

The 30-foot-tall vertical axis turbines will produce about 2,500 kilowatt hours per year in an average 12 mph wind. This equates to around a quarter of the average energy needs of a residential home.
According to the news story, Dr. Davidson figures that wind generated electricity will cover about 10 percent of his energy needs. But here’s the cool part, Ohio, like many states, has what’s called net metering. That means, if you are producing enough energy to reverse your meter, the energy companies credit your account. You’re essentially selling electricity back to the company when you’re on vacation, for example. Bundle that with a federal 30% tax credit and state rebate incentives and you recoup the cost of your wind turbine in about five years, according to IC Green Energy, Vermilion, Ohio, the producer of these vertical axis turbines (wwwicgreenenergyofohio.com). The company can install a complete system in five or six hours.
I know, not everyone can have a 30-foot-tall wind turbine in their front yard. Many people can, however, and they can also be pumping electricity back into the grid for the rest of us.
So what’s the answer? On one hand, we have a mega-cost project that will bring mega-watts of power, and hopefully mega-jobs to our area. On the other, we have a family-owned business, already producing machines that can help the average home owner cut energy costs—and with a good looking machine at that. As Bob Dylan pointed out nearly 50 years ago, the answer, my friends, to this and so many other problems, is blowin’ in the wind.

A Long Way to Flutter By

2010-09-13T15:04:00.003-05:00

Monarch Butterflies pause during their 3,000 mile migration

When you find yourself running low on energy; or maybe lost without a map, consider the Monarch butterfly, please.
Susan and I made the hour-long trip to Mentor Headlands State Park along Lake Erie’s shores this morning to bird the fall warbler migration. Along with the birds, we found ourselves in the midst of a massive Monarch butterfly movement as the insects moved from northern territories—by the thousands!—to their wintering grounds in the Transvolcanic Plateau region of Mexico. Depending on how you measure it, many of these half-gram insects will travel nearly 3,000 miles before they hibernate.
When you start reading about these butterflies you bump into all kinds of words you might not otherwise associate with light-weight insects. “Hibernate in caves,” for example. That’s what they do. Like bears and other hibernators (chipmunks and groundhogs come to mind) they slow their heartbeat and take a nap—like some of my retired friends.
The principal tree they like in Mexico is the Oyamel fir. We’ve been fortunate to see the hibernating Monarchs in this country near Santa Barbara, California, when they over winter in the Eucalyptus trees near Goleta.
Here, in northeast Ohio, we’re fortunate to see the bulk of migrating Monarchs from the eastern part of this country, and Canada, pass right through. Most of the insects move east of the Great Lakes then turn a southwesterly direction. When we get strong winds from the north, as we’ve had the past few days, the butterflies flutter by in prodigious numbers.
Today, thousands of them rested on trees throughout the park. I thought it interesting that of the larger fly catcher species we saw, Great-crested Flycatcher for example, no one was eating Monarchs. It was as if the birds and insects made a pact: We’re all in this migration boat together, so let’s all pull on the oars. Something like that.
It’s been estimated that about 300 million Monarchs head to Mexico for the winter. Theirs is not an easy life. If they don’t get eaten or whacked by a car along the route, there’s all kinds of stormy weather and loss of habitat to deal with once they get to Mexico.
Unlike migrating birds, the Monarchs have never travelled the route they will follow. Previous generations have died off before the journey begins. Many that start are more than three generations away from those that previously made the trip. Since its wintering grounds were discovered in the high mountains of Michoacan State west of Mexico City, scientists have studied how this critter with a tiny brain, migrates out of Mexico in the spring, moves up to its breeding areas where it produces several generations, then migrates back again to an area that the year’s last generation has never been to.
The exact purpose of their migration and their ability to make the trip at all, remains an intriguing subject for scientists studying them today. I don’t understand the mechanics or biology of the Monarchs’ movement, however, I do appreciate its beauty. Seeing them, by the thousands, is a bonus, maybe our reward, for getting out and birding.

2010-09-09T11:59:00.001-05:00

Way Off the Beaten Track

This summer, Susan and I developed a taste for getting off the interstate highways during our travels. Among our discoveries have been Lucas, Kansas, the Grassroots Art Capital of Kansas, with its Garden of Eden and other assorted oddities. But that’s another story. Recently we found ourselves (geographically speaking) in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky. This (really) tiny town is best known for its name and not much else. Well, it is known for having elected a dog as it’s mayor—twice.
Rabbit Hash’s population varies from four to 40 people, depending on how the city boundaries are drawn. There are a couple of antique stores and two, and I use the term loosely, cafes. The most intriguing store is the General Store (where one of the dog-mayors was banned from entering by the health department). Because of flooding (the town is literally on the banks of the Ohio River) there’s not an unwarped board in the building. I think there is probably one example of everything ever built in the world jammed into that building. There’s so much stuff, floor to ceiling, that there’s no room for anything. The nostalgic aroma of sandalwood incense permeates the place, a feature I’m sure, missing when the first settlers washed up on this south bank of the river in the mid-1700s.
What piqued my curiosity was that, without spending a penny, we had a fun hour or so poking around in history—indoors and out. While across the river, in Rising Sun, Indiana, was “anchored” the Grand Victoria riverboat casino. I wondered if the folks on the boat were looking across the river and enjoying their experience as much as we.

Thinking Green at Sunset

2010-08-23T21:42:00.004-05:00

A few moments before the green flash, your basic sunset.

One of the many fun things to do in western Michigan at the end of summer, when the fish aren’t biting and birds have yet to start migration in any serious manner, is watch the phenomenal sunsets over Lake Michigan. So it was this evening, our third here. We had sore shoulders from casting to fish that had their own agenda, which did not include us. An occasional Caspian Tern would fly by and we saw two Sanderlings playing tag with the waves. So much for birding highlights.
Watching the sun set is a ritual we always participate in. Even on some cloudy evenings we sit and hope. This was about to be our third spectacular sunset and I was showing off, talking about the elusive “green flash” some people claim to see at sunset. Other than the name, I know little about this atmospheric phenomena.
Ever the optimist, I had a camera at the ready. A friend once told me I was the definition of an optimist: A guy who carries a camera when he goes fishing.
As the sun was dropping below the horizon (I know, that’s technically incorrect), we watched the fire-ball, hard to imagine it’s really 93 million miles away—give or take a few million depending on our orbit. Fully expecting the sun to disappear as it always does, just as the “red” edge sank, it turned green! To its right was a small shaft of green light as well.
Doing a bit of research, I learned this flash of green lasts only 1.4 seconds. Three of the other four people with me also saw it. That’s when I realized I had had the cognizance to keep my finger on the shutter release and blasted away at 4.5 frames per second. Thank you, Mr. Nikon.
There are pages and pages of scientific and not-so-scientific information about green flashes at sunset. Jules Verne's 1882 novel "Le Rayon Vert" (The Green Ray) popularized the green flash as: "A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce the like! If there is a green in Paradise, it cannot be but of this shade, which most surely is the true green of Hope."
Well, I have to add, in this digital age, I was unable to manipulate the color in the photos I took to match what we actually saw. Once again, Jules Verne was right.
If you want to learn more about the green flash, caused by the same atmospheric refraction and scattering effects which produce the red sunset, a good place to start is http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/atmos/redsun.html.
In uniform air, the dispersion of light rays is apparently so small that the separation of red and green images is not visible. It takes more unusual layering of the atmosphere to enhance the separation.
If you have an appetite for more information about green flashes, “An introduction to Green Flashes,” by Andrew T. Young, http://mintaka.sdsu.edu/GF/index.html, will give you more than you can digest in a single setting.
As Young explains, “Green flashes are real (not illusory) phenomena seen at sunrise and sunset, when some part of the Sun suddenly changes color (at sunset, from red or orange to green or blue). The word “flash” refers to the sudden appearance and brief duration of this green color, which usually lasts only a second or two at moderate latitudes. As the area that turns green is ordinarily near the limit of the eye's resolution, these are sometimes called “green dot” displays. Green flashes are by-products of the large variations in astronomical refraction near the horizon.”
And from Elton John’s, “Rocket Man,” let me steal the line, “And all this science I don’t understand.” You don’t have to understand to be amazed and enjoy.

The elusive green flash and a green “pillar” to the right.

Don’t Take Fishing Personally

2010-07-28T10:44:00.003-05:00

Some days they wait in line to get caught

Fishing was not on the agenda this week. I had a full plate of other tasks. Susan is off having some quality time with her mom and I had … Well, I had (have) a lot to do. Then Tom called Sunday night and said he thought we needed some time on the stream—how about Tuesday. The heat had tapered off, the fish were probably active again, the stars were aligned, etc.
For almost 10 seconds I was tempted to say no. Then I rethought my position. I do have two fishing trips planned for August and another in September. It had been a couple months since the rods were out of the cabinet, however. Maybe I did need some practice. Hey, fishing is serious business. There are thousands of mistakes to be made on the human’s part while the fish has only to make one. Fish definitely have the upper fin in this game.
Loaded with enough tackle to open a small fly shop, Tom and I, along with new-found-friend Greg, headed off to one of our favorite streams. While distracted by birds and going through the ritual of stringing up the rods, that other ritual, choosing a fly pattern, surfaced. For me, I said, it’s easy. I’m just going to pick up where I left off the last time we were here. My theory was that the fish did not get any smarter during the intervening couple of months, and, hopefully, I did not get any dumber. Tom, brow furrowed, was changing and stretching leaders, looking at some if his beautifully tied flies, and deep into making the right choice. Greg, the only one of this trio with a job, was grinning. He was just happy not to be in the office or his car heading for a meeting on this morning when the sky seemed an unnatural shade of blue.
One of those great mysteries of fly fishing, and probably why we keep coming back, is how two fishers can be virtually side by side, using the same pattern, one catching fish and the other not.
And so it was to be. On this day I was the lucky one. Tom, who has out-fished me numerous times, could only become more flustered each time he watched me dance a rainbow or brookie around the pool. When I’d complain about a fly I had tied coming apart from all the abuse by the fish, he'd mutter something like, “Just keep it up, Bubb. It’s a long walk home.” I tried not to laugh. Honest, I did. And when he did get a fish into the net, he’d lecture it, suggesting that it was about time, etc.
Some days you’re the fisher. Some days you’re the bait.

Pretty, but too small.

Peace at the Watering Hole

2010-07-23T10:08:00.002-05:00

Coyote photographed earlier this year in Rocky Mountain National Park.

