Making Good in America

Eloquence goes a long way in elevating one to national prominence—as the recent presidential election has shown. Along with the eloquence, you of course need substance. A good haircut and fancy suit help, too.
This thought ran through my mind the other day after a close encounter of the feathered kind. I was hiking a remote ridge section in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. It’s deeply wooded and even with most of the leaves gone from the trees, you still have to look up to see the sky. Sightlines are obstructed by huge beech and oak trees.
All the usual sentinels of the forest, Blue Jays and crows, announced my presence. My unscientific research indicates that other forest dwellers don’t pay much heed to these vociferous species. Might be a case of them crying wolf—or human—too many times.
Then I heard a different call. Kind of high-pitched, squeaky sound with no specific rhythm I could discern. It was more of a chirping cackle. I could see two shapes, rather large shapes, coming toward me at tree-top level. Their erratic flight pattern made them look like crows. They were way too large for crows. As they passed 30 feet overhead I felt like I was looking at the underside of a couple Boeing 747s. Their distinctive white heads and tails meant these could only be adult Bald Eagles—the symbol of our nation.
They’re not terribly eloquent, but damn handsome creatures. So, why did Ben Franklin promote the Wild Turkey to be our national symbol? It might have been the turkey’s gobbling eloquence versus the eagle’s squeaky, timid voice. It certainly wasn’t the turkey’s good looks. I suspect, however, it had more to do with the turkey’s flavor. Franklin used a lot of turkeys in his experiments with electricity and cooked plenty of them in the process. And in true American political fashion, you always promote those whom you like best.

Hard Water

I’ve been accused of projecting a bit too much humanity into reports of birdlife. Anthropomorphism is the big word for it. Silliness is what others have called it. A bird’s a bird and it has two purposes in life: Eat and not get eaten, and keep the genes moving forward. Much like a lot of people I know.
Sometimes, a bird or mammal just looks or does something that reminds us of ourselves. Or, maybe it’s the other way around. Sometimes humans take on characteristics of the animals. I recall, scrawled on the wall of a shelter someplace along the Appalachian Trail the words of a philosopher: Just because we live with the animals doesn’t mean we have to act like them.
All of this is prelude to what I saw a couple of Blackcapped Chickadees doing the other day. I was leaving the house early in the morning and is my want, checked the bird feeders. I noticed two chickadees standing on the rim of the bird bath across from each other. They were staring down at the water, then looking at each other. This went on for a couple minutes. One tentatively reached out a foot as if he was about to check the temperature. I realized the water was frozen. I had forgotten to plug in the heater the night before. These must be new kids on the northeast Ohio block.
When they left I went out and plugged in the heater so they’ll have softer water for the rest of the season. I was reminded of another piece of wisdom from the walls of a shelter on the Appalachian Trail: Watch what you eat and where you step.

Signs of the Time

I had stopped the car to scan a large flock of Canada Geese. I guess I should have gotten a bit further off the road. Maybe I’ll get one of those bumper stickers: This Car Stops For No Apparent Reason. I’m A Bird Watcher. Anyway, no damage. Only a couple of pissed off people who should have left for their appointed rounds a few minutes earlier.
I was scanning through the flock of geese that was technically outside the bounds of Cuyahoga Valley National Park, although the geese probably didn’t know that, nor much care. There were about 50 of them in an open field next to the Ohio Canal, under the I-480 bridge.
The uncommon Cackling Goose has recently been reported in this area and I’m determined to find one this season. They run with your basic Canada Goose and look quite similar. The big difference is really small. Well, the Cackling Goose is small; about half the size of the Canadas we see in this part of the world. The Canada Goose is more variable than many people realize with at least six different populations that vary in size.
But the Cackling variety stands out because of its smaller stature and, some say darker shading.
I was out of my car, now, looking at the geese and feeling my heart pump a bit faster as I spotted some smaller birds! Arrgggg! Gulls mixed in with the geese. That’s what my have tricked my subconscious into halting the car. I kept looking until my binocular landed on something really out of place and time. Two guys across the way, putting up a sign for Christmas trees! Come on guys, it’s only November 6 and already we’re going to have Christmas trees on the corner? I once heard a field trip leader tell the novice bird watchers in the group that the great thing about birding was that you can always expect the unexpected. Ain’t that the truth.

When Rain Isn’t

I knew what was approaching as soon as I heard the sound. People who spend time in the woods are more in tune with rain than those who do not. We outsiders more often hear it coming; insiders see it coming. In a good forest you can hear rain approach from a mile away. You can hear it sneaking by you, hidden by the canopy. Like the bears, deer and other creatures. You know it’s there. It’s part of the experience.
Depending on whether you’re a casual walker or a serious hiker, you respond differently to the threat of rain. If you’re just out for a stroll in the woods, your reaction might be to stop, look, then high-tail it for the car. Backpackers, meanwhile, never break their stride. Their minds are active reviewing options. Like, stop and put on the pack cover like you should have done earlier, get wet ‘cause you know you won’t shrink (and could use a bit of cleaning), or mentally calculating how long until you reach the next shelter.
I glanced up and noticed the early morning sky was that hard-to-believe shade of blue. Sun was streaming through the branches ahead like the beams of thousands of flashlights. Yet, there was that unmistakable sound of rain slowly coming up behind me. I turned to see if I’d be getting wet—well not “if” so much as to what degree I’d be getting wet.
Fooled again! Leaves were cascading from the sky in a red, orange and gold shower. It was the wind loosing dry droplets of beech, oak, maple and hickory. All around me the leaves were falling, not in that floaty, helter-skelter way they usually do, but in a quiet, ordered manner. A perfect, uninterrupted flow from branch to bed. Orderly lines of color against a blue background.
The breeze passed over me just as a shower would have. I held my mouth open trying to catch one of the golden beech leaves like I do with snow flakes. No luck. My body seemed to emit some invisible force that shunted the leaves past and to their designated spot on the forest floor.
It rained for 15 or 20 minutes. I picked up my daypack, now with its icing of leaves, and headed on in the direction of the wind.

Wait Until this Year

Writer John Gierach noted that anyone who starts a fish story by telling you how beautiful the scenery was, probably didn’t catch any fish. Well, let me tell you how gorgeous the Cuyahoga Valley is at this time of year. Our first day of steelheading was more about driving and occasionally waving a stick at the water, than about catching fish.
Maybe I should back up and offer a few definitions and some backgrounder. In this neck of the woods, as temperatures drop and rain comes in sheets rather than droplets, some people hunker down and darn near hibernate for the next six or seven months. There is a small percentage who embrace the evil weather—wish for worse, even. We call ourselves steelheaders. It has nothing to do with the structure of our heads. It’s about the species of trout we do battle with. These fish, with their 2K brains, and us with enough money invested in tackle to bale out the Bush administration, will try to out wit each other for the next four or five months.
Steelhead (a form of rainbow trout) relax for a few years, swimming around in Lake Erie, trying not to be eaten or caught. When conditions are just right, meaning fresh, cold water in the streams, in they come with reproduction on their minds. They go at it like teenagers; lots of thrashing about without accomplishing much other than bragging rights. Our stream bottoms are not suited for the egg-laying process. The steelies don’t know that. With steelhead, reproduction is more about attitude than actuality.
And although it was a bit early in the season, cool weather and a flurry of emails between fishing buddy Tom and myself, filled us both with false hope. I volunteered to scout river conditions after last week’s rain. Looked good. The local fishing Web sites weren’t encouraging. We rationalized that away with the notion that these guys were not being forthcoming. They had hopes of keeping those first big fish all to themselves. Our steelhead fishery has improved so much that even catching a 30-inch-fish won’t get your picture in the papers.
Following the email came phone calls. Eventually, we settled on a time and meeting place. The fishing trip was taking on the trappings of a small invasion. We were discussing strategies and tactics like a couple of politicians.
Morning of Fish Day, while taking care of the things I should have taken care of the night before, my cell phone started chirping. It was Tom. Slight wrinkle, but nothing major. We were adding another troop to the invasion force. He’d swing by John’s house and still be at the appointed spot on time. Fifteen minutes later my cell phone started to make my leg vibrate, which only induces panic with me. Tom again. Another wrinkle. This one more serious.
He’d been busted going through a school zone by the slowest-ticket-writing cop in three counties. He used a lot of words I’d rather not repeat. Tom’s discomfort provided about all the material John and I would need for a day of cracking wise, as misfortune to one in the party tends to do with fly fishers.
After what seemed like an endless search for the right spot on the river to start, we settled on a spot that had a couple other fishers already in place. I also noted that we had about run out of river since I could see the mouth and the lake beyond if I leaned out far enough.
Well, suffice to say, we spent a pleasant day, driving around to a couple of rivers and fishing in some really scenic spots. We ended the day with virtually every cliché we could muster: That’s why they call it fishing and not catching, it’s not always about catching fish, a great day to just stand in the water …
Unlike our hapless baseball team that every year, usually on opening day, says, “Wait’ll next year,” we can at least look forward to November and say, “Wait’ll this year.”