It’s easy enough to make a case for climate change in northeast Ohio this summer. We’re going through one of our longer periods of extended hot weather. Anything above 90 degrees is a big deal around here. We’ve had a month of it. Television stations, nightly, cover the subject of summer heat in the city as if it didn’t just happen yesterday.
Even with last night’s rain the thermometer was bumping against 80 degrees at 7 a.m. this morning. I opted to get my bike ride out of the way early to beat the heat. Little did I realize, the heat had already won the competition before I even had my shoes on.
The bike trail was relatively cool, at least in the shady spots. Rain puddles dotted the asphalt in the shady spots as well, adding a bit of challenge—unless you’re an eight-year-old kid who goes looking for puddles to ride through. As I neared my turnaround point, I noticed a large, dark shape in the shadows at the middle of the trail. I slowed a bit when I realized I was looking at two coyotes, drinking from a puddle. When I was about 50 feet away, the one on the left looked up at me, took another drink, then both bolted into the nearby woods.
I was at the spot where they had been in a matter of seconds, yet I could not see them in the woods. Great stealth and camouflage, I thought.
I continued to my turn-around point about 100 yards further up the trail. I made a quick turn, pumped by this close encounter of the furred kind—the reason many of us head into the wilderness. Okay, a bike trail in semi-suburbia is not exactly the wilderness. Fortunately, some of the wilderness is coming to us these days.
I immediately focused on the spot where the coyotes had been. I saw a small shape now huddled over the same puddle. It was an opossum. It could not have been three minutes between the two sightings. And while coyotes tend to prey on smaller rodents, I suspect that opossum is sometimes on the menu.
The opossum did not play possum. No panic on its part. I slowed nearly to a stop as I drifted by, giving it plenty of space on the six-foot-wide path. It watched me glide by, maybe unsure of what this colorful creature was. Its attitude was the same as we might assume when viewing an alien from outer space. Out of morbid curiosity I looked around for the coyotes. I wondered if I’d witness what I was sure would be the opossum’s last drink of water.
Nothing happened. Unlike human coming’s and going’s, when nothing happens in the animal world, it’s news.

What’s Old is New Again

2010-07-09T20:21:00.002-05:00

A silly way to manage stress

About a quarter century ago, I was attending a thoroughly boring business trade show when a conference-session sign caught my eye. The topic, “Managing Stress,” had nothing to do with why I was on this assignment. Sitting in just seemed like a good idea. In retrospect, I’m unsure if that session was part of the convention I was attending, or one of the other business meetings going on in the mega-plex hotel.
The room was full of people who needed to manage their stresses. I was, in part, captivated by the title of the session: Who would want to manage stress? I wanted to know how to get rid of it.
Here’s where I save you the $200 some 75 people in the room had parted with to hear this guru of stress management cast his pearls of wisdom. I’ll reduce the one hour of hocus pocus to a sentence or two. You manage stress, first, by putting a rubber band on your wrist. When you feel stress coming on, snap the rubber band and it “shocks” the stress out of you. Or, it snaps you back to reality, which is somehow not as stressful.
This memory came back to me earlier this week when Susan returned home with a bag full of distractions and rewards to use on our grandchildren who were coming for a week’s stay. In the bag were what looked like colorful rubber bands.
“What’re these for,” I asked.
“They’re silly bands.”
“Hmmmm. So, whatda they do?”
“Do? They really don’t do anything. Kids wear them and trade them. It’s a fad. It’s a fun thing.”
Okay, I’m all for fun. These silly bands come in a plethora of shapes, sizes, colors and themes, I learned from my grandson. Some glitter, others glow in the dark. Some are mundane while others are highly sought after. He then pulled out a shopping bag and revealed some of his collection of silly bands he had brought with him. He assured me he had plenty more at home. Apparently, the trading of these things has gotten so hot and distracting in schools, they’ve been banned in many places. Zero tolerance for rubber bands.
Throughout the week, as we’ve visited various museums, swimming pools and public events, I’ve paid some attention to what young kids had on their arms—other than tattoos, I mean. Sure enough. From a single silly band to dozens, kids of all ages were decorated in these colorful rings of plastic. Only they’re not rings. They’re shapes of everything from numbers, to buildings, to animals to foodstuff. There seems to be no end to the variety of silly bands a kid can find and wear.
I noticed that when they are on the wearer’s arm, they all look alike. I mentioned that to my grandson and got the full eye-roll that said volumes about the generation gap of 60 years we share.
After several hours at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History today, he asked if he could put his silly bands—stretching from his wrists to his elbows—into one of my pockets until we got home. I agreed, then asked why. He said they were getting too tight and causing him stress. I told him to snap out of it.

Beating the Heat

2010-07-06T16:23:00.003-05:00

Northern Watersnake

Susan and I were wondering if there would be enough juice in the thermometer this morning. We’re having a heat wave here. The red stuff (What do they use in this modern-day world since mercury is probably banned?) was at the 80-degree mark and it was only 8 a.m. With two grandkids here for a visit, we knew the solution to keeping cool on a day like this: creek walk!

After loading a lot of stuff we wouldn’t need into a backpack, and forgetting things we would need, plus a light lunch, four of us headed for Chippewa Creek in the Brecksville section of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Forgetting the binoculars definitely added to the challenge.

Although water level was down, the stream was pleasantly cool. There seemed to be more fish in the stream than I can remember. I took that to be a healthy sign. About five minutes into the hike, we encountered a first for us on this small creek, a northern water snake. It was the first of two we’d see by day’s end.

To the credit of the grandkids, neither got all scared and screamy. In fact, they were curious about the snake and all the other creatures we encountered on our five-hour cooling off hike. Hiking in a creek not only cools the body, it awakens an interest in nature for kids like nothing else can—except maybe a bird walk. Fish, however, seem to tolerate the incessant chatter and rock tossing of an eight year old and a 3.5 year old more than birds.

Some words strike fear into one's heart, such as, "Hey Papa! Is this your other camera?"

Step Into the Future

2010-06-23T11:12:00.003-05:00

Early morning in the Cuyahoga Valley backcountry

If you could plan a trail in a national park, what would be your criteria?
Last evening the Greater Akron Audubon Society chapter hosted Lynn Garrity, trail planner for the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Garrity has the monumental, and somewhat envious job of putting together a new trail management plan for our 33,000-acre gem. The last plan, such as it is, was done 25 years ago. It’s time for a makeover.
Times have changed, people have changed and national parks have to change. Change is, allegedly, good. The challenge is preserving the historic reason for the park, yet satisfying the needs of its visitors.
The CVNP, one of 50 national parks (there are many more sites administered by the National Park Service) and consistently in the top 10 of “Most Visited” with its 1.5 million annual visitors, has 106 miles of trails. Add in connecting trails of county and city parks that surround this outstanding facility between Cleveland and Akron, and you come up with about 184 miles of recreation trails. Currently, there are multi-use trails, bridle paths, specific hiking trails, plus the waterway itself.
“In the last 25 years,” said Garrity, “things like mountain bikes and trail running have come into existence. Things that planners could not foresee.”
Her mission, which she has enthusiastically accepted, is to come up with a plan that will make everyone happy—or make as few people as possible, unhappy.
“Our number one goal,” she said, “is to provide a trail network that creates a high-quality visitor experience for a variety of trail users.”
Her job sort of reminds me of a juggler who balances six spinning plates on five different sticks. On one hand is preservation of historic sites, while on the other hand is preservation of the natural beauty of the park; non-consumptive use, I’ll call it. On the third hand is the need to provide space for activities that (aaaammmm, I have to be careful here) tend toward consumptive use, in the sense of damaging trails or distracting from the experience of others. Right, I’m talking about off-trail bicyclists and equestrians. It’s an application of the 80/20 rule: 80% of the problem is caused by 20% of the people.
So, what do you think? How should Garrity and her team tackle, and wrestle with this octopus? Some public hearings have been held and more input is needed. If you’ve hiked, or biked, or ridden your trusty steed in this, or any park, you’ve no doubt said, “why don’t they …” or, “If I was designing a trail …” Well, here’s your chance. For more on the planning process and how you can participate, check out the Web site, www.parkplanning.nps.gov/cuva. If you want to contact Garrity and get on her newsletter and email list, drop her a line, with your ideas, at lynn_garrity@nps.gov.
Meanwhile, get out and enjoy the summer. Daylight only gets shorter after June 21st, you know.

Yellow Warblers abound in the CVNP

Just One of Those Days

2010-06-20T15:54:00.006-05:00

Peregrine Falcon, up close and personal

It started out to be just another day of bird census work in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park for Susan and me. It turned into one of the more exciting days of the summer—so far.
Heading south on Riverview Road near Peninsula, we spotted some of our birding friends standing in the middle of the road where it passes beneath I-80. This is a spot known for nesting Peregrine Falcons the past three years, so our assumption was that they were looking at a bird high above in the superstructure of the bridge.
Not so. The bird was sitting on the guard rail next to Riverview Road. I have to remember to wait for the car to stop rolling before I jump out at one of these exciting happenings. Especially when I’m the driver. But that’s another story. Sitting there, posing like it was an everyday happening for Peregrine Falcons, was a fledgling. The bird seemed to be mostly talons and big eyes. Terrifyingly cute like most juveniles. Cautiously blocking any attempt the bird might make to get on the road, was Cuyahoga Falls resident Pat Haddad. Along with Pat were veteran birders Bill Osborne, Bob Furst and Judy Tisdale.

Chad and Chris Saladin approach—cautiously

The bird seemed unconcerned about our concern for its welfare. While we discussed what to do and who to call, it checked out the local starling population that seemed to be part of the brunch menu. Bob jumped in his SUV and headed for the park ranger station at the nearby Boston Store. Far below, on the valley floor, we saw two people photographing something above them on the bridgeworks. We discerned it was Chad and Chris Saladin, Peregrine Falcon nest monitors in this area. After more jumping and yelling on our part than the Cleveland Browns do in a daily workout, we got their attention.

Chad and Chris do a quick inspection to be sure the bird is not injured. Bill Osborne looks on.

They immediately recognized our plight and headed up to resolve the issue. With expert handling, including really thick gloves, Chad and Chris captured the wayward fledgling, a female Chad said, then released the bird. He said she just started flying two days before and this was the fifth time he had to rescue her from the guard rail. The bird flew off as best it could in the general direction of its parent who waited above with a tasty Rock Pigeon treat.
When most of your views of this species are while it’s perched hundreds of feet away, or flying at 200+ miles per hour, having one sit for a portrait turns any day into something special. Chad and Chris are just a couple of the many unsung heroes in this area helping to protect these special birds.