Coyote and Roadrunner—Not exactly

Beep, beep! Maybe it was because we had just spent a weekend with the grandkids, however, the whole scene had a cartoon ambience about it. I was hiking along an unnamed trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park that we call the Ridge Walk. It’s a great hike, off the beaten path except for the occasional dog walker.
I was standing in an open, small meadow-like area examining the sparrows working over the various seed pods. At this time of the year you have to check every little brown bird you see, just in case one will be something special, like a LaConte’s Sparrow, or maybe a Nelson’s Sharp-tailed Sparrow.
I noticed a dark, roundish blob moving through the high grass and waited until I could determine it was a Wild Turkey. I don’t know what else it could have been, but you never know. It worked it’s way toward me as I stood as still as possible. In that wild animal way, it somehow sensed my presence and jerked its head up with a surprised look that only a wild turkey can produce.
Off it raced in the direction of the nearest safety of trees. I don’t take offense at this when wild critters dash off as soon as they spot me. Their goal in life is not to be eaten so they err on the side of safety. If we humans adopted that same philosophy, not to be eaten, we’d probably never speak with investment bankers.
Anyway, I watch Tom turkey high-tail it into the woods. Just as I was about to go back to studying the sparrows, I see the turkey coming back at me at a high rate of speed. Only now, close on his heels was a Coyote! About 50 feet into the clearing the Coyote spotted me, screeched to a halt and turned back toward the woods. The turkey, figuring I was less likely to have him for dinner, dashed past within 25 feet, making a beeline for the trees on the other side of the meadow.
All the activity scared up a lot of sparrows and a lot of laughs, for me at least.

A Bird in the Hand …

It was one of those fine, crisp mornings in late September. The kind of day that reminds us of why we live in northeast Ohio. I was hiking along the Hike & Bike Trail in northern Summit County.
An impressive array of birds kept my walking pace to a minimum. I counted eight Eastern Towhees on the move south, chipping as they went as if only one guy had the road map and they needed to stay in contact with him. I saw my first White-crowned Sparrow of the fall season. The first surprise bird of the day, a juvenile Northern Mocking Bird, popped onto a nearby snag. Great spot in this part of the county. I’ve seen the occasional adult in the area, but never a juvenile. Does this mean they’re nesting here about?
The second surprise bird was at the other end of the life spectrum. Lying in the middle of the bike path, toes pointing at the cloudless sky, was what I first took to be a warbler species. Well, at least it’s something to add to my Dead List, I thought. I picked it up and realized I had an identification challenge to deal with. Hmmm. Confusing fall warbler, for sure. After a few minutes of contemplation I bagged the bird for further examination at home.
As I was heading back, I ran into Ann and Dwight Chasar, birders extraordinaire. After a brief chat I pulled out my specimen for an expert opinion. Hmmm, was the consensus. I suggested I back off 25 feet and they look at it through binoculars. This close-up examination was creating confused fall birders. Too much information when you can examine them in the hand, I thought.
We three more-or-less agreed that it’s probably a Red-eyed Vireo. Since Susan volunteers with Andy Jones at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, preparing the museum’s bird-study collection, I’ve turned the bird over to her to give to Andy for the final identification. Dr. Andy goes beyond examining a bird in the hand. He gets into the DNA of the matter.

The Buck Stops …

Actually, the buck stops any place he damn well chooses in October. For example, I was hiking down the northeastern loop of the Carriage Trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park this morning, just minding my business and that of any other creature I happened to see.
So this morning I stopped to watch a Pileated Woodpecker destroying a fallen tree. He had the chips flying like he was getting paid for the job. I heard the leaves rustle behind me and over my shoulder saw two does walking, cautiously, in my direction. Around here, whitetail deer are as plentiful as, well, as whitetail deer. It’s not uncommon in a four-mile hike to see a dozen or more deer, grazing or doing whatever deer do when they think no one is watching.
Since no one was listening I said to these two, “’Morning ladies.” They halted, looked at each other, then looked back and to their right.
There stood a huge buck, looking at me. Through my binoculars I counted eight points on each antler. I’m not sure how they count the points when hunters talk about an X-point buck, however, this dude had a rack! I don’t want to get too deeply into personification here, however, I had the distinct feeling this guy was looking at me as if I was looking at his lady friends with something other than a naturalist’s curiosity.
My 2k brain was running the options available to me in case this guy wanted to make a point—or two. Climbing a tree seemed the only thing available. I opted for a stare-down. I may have read somewhere that staring at a wild animal is not the best plan of attack. But, heck, it had worked with squirrels and chipmunks, why not this big guy?
He snorted a couple times and the does changed their trajectory to pass by further to the left. He watched them move on up into the trees, frequently turning to see what I was going to do. Since he looked away first I declared myself the winner of the stare-down and wished him a tolerable day as I walked on down the path.
It’s that time of the year when bucks stop here and there and everywhere.

Listmania

Hi. I’m Clyde and I’m a bird lister. In England we’re called Twitchers.
I’ve tried to break the addiction several times, but things like that Brown Thrasher this morning keep popping up and, well, off I go. Or even worse, like last week while vacationing in Arizona/Utah I saw two life birds. Lifers! How could I not add them to my list?
I almost broke the habit in 2007. Well-meaning friends, essentially non-listers I might note, chide me about how keeping a list of the birds I see interrupts the flow of the experience. It’s seeing, watching, learning, and getting to know the birds better that is what birding should be about.
Hmmm. I’m not looking for a date with any of these chickadees; just another notch on my binocular strap will do.
But in 2007 I upgraded my computer and the program I’ve been using for years was no longer usable. Uggg. Great time to kick the habit friends said. Let it go. Cold turkey is also something to put on your life list.
Okay, said I, I’ll give it a shot. It wasn’t easy. Secretly I surfed the Web looking for a program that might run on my Intel Mac. I found one that sorta worked, but was dreadfully (for me) tough to use. And it required an annual subscription fee.
Based on the rather flimsy excuse that I needed another computer, I ventured over to the dark side and bought a PC-based notebook. Slick little machine—and I could get some birding software …
And since I had the software for the little notebook, why not add it to the iMac since it has that capability?
I sunk deeper and deeper to where now I’m at the point of waiting for some new software to arrive since I found the previous program cumbersome. And besides, this new program has a module that allows me to keep records on my PDA, then download them to my computer! I’ll be listing away and people will think I’m trying to look like a teenager and am just texting the person standing next to me. Cool.
I realize listing has become another life-long habit—like always for the Democrat, so I needed the perfect zinger for my friends when they see me sneaking my notepad out of my jacket for no other reason than to note that Swainson’s Thrush singing in the bush. How about, “Hey, it’s like golf. If you don’t keep score yer only practicing.”

Earthworm Migration

Do earthworms migrate? Good question. Okay, not as pressing (for some) as to whether we should reward the people who bungled us into this current financial crises with $700 billion or some lesser amount, but an important question nonetheless.
I’ll have to ask our naturalist buddy, Wendy. One takeaway lesson you always get when hiking with Wendy is to look down as much as you look up. (For more about earthworms and virtually everything else outside the four walls of you life, check out www.naturenuts.com.)
I was minding my own, and the rest of Nature’s business this morning, hiking the Old Carriage Trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I watched a scene straight out of JJ Audubon, or maybe Robert Bateman) as a family of four Pileated Woodpeckers hammered and chatted away on a backlit tree. I helped several Carolina Wrens, Blackcapped Chickadees and their associated Tuffted Titmouse friends make enough noise to wake an owl or whatever was in the bush that had them all upset. I never saw the reason for their pique. They all took off and I assume it was a snake.
After a couple miles on the trail I turned uphill and realized there was a herd (I don’t know what else to call it) of either big earthworms or small night crawlers) heading downhill. Hundreds. I bobbed and weaved and tried not to step on any of the slow movers. It was a shady spot on the trail. The ground was so dry it had cracked in spots.
Now my basic instinct as a fisher told me to grab as many of these critters as possible. Then I remembered I was a fly fisher, often a dry-fly fisher, and live-bait fishing was a thing I was suppose to disparage. But these were really nice, juicy looking worms …
I posted myself behind a tree to see if any of the birds in the forest were interested. No takers. So what in the world, at least this part of the world, were these worms doing?
Another unanswered question and one of the reasons we keep going back into the woods.

Bringing It All Back Home

Having survived the crowds last week at the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park on our Great Western Swing Scouting Trip, I decided to take a walk around my own backyard today.
In my case, the backyard is the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Thanks taxpayers. The great thing about hitting the trails in the park on a Wednesday is that there’s virtually no one else around. You get to see what a park is all about—a place for the animals, not the humans. I walked nearly two miles on the first trail before I saw two people coming the other way, deep in discussion about eating fat and why it’s good for you. I wanted to tell them to check that theory with the chickadees who were also deep in their discussion—probably about the quality of sunflower seeds this year.
Further along the trail I crossed over a stream (okay, a tiny creek) that I’ve seen many time. Only now it was crowded with fish. As a fly fisher I should be able to identify these critters. All I know is they were not trout. I think they were black-nosed dace. There were hundreds of them. I realized they were probably always there, except when there was heavy traffic on the trail.
As I neared where I planned to take a shortcut and head for home, I looked into the remnants of the Ohio-Erie canal. I realized the moss-covered bumps on the logs were really turtles. From one spot I counted 56 of various sizes from ravioli to basketball. All uniformly green with duckweed on their heads, necks and backs. For five minutes or so I discussed choosing vice presidential running mates with the turtles. You can do that sort of thing when no one else is around.
Heading up the steep slope that would lead me back to civilization, I spooked three white-tail deer that had bedded down for the day. The buck, still in velvet, was not happy. He snorted and pawed the ground, just to let me know who was boss of this patch.
Somehow the hill had gotten steeper than I remembered and during my second rest stop, Blue Jays rousted a Cooper’s Hawk that flew straight at me, eye level. It was probably my imagination, but I swear I felt the wind from its wings as it passed overhead.
There’s a reason national parks carry that designation. They all have something to offer you’ll find no place else. Ours might not have mile-deep canyons or soaring hoodoos. We have just basic peace and tranquility, especially on a Wednesday morning.

Click, Click, Click

I’m currently sharing a room with a click beetle. The only reason I know it’s a click beetle is because our naturalist friend, Wendy, told me about click beetles a couple years ago. Now I can impress others with my vast knowledge of insects. I thought those clicky things in the night were frogs of some sort. Not so.
Click, click, click
Now, I’ve never seen a click beetle and this one is no exception. I should look up his picture on the Web so I know what I’m dealing with here.
How he (I assume it’s a he because it’s sneaky and noisy) got into my hotel room I know not. It’s okay. He has stayed in the same spot for three days now, moving back and forth someplace in the drapery track. It’s a friendly sound. Makes me feel like I’m out of doors.
As luck would have it, I’m in Phoenix where it’s so hot you can not go outside. You live in the air conditioned bubble and bitch about the heat with other people who don’t go outside, either. So bringing in a bit of the outside is welcome.
I’ve managed to get out a do a bit of birding in the early mornings when things cooled to 90 degrees (click, click, click) and the birds head for water spots.
It’s interesting that I’m back in Arizona at the near-end of the south-bound migration. In May we were out here for the north-bound birds. I’m probably seeing the kids of the adults I saw four short months ago.
Not much action. A few Black-chinned Hummingbirds moving through have been a treat. Plenty of Verdins around, a bird we did not see in the spring.
Probably the highlight of the week has been the largest covey of Gamble’s Quail I’ve ever seen. There are easily 50 birds in this group, ranging in size from golf-balls with toothpick legs, on up to full adult. They scamper ahead of me as I walk (against the rules I proudly add) the golf cart paths at this luxury resort in Scottsdale.
They remind me of characters in silent movies that never have the smarts to get off the tracks as a train is bearing down on them. Of course, if the quail, like the guy in the silent movie, did scamper to the side and into the bushes, it would take a lot of drama out of my life.
Click, click, click.

A Good Omen, Perfect Punctuation

We were doing our best to burn off the day. The sun was doing its part. The sky had turned more shades of yellow-red than battered left over Olympic banners. The burning question, not to be confused with burning issues, was whether we’d make it to the pond before dark? And if we did, would the birds still be there?
In this case the birds were three Wood Storks, a species more at home in the swamps of Florida than the wetlands of mid-Ohio. How did they get here? They have wings so I guess that answers the question. And they were juveniles. Put teenagers together with transportation and you’re liable to get anything.
The first good sign we had was a bird that stumped Susan and I for a few seconds. When you’ve been fortunate to bird around the globe as we have, we expect the unexpected in unsuspecting places. But near Zanesville, Ohio, an all-black crow-sized bird with bright white tail feathers gives you pause.
After a bit of lip flapping and firm knowledge that we weren’t slowing down our mission—to see the Wood Storks—we quickly realized we had just seen an American Crow with white tail feathers. It was one of those birding things that make you say, “humph.”
Driving through the wonderful habitat of decidedly rural Coshocton County, we had to stop to check out some great shorebird habitat. Sure enough, a Willet was feeding on the far side of a pond. Belted Kingfishers were diving from several trees; a House Wren popped up to see what we were doing; Cedar Waxwings were hawking bugs; and after a bit of effort we coaxed a Nashville Warbler out of the bushes.
On to the storks. As we topped a rise in the road we first spotted some humans, binoculars and scopes in hand, gazing down a slope into a small oxbow of a pond. The three storks appeared bleached white against the darkening foliage. The only thing that seemed to upset them was a possessive Great Blue Heron. Some minor squabbling ensued. The storks bought off the heron with a fish or two and the critters settled down.
As we were packing to leave, Vernon Miller, the Amish man who found the birds a week earlier happened by. He proudly told the story for the umpteenth time of how he spotted the birds, called a friend to confirm the identification, and how the friend posted the information to the Ohio Birds Listserv (www.ohiobirds.org).
It was nearly dark when we stopped to find an errant water bottle that had rolled under the seats. Susan found the bottle and shouted look! As a birder you don’t ask where or why or what. You just point your nose in the direction of the person making the call. An adult Bald Eagle swooshed over our heads. Perfect ending to a perfect day.

Seeing is Believing

We stood, gazing back in time at the stars all around us. We were on the edge of the universe. It was a place astronomers had gathered for a half century to peer into the past, hoping to predict the future. And while Kitt Peak, Arizona is hallowed ground for astronomers, it is also a marvelous spot for birders.
Susan and I were with a group of like-minded individuals from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. We were in Southeast Arizona to explore the heavens as well as the flora and fauna. Among our leaders were Andy Jones, curator of ornithology, Joe DeRocher, astronomer, and Naturalist Harvey Webster. Trust me, nothing got by us, from the rings of Saturn to the rings on the neck of the Elegant Trogon, to the rings on the tail of the Western Diamondback Rattlesnake.
What struck me as we looked out across the endless miles of space and land was how birding is connected to so many other aspects of natural history. Another thing that struck me was how people asked, “What do you expect to get from this trip?”
Expectations when you go birding (or fishing for that matter) can often lead to bitter disappointment. Better to set goals, like, don’t get hurt, or find the Flame-colored Tanager. Don’t expect not to get hurt. Don’t expect to see the tanager. The expectation, if there has to be one, is to see what nature has to offer.

Beginner's Luck

Let’s see, when last I left my blog I was looking at fish in a stream in California. As a friend and reader reminded me not too long ago, “You haven’t written anything for more than a year.”
True enough, and while blogging can be a mixed blessing (sort of like children, or being born good looking instead of rich) it is fun. Now I’m back.
My problem (Old people have problems. Young people have issues.) was that shortly after that trip to California in 2007, my world began to tilt. Then, on the night of a blue moon in May 2007, the unthinkable happened and things got topsy turvey. While trying to find the right words to tell my boss I was quitting, he called and offered me a promotion! Talk about a conundrum. I made the big error of not asking, “how much more money?” before I said “yes.” I promised him a year to see how it would all work out.
Now, closing in 14 months, I finally have my beak far enough above water to be able to take a breath—and get back to blogging. It’ll take a while to get back into my stride, so hang with my faithful readers. Thanks for asking.
And to sort of pick up where I left off—with fishing—a short note about a trip to the stream a couple days ago. Fishing buddy Tom (retired and looking for more playmates) has been talking about chasing some smallmouth bass at a secret spot on the Cuyahoga River. Anyone who has not been left mentally impaired by those great days of the late 1960s remembers the Cuyahoga as the river that caught on fire. There were songs about it; now there’s even a microbrewery beer available celebrating that infamous day of environmental history.
In any case, we’d be fishing far up stream from the historical footnote place. (In truth, the river runs quite clean these days, fodder for another blog.)
Tom and I, and his long-time buddy Jon hit the stream early in the morning. Not so early for a guy who still has a real job, however, it was early for those retirees. The guys gave me the lay of the land, stream, actually. My experience with other fishers, me included, is to put the new guy off in some direction so as not to interrupt the real fishing spots. I just wrote it off to paying my dues. Jon headed up stream at a pace. Tom selected a little island to fish around, and I waded downstream to a likely looking spot. Karma was with the nubie. Before Tom had a fly on the water, and while he was still within ear and eye shot, I was hooked up with the first smallmouth of the day.
Right, beginners luck after about 40 years of fly fishing.

Virtual Fishing

Many fly fishers like me, those of us who practice the art and discipline of catch-and-release fishing, often say, “Well, it’s not always about catching fish.” We usually say that on days when we’ve been skunked.
Then there are the days when we catch and release a lot of fish, yet never wet a line. I had one of those kinds of days this past week while chasing birds in the Los Padres National Forest in California.
Los Padres is one of the few places where you might catch a glimpse of the endangered California Condor. We didn’t. We were, however, feeling lucky; Susan, her sister and I. We had stopped to look over a particularly attractive scene (those two are both artists so every bend in the road harbors opportunity) and got great day-time looks of a Western Screech-owl, Acorn Woodpecker and a California Quail that popped up on a fencepost to see what the ruckus was all about and let us take its picture.
But that was birding and this is supposed to be about fishing. Late in the day we stopped at another picturesque spot where water was seeping across the road. In an area that has not seen rain in eight months, any wet spot attracts birds. This spot turned out to be a classic mountain trout stream. While Susan and Peg walked through the woods discussing angles and the quality of light, I stood behind a tree and watched the water. Sure enough, I saw movement. I pointed this out to them and we all enjoyed spotting fish in a stream so narrow you could step across it.
They moved on and I decided to fish for a while. It was a challenging spot: narrow water protected by branches. No casting here. Crystal clear water with bright sun casting shadows. There were spots where I might dangle a fly in, however, and let it drift …
They were rainbows. More than a dozen of them worked in the small stretch of stream I checked. Further down stream I found a couple more pools and could see fish working in them, too. To the untrained eye there were no fish. Then a movement so quick you’re unsure it even happened, made you pause. From behind a rock a small dark bullet moved to grab an unseen insect. They weren’t big fish, maybe a couple of 12-inchers in the lot. What they were feeding on remains a mystery. Bugs were hatching, occasionally, and the fish were feeding half way down in the water column, which in that spot was about three feet deep.
So, a really small nymph, a bead-head something maybe, unweighted, set adrift down either side of the stream might work. There was some undercutting of the banks and those tree roots would be a problem. That could be overcome if I kept the line just a bit to the right of that rock …
And by the time the two artists had finished painting their great landscapes, in their--minds--I had caught and released a dozen trout, in mine.