Happiness is freedom of flight in a national park as Chad releases the falcon

Rainy Days and Mondays …

2010-06-14T13:20:00.003-05:00

Rainy Monday morning solitude

I glanced at the leaden sky as I loaded on my gear. I rationalized the dreary weather with the thought that it was not quite 7 a.m. and maybe the sun decided to sleep in. It was Monday, after all. Today was day-four of the annual Akron Audubon/Summit County Nesting Bird Census. And while any excuse to get into the Cuyahoga Valley National Park is good, this study is particularly important. It’s been going on for more than 30 years and is beginning to show some trending data regarding birds in this region.
Since birds can’t do much about weather, I figured the least I could do was play the game on their terms. Most people take a rain check when it comes to birding in the rain. I think it offers a whole different perspective and provides another window on nature.
Although it wasn’t raining as I started, I prepared. These days, I carry so many electronic gadgets, I feared if it rained hard enough, I might electrocute myself. In the end, I did not have enough small plastic bags to protect all my stuff. I opted to sacrifice my wallet since the plastic cards will endure and what little bit of paper money I had could be laundered—so to speak.
The first hour went well. Adequate numbers of birds were about, including an Orchard Oriole, always a special sighting in this park. About the time I reached the furthest extent of my tether, so to speak, the rain started. It was just a light drizzle, the kind that lulls one into thinking maybe rain gear isn’t necessary. Next thing you know you’re soaked and scrambling to protect your valuables.
I was glad that I paid the few extra bucks for the GoreTex rain jacket. It actually seemed to be working as advertised. Although the humidity was certainly rising, I seemed to be relatively dry, at least from the waist up.
While most birding activity shut down, or moved to the interior of the forest where it was more sheltered, it seemed obvious that life goes on, even in the rain. A Yellow Warbler stood on a branch with a large insect; lunch for the kids. A Gray Catbird passed in front of me with nesting material. Two American Robins copulated on a wood fence post.
I thought of the many times, fishing with my dad in the rain (he never stopped) when he’d respond to my whining, saying, “You won’t melt.” And he was right, of course. He was also wise enough not to add, “and you might learn something.”

In case anyone shows up today ...

Learning from the Locals

2010-06-07T14:30:00.003-05:00

Hmmmm, looks like dinner.

On our way home from the recent trip out west, Susan and I stopped in St. Louis for a few days to visit with her relatives. As a way of keeping me happy (We have a prenuptial agreement that I do not have to go to St. Louis in June, July or August when heat and humidity are off the charts.), I was invited to fish a private lake while in town. And since it doesn’t take much to lure me into fishing, I graciously accepted the invite. According to my host, the fish in this lake were (alternately) dying of old age or had to take turns swimming there were so many.
I was hoping one of the locals might be about so I could ask what the fish were hitting, but as luck would have it, I was fishing alone that first morning. Apparently I’d have to fall back on my 60-plus years of experience, not always a reliable source.
As I lined my rod I was keeping one eye on the dark clouds scudding overhead, one eye on a Great Blue Heron at the end of the earthen dam, and one eye on a Scarlet Tanager that had flown into the tree above the heron. The lightning-strike flash of the heron, instantly followed by the clap of thunder splash made by the fish it had just pinioned with its beak, served to focus my attention on the task at hand.
The heron seemed to be out matched by the large catfish. The bird wisely tossed the fish to its side, higher up on the dry land at the top of the dam. At nearly the same instant, two young raccoons dashed out of the cover of weeds at the edge of the woods. The frightened heron bobbed when it should have weaved, as one raccoon nimbly grabbed the fish in its mouth. The pair of thieves, both wearing black masks so identifying the perpetrators will be tough, dashed into the woods.
Not to cave in to personification, however, the heron looked right, then left and seemed a bit bewildered.
Okay, I thought. First lesson from the locals is not to toss onto the bank any fish you’re planning to have for dinner.

Teeth marks on your thumb at the end of the day is the best indicator of some great bass fishing.

Gimmie the Road Less Traveled

2010-06-03T09:05:00.005-05:00

Some roads are not built for sissies

When I told a friend we were going to be birding in the Pawnee National Grasslands in northeastern Colorado, his comment was a distinct, “humph.” That can translate several ways: Why? What’s there? Or, don’t you have something better to do with your time?

Western Meadowlarks for entertainment

It is a stark, desolate and beautiful place. The day Susan and I spent in this windswept corner of the country was gorgeous. We saw one van full of what might have been birders, two women on horseback and a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer. We also watched a majestic Golden Eagle on its throne that looked like a windmill, numerous Swainson’s Hawks hunting, Pronghorns doing their Pronghorn thing, and a colorful array of a couple dozen bird species. It was a busy day for that part of the world.
As usual, the beauty is in the details. From 30,000 feet above, the area does look rather abandoned. Even from five feet above it’s tough to see much. You have to get down and dirty to see the real thing.

Beauty in the details

And, as with most other things in life, if you stop and look and listen, it’s a whole different story.

Rattlesnake playing defense. Photo by Susan Jones

Curing White-line Fever

2010-05-30T17:42:00.005-05:00

Scissor-tailed Flycatcher at sunset. Something you won’t see from the Interstate.

There’s something great about driving the Interstate highways across America—I just don’t know what it is. Susan and I were hardly out of St. Louis a week ago when a serious case of white-line fever hit us.
We looked up all the antidotes and discovered there is only one that seems to really work—get off the road as soon as possible. It worked like a charm. Before we reached Kansas City we were kicking up dust; not worried about gravel tattooing the underside of our car. We bagged our first Scissor-tailed Flycatcher on the main street of a little town in east-central Kansas. We managed all of Kansas (except for a few miles on I-70) and most of eastern Colorado all the way into Boulder, on roads that kept us in touch with the real world.
There are many wonders to be seen in the backcountry. For me at least, the best of the best is the lack of litter on a stick, i.e. billboard advertising. But that’s a whole ‘nother rant I’ll save for the future.
Let me add my voice to those who recommend getting off the highway—and out of the car for that matter—to see what’s so great about America. Theme parks and DizzyWorld places are just fine—if you have no imagination, or want your kids to live someone else’s dream.
The real world is sitting on a swivel stool in Hoxie, Kansas, having a root beer float made by a lady who has been working in the store for longer than she cares to remember. The real world is about crawling around on your hands and knees, eyeball to eyeball with a collard lizard in the Tall Grass Prairie Preserve in Strong City, Kansas. You’re going to get hot and dirty, however, you are also going to build memories that will last a lot longer than a T-shirt.

A real soda fountain in Hoxie, Kansas.

Matching the Hatch

2010-05-21T11:39:00.003-05:00

Looks like dinner

Matching the hatch is one of those things fly fishers do to separate us from other, more sensible fishers. The object of the exercise is to determine what trout are feeding on, then search through the endless number of flies we carry in the multitude of pockets of our fishing vests, in hope of having a pattern that matches, exactly, the trout’s chosen food.
The end result is that we more often than not, fall back on one of three basic fly patterns since matching the hatch takes a considerable amount of skill and patience, two things you’re supposed to have as a fly fisher, but seldom do.
So it was that fishing buddy, Tom, and I struck off into the wilderness of a private fishing venue recently, laden with all the possible fly patterns any sensible fisher would, or could, carry. This was our initial spring fishing trip. I’ve been birding like crazy this spring and Tom is getting ready to climb onto the cutting board to repair a rotator cuff problem, so fishing has been put on the back burner of late.
While walking back to a special spot on the stream we both took note of any bugs flying near the water. There was the occasional flop of trout rising to pick off bugs, a sound that makes any fly fisher’s heart pump a bit faster. We arrived at the spot and, without ceremony, each took a favored position. Actually, I stopped walking first because I could not bear to watch those fish jump and me not have a hook in the water. Tom scurried across a wood bridge and took a place a bit further up stream.
I made a dozen casts with no success while Tom had a hookup on his second or third throw. Suddenly, he was into his second fish. I was beginning to wonder what I had done wrong in my life that I should receive such severe punishment. Then, things shut down for Tom. No fish for either of us for too long. We tried an array of patterns, seeking to match the hatch, even though there was no hatch and we did not have a clue about what the fish were feeding on.
As a birder, you’re never at a loss for something to do when the fish aren’t biting. I watched several Common Grackles search for food on the opposite bank, then head off to the bushes where they probably had nests. I noted that when they made a low pass over the stream, fish swarmed in a line beneath them. Curious behavior, I thought. I paid closer attention. On more than one occasion, as the grackles passed over the stream, they defecated. Is that what the trout were rising to eat?
I searched through my fly boxes, looking for something white and stringy. I found the perfect match for this hatch, a well-used white wooly bugger pattern. It took two casts and I was into fish—big time. By the time I had caught and released a half dozen fish, some rainbows, some brownies, Tom had moved closer so see what all the action was about. I shouted over, “Switch to anything white.” Then I briefly explained my theory. Bang! Another fish.
Without a word he started digging through his fly boxes looking for anything white. A few minutes later I looked up and he, too, was hauling in a nice fat brown trout.
He shouted back, “You made a believer out of me!”

Looks like … Renamed: The Poop Fly

Lessons From an Endangered Species

2010-05-17T08:59:00.004-05:00

Kirtland's Warbler 14 May 2010 Magee Marsh

How do you handle the paparazzi when you’re a major star and everyone wants a piece of you? Be polite, ignore them, eat your fill and be on your way.
Birders from all over the country are stalking our neck of the woods these days looking for, and enjoying, elusive wood warblers and other migrating species. We are fortunate to have, geographically speaking, a world-famous migrant trap only a couple hours from where we live. Magee Marsh in northwestern Ohio (aka for old timers as Crane Creek) is known throughout the birders’ world as the best spot in the country to see a majority of the members of the wood warbler family.
Our spot in Ohio has recorded 36 members of that family which numbers about 56 nationwide. Some species never reach the east or north; some are extinct. Since they all have wings, potentially, they could all join the party.
The rarest of these colorful birds is the Kirtland’s Warbler. It’s rare because it nests primarily, almost exclusively, in the Michigan jack pine forests. It’s endangered because of habitat loss and predation from Brown-headed Cowbirds. Kirtland's Warbler is dependant upon fire to provide small trees and open areas that meet its rigid nesting-habitat requirements.
The jack pine requires fire to open its cones and spread its seeds. The warbler first appears in a nesting area about six years after a fire when the new growth is dense and about 1.5 to 2.0 meters high. After about 15 years, when trees are 3.0 to 5.0 meters high, the warbler leaves the area. The female Kirtland's Warbler is more selective than the male in her choice of habitat, consequently, the best areas attract more females than males. The last residents of a tract that is getting too old are always unmated males. Sometimes guys are slow to figure these things out.
Because of its specialized home range and unique habitat requirements, Kirtland's Warbler probably has always been a rare bird. Scientists did not describe the species until 1851 when a male was collected on the outskirts of Cleveland. The species, eventually, was named in honor of Dr. Jared P. Kirtland, a physician, teacher, horticulturist and naturalist who authored the first lists of birds, mammals, fishes, reptiles and amphibians of Ohio.
All of which brings us around to May 14 this year. Breeding male Kirtland's Warblers typically arrive back in Michigan from the Bahamas between May 3 and May 20. So, having one drop into our region at this time is something all of us birders wish for—but never believe will happen. Occasionally, we get lucky. And the odds are in our favor when you have some of the best eyes of the birding world on the lookout. We’re fortunate to have Kenn Kaufman, birding author and lecturer, living in our area. Kenn was checking the bushes that border Lake Erie at Magee Marsh on that morning when he found the bird.
Quickly, he was on the phone, and other lines of social networking communications, to tell the world that a Kirtland’s was in the neighborhood. It is also a happy coincidence that the Black Swamp Bird Observatory, headquartered at Magee Marsh, was sponsoring a major birding festival that had attracted thousands of birders, giving hundreds of people a look at this endangered species.

Bird's eyeview of the paparazzi

The bird proved to be more than just cooperative. It stayed in virtually the same bushes, eating bugs to fuel the rest of its trip to Michigan. It ignored the hundreds of photographers vying for the perfect shot, as well as the gawkers watching its every move. Like the best of stars, it kept about its business, knowing that in the morning it would be on its way, satiated and happy—just like all those photographers and bird watchers.

Kirtland's Warbler shows crowd his best side

Easy Is, As Easy Does

2010-05-08T16:45:00.004-05:00

Kentucky Warbler

Sometimes birding, and its corollary activities—bird identification and bird photography—are easy, sometimes not. We’ve spent the better part of the last couple weeks chasing migrating warblers around the state of Ohio—and it was great.
Last weekend we were in southern Ohio with a group of kindred souls from the Kirtland Bird Club. Our leader, Bruce Simpson, by day a naturalist with the metro parks system in Columbus; otherwise an intrepid birder if there ever was one, is a one-man field trip. Bruce’s excitement and enthusiasm are infectious, to say the least. Occasional drizzle, which eventually turned into torrential downpour, slowed Bruce and our group only slightly as we scoured the Zeleski State Forest and the Lake Hope areas of Vinton County.
We closed out the weekend with 18 warbler species, 80 species total and 55 gallons of water in the tent. It was great to be birding an area we’ve never seen, but often heard of.
This week we spent three and half days birding a spot we know well—the boardwalk at Magee Marsh in Ottawa County at the opposite end of the state. If you’re the least bit interested in migrating warblers, and other species, this is the spot to be this month. Hundreds, if not thousands of people were there—or are there. We counted license plates on cars from half the states in the country. By Friday we only paused to catch our breath, do some laundry, replenish our supplies—and dry out the tent, again. Our warbler count is now at 21 (out of a possible 36) with a couple weeks to go. Can we hit the elusive 30 species? Stay tuned.
We got real lucky at Magee Marsh and had great looks at the Kentucky Warbler, one of those skulkers that rarely sticks its head above the level of the weeds. People were packed four or five deep at one section of the boardwalk for a couple days, based on the rumor that the bird was there—someplace. And it was. The rumor was true. All it takes is patience.
Another bird that challenged some top-flight birders, and all the technology they could muster, was the tiny Least Flycatcher. This wisp of a bird was in plain view, giving us ample opportunity to determine its identity. The challenge was that it looks like too many other birds. I counted eight different field guides popping out of bags, an array of identity programs on iPods and years of knowledge before the bird simply looked as us and dryly said, “CHEbek.” The collective, satisfying laugh by a couple dozen birders, was like a response to some inside joke. People who’ve not struggled with the identity of birds in the Empidonax genus didn’t get it.

Least Flycatcher

And then there’s the easy picture you almost miss. Rain had started Friday morning. We were headed to the boardwalk anyway. Susan was driving. I was fussing with the camera gear contemplating taking it out in the drizzle—wrapped in a trash bag. With a near-whiplash stop, Susan said, “Look!” An acre of dandelions spread before us. At the far end of the field were two Canada Geese discussing the merits walking into the field.
Click, click, click! I love this sport.

Canada Geese in field of Fluff-headed Earth Nails

Pink Snow

2010-04-24T09:18:00.002-05:00

Rainy day. Wind out of the southeast (A strange direction for northeast Ohio. Wind from the east, fish bite the least.) gusting to 20 mph, brought with it a flurry of pink snow this morning, signaling the end of spring. That’s the bad news. The good news is, wood warblers are not far behind.

Earth Day 2010: Times Change, I Think

2010-04-19T18:56:00.003-05:00

Reminder of Earth Day 1970

We hope you all enjoy the show.
With a nod to John Lennon and Paul McCartney—and the rest of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band …
It was 40 years ago today, Senator Nelson taught us all to play.
It’s been going in and out of style,
But it’s managed to stick around a while.
So may I introduce to you,
The day you’ve known for all these years;
Senator Nelson’s visionary—Earth Day!
And what have we learned since April 22, 1970? As with most first impressions, I remember the first Earth Day—and none of the rest. I was a student at Kent State University in those days. A non-traditional student, to use the current term. That means I was a bit older (but not much wiser) than most of the students. I had been in the Army. I had seen, up close and personal, what many of the students were rallying against. I was the ball lost in the high grass in those days—as were so many students. Kent was an edgy place that spring. Little did any of us realize how edgy it would get in the next couple weeks.
So, along with three other idealistic student journalists from the Daily Kent Stater, I headed for the nation’s capital to report on whatever this Earth Day thing was. It was billed as an Environmental Teach-in. Time has erased from my mind a lot of what happened in those few days. As the joke goes, if you can remember what really happened you probably weren’t there. I remember Pete Seeger as the “keynoter” since I was heavy into the folk music scene in those days. There was a large dose of anti-war rhetoric mixed with messages about the need to fix all the wrongs of our environment. I recall being interviewed about Cleveland’s burning river. (Hey! Who’s the reporter, here?) I was considered an “expert” on burning rivers, since I was from Cleveland.
I bought a tin badge to wear to proclaim my opposition to war and support for Mother Earth. I still have that button and drag it out every year about this time.
I don’t have a clue about how many people were there that day. There were a lot of us wandering around. Reports say something like 20 million people participated, nationwide. What good did it do?
So far, the legacy of that day 40 years ago has been legislation such as the Clean Air Act, the Environmental Protection Agency and a host of other critical, beneficial, laws we must respect and protect. And while we’ve won many battles, the fight is far from over. It was a 1969 oil spill in Santa Barbara—combined with the inertia of Congress—that outraged Senator Gaylord Nelson and set him in motion. Yet, 40 years later, we’re still talking about offshore drilling …
The goals of Earth Day remain as lofty as ever—yet still attainable. The movement has a snappy new logo—no suggestion of anti-anything like the older chicken-foot model. In the end, Earth Day is still a grassroots effort. Its successes and failures will be determined by what individuals do—not what politicians mandate.
Peace, man.

Official Earth Week logo by the 1970 Earth Week Committee of Philadelphia.

Words to Live—or Die—By

2010-04-15T17:35:00.003-05:00

Photo by Susan Jones

"If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough," declared Robert Capa. As arguably the premiere war photojournalist, Capa stepped on a landmine in Vietnam in 1954—trying to get a bit closer. (Sidebar: Robert Capa was born André Friedmann in Hungry. He changed his name while living in Paris. He and his lover, Gerda Taro, invented the persona, Robert Capa. Capa means “shark” in Hungarian.)
As a photojournalist I’ve always liked those words. They define, for me, what photojournalism is all about. And they work well with other aspects of photography, too. I’ve noticed, however, in bird photography there seems to be a strange, inverse relationship between bird and camera. It’s this: The larger the bird, the more difficult it is to get close. I’ve had hummingbirds so close I couldn’t focus; eagles 100 yards away fly at the click of a shutter. Then there’s California.
Susan and I just got back from a week of pounding the sands and backwaters of Southern California. And while it’s good to be back in Cleveland where the temperatures fluctuate 50 degrees from day to day, California is the place for bird—big bird—photography. A joyous element of photography, for me, is the challenge of getting close. Occasionally, when the planets, moon and stars are properly aligned, and I’ve been a good boy, karma is on my side. The bigger (California) birds accept my intrusion into their lives for what it is—just a visit—and I get a picture.
Part of the art of getting close is watching where you step. Certainly, cleaning a bit of dog shit off your shoes is not as traumatic as stepping on a landmine. But getting too involved in the “moment” is most often what leads to bumps and bruises on photographers.
Susan and I were trying to enjoy a non-existent sunset on Hendrey’s Beach in Santa Barbara last week when a Snowy Egret approached us. Hey, I had the camera and I was there first. The bird acted like it was auditioning for American Idol. How could I say no? While shooting with the ocean and incoming tide to my left, I was okay. One eye on the ocean, one eye on the bird. It was when the bird walked between Susan and I, and I turned my back to the ocean, that things got interesting—and a bit damp.
So much for Capa’s advice on getting close. Maybe I’ll start to let some of his other words, those thought to be his last as he set out from the village of Nam Dinh, Vietnam, on day of his fateful assignment for Life Magazine in 1954, be my guidepost: "I will be on my good behavior today. I will not insult my colleagues, and I will not once mention the excellence of my work."

Snowy Egret

How Do They Do That?

2010-04-04T20:39:00.002-05:00

American Robin--with lunch.

Even when there never seems to be enough hours in the day, I still mange to find myself with time on my hands—like a recent afternoon, for example. I guess it was a combination of things: The recent Full Worm Moon, warm sunshine, three miles of walking and no sign of the bird I was looking for, and hunger.
I sat on the first available bench near the edge of Indigo Lake in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park and watched an American Robin search for worms. Earlier I watched a Song Sparrow carefully selecting bugs from the edges of the lake. The sparrow paid no attention to me as it moved from stick to stem, gleaning for bugs. After it passed I got down on my hands and knees, and tried to discern what it had been after. I could seen nothing.
The robin was a different story. I watched it pull a half dozen juicy worms from the ground, all within a two-square-meter area. How do they do that?
This is one of those questions birders can discuss at length. It ranks right up there with, “How do you pronounce Pileated Woodpecker, or, Northern Parula?”
I know, this is not like arguing about the state of healthcare (or lack thereof) in America. The mindset of a birder can best be compared with that of a teenager. We constantly, perpetually, live in a state of denial. We thrive on it, actually. No matter what evidence is brought forth, you stick by your gut feeling on any of the above topics.
I asked a few people about this robin-catching-the-worm thing. Some argue that the robin hears the worm. Others claim it sees the ground move. A third group is certain the robin feels movement through its feet.
I already had the non-answer. I looked at a number of reports and experiments and was able to find supporting evidence for whatever answer people wanted. Here’s a quick summary: Audubon’s Nature Encyclopedia offers a description of robins and their behaviors that concludes, after it rains, worms rest with just the tips of their bodies showing at the mouth of their burrows. This makes the worm an easy target for the bird.
Another study, done in the 1990s, isolated each of the robin's various senses. This study concluded that hearing is the most important sense. Apparently, the robin listens for the small noises a worm makes while burrowing along in the ground. Researchers noted, the robin does use its other senses too—watching for movement, feeling for rumbling with its feet. But the main sense that helps out the most is the robin's hearing.
The guy who seems to have more time on his hands than me to explore this subject was a Dr. Frank Heppner. This ornithologist suspected sight was the most important sense robins use to find worms. He did a whole lot of things to discover how a robin found its lunch. My favorite tactic of his was to drill holes in the ground that looked exactly like wormholes. Robins ignored the holes unless a worm was inside the hole within visual range. Whether that worm was alive and normal, alive but coated with a bad-smelling odor, or dead, the robins found the worms and ate them. He concluded that sight is the key sense robins use to find earthworms.
So there ya go; nobody’s wrong if everybody’s right. Get out in the spring weather and blow off an afternoon watching robins pull worms from the soil. You might learn something.