Tunnel of Love

I thought the best way to celebrate President’s Day might be to watch birds at my feeder this morning. Actually, it’s the best way to celebrate the start of any day. Plenty of metaphorical things about birds, feeding at the public trough (to mix a metaphor) and cooperation among species, to go along with a day of celebration for politicians. We celebrate virtually everything and everyone in this country. Soon we’ll have a national holiday for NASCAR drivers. Only kids south of the Mason and Dixon line will get the day off from school, however.
But then, I digress. Back to feeding at the public trough. We’ve had a Red Squirrel terrorizing the birds at our feeder ever since fall. I was hoping this guy, and his new-found-friend, would hibernate and let the birds eat in peace. Not so.
I glanced up from the local snewspaper every so often and there he’d be, sucking up the free chow. And while he is kind of cute, he is still a freeloader, not unlike some poilticians. I realized that every now and again he was also in his favorite tree, yet there were no tracks in the snow. On closer inspection, I saw that he had burrowed a tunnel from the base of the tree to the base of the bird feeder. No clumping through 18 inches of snow for this guy. It was really cool: grab some seeds, zip through the tunnel and eat from a spot where he could warn away those winged interlopers.
As I finished the paper’s section on what passes for arts and entertainment in this area, I noticed that Red’s friend, Stumpy (because she has only half a tail) was examining the tree-end of the tunnel while Red was feeding his face at the other. At about the time Red turned to go back to his tree, stumpy headed into the tunnel to see where it led.
Midway in the diffused light of the tunnel an explosion of snow, squirrel fur and sunflower seeds erupted. A lot more chatter than I thought possible from two little animals could be heard inside the house.
There was a lot of grabbing, jumping and flashing of teeth before the pair settled on the deck railing to discuss what had happened. I noticed they were sitting closer than usual so I assume this close encounter of the furred kind was not all negative.

Star Light, Moon Bright

Certainly one of the challenges of having astronomy as a hobby here in northeast Ohio is the weather. Winter skies are often clear—the more exciting for viewing. They can also be bitterly cold.
After plenty of warm, cloudy nights and a nearly planet-less November, then only limited action in December, amateur astronomers have to be ready for anything. The end of January and early February has seen the return of the Big Eight (and the planet formerly known as Pluto), along with some great moon sightings. And the outstanding winter constellations.
This morning was one of those really great opportunities for sky watching. Except for the facts that the temperature was three below zero—and I had to work my day job. Ug.
Heading toward the office an hour or so before sunrise, I could not help but stop along the way and just take in the spectacular scene. Much to the chagrin of a driver behind me (who must have been a banker or something, eager to get to the office and count his money), I pulled off the road opposite an open field. Often we watch Wild Turkeys, Red-tailed Hawks and White-tailed deer feeding there. This morning the field was a sea of shadows tossed haphazardly on the snow by the 18-day-old moon; lopsided and bright—like some people I know.
The view to the southwest showed me that Saturn was leading Luna down the ecliptic path as if he knew where he was going. A couple days earlier they had risen nearly hand-in-hard when she was full and he was in a slightly different orbit. Behind her, off to the southeast, Jupiter, trailed by the warrior Mars, flashed brighter than the traffic helicopter heading off to the morning’s first road disaster. Jupiter’s solid, steady light was a bright, cold blue, belying the plant’s warmer tones when seen through a telescope. I tried to imagine the positions of her four visible moons. Would the great red spot be visible this morning?
Bright Sirius was gone from my sky. I hungered for what the Orion cluster must look like in this clear sky and envied people in the west now looking up.
I read somewhere that the while the moon’s gravity is strong enough to pull oceans out of shape, it really doesn’t have any impact on humans. We’re too small, even though we are mostly water.
Bunk! The longer I stood there in the diminishing moonlight, looking up as more and more stars became visible to my widening pupils, the stronger I could feel Luna’s seductive pull, her whisper encouraging me to move in the opposite direction of my office.

No Contest

As soon as I saw the competitors I knew how the contest was going to end. And it was not going to be pretty, either.
An American Goldfinch, in this corner, was calmly taking niger seed from the tube feeder. The single-digit temperatures did not seem to diminish its appetite, although there was no others of its kind in sight.
In that corner, about 10 feet away, perched Mr. Cooper’s Hawk. He, too, was looking for lunch and the goldfinch seemed to be his meal of choice.
When the goldfinch saw, or sensed, the presence of the hawk, it froze. The hawk, and I noodled this out by moving around inside the house to check his sight lines, was unsure if there was a bird on the feeder or not. The wind would ruffle the finch’s feathers and the hawk would perk up. The tube feeder, however, was swaying in the breeze, just enough to create a bit of uncertainty.
The goldfinch held its ground. No move is a good move in a situation like this. The standoff continued for several minutes. The hawk would occasionally turns its attention elsewhere until finally it launched itself from the branch and rocketed off in the direction of a flock of starlings.
Goldfinch wins!

Winter Birding

Winter birding in northeast Ohio can be thrilling in terms of seeing species you’d otherwise have to travel to the Arctic to see. Or it can be so deadly dull you’re better off just looking out your front window. Most days fall somewhere in between.
This weekend was one of those strange, in between days. With friends Karin and Pat, Susan and I made our annual winter pilgrimage to Killdeer Plains Wildlife Management Area. We go there at this time of year to see the invasion of northern owl species, primarily, and other birds that can be seen at no other time or place—except the open tundra of Canada.
The fact that the trip also includes fabulous homemade soups, breads and desserts is not overlooked; maybe even an incentive.
An omen of what lay ahead was our spotting of a Turkey Vulture only a few miles east of Hinckley, Ohio. It is common knowledge that the Turkey Vultures are lured back to this region on March 15 each year with aromas rising from grilled sausages and pancakes. Some people have twisted that around to think the feast is to celebrate the birds’ return. Not true. In this case the tail wags the dog.
So there it was, January 27 and we bagged our first Turkey Vulture of the year. Not an Arctic bird, for sure. Things picked up as we neared Killdeer Plains and shunted off to the north to search the open farm fields. With the wind blowing up a wind chill factor off the charts we spotted hundreds of Horned Larks and Lapland Longspurs, true northern birds. Things were heating up. Longspurs are curious, sparrow-sized birds with short legs and an incredible array of shades of brown in their coloring. Their visiting our windswept barren corn fields is like us going to Florida for a break from the weather.
What had started as a slow birding day began to taper off about the time we entered Killdeer Plains. The large raptors we had hoped to see had yet to arrive. We were treated to an amazing display of affection by a pair of Bald Eagles. When these big birds get it on, they get it on! Right there on the ice with hundreds of Canada Geese watching.
We counted about 70 Tundra Swans on the open water of one of the area's larger lakes. Watching swans fly is an amazing sight. As they came in for a landing the birds would talk with each other, turn and feather their wings and stall in mid air, then drop softly into an open spot among their kind.
We had all but given up on spotting an owl this trip. Sometimes you get lucky and see five or six species of owls in one day. This was not one of those days. Making one last drive past ideal Short-eared Owl habitat in lighting so poor we were unsure, at first, what was moving to our left, we saw a Short-eared Owl rise from the ground and hover-hunt over the grassy pasture. We stopped the car in the middle of the road and jumped out (I think it was in that order) to get a better view. The pudgy 15-inch body and 38-inch wings make this bird an unlikely candidate for graceful flight. It’s flight pattern is often described as moth-like. We watched this animal, no more than 30 feet away, rise and fall in the wind; diving at what it hoped would be dinner. It turned and pirouetted on its wingtips, paying no attention to us. I was reminded of the admonition, dance like no one is watching. As it moved ahead it barked to its neighbors whom we could not see. Suddenly there were a half dozen owls rising from the ground, moving in all directions.
As the owls' barking faded into the night we forgot we had seen only 33 other species this day. It will always be remembered as another great winter birding day in northern Ohio.