Song Sparrow--so many bugs, so little time.

2010-04-02T18:20:00.001-05:00

Early spring on the Cuyahoga River

This is one of those classic fishing stories that needs to be retold each time it happens. Every fisher thinks it has only happened to him, or her. I opted to fish the Cuyahoga River in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park this morning, in hopes of fooling a steelhead trout into thinking the fly pattern I was using was the real deal. I worked an area of Tinker’s Creek 150 yards up from where it dumps into the river. The spot has all the signs of being great steelhead water. Today was not the day. I did manage to catch one freshwater bonefish (i.e. a sucker) of about two pounds.
As I moved closer to the mouth of the creek, two guys in a kayak came ‘round the corner and wedged their boat into the bank so they could both cast into the confluence of the two streams. I was a bit envious of their spot, however, I figured they’d not have any luck, either.
Right on cue one of the guys tied into a nice smallmouth bass. Then the other guy picked up another smallie. Was it possible that they might know something about fishing I did not? Couldn’t happen. At about the same time, a grandfather/grandson combo moved in to fish the same hole from the shore, at a rather precarious spot.
The guys in the kayak drifted off. I heard the granddad (who must have been hard of hearing since he spoke so loudly) tell the kid, “Now don’t throw your line over by those logs ‘cause you’ll only get all fouled up.” He really did say, “foul” so I figured he was not a modern grandpa.
The kid, of course, did exactly as he was told not to do. He had some sort of spinning rod and appeared to be able to toss his bait a mile. I watched the line sail through the air, directly at, yet just missing, an overhanging tree limb. Gramps was upset. “Now there ya go! Now you’ll get all snagged and how are we gonna get ya off those logs?”
True to the tale, the kid hooks up with a fish—a nice fish. I watched his line running up and down stream. Gramps scampered for the landing net. The kid had a smile I could see from 100 yards away. I know he’ll always remember this sunny spring day. The time he was fishing with gramps and … And he’ll retell this story, just as I am doing now, 60 years after my dad told me not to toss my lure near a weed bed in some unnamed lake in Indiana, and I caught the largest northern pike I’ve ever caught.

An Unreal Walk in the Woods

2010-03-26T18:26:00.004-05:00

The sky is falling!

It was a kind of science fiction day, Friday, in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I had a new piece of photo gear I wanted to get familiar with, so I headed down to the Station Road Bridge area. The thermometer was bumping against 33 degrees, sun so bright it hurt my eyes, sky was bluebird blue, and light snow was falling. What?
I walked about a half mile, finding and photographing only a frustrated White-throated Sparrow who couldn’t seem to figure out the weather, either. Suddenly, a chunk of the blue sky fell, right before my eyes. I thought, “Where’s Chicken Little when you need him?” That piece of the sky landed on a moss-covered branch in the middle of a newly forming beaver pond. Turns out, it was in fact an Eastern Bluebird. He looked back over his shoulder at me—through the snow and sunshine. “What’s next,” I asked.
As Lance Armstrong says, “There are no bad days. Some days are just better than others.”

Eastern Bluebird

Playing the Name Game

2010-03-26T08:21:00.005-05:00

Red-winged Blackbird in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park

As a kid, I had some trouble with birds’ names, probably because I didn’t listen well enough. I recall the challenges of the Mourning Dove. When I asked my dad the name of the bird that was always calling for rain when we went fishing (his contention), he said it was the Morning Dove. Later, I thought he meant Moaning Dove. Years later I learned it as Mourning Dove—kind of a cool compromise when you think about it.
Another species that challenged me was the Red-winged Blackbird. As a kid, I called it Red-shouldered Blackbird because the bird’s wing was obviously black and it had a red patch on its shoulder. I finally got that one sorted out—until I went to Cuba. There it was, bigger than life; the Red-shouldered Blackbird. And, guess what? It looks exactly like our Red-winged Blackbird. At least the males look alike. The females are completely different in the blackbird species.
Here, the Red-winged Blackbirds, at least the males, are conspicuous and noisy. In Cuba, we hunted long and hard until we found a pair. As an aside, it says something about the non-traffic in Cuba that our bus driver just stopped the bus in the middle of the highway so we could all pile out to see the bird. This tactic was quite common since you more often had to watch for hay-burning horses than gas-burning horses.
So, there he was, a single male Red-shouldered Blackbird, squeaking a bit, not acting out as our Red-wing Blackbirds do at this time of the year. The female, all black, was nearby, darting in and out of the high grass, obviously trying to frustrate anyone with a camera in hand.
Though the males might look similar, there are differences. Whereas our Red-winged Blackbirds are ubiquitous at this time of the year, their Cuban cousins are limited in where they can be found; just a few areas on the whole island. Their voices are a bit different, as well. And even though their voices are different and non-musical to the human ear, both birds’ songs translate into, “welcome to spring time!”

Red-shouldered Blackbird in the Zapata region, Cuba.

… More Than You Bargain For

2010-03-23T20:15:00.005-05:00

Mystery bird

My dad used to give me the sage advice: Sometimes ya get more than ya bargain for. This was usually in reference to my ending up on the short end of a fight I picked with some bigger kid, and, later in life, in reference to cars or girls—or both. But there’s a positive side to the saying and, often enough, it applies to birding.
Tuesday was one of those days when Susan and I had full schedules that kept us passing likes ships in the night, so to speak. Late in the afternoon she suggested we make a really quick trip down to Indigo Lake in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park where, the day before, six Long-tailed Ducks had been sighted. The Long-tailed Duck is a bird we don’t see often—or often enough. It’s a sea duck, so having them inland is a treat—though not unprecedented. It’s also a quite vocal bird (thus its former name, Old Squaw) that nests on the Arctic tundra. Monday will go down in the Ohio record-keeping books as a good day for Long-tailed Ducks. They were reported in bunches (that’s a technical ornithological term) all over the state.
I suggested we use my car because my spotting scope was still bouncing around in the trunk with fishing gear. Equipment from two or three excursions often gets jumbled in my trunk. I thought about grabbing the camera, but it was down stairs and, besides, we wouldn’t see anything special enough to justify lugging the gear along. (Saying that is the one sure way to guarantee the picture of a lifetime—missed.)
About a half mile north of the lake Susan yelled, “Look at that bird!”
To my credit, I managed to keep the car only slightly out of the ditch while looking at a huge white bird atop a tree, making a U-turn and scrambling out of the car—all without taking the binoculars away from my eyes. We looked up in amazement at what appeared to be a Snowy Owl. After we blinked our eyes we realized we were looking at a partially albino, or leucistic, Red-tailed Hawk. It was not a true albino because we could see some black on it. In fact, as it soared with three other red tails, its wing pattern was a spectacular alternating black and white.
If you’re thinking this was the photo op of a lifetime, your right. I did have my handy point-and-shoot camera, with which I took the (I hesitate to call them pictures) photos shown here. I think you’ll get the idea, however, that this was a special bird, the chance of a lifetime—and more than we bargained for.

Leucistic Red-tailed Hawk

Getting Back to Reality

2010-03-20T12:44:00.000-05:00

Since my head and heart were still birding in Cuba, I decided the best way to get back to the reality of northeast Ohio was to go fishing. The temperatures were in the low 60s and reports that steelhead trout were heading upstream did not seem to be exaggerated.
The end of this story is that I did not catch any fish. Among the millions of excuses and rationalizations a fisher has is that it’s not always about catching fish …
It seemed that I was doing all the right things, and others around me, who were catching, were doing all the wrong things. How could that be? Didn’t the fish know what they were supposed to do under specific conditions?
Apparently not. And, apparently, they didn’t care.
I passed through all the mental hoops as I tried to figure out why I remained fishless. Bad luck, wrong fly choice, water, sun, wind … I soon ran through the gamut of reasons.
It’s really not about me (this time). It’s about the fish. The fish is neutral. It swims, eats and tries to procreate. End of story. I watched some of the other fishers who were catching. A grandfather/grandson team just down stream from me caught three nice steelies in about five minutes. I couldn’t contain myself. I got out of the water, walked to their position and politely asked what pattern they were using. The kid just chuckled. The old guy (probably my age) said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m using a muddler minnow and he’s using some sort of white thing. I think the fish’d hit a bare hook, today.” I hate it when another fisher says that.
I walked back to my position trying to figure out if that was good or bad advice. Well, whatever. It didn’t help my catching. I did realize, however, I was making fishing more complicated that it needed to be, or is. I suspect the 80/20 rule applies here as it does with much of life: 20 percent of the fishers catch 80 percent of the fish, regardless.
I watched a kid, maybe 10 years old, fight and land a steelhead that was about half as long as he. I thought, I should turn that kid in to the truant officer, then reconsidered. He was out fishing with his dad on a gorgeous spring day. He’d learn more here than anything taught in some stuffy classroom.

Choosing a National Bird

2010-03-17T19:34:00.007-05:00

Cuban Trogon

When it comes to bling, I think Cubans invented the word. Forget about the olive-drab clothing pictured in the not-so news media. Although the majority of our time was spent in the rural areas of the country during our recent bird survey research, we did stop in Havana on our way in and out.
Fortunately, two of the days we were in town were Sundays, the day Cubans come out to play. The kids playing in the streets were like ragamuffin kids anywhere. Surprisingly, at least to me, was the fact that teenagers, at least in Havana, dressed like teens in America. It was the adults who really put on a show. It might have been Sunday on the calendar, but it was Saturday night on the street. From the guys with the six-pack abs to the women in four-inch spike heels, Cubans know how to dance and play.
All this appreciation for aesthetics spills into other aspects of daily life as well. Pastel-color buildings punctuate the drab gray streets with buildings in need of rehabilitation. Vintage US automobiles (sometimes called Yank Tanks) drift like butterflies through the narrow passageways of Habana Vieja (Old Havana), adding bling among the tiny, dull Russian Ladas. In many cases the original paint has long vaporized from these denizens of Detroit’s design boards, only to be replaced with whatever paint the owner can find; colors Detroit never dreamed of. How they keep these 60-year-old cars running is a well-kept secret and a tribute to the ingenuity of the people.

A day on the streets in Habana Vieja

In the field, when I saw my first Cuban Trogon, I was flummoxed by the brilliant colors. We had been observing a Cuban Tody when the trogon, not to be outdone, flew in over our heads. The Cuban naturalist with us explained how the colors of the bird are reflected in the country’s flag—red, white and blue.

Cuban Tody

It was easy to see how this species was chosen as emblematic of a struggling nation, yet I’d hate to have been a judge if other birds, like the Cuban Tody, or Cuban Emerald had been in the competition.

Cuban Trogon

All Roosters Crow in the Same Language

2010-03-15T19:28:00.004-05:00

Cuban Bee Hummingbird—the world’s smallest bird.