Blowin’ in the Wind Part II

Last May I wrote, with great exuberance, about the fancy new wind turbine on Cleveland’s lakefront, pumping megawatts of power into the Great Lakes Science Center. I’ve had a remote connection to some folks monitoring the site for dead birds and the reports, albeit secondhand, have all been positive. No birds have been whacked by the props.
Then last night I heard Mark Shieldcastle speak. Mark is a wildlife biologist with the Crane Creek Wildlife Research Station out near Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge. By the end of Mark’s hour-long presentation, me, and a lot of the other left-leaning tree huggers were having second, maybe third thoughts about wind generated electricity.
Wind turbines, touted as a green alternative, ain’t so green it seems. First, they’re notoriously inefficient. Their efficiency rating is about 15%. Nuclear power is about 85%. And they’re not so animal friendly, either. Had I thought through the scenario, I might have figured out why people are not finding dead birds at the base of the wind turbines in this area. The example Mark used was a Golden-crowned Kinglet weighing five-grams, traveling 10 mph. In the dark it meets a turbine prop traveling at 150 mph. The area enclosed by the circumference of those spinning blades equals about four acres! How much of that bird would be left and in what direction should we look? Oh.
The proposal that is giving people sweaty palms here in Cleveland is the installation of turbines out in the lake. Listen closely and you can hear peoples’ lips smacking. As Mark points out, if we can’t find dead birds on land, what chance would we have of finding them in the lake?
This area of the planet is critical to bird migration. It’s one of the best spots anywhere for warbler migration in spring. It’s about the only spot on Earth where the endangered Kirtland’s Warbler has been seen off its breeding grounds in Michigan. And while birds often fly higher than the 400-foot-high or 600-foot-high towers that are proposed, they to land and take off with frequency in the lake and around the lake shore.
Information on bird strikes against wind turbine blades is minimal at best. Altamont, California, has some good data because the turbines there are killing hundreds of large raptors with frightening regularity. A mystery killing by wind turbines is happening to bat species, says Mark. Thousands of bats are being killed by the wind farm project in the Appalachians of West Virginia. For some unknown reason, bats are attracted to the spinning blades. They’ve also found dead bats at the site of Ohio’s only wind farm, in Bowling Green.
A recent article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer quotes Amy Gomberg, environmental advocate for Environment Ohio in Columbus, as saying, “I don’t believe wind developers would put up wind turbines where they would have a negative impact on birds. It would make them look bad.”
Oh, my. Wake up! Big Wind is lining up at the government trough just like Big Oil, Big Guns and Big Auto have done for years. Without more solid science regarding the impact of wind turbines on wildlife, Big Wind is going to create a giant sucking sound heard throughout northeast Ohio and wherever else it can site its wind farms. And only when pigs fly, and get sliced up in the turbine blades, will they care about looking bad.

Patience is a Virtue

Sometimes it’s easy to unwittingly step briskly on the path toward disaster. At other times it’s a more casual stroll. As with most unpleasant experiences, this potential disaster had its humorous side. Whether it was humorous, of course, depends on your state of mind at the time, and whether you had committed the error.
The lines at the Southwest Airlines ticket counter in Chicago, the other day, were so long it was hard to imagine the airline had enough planes in its fleet to handle all of these would-be passengers. Slowly we crept along, like cattle moving to slaughter; or skiers moving to the lift chairs, similar experiences for some.
An apparent supervisor was doing her best to direct people. Those with only luggage to check, go right. No, my right, your left. No luggage to check? Go left. No, my left, your right. And those who weren’t sure if they were even supposed to be at the airport, wait over there. A thankless and endless job. She managed a relatively cheerful smile throughout the chore while making drastic pleas for help on her walkie-talkie.
Help arrived in the form of a breathless young man who had the expression of a deer caught in the headlights. The supervisor, while dealing with irate passengers, directed the young man to rearrange the black coral belts that kept us in our lanes as we moved laboriously toward the frenzied people at the ticket counter. She gave him instructions without making eye contact. He looked at her as if she were speaking a language he was hearing for the first time. Eventually, she got to the end of her sentence. The guy was so confused he had ask her, again, what he was supposed to do.
Finally he got it and moved to action. Bobbing and weaving, ducking beneath the lines that held us all in check, the young fellow worked his way into the middle of the mess. His goal, I think, was to create two major streams feeding toward the ticket counters. He began retracting this strap and extending that one. He compartmentalized, expanded, eliminated and created with the speed of a man on a mission from god.
People stopped moving forward, turned left or right depending where he had established inlet or outlet. What had been only confusion now degenerated into chaos.
In less than three minutes this whirling dervish managed to bottle up the whole lot of us. It was soon apparent that no one could get to the ticket counters.
The supervisor, meanwhile, had kept her back to the action. She soon realized that the line was getting longer, not shorter as she had hoped. And what had been only a murmmer of conversation coming from the passengers, was now reaching a decibel level that might concern even OSHA. As the hapless young man created the last barrier he was confused beyond hope. He stood still, hands in his packets, looking hopefully in the direction of the supervisor.
Mob-rule began to take over. People nearest the connectors of the retracting barrier straps began unhooking them and move in the general direction of the ticket counters. Before long, passengers had reestablished straight lines and the maze created by the young fellow was a matter of jokes. Order emerged from chaos. To the supervisor’s credit, I noticed she was quietly explaining to the young man, this time using hand gestures and getting affirmative nods from him, how to establish a corral, not a maze.

Watch Your Back

Bird watching is about more than watching birds. It’s about observing bird behavior as well. And of all the bird behaviors we could list, sex and eating are two activities at the top of every birder’s list.
This is about eating. I was driving north on MLK Boulevard in Cleveland this morning and some motion off to my left caught my eye. A Red-tail Hawk was cruising along next to me, about door-handle level, 25 feet away. I was going about 30 mph and this guy was keeping pace. Not even puffing as far as I could tell. He was focused on a huge flock of plump American Robins feeding in an open spot, surrounded by some sort of berry-bearing tree. The robins were flanked by Fox Squirrels, also enjoying the fruit treat.
I slowed as I saw the hawk put down its landing gear, talons wide open. A fraction of a second before it could nab an orange-breasted morsel, the flock exploded in all directions!
The huge bird banked sharply to its right and clamped down on one of the fuzzy spectators that had been up on its haunches like it was watching a sporting event. Full power climb, squirrel wiggling (and probably screeching) without missing a beat, the hawk headed off to brunch.
I replayed the event in my mind on my way in to the office (more fun than thinking about what would try to eat me when I got there) and have come to the conclusion that the squirrel was the number-one target. The faint toward the robins was all part of the plan. Cool move.

So, Where Are the Birds?

While our compilers digest the numbers from the Annual Audubon Christmas Count, we can all ponder the fate of birds this winter. At our Audubon chapter’s chili dinner I spoke with some of the other territory leaders and everyone seemed to have the same question: Where were the birds, today? Weather was mild, by count-day standards. No snow. Birds could scatter and find plenty of natural food.
And there’s another reason why birds were missing, at least in my area, which includes Waterworks Park in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. One of my ace counters found a spot in the park where wrong-headed, misguided individuals have created a feral-cat community.
As he says, “The cats are fat, comfortable and dry. ‘Compassionate’ citizens supply them with food, shelter and care. The cats live in a little compound of pet cages, plastic tarps and food bowls in a shrubby area near a parking lot on the Fit-Trail.”
He adds that the colony in Waterworks Park is the best organized he’s ever seen. “Someone was always in attendance with them when I was there. There is more than one ‘good Samaritan.’ They bring bags of food, check on the cats' welfare, etc. I counted about five cats, but I suspect there are more lurking in the brush.”
The American Bird Conservancy estimates that as many as one billion birds are killed each year by domestic and feral cats ... If you have a cat keep it indoors. Tell your neighbors to do the same. And if you know other kind-hearted, ill-advised, injudicious folks who create these disgusting cat hobo jungles, tell them to get some goldfish for pets and leave the cats to the Red-tailed Hawks.

Foul Weather Friends

High winds and torrential rains this morning kept me off the stream so I opted to do some of the chores I had been putting off for a rainy day. Since I knew there’d a lot of walking through puddles of parking lots, I dug out my foul-weather shoes that I left in the garage to be cleaned—last August I think. Today’s rain would do the job I had neglected.
I’ve camped and lived in enough places where little critters—particularly those that can inflict disproportionate pain—get into shoes that have been unoccupied for more than 24 hours. As is my habit, I knocked the heel of the shoe on the garage floor before inserting my foot.
Ha! Somebody’s stash of sunflower seeds had found its way into my L.L. Bean shoes. Forty-eight seeds, still in the husk. A quick check of the right shoe revealed another 63 seeds.
So, the mystery: Whose seeds are these, how did the critter get into my garage, and will it come back? The answer to the first two questions is chipmunk. The answer to the third is, probably not. Those little clowns should be deep in their burrows now. The exceptionally warm weather has keep them above ground longer than usual, however, today, our first real taste of northeast Ohio winter, probably has some little guy dreaming of 100 or more seeds he hid somewhere, but just can’t remember where.
In winter, chipmunks and humans alike, seem to survive on dreams in our separate hibernations.

Disappearing America

I was up a couple hours before sunrise this morning, taking a look at Mercury. A fast, elusive planet if there ever was one. Mercury has never been photographed by the Hubble Sky Telescope. Not because it’s fast. Because of its proximity to the sun. The folks in Baltimore who control the Hubble wisely don’t want to point the scope in the direction of Mercury, fearing even the slightest miscalculation would cause the sun’s rays to whack the delicate instrument.
Today, however, Mercury was at it’s widest elongation from the sun, about the width of two fists from an Earthling’s perspective. 100 minutes before sunrise, looking southeast, eye level, was the perfect time to view the planet. You missed it.
It got me to thinking about the effort we expend to see distant planets, while at the same time hide the Earth. Well, our small spec of Earth called America.
We make our land disappear by covering it with housing developments and shopping malls, while we search outer space for more land. What is also being lost as the land disappears, is the wildlife. And as the wildlife disappears, so do our hopes and promises for a better future.
To close the wound and hide the scars, we erect cement walls. These allegedly prevent the sounds of the highway from reaching people stupid enough to buy houses hard by the freeway. Then these folks stay inside their air conditioned homes (televisions spewing shows about NASCAR races and wild animals) sending e-mail to politicians demanding something be done about that noise from the highway. Or, skunks under the deck.
The sound barriers, paid for with our tax dollars, are like politician’s promises, never intended to be kept. They’re just to make people feel good.
If the sound barriers (Why not call them prison walls? Oh, prison walls are made of wire so prisoners can look out and be irritated by what they’re missing. I get it.) are not enough to block your view, we have plenty of billboards—litter on a stick. Or, signs declaring you’re crossing a river that’s been designated scenic, wild and beautiful. Of course, you never get to see that river. We create high walls of concrete to prevent people from driving over the edge of the bridge while attempting to get a better view of the scene. Don’t look, just read the sign at 70 miles per hour. That’s all you really need.
Have you noticed how many tire marks are on those barriers? Obviously, people are longing for a better look at what they’re missing.
All of this hiding of America is okay. It no longer matters. Kids have DVD players in the car to distract them from getting curious about those big birds sitting on a branch, or those animals grazing in the field. Adults have cell phones. When I was a kid, on our annual family vacation trip to my dad’s home in Indiana, I’d hang out of the car window like a dog for eight hours and hit the ground running as soon as I smelled the lake. Probably not safe. Too much fresh air might even account for my attitude fifty-some years later.
Well, trust me, America is still out there—someplace. Get off the highway, out of the car and onto your feet or a bicycle. Go to a park and just sit on a stump and see, smell and hear what the rest of America is missing.

Weather or Not

I suspect there is some correlation between the appearance of holiday decorations and complaints about winter weather. Christmas decorations began appearing sometime between Memorial Day and Fourth of July this year. And moaning about cold weather was close behind.
Grumbling in the office has become almost as intolerable as the obnoxious music in stores, clerks running around in red stocking caps and fake trees decorated with fake birds. And it’s only Armistice Day.
A couple of cellmates were complaining about the approach of winter and how there’s nothing to do. The whining sounded like a couple of eight-year-olds who don’t realize the sacrifice their parents made to take them to Disney Universe. To play the devil’s advocate, and because I know I’m right, I told them there is plenty to do if they can leave the confines of their television rooms long enough to get their feet cold. Winter is exciting.
A lot of great things happen in winter. NASCAR stops racing, for one. Another is that you can go for a walk in the woods and discover what happened. You find tracks in the snow and learn which animal passed this way, crossed the path of another or turned and followed that other. You find blood and guts and feathers or fur and learn who’s having whom for lunch.
In winter, trails are less crowded, birds more visible and air more refreshing.
Fishing is a bit tougher. When your reel is screaming as a steelhead trout slams your fly and takes off like a rocket, however, you’ll forget that your fingers and toes are frozen. So much adrenaline courses through your body that you’ll wish you weren’t wearing that second set of long underwear. Your mind races through all the things you know about fishing and in a split second you come to the realization that the instructor never taught you what to do if you actually hook a fish!
You’re on your own, just like all the other creatures in the woods in winter.

Loons and Luna(s)

When I checked my e-mail mid-way through Sunday I knew there was going to be trouble. If not a trouble, at least an unplanned birding adventure. The listserv was reporting 100 Common Loons along Lake Erie's shore opposite Rocky River.
Loons are one of the those birds you just can’t get enough of since they’re not a regular around here.
Off we went. Sure enough, at least 100 or more loons floating, diving, flying. Along with numerous Horned Grebes, Red-breasted Mergansers, Buffleheads and the countless gulls. Well, the single Great Black-backed Gull was easy to count. White-winged Scoters!
A non-birder, out enjoying the evening in the park stood by as we oooed and aaaed; talking with other birders in that code we often use. Finally he asked to look through my scope at something called a horned grebe. He couldn’t imagine what these crazy people were so excited about. Then he had to see a loon. And what is a Bufflehead?
So what was going on? Why all the loons when hardly any had been reported so far this fall? I think it had to do with that other object with the similar name. It was a full moon Sunday. Luna in all her glory. A day of high tides and unrealized pull on the fluids of the planet as well as our bodies.
That day when cops say things are a bit more loony than usual.

Things that Go Clack in the Night

Things that Go Clack in the Night

I’ve started taking a regular, daily walk--minimum of three miles. Since I started this project before we made the shift back to Standard Time from Daylight Stupid Time, this evening was the first opportunity to walk my regular route along the Hike and Bike Trail in the dark.
Whole new world out there after the sun goes down.
The regular scurrying of various sparrow species, along with the occasional Dark Eyed Junco and Carolina Wren entertained me through the twilight minutes. Nearing the end of my walk only silhouettes were visible. An owl flew from the woods and landed on the crossbar of a high-tension tower 20 feet above me. I cranked my head around to look at it while it was doing the same, looking at me, as I passed beneath. Great Horned or Barred? Couldn’t tell. Sizes can be deceptive in the twilight.
The endorphins were pumping after that when I heard thrashing and thumping sounds coming from the nearby bushes. The loud grunting noises sounded like a 64-year-old man digging frozen-solid ice cream out of a container. Then the percussion section entered. Clack, clack, clack!
When I drew along side the noise I realized it was a pair of white-tailed bucks locked in combat! The animals were thrashing and butting heads about 15 feet away and must have picked up my scent. Suddenly they decided that it was a better idea to run than rut. Off they went in search of a car to jump in front of.
I walked about 50 yards down the trail and suddenly a sapling tree just off the trail started waving back and forth and violent thumping ensued.
I could just see the back shape of another white-tailed buck. This guy was using a tree as a punching bag.
It must have been boys night out in the woods. And even though I was one of them, and all for what they had in mind, I figured it best to make a hasty retreat. You just never can be sure about those hormones.

Going It Alone

Naturalist, writer, friend, Wendy often squirrels away little messages about, or for, life in her blog, www.naturenuts.com. The blog is purportedly about life in the urban wilds.
Recently she mused about squirrels preparing for winter and how they hide nuts, managing to retrieve enough to survive the winter when the snow flies. It says much about self preservation and long-term survival.
It got me to thinking and searching my mental database for comparable things in nature that might be reflected in the business world. In business, these days, it's all about teamwork and cooperation for survival. That's survival of the company, of course, often at the expense of the individual.
I thought of a group of European Starlings I watched recently. A Cooper's Hawk approached the loosely flying flock. Immediately the flock of hundreds of birds took on the appearance of a distant thunder cloud—so tight you could not see a speck of light through it. No bird wanted to be on the outside of the cluster. Teamwork? Not hardly. It was every bird for itself. Someone on the outside was going to be Mr. Cooper's lunch, they were thinking, and it ain’t gonna be me!
So much for security in numbers, teamwork and all that group survival stuff. The question becomes, which, or what matters most?
Maybe the squirrels have it right--we're all in this alone.

Give ‘Em Leaves and Fishes

Getting a few hours on the stream is always a pleasure, even when the challenges make others think you’re nuts for going fishing. (Secret is, being a bit nuts helps.) Friday was crystal clear and so was the water in the Clearfork, a branch of the Mohican River known mostly to fly fishers and not many others. The wind was howling like it was Montana. The wind-chill made me think of Colorado.
I started at one of my favorite spots where I usually pick up a trout or three, then move on to someplace else. For whatever reason known only to the trouts, there always seems to be a brownie or a rainbow hanging around that particular stretch. And if I fished there all day I wouldn’t get more than two or three fish; a lesson I learned a few years back.
Since there were no fish rising and no bugs in the air, I defied the astronomical odds and tied on a size 16 Adams in hopes that some unsuspecting fish might be looking up. I know, a trout gets 80% or 90% of its diet from below the surface. There’s just something about catching a fish on a dry fly …
It took about 15 minutes for me to come to my senses and switch to pheasant tail nymph that would drift a few inches below the surface. After nearly an hour of casting and not catching (one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results), I began to wonder where my three fish had gone. I had been battling the wind, sort of letting it place my cast about every other toss. The result was hooking up with a leaf three out of four casts.
Further upstream is a gorgeous looking spot. Something you see in all the fly fishing magazines. The perfect bend. The perfect riffle leading to the perfect pool. In all my years of fishing this stretch of the river I’ve never caught a thing in that spot—yet I always give it a shot. It’s sort of like asking the prettiest girl in your high school class for a date. You know the answer before you ask, however, at least you’ve tried.
I studied the water as if I knew what I was looking for. The water was low, clear and choked with leaves. More leaves in the water than on the trees. I was about to head back to the car and another spot on the stream—but I just couldn’t. I bushwhacked my way up stream to get a half-decent angle on that good looking riffle that led to the perfect looking hole. On my third cast I hooked up with nice little brown trout. I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or the fish.
(Well, I thought, maybe she would have said yes had I asked her one more time some 45-odd years ago …)
I spent the rest of the windy afternoon working the spot as I never had in the past. Lots of leaves, too many for most fishers I suppose. And there was the occasional fish. All brownies with the largest stretched out to about 12 inches. There were the day dreams too—maybe the principal attraction of fly fishing. It lets you enter other worlds if only for a windy, blindingly bright afternoon in October in Ohio that will etch itself on the inside of your skull to become the daydream 20 years from now.