Trying to write about our recent bird research study in Cuba in 600 words--or less--is a fool’s task. I’ll just give you a few impressions—lessons—I’ve carried home. I have about 2000 images to edit, however, those can wait.
Susan and I were fortunate to participate in the Caribbean Conservation Trust’s study of endemic and migratory birds of Cuba from March 1 through 12. And although it was about Cuban birds, it’s impossible not to encounter politics. We read the suggested books beforehand and felt somewhat prepared. Lesson one: Don’t believe much of what you read about Cuba. The people we met looked at us in the same way we looked at them; both trying to see the horns, pointy tails and pitchforks of the other.
While our primary mission was bird surveying, we had ample opportunity to meet with and talk to kids and adults on the street. Lesson two: Cubans are highly literate. Kids go to school from 7:30 AM to 4 PM. Among their stated education goals is the challenge for all children to learn two languages besides Spanish.
It’s a mistake to hold an American measuring stick up to the physical structures, or infrastructure, of Cuba: Lesson three: The outside of a building might appear shabby (by our definition), however, inside you’ll find simplicity and comfort; lives free from the incessant need to have more. Yet, we kept wondering if they had enough …

Orlando Garrido talks with us, surrounded by specimens of Cuba’s endemic birds.

We read that one thing people of Cuba appreciate about the current United States’ embargo is that it keeps Americans from visiting their country. Lesson four: Everywhere we traveled we were welcomed; into the home of Cuba’s premiere ornithologist, Orlando Garrido, in Havana as well as into the front seat of a proud kid’s beautifully restored 1956 Chevy in Playa Largo.

A 1956 Chevy in all its glory.

Not only would the birds we sought be different, we were gently warned that the people would be, too. In both cases this was true. Lesson five: The world’s smallest bird, the Cuban Bee Hummingbird is certainly a contender in the most glamorous category; people ride bicycles through city streets carrying sheet cakes—singlehandedly. Now that’s different.
It was noted that once we got away from the large cities, we’d experience the poverty of the land. Since our mission was surveying birds, we were away from cities most of the time. What we discovered was verdant rural farmland, unfamiliar crops, and roosters that begin crowing at 4 AM.

Packing Our Bags

2010-02-23T13:15:00.003-05:00

We're outta here!

I’ve held off writing this because of fear of nasty email I’d get from snow-bound readers. Now’s the time, however, to let you all know that Susan and I are headed to Cuba on February 27, for a bird research project with the Caribbean Conservancy Trust.
We’ll be, electronically speaking, on the far side of the moon for a couple weeks, which means I won’t be writing for a while. It also means having to suffer through 84-degree (wind-chill-factor) temperatures and plenty of sunshine. I think I remember what the sun looks like.
We’ve been preparing for this trip for four or five months. You’d think by now we’d be ready. There was only minor hemming and hawing about whether to go. There was some slight nervous tension as the US Treasury Department seemingly dragged its collective feet in granting our group the proper licensing.
Now all is well and we’re (almost daily) agonizing over what—and how many—clothes to pack, what SPF will be best and how many field guides to load into the suitcases.
All this activity, with piles of snow outside, gives the whole affair an even greater surreal feeling than just the idea of going to Cuba, of and by itself.
Let me dispel a few myths: Americans can to go to Cuba, that’s the good news. The other news is that you have to make a lot of end runs to reach the goal line. You have to work with Canadian travel agents and fly via Mexico, for example. You have to be prepared to bring virtually nothing back—other than memories and photos—because of the embargo that’s been in place since the early 1960s. Even something as benign as a T-shirt is considered contraband by US Customs.
I’m trying to stay neutral on the multitude of political issues surrounding the now-absurd embargo of Cuba. Let me just say it’s time, for the benefit of both nations, to stop running with scissors and play nice.
Hasta la vista mis amigos.

I Ain't Lying

2010-02-21T10:59:00.001-05:00

We were fortunate to catch up with President George Washington on this, the 278th anniversary of his birth. Even though he was extremely busy preparing for the spring planting season, he took time out to talk with us about a wide range of environmental issues.
Me: Mr. President, thanks for taking time to talk with us about …
GW: Just call me W, young man.
Me: Errr, that one’s already taken—in the future. Sir, as a national leader and the man considered the father of our country, I was wondering if …
GW: Whoa there young man. I did not have sex with that woman. I never even met her. Talk with Ben Franklin about that father-of-the-country stuff.
Me: Well, errr, what I was going to say, sir, on this rather auspicious occasion, we’d like your take on the new federal law licensing people to carry loaded, concealed weapons in the National Parks.
GW: What’s a national park?
Me: Well, it’s an idea, some say our best idea, to …
GW: And how long have we needed a license to carry a weapon?
Me: Well, I guess we’ve needed a permit to carry guns about as long as we’ve needed a license to drive a car.
GW: What’s a car?
Me: We’ll circle back to that, sir. Since we’re talking about environmental issues, I’d like to ask you about that incident, when you were a youth—the axe and the cherry tree thing.
GW: Hmmm. Cherry, schmerry. Just who harvested that tree is not the issue here. Look, it’s why the tree was chopped and how many people benefitted from the warmth of its logs, that we should be talking about. There are thousands of people in this country who go to bed cold every night. Also, cherry trees are from the north. This is the south, Virginia. We grow peaches down here and we need all the room we can get.
Me: Hmmm, well, okay, sir. Let’s talk a bit about endangered species and how animals were treated in the late 1700s ...
GW: Ha! We treated all the animals well. Heck, most of them ended on the dinner plate so we took good care of them. And those hippos! They made the best teeth. I had a half dozen sets of teeth and the best were those made out of hippo tooth and set in gold. They had these fancy little hinges in the back that …
Me: Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but there are a lot of stories that your teeth were made of wood. What about those teeth?
GW: False! I had ‘em made from lead, ivory, donkey—even human teeth. Never would use wood. Had those teeth made by a guy up in New York City. Good man, for a New Yorker. Never did try to put the bite on me. Hahahaha. Little word joke there, young man.
Me: That’s great, sir. I see you’ve gotten out the Young Farmers’ Almanak and are preparing for spring planting. Last summer when I visited, I noticed a strange plant growing in the fields and smelled what I thought was Mexican food cooking. What was that five-leafed plant, anyway?
GW: What’s “Mexican” mean? You must be talking about the hemp we grow out behind the plantation house. Ladies use it to make clothes. And since we’ve cut back on tobacco production, some of the guys have been drying the leaves and smoking the stuff. I don’t think it will ever become much of a cash-crop for us.
Me: Well, Mr. President, thanks for your time and insight about the future of America.
GW: Sorry you have to run, young man. Too bad you have to go. Al Hamilton, Aaron Burr and some of the boys are coming over for a tea party, something else I don’t think will catch on in America.

Ya Gotta Do, Whatcha Gotta Do

2010-02-19T18:30:00.005-05:00

Malicious destruction perpetrated by a single Pileated Woodpecker

I knew it would be risky, going into the national park unarmed, however, I had a couple of new pieces of photo gear I was not comfortable with and needed to try them under real-life conditions. It will be safer on Monday, after the law allowing people to carry loaded concealed weapons goes into effect (or is it affect?). For today, I just had to take my chances with those crazy American Crows, voyeuristic White-tail Deer, or, everyone’s nightmare, wily Coyotes.
I slowly drove into the parking lot at the trailhead for the Oakhill area in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I waited in the security of my car until two park employees were in their vehicle and outta sight down the road. I was nervous, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that we have not had a clear, sunny day here in northeast Ohio since December 21, 2009—according to one of the weather dudes I watched last night. Here it was, bright and sunny. One might say blindingly bright with all the snow, meaning one had to be on guard at all times.
With my fully loaded DSLR, and 500mm lens fully extended, I headed down the trail. Less than 50 yards into the bush I knew I was not properly armed for any in-close combat. I knelt and quietly switched lenses to something that would give me a wider angle of fire coverage among the trees and leafless weeds that were closing in on the trail from all sides.
It was a nervous mile and a half that I covered. I was constantly looking back over my shoulder, adjusting my binocular straps, trying to find the proper balance in the camera gear pack on my back. The occasional robin zipped past on reconnaissance. Nearby, a Pileated Woodpecker opened up on me, hammering away on a defenseless tree. I popped off a few rounds at him and his threatening attitude. He disappeared into the dense tree canopy.
White-breasted Nuthatches chuckled from afar. After about an hour of tension so thick I could cut it with a bayonet, I breathed a sigh of relieve when I saw my car—the only car in the lot—sitting there, unmolested. It looked like I was home, free. I relaxed too soon, apparently. From behind me I heard a whooshing, giant sucking sound, unlike any engine I had ever heard. A doughnut-shaped object was slowly descending in the southwest. Its light was blinding me! Aliens! We forgot to invoke legislation to protect us from aliens!
Stay tuned. Film at 11.

Have no fear ...

Are We Safe, Yet?

2010-02-17T12:32:00.005-05:00

Pass me the night-vision glasses.

Thanks to a story in this morning’s (February 17, 2010) Akron (Ohio) Beacon Journal, I, for one, feel much more relaxed about the dangers that lurk behind every tree and bush in our national parks. Writer Bob Downing did a great job of explaining why people carrying concealed weapons will now be “welcome” (to use the ABJ’s headline word) in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Here’s a link to Downing’s instructive story, http://m.apnews.com/ap/db_15980/contentdetail.htm?contentguid=KDchWM7d. It should be on everyone’s reading list if you’re thinking about heading down to the park for a Sunday stroll. Here’s a tip: Don’t pack a picnic. Pack a pistol.
Having lived in the fringes of the park for more than 10 years, and having hiked more miles there than I can remember, I must say, I’ve never once felt the need to carry a gun. Nor have I ever felt the need in the 800 miles of the Appalachian Trail that I’ve hiked. There must be something wrong with me. Surely, I must have felt threatened enough to need a sidearm to shoot a potential mugger. I’ve met plenty of people I thought were a bit strange—and I’m sure they felt the same about me. Even the lady flossing her teeth on the trail one morning did not make me worry (too much) about my safety. I have encountered a few dogs running off the leash that I thought should be contained, however, not with a slug from a 9mm automatic.
Beginning February 22, a new federal law kicks in making it legal to carry loaded, concealed and unconcealed, weapons in 392 national parks in 48 states (Illinois and Wisconsin do not permit concealed weapons) plus 551 national wildlife refuges.
My favorite quote from the Downing story is this: ‘“Carrying a concealed weapon makes park visitors safer,” said Dan White, executive director of the Cleveland-based grass-roots group Ohioans for Concealed Carry.
''Safety is the issue,'' he said. ''Carrying a concealed weapon won't be a problem. The problem has never been law-abiding citizens. We're convinced there will be less risk. Muggers approaching a victim in the park will be forced to stop and ask: 'Is this person armed?'”’
Gimmie a break! I can see the need to carry loaded, concealed weapons on city streets; it’s a real jungle out there. But in the National Parks …
I never understood the logic that claims the more guns a person has the safer he’ll feel—until his neighbor gets a bigger gun.
I think I’ll head for the woods to discuss this issue with the coyotes. I’m sure they’ll be setting up a real howl about this story.

Did you hear a twig snap?