How Do Some People Get Their Jobs

Aside from your co-workers, but including your boss, do you ever wonder how some people get their jobs? I was being stuffed into a van at Midway Airport in Chicago this week for a thankfully short trip to McCormick Convention Center. While they were jamming one more body into the vehicle, our driver was giving us a preview of what was to come, based on telemetry she had gathered over years on the job. She told us to the tenth of a mile how far it was, how many minutes it would take at this hour and how many hours those same nine-point-whatever miles would take on Friday.
She recommended that if we were going to try to get out of town after 2:30PM on Friday that we pack a lunch. We would be stuck in traffic so bad it will bring tears to your eyes, she said. At least she had a sense of humor.
We zipped onto the highway and she bobbed and weaved between cars, doing things with a van that I wouldn’t attempt in a VW bug. One of the sales-types up front decided to do the employment interview thing with her. He asked, “So, do they give you drivers a lot of training for this job?”
“Not me,” said the driver. “I ran the bumper-car concession at Six Flags for about three years and I watch a lot of NASCAR on TV, so I guess they figured I knew what I was doing.”

Global Warning

It was a no-win argument. Global warming. And it was generated by a newscast running on a television set designed to intrude into your pores while standing in line to get on an airplane—a time when you’re wishing for something more relaxing than the day’s news.
I only got into it because I didn’t like the guy’s smarmy attitude. He was wearing a big, shit-eating grin, shaking his head at the newscaster as if she could see—or care. I just kind of smiled. I don’t think I really said anything. He must have sensed, however, that I agreed with Dr. Whatshername; global warming is a reality.
He started with, “You Democrates …” And that’s what lit my candle. I was off to the ozone before I knew what happened.
No such thing as global warming, he said. “You Democrats and the liberal news media are making the whole thing up because you can’t accept the simple fact that President Bush’s administration has been right on all its other issues. No evidence.”
Right is right I muttered. I had at least two strikes against me with this fellow who was able to make such great leaps in judgment he could probably go over buildings in a single bound. Why I even responded when I should have been working on the life-plan for my dress-sock drawer at home, I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping to make that one small step for mankind thing.
My fear, suddenly, was that he might want to sit next to me on the plane. (Hmmm. Nice doggy, nice doggy. Now, where’s that stick?)
I focused on his “no evidence” idea. Since we were into name calling (“You Democrats”) I figured melting glaciers might be too large of a concept for his pea-size brain. “The evidence,” I calmly said with hardly any spittle at the corner of my mouth, “is the smoking gun in the hands of insensitive, greedy company owners that’s been pointing at the sky for decades.”
(Oooo, that felt good.) I noticed a slight tic begin at the corner of his left eye. His lips were locked but they moved a bit. I bet he had been preparing for the iceberg gambit. (Follow the money stupid. Nothing happens without money attached to it. And the more you make the less you are to blame, or so it seems.)

A New Way of Seeing

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, or near-full moon, haul your spotting scope out and focus on the nearest astronomical object we have. If you have an eyepiece that gives you 30X magnification you’ll see sights you might not expect. 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 owls, swans, cranes, flights of ducks and whatever else might be slashing through the late-fall night sky. Check an almanac or your local paper 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 October we hit the full moon on the 6th. Toward the end of the month, on Halloween night, we have an eight-day moon, perfect for watching for witches on broomsticks. November 5th we might see some early flights of Tundra Swans, though they usually fly over later in the month when we have another good opportunity on the 30th. December offers some great opportunities. Full moon is on the 4th and a nearly full moon on the 31st. Great way to end one year and start another.
I keep watching and hoping for a loon.

Time Waits, Writers Waste

We’re getting into that ideal time of the year here in northeast Ohio. It’s a small space, wedged between humidity of summer and chills of winter. Since someone else chose the name we’re stuck with calling this season fall. Seems like a negative term for such an uplifting interval in the passage of time. Must have been named for the direction leaves travel, not spirits.
Yesterday was one of those glorious days when all the things I’ve been meaning to do didn’t seem so critical as they had a few months ago. Some duties seem plenty happy to be left alone in the been-meaning-to-do-that stage. Sunday was a day meant for a walk in the woods. I found myself with time to burn and time to bend. And when you live a quarter mile from a trailhead into a national park it’s easy to find ways to bend time.
When I’m hiking in the park I prefer the beaten path; beaten by white-tail deer, foxes and coyotes. Paths beaten by humans are another story. Sometimes, however, those paths intersect and lead to interesting conclusions, if not destinations.
With 90 minutes of hiking stuck to the bottom of my boots, I began looking for a log to sit on. Finding the perfect log to fit your butt is one of the essentials of hiking most people are not aware of. Then they put in a few hundred miles on the Appalachian Trail. There, your day starts by thinking of how long before you’ll stop for the night, your next meal or finding the perfect sitting log, not necessarily in that order.
The log I found was good news and bad news. It fit my butt, however, it was within earshot (but not eyeshot) of the all-purpose trail. All-purpose trail—as long as your purpose is to ride a bike wearing headphones and talk with six other people of varying distances from you. The guy that came up with that name—all purpose—is the same dude what named turnpikes freeways. We should rename them "without-purpose" trails. They’re a hazard to health and sanity. Sunday’s crowd looked like a non-motorized version of a NASCAR event.
Trying to make the worse of a good situation, I listened to what folks were saying as they zipped past. I’m proud to say not once did I try to accost anyone and tell them to stop and listen to the birds instead of their own fatuous drivel. Sorry if that’s redundant.
For 15 minutes I listened. Here are the results of my unscientific research. Probably half the conversations involved computers or doing something on, to, or with a computer. What does that say about us? Go to a park and talk about computers. Beam me up Scotty!
And a lot of those "conversations" were rants by one person or another about someone in their office, boss or underling, who was "totally, I mean guys, like totally," illiterate.
Another big batch were couples engaged in various depths of dispute. When folks are just zipping by you have to fill in some blanks. It seems that a number of conversations involved the man telling the woman she needed this or that piece of equipment for her bicycle. Meanwhile, she’s pedaling faster to get out of the sound of his voice. You go, girl.
I looked over at the two chipmunks who reluctantly shared their log with me and asked, "Why don’t these people sit down and dream about missing the bus to work tomorrow?"

Birder’s Nightmare

What’s a birder’s worse nightmare? Missing a plane connection from East Jesus Island back to the mainland and having to stay an extra day? Not hardly.
Paying a godzillion bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime trip only to discover it’s monsoon season when you arrive? Any day bad for flying is a good day for birding.
No. I think the thing we fear most is being alone and coming upon a totally out-of-place bird; or one that has been extinct since white men invaded the North American continent.
I rank this scenario just above being alone and finding a body stashed in the bushes of some remote park. I must say, the body thing used to really bother me. I often bird alone in places I’m unfamiliar with. Then the other day I crossed paths with a live, very live, alligator in Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge. The Zen moment was that in most places, any body would have been recycled by the time I found it. Except for maybe the baseball cap part. This enlightenment, resolving the mystery of how caps (and maybe shoes) turn up in remote places, took my mind off finding bodies.
My out-of-place bird is a yet-to-be-resolved problem. I easily studied a number of small birds working the trees in front of the nature center at Loxahatchee NWR last Tuesday. The center was closed. Even had it been open no one could have found it if they followed the directions given on the center’s Web site. As for maps of Florida, they might as well have provided a map of Nebraska. The directions were more than 10 miles off from the closest intersection noted. But that’s another story.
The point is, I was alone—except for the birds. Oh, and the ‘gators. So, leaning against my car I was ticking off warblers like I was walking the boardwalk at Magee Marsh. This was too cool. The most brilliant Prairie Warbler I’ve seen since … well, in a long time; Black-throated Blue; Common Yellowthroat. Man, this was easy.
Hmmm, Hermit Thrush, that seems odd. Then the nightmare. I of course did not realize it was a nightmare until I woke up. It was one of those tiny, nondescript birds working in the deep shadows. I applied my best pishing techniques and out he popped to see what all the silly noise was about. Oooo, a Red-breasted Nuthatch! Wow, that’s great!
Then it hit me—like getting out of an air conditioned car into the 96-degree heat and humidity too high to measure: Boy, you are way too far south to see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, especially at this time of the year. I watched the bird flit about the branches and disappear into the dense south-Florida underbrush.
A quick look at my field guide brought me up short. No nuthatch, red, white, brown or pygmy was to be found here. I checked the Loxahatchee list. None, as in zero, found here.
Oh boy, now what? My 2K memory bank searched for what else, anything else, it could have been. All the obvious birds were eliminated because this bird looked like what it was. Maybe it’s some exotic that flew over from the Bahamas? Nothing in the field guide qualified. I’ve seen an albino Yellow-bellied Sapsucker and partially albino American Robin that drove me to hours of page turning in field guides. This bird, however, left no (or little) doubt.
When I got back to my room I shot an e-mail off to friend Mauri Peterson, president of the St. Pete (Florida) Audubon Society, describing my dilemma. She was stumped as well. (I’ll leave out the part where she called me a weenie because I complained about the incessant heat.) She posted the sighting for comment to the Florida birders’ hot line. Nothing I’ve received from the folks down there has yet to change my mind about what I saw.
The bright point in all of this is that I no longer have to lie awake at night wondering what will happen if (when) I encounter an out-of-place bird. Maybe I should sign up for one of those group trips searching the swamps of Arkansas, looking for the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. I have nothing to fear—now—but why chance doing it solo?

And Why Not

Currently, birding for me is a pause; a break in the action of daily life. It’s the white space between the notes that define the music. It functions well in that capacity, particularly when I’ve been around folks who think wearing a tie can actually improve what you do or what you say.
These are the kinds of people who allow societal pressures define what they call a normal life. And they grow up to become corporate CEOs and the like. Maybe even lawyers and NASCAR drivers. I take pleasure in knowing I’ll never be burdened with unearned income, or tangled in the lines of golden parachutes. You only need a parachute when you’re on the way down, right?
So if you pass up a chance to play golf and talk more about what you’ve been talking about, incessantly, since you ate the quiche this morning, you’re suspect. And if you say you’re going birding, they look at you, not often straight on, but out of the corner of their eye. Their heads turn a bit, trying to assess the danger level. Flight or fight?
Yesterday I had just finished a speaking gig in West Palm Beach and was heading for Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge and a few hours of birding. One of the conference attendees ambushed me in the lobby of the overly plush Breakers Hotel. I never saw him coming. His green cap with matching logo shirt and shorts proved to be great camouflage. He stood behind the potted plants used to make the inside of the place artificially look like the outside. Why do they do that, then go to great efforts to keep out the bugs and other creatures?
“Great talk this morning. Wanna join us for some golf?”
“Ah, thanks. Nope.”
“We’ve got room for one more. We’re playing on the Ocean (something) course this afternoon.”
They never listen to your first answer.
“No, thanks. I’m going birding.”
And there was that look. He wanted to be sure no one saw him talking with a birder—whatever that was, or is.
“Aaaa, like bird watching? Why would you want to go out in this heat [96 degrees] and watch birds?”
The greatest of all philosophical questions—why.
And it’s so easily answered with the greatest of all philosophical answers—why not.
I had a lot of smart-ass answers I could have used, such as, you’re going to go hit a little white ball around in this heat … That kind of stuff.
I’ve learned that just saying “why not” is usually enough. It gives the asker enough space to nod his head and slip away, feeling like he won the discussion, which is what it’s all about for these corporate-leader types—winning.
This guy didn’t cave. He hadn’t grappled to the top of his corporate heap by not knowing all the answers. “So, what do you expect to see out there?”
Hmmm. Was this an opportunity to educate, or just some dude passing time, waiting for a more likely golfing prospect?
Let’s educate, I thought. “Well, Loxahatchee is about the only place you can still find the endangered Snail Kite,” I said in my most pleasant, instructional tone of voice.
Oops, that did it. His eyes narrowed. He furtively glanced around, kind of bird-like. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “A bird called a snail?”
I could pull out the field guide … No, let’s quit wasting time. Go directly to smart-ass. “Nope. The bird is a kite. It eats snails. Apple snails, actually.”
Now he was cooked. He had to get in the last word, however. That’s what bosses do best. He knew he was dealing with someone who was loosely wrapped; potentially dangerous. “Ya know, none of those words make a bit of sense if you’re really talking about birds.”
I just grinned, raised my shoulders and bid him a tolerable day on the course.
He certainly made my day. So, maybe I bird to be able to have a bit of fun with corporate leaders.

A Lot Can Happen Between Here and There

We were about half way between here and there, maybe 60 minutes outside of Baltimore flying to West Palm Beach. The flight attendant calmly asked for a doctor or medical person. Chimes dinged in a couple spots. I cranked my neck around to see what was happening.
Seems there was a woman in distress two rows back and across the aisle.
A young woman across the aisle from me, without hesitation, climbs over the two people next to her and gets to the woman in distress about the same time as another young woman from the back of the plane. Turns out the first is a nurse, an EMT, and the second a doctor.
In a case of life-imitating-art (at least what passes for art on television), or maybe it’s the other way around, the doctor had caught my eye while waiting on line for the flight. I think she had captured just about everyone’s eye. About 5’ 10”, blond and fresh off the pages of some fashion magazine. Now she looked like a new character for ER. (Sexist! ((Who said that?)))
The crew of the Southwest flight 881 is incredibly efficient. While a couple of the attendants work to get the aisle clear and the doc to the patient, another opens the first overhead bin and plugs in a special headset to talk with … ? Well, talk with someone, probably the pilot. She also has a diagramed yellow sheet with instructions and procedures to be followed. She gives a running commentary to someone, and now I have the feeling it’s someone with medical experience since she seems to be answering questions.
The doc is making a quick assessment. The nurse helping as they talk things through. The woman in distress is getting more so. The doc tells the flight crew to get the defibrillator handy. Just get it out. And she also says something with her eyes that I can’t understand.
Out comes the red bag and cords.
The doc calls for some orange juice as she tries to communicate with the patient. She doesn’t seem to be giving the doc the answers the doc wants.
Doc calls for oxygen and it’s there faster than I can type the word.
More orange juice. Aspirin? Aspirin.
More oxygen.
Patient’s looking better, but the doc wants everyone to hold their places.
A decision is made to move the woman up a half dozen rows to the front bulkhead seats. More space for the doc to work on her.
Looking better by the minute the doc says. Nurse and doc sit with her and comfort her. Lots of elderly people on this flight paying close attention.
These airplane people are good! No panic. The crew acts like it’s an everyday occurrence. I’ve been flying for 45 years and it’s the first time I’ve seen this.
Crew member writes down how much oxygen was consumed.
Smiles all ‘round. What looks like an exchange of names and addresses is going on! Lots of conversation, like they’re talking with a groggy prizefighter.
Doc stands to let the attendant climb on the seat and put the oxygen bottle back in its cradle. Doc flashes a killer smile to the guy who got on the plane with her.
He returns a knowing smile. Damned proud of you, he’s thinking. All in a day’s work, her eyes say.
Situation under control.
Then the grumbling about slow service starts. And just when I thought the human race might be worth saving …

Fishing for Stripers

Fishing for striped bass (sorry, all you guys who Googled a similarly spelled word hoping to see scantly clad women) is always a treat and like-new experience for us fresh-water fly fishers.
I’m just finishing a four-day trip to the ever-changing scenic Cape Ann area of Massachusetts, where the end of the striper migration is happening. These big-shouldered fish are heading south for a while, some as far as Florida.
The fish I got into are referred to as “schoolies.” I don’t know why they carry that tag, however, it’s what the locals call the little guys. Little, in this case is a relative term. Most of the fish I landed (the biggest one got away, honest!) were in the range of 18 inches to 20 inches and weighed in around three or four pounds.
As a trout fisher, that’s getting close to record size, and if you’re a trout fisher from Cleveland, steelhead excluded, a 20-inch, four-pound fish is enough of an excuse to call off going to work on Monday.
The schoolies here were great fighters (as any of us would be with a hook in our jaw) and all were returned to the ocean, traumatized I’m sure, but no worse the ware. One fish in particular is telling an unbelievable tail to its buddies. It was the second fish I caught yesterday. I was playing it for a few minutes (Playing is the human’s term; fish, I’m sure call it something else. You really can’t call fishing a sport since the opponents don’t know they’re even in a game.) and I began to see it flashing a red color. I knew it wasn’t blood and thought I had hooked up with some other species.
I landed the fish and discovered it had a huge artificial lure stuck in its jaw. The lure was fuchsia-colored creature and about 10-inches long, equipped with more hooks than a small tackle shop.
I carefully got the hooks, mine included, out of the fish’s mouth and put the confused creature back into the ocean. It waved good-by as it sped off to tell a tale of capture, rescue and release.
Hmmm. Same story as I’m telling.

Seesawing of the Seasons

Summer’s running on empty. From 38,000 feet above the surface of Planet Earth, it’s easy to see the changes when you head west and back to the future. By the time I arrived in Salt Lake City I was only an hour late for lunch, which I had eaten in Chicago a couple hours before, which was an hour earlier than it was in Cleveland. Or something like that.
But above it all the changing colors dominate the landscape and your mind. Ohio, from that altitude still has an attitude of green—mossy green, but green nonetheless. There are the occasional punctuation marks of orange and red, reminding us that the sentence has to come to an end. The unsure yellow spots seemed more like question marks.
Iowa this day was decidedly tan, punctuated by a bit of gray here and there. Few and far between were barns, water towers and other evidence of human habitation. Gray/brown was the color today in Iowa and will be the color in Cleveland in the future. Thank goodness for Northern Cardinals and Blue Jays.
As we moved over the mountains in Colorado it was suddenly white, bright white with fresh snow capping the rocks. Lower down was the bumpy grayish brown of last season’s leftovers, not unlike that piece of meatloaf you found in the back of the fridge last week.
And on to Utah. More incredible shades of tan and gray and again, snow. Lots of snow. It was Cleveland’s future. Well, okay, minus the mountains.
I made a quick three-hour trip out the Antelope Island State Park, located in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. I was amazed to see snow floating