No Smoke and Mirrors

2010-02-14T17:26:00.002-05:00

Basic camo

We’d been doing some errands, so a run through the Cuyahoga Valley National Park was decidedly in order. The sun made just enough of a showing to temp us to get into the woods. My brother from D.C. was visiting. Well, not exactly visiting. He was trying to get home after his month-long overseas’ vacation. A succession of weather-related airport closures over the 9,000 mile duration of his trip had plunged him, head first, into a snow drift in Detroit. I rescued him from the Notel Motel in Detroit and we turned the whole sordid mess into a cheery family visit.
The fun of having a non-birder in the car is that birders get to show off their mystical skills, calling out this and that species, based on the slimmest visual evidence. We were zipping along a snow-covered road, under the skillful driving of my wife—all three of us talking at the same time—when I spotted an Eastern Screech-owl. Since Susan and I have the well-trained responses of experienced birders, when I said, “Whoa! Owl!” she was on the brakes like a chicken after a June bug.
My brother, less adapted to this kind of emergency, was mumbling something like, “what, what, what?” And the guy in the white pickup truck behind us was saying something less complimentary, I think.
By the time Susan could shake the guy off our back bumper and get the car turned around on the narrow road, we had camera gear sticking out the windows like cowboys riding shotgun on a stagecoach.
As we drew parallel to the tree, Susan and I oooed and aaaaed at the owl while my brother kept asking where? What owl? I told him to keep shooting, we’ll check the pictures later.
In the end, I’m not sure which was more satisfying, seeing the owl sitting in the open, or listening to my brother’s endless commentary about how birders can see things like that—or get in their cars and drive hundreds of miles to find a bird. I told him it’s magic.

Eastern Screech-owl

What’s Black & White and Red All Over

2010-02-06T17:27:00.006-05:00

Dark-eyed Junco

It was a monochrome kinda day here in northeast Ohio. Those of us living in the shadow of Lake Erie, aka, the Snow Belt, could only take pity on our brethren and sisteren on the Atlantic Coast. Our 10 inches or so seemed paltry compared with the whupping they're getting.
I was supposed to be watching the bird feeders so I could make a decent showing in Su Snyder’s Snowy Day Bird competition (www.ohiobirds.org). The last time she held the event I was distracted by something important—like rearranging my sock drawer, I think—and didn’t have a very good total. This time I didn’t do much better. I got hung up on the observation that almost all the birds coming to the feeder were in shades of black and white. Maybe I was going snow blind!

Hairy Woodpecker

Not that I’m a hypochondriac, however, I was beginning to wonder if squinting through a camera eyepiece for 50 years had finally taken its toll and I was doomed to watching the world drift by like a dog for the rest of my life. Not that this would be all bad given the fact that I am a bit fashion challenged.

Red-bellied Woodpecker

Well, the self-pity lasted only 30 minutes or so. A blinding-red Northern Cardinal, followed closely by a Red-bellied Woodpecker restored my vision, to say nothing of my common sense.

Northern Cardinal

Past, Present and Future

2010-02-04T22:36:00.005-05:00

The first anniversary of my mother’s passing, the death last week of my journalism mentor and the knowledge this week of the pending death of a dear friend’s mother had us in a bit of a funk. The best cure for the blues is a good birding adventure, so we tossed the gear in the car and headed for—right—Funk Bottoms Wildlife Area. It’s just a bit west of no place and a great wetlands spot. It not far from Shreve, Ohio, but if you want to find it, load this into your GPS and keep your fingers crossed: Latitude: 40.75376 deg N, Longitude: -82.11329 deg W. That should put you in about the middle of the 2,000 acres of prime birding habitat.
We timed our departure from home so that we’d hit the great Funk Country Store at just about noon. Recalling the taste of those trail bologna sandwiches and ice cream made my mouth water.
Rolling into the Funk area, we spotted a Northern Mockingbird. Whoa, great bird for the area. As I zipped past the Country Store, Susan was cranking around in her seat saying, “Hey, there it is! It looks closed!”
Not possible. We doubled back and, sure enough, another of those classic places you’ll never find again, was closed. Oh my. Lots of memories of birding trips to the area, all of which included a stop at the store. I once purchased a sweat shirt there for a niece who was uncertain of which college to attend. The shirt said, “Funk University.” Right. Funk U. She and I had a great laugh. I don’t think her mother has forgiven me, yet.
As a metaphor for life, the Country Store had it all. Now, it too, was gone. We said our goodbyes and moved on. Among the 30 species of birds we saw, the highlight was probably the largest flock of Wild Turkeys either of us had ever seen. We stood on a hill overlooking a field of corn stubble and counted more than 125 birds a half mile away. They looked like a herd of miniature bison grazing—not the kind of thing you see every day.

Pinch Hitting For Punxsutawney Phil

2010-02-01T20:48:00.003-05:00

Selling global warming—or climate change to use the current term—has been tough this winter. I’ve taken to watching some of the too-many awards shows so I can join in the important conversations at my local coffee haunts. Usually the weather is a safe topic. Not so anymore.
Since I’m unabashedly addicted to the Weather Channel, the build up to Groundhog Day this year had me in a cold sweat for a week. I realized that Punxsutawney Phil, Buckeye Chuck and a host of other fuzzy weather prognosticators were calling the shots for their own backyards. I needed something closer to home.
With the thermometer bumping its head against 22 degrees, any self-respecting whistle pig is tucked seriously underground. Groundhogs, being one of those critters that truly hibernates, are only going to wake up for the three letter word beginning with s. And I don’t mean sun.
I did a bit of research and found that groundhogs are related to squirrels. Perfect! I have plenty of those around and even the whacky animal rights people aren’t going to get bent out of shape if I use a squirrel for weather forecasting. If you dig deep enough into this tedious tradition you’ll find that waaaaaayyyy back, people used badgers, even bears, to do this weather prophesy stuff. I guess it’s easier to lift a groundhog up for the cameras than it would be a bear.
I looked over my current crop of long-tailed critters and determined which in the lot would make the best fly tying material—just in case things went terribly wrong and he ended up going to the big bird feeder in the sky. I picked out the most-likely candidate and dubbed him Sagamore Sam. I liked the alliteration and if we had to put his full name on a death certificate, it would look cool—to say nothing of monogrammed T-shirts, SSS.
He appeared to be shy, even reluctant about participating in any kind of event as critically important as calling the weather shot six weeks out. I explained to him that even Punxsutawney Phil, who has a national reputation, only gets it right about 39 percent of the time. He countered with the knowledge that 39 percent was better than the local TV people—and they all have nicer hair. I told him Phil has a heated “burrow,” even a special language spoken only on his day, so maybe we could work something out?
So the deal is, no one touches him, he gets a bag of peanuts for his trouble and only pictures of his left side.
Regardless of how this turns out we still get six weeks of winter. We need some new traditions.

A Night To Howl

2010-01-30T21:28:00.002-05:00

Seven Degrees. Wife’s out of town. No wind or snow. The Full Wolf Moon. A perfect night to howl!
Bundled in enough clothing to open a small outlet store, I headed south on a trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park in hopes of adding a few night birds to my “100-species-in-January” bird list. Cabin fever doesn’t have a chance if you’re a birder. Every waking moment is spent planning one wacky thing after another. Fellow birders reported having passed the damn-near-impossible goal of 100 early last week. I checked my numbers and found that I was about 60 short of the goal. It was January 30. I was in trouble.
The amazing reflection of the sun’s light, bouncing off Luna’s face only lured me deeper into the woods. How can the light be so bright when the sun is 91 million miles away, give or take a million? Then add on the 250,000 or so miles to reflect the light back to Earth. Some questions are best answered with, hmmmmm.
I wondered if I’d be able to hear the familiar singing of Great-horned Owls through my almost-too-tight hat and face mask. The crunch of boots on day-old snow, mixed with heavy breathing, had the potential to cancel any owl calls. The only thing to do was stop moving—from time to time. I walked and waited, glimpsing the moon through the barren branches.
I’m still unsure if the shivers literally running up my back, were caused by the cold or the unannounced, high-pitched song of the coyotes. My hair (what there is of it) tingled like the time I was caught in an electrical storm high in the mountains. I was afraid to move, yet the adrenaline was screaming at me to run—fast. I comforted my pounding heart with the knowledge that there have only be two known instances of coyotes killing humans, whereas every year domestic dogs kill 86 people. Comforting thoughts always help in times of panic. I also knew that three is a lucky number in Japan. You know, third time’s the charm … Does that apply to animal attacks?
It sounded as if an entire pack of wild beasts was standing next to me. I tried to discern individual voices so I could scratch the number in the snow—just in case. Bravado, machismo and foolishness kicked in. I thought about joining in on the chorus, then remembered I despise karaoke. I really wanted to see them. I turned and looked. In fact, my head was spinning like some character in an exorcist movie. The shuffling of my feet and rustling of my clothing must have alerted them. Choir practice was over as abruptly as it started.
Stillness pounded in my ears and in my head so loud I wanted to use my mittened hands to hold back the non-noise.
All that moonlight does make you think crazy thoughts. I imagined how easy it would be to drive with no headlights on a night like this. Maybe even drive with my eyes closed! It’s the siren seductiveness of the moon that is most disturbing. In a way, being seduced is what leads to the crazy behavior, I suppose. Why else would I be standing in the woods in seven-degree weather? Luna just wants to lure us into a deep kiss, then be gone in the morning. She wants to give us the comfort of a cool pillow. Momentary pleasure—it’s still pleasure. She makes promises she never intends to keep. She owes you nothing. And yet, and yet, we always come back. One more look. One more kiss. Just let me sleep and be on your way. Don’t say a thing. Pretend you don’t know me. Pretend you don’t owe me. Just go.
And she’s gone.

New Feeder Bird

2010-01-22T15:06:00.004-05:00

Red-shouldered Hawk

Now that the snow has dwindled to puddles around the yard, and mountains only slightly shorter than Everest in the parking lots, feeder activity has slowed proportionally. The usual suspects coming and going.
During my third cup of coffee this morning I was working on the mental exercise of what happens to the white color of snow when it melts. Certainly a mystery. I must have blinked, because when I looked up, there sat a gorgeous Red-shouldered Hawk. This was the first of his kind I’ve seen at our feeder.
For a fraction of second—that spanned eons—we locked eyes. I’m sure we both had the same thought: So, what happens next today?

Red-shouldered Hawk

Birds In Winter

2010-01-19T10:52:00.002-05:00

Long-eared Owl

There’s been a lot of talk in these parts this winter about a lack of raptors. Based on reports to the Ohio Ornithological Society (www.ohiobirds.org) listserv, that appears to be the case. This somewhat dire news did not deter Susan and I, along with our birding buddies Karin Tanquist and Pat Coy, as we headed out for our annual winter birding expedition to Killdeer Plains in west-central Ohio.
Killdeer Plains Wildlife Management Area is one of the more premiere spots in the state for finding overwintering raptors. In addition, the menu concocted for the trip is always outstanding. This year’s main dish—a new quiche recipe—as well as the blueberry pie dessert, were amazing. (This is beginning to sound like some of my fishing-trip stories during which I catch no fish yet have to write about something.)
Monday was a perfect day for birding: Temperature hanging at a bone-chilling 31 degrees, freezing fog, drizzle and visibility about two miles. The birding started slow, then tapered off. We hit the hot spots, where in the past we’ve seen some special Ohio winter birds, only to discover few or none of the cold-weather arrivals. Horned Larks were poorly represented and Snow Buntings and longspurs, nonexistent.
The sighting of a beautifully colored male Northern Harrier raised our hopes as the bird drifted over a high-grass field. A single Red-headed Woodpecker was lure enough to launch us out of the car. Furiously we dug for spotting scopes, which we knew were somewhere in the trunk beneath a pile of coats, boots and picnic baskets. We watched a pair of woodpeckers do their thing, seemingly oblivious to us. The fog and drizzle acted like a blanket over the usual outside noises. Sounds of woodpeckers’ hammering was muffled, as was their grating, croaking calls.
Off we went to the owl grove, a spot known to produce as many as four species of owls—if you’re unbelievably lucky. We ran into two other birders there. One fellow had a report from earlier in the morning that three Long-eared Owls had been seen; the other birder had seen nothing all morning. That meant we had a 50-50 chance of seeing something—or nothing.
We prowled the area to no avail. Finally, Pat and Karin interrogated the young man who had the secondhand report of three owls (waterboarding was not used at any time) and discovered the location of the alleged Long-eared Owls.
Sure enough, exactly where they were supposed to be, were at least two of the trio. One bird seemed as interested in us as we were of it.
And so the day went, long periods of boredom and personal insults, followed by brief seconds of spectacular sightings. For example: Driving one of the many back roads we happened upon a flock of small brown birds, certainly not the first of the day. We had our usual “discussion” of just how many sparrows were in the bunch—like it really mattered. I glanced up and, about 50 feet from us, stood an immature Bald Eagle atop a tree stump! It was methodically eating the entrails of some hapless critter. Wow! Would he sit still for a photo? The thought was barely out of my head when he was gone.
After a fruitless search of the area for Short-eared Owls—always a target bird for us—we decided to bag it and start the two-plus hour trip home. The fact that it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of you, also played into our decision. But first, we pulled off the road to finish the blueberry pie.
Adequately stoked with sugar and cold coffee, we left, reminiscing about things I’m not sure ever happened. Then, atop a barren tree, silhouetted against the graying sky, I saw the unmistakable shape of a Short-eared Owl. The car skidded to a stop as the bird fluttered in the headlights like a giant moth. It landed in the nearby corn stubble to our right. There, it stood on a mound of dirt giving us adequate, if not well-lighted looks; the perfect punctuation mark for another great day of birding.

Long-eared Owl

Sure Cure for Cabin Fever

2010-01-10T15:49:00.003-05:00

Snow Bunting

The best way to cure a case of cabin fever is to get out of the cabin. Hardly a news flash. The 14 inches of snow on our deck railing and bushes was hindering our view of the ground-feeding birds. That had me contemplating running out to knock the snow away. And that led to mounting a full blown winter birding expedition to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, which is essentially our back yard.
An eMail late last night from birding buddy Dwight Chasar sealed the deal. He noted a sighting of Snow Buntings here in the park, less than 10 miles from home. Typically, we load up the car with scopes, hot soup and birding friends and head for the west side of the state to see this species in winter.
Driving a few miles between our second cup of coffee and lunch would be just what we needed to cure our first cast of cabin fever for 2010.
The birds must have received the same eMail as we since they were right where Dwight said they were suppose to be. A dozen or so Snow Buntings, mixed in with an equal number of Horned Larks greeted us before we got out of the car, into the 18-dgree cold. American Tree Sparrows were also in abundance, feeding on scraps left from last season’s corn harvest.
Photo opportunities were marginal at best. There’s something about lugging all that gear around that compels a photographer to take pictures, regardless of shooting conditions. The only way to guarantee an outstanding photo is to not take the gear out of the car. Or worse, leave the gear at home and you’ll be faced with at least a half dozen images that would make the cover of National Geographic. I have a desk full of pictures never taken. When I say to Susan, “Remember that time …” her eyes glaze over and she’ll demand I load the cameras. And that’s a good thing, because just the preparation sheds that gloominess of cabin fever for me.

Horned Lark

Winter’s Day Challenge

2010-01-08T13:36:00.004-05:00

House Finch

When Su Snyder, inveterate member of the Ohio Ornithological Society (OOS, www.ohiobirds.org), tossed down the virtual gauntlet, make that snow mitten, challenging other members of the society to a “Snow Day Birding Contest,” January 8, I yawned, then checked my jam-packed social calendar. Su was asking birders throughout the state to do what they’d probably be doing anyway on this snowy day—look out the window and report the birds you see at your feeders. Flyovers would count, too.
I, of course, first checked the list of prizes to determine if rising to this challenge would be worth the effort. I had big plans for this snow-bound day: Go through a stack of five-year-old magazines, sew on a couple buttons missing from a favorite shirt, then maybe take on the sock drawer if I felt up to it.
Whoa, there! Su was pulling out the stops for this one. She would be the final judge of all entries, awarding coveted things like OOS patches and decals. This was my kind of event!

Red-bellied Woodpecker

It was a balmy 15 degrees when I sat down with my second cuppa of the day. Snow swirled around the feeder array. Any hoped-for photography was out of the question. Our windows are spotted with the flotsam and jetsam of winter: Remains of window strikes, previously digested crabapples, and some things that defy definition. I got the camera out anyway.
I got lost in the number of species and numbers of birds. As is my want, I deviated from the path. I paid more attention to colors and (sorry for the personification) personalities of visitors on this challenging day. Safe and warm, I watched the comings and goings. More than one bird looked in at me. Was it possible that the birds were keeping a list, too?
Forget that we live virtually within the boundaries of a national park. While we get our share of birds, the species list is not long and includes only the usual suspects. I know that I don’t have a snowball’s chance of winning one of those snappy decals for my car. I have, however, had a thoroughly enjoyable day doing what I’d probably be doing without that incentive. Thanks, anyway, for the added challenge, Su.

European Starling

Once In a … While

2009-12-30T11:30:00.003-05:00

We’ve all said it: Something special happens once in a blue moon. Well, here comes your big chance. On New Year’s Eve we’ll have a blue moon. New Year’s Eve, aka Amateur Night, is a scary night to have a full moon—and a blue moon is only going to make it worse, I’m afraid. I’m glad I’m not a cop having to deal with the whackos that will be roaming the streets.
How rare is a blue moon? My mother joked when moving from our family home after 53 years, that she moves only once in a blue moon—and there was one that night.
Folklore has us believe that a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. Usually months have only one full moon. Full moons are separated by 29 days, while most months are 30 or 31 days long; so it is possible to fit two full moons in a single month. This happens every two and a half years, on average.
But what about that color thing? About 125 years ago, when the Indonesian volcano, Krakatoa exploded (scientists liken the blast to a 100-megaton nuclear bomb), the moon turned blue. Some of the ash-clouds were filled with particles about 1 micron (one millionth of a meter) wide--the right size to strongly scatter red light, while allowing other colors to pass. White moonbeams shining through the clouds emerged blue, and sometimes green.
According to the folks at NASA, the key to a blue moon is having in the air lots of particles slightly wider than the wavelength of red light (0.7 micron)—and no other sizes present. This is rare, but volcanoes sometimes spit out such clouds, as do forest fires.
So, December 31 we’ll have what Native Americans termed the Full, Long-nights Moon. It’s also called the Full Cold Moon. And since we have two full moons this month, feel free to pick either name.
Since I was still stuck on the word, “blue,” I had to do some research. According to the Farmers’ Almanac, one explanation connects it with the word "belewe" from the Old English, meaning, "to betray." Perhaps, then, the Moon was "belewe" because it betrayed the usual perception of one full Moon per month.
However, in the March 1999 issue of Sky & Telescope magazine, author Phillip Hiscock revealed one somewhat confusing origin of this term. It seems that the modern custom of naming the second full moon of a month "blue," came from an article published in the March 1946 Sky & Telescope magazine. The article was "Once in a Blue Moon," written by James Hugh Pruett. In this article, Pruett interpreted what he read in a publication known as the Maine Farmers' Almanac (no relation to this Farmers' Almanac, published in Lewiston, Maine), and declared that a second full moon in a calendar month is a "Blue Moon."
Hmmm. The end of the story is: Get out your blue party hat and put out the blue corn chips. That last full, blue moon on New Year’s Eve was 19 years ago. The next won’t be until 2028. Waahooooo!

It Was a Dark and Gloomy …

2009-12-16T17:09:00.003-05:00

It was a dark and gloomy morning. Susan and I sat, warming our hands and brains with the day’s first coffee. We peered through the darkness to where our bird feeders had yet to emerge. We were reviewing the lengthening list of “must-dos” for the day. The holidays are baring down on us like Santa’s fully loaded sleigh gone outta control.
We went to the bottom of the list, checked the thing least important, and made that our first choice. We tossed lots of warm clothes and birding gear into the car, along with enough Starbucks coffee to cause that company’s stock to rise a couple points, along with various other nutritious snacks we knew we’d never eat. We were off to see Ohio’s first-reported Allen’s Hummingbird. It’s been hanging around down in Amish Country, Holmes County, 60 miles from here, since September. It was just “officially” identified last Friday. The Ohio Bird Records Committee will make the final decision, eventually. There were enough reliable reports about this bird to convince us that it was a must see.
As with other out-of-place birds, the usual questions arise: What’s this three and three-quarter-inch California native doing in Ohio in December? How did he get here? Where will he go—and when?
Allen Chartier, a bird bander from Michigan, captured and banded this bird last Friday. You can find a thorough discussion of its capture and banding on his blog, www.mihummingbirdguy.blogspot.com. There are also some great photos of the bird by Bruce Glick.
We were greeted at the door by Mae Miller, home owner and current provider for this bronze-tailed visitor. She told us the bird was seen twice this morning, already. The temperature had reached a balmy 18 degrees as we waited and watched the feeder, now wrapped in a heat tape to keep the water from freezing. After 15 minutes or so, bird bander/researcher Tom Bartlett appeared. Tom is a kind of bird magnet. It’s always good to have people like him around when you’re hoping for a rare bird to make an appearance.
Within five minutes or so, the diminutive guy we’d been waiting for zipped around the corner of the house. He gave the feeder a head fake, then flew to the nearby apple tree. Susan picked him out among the leafless branches while I whacked myself in the face with binoculars, cameras and uncooperative eyeglasses.
True to his nature, the green and rufous bird flew to the feeding station. He tanked up for a few minutes, then hurried off to do whatever California visitors do in Ohio in mid December.
What started as a gloomy day, when others might opt to hunker down with a good book, turned out to be just the opposite—proof that it pays to get out of bed in the morning. Now, what’s next on that list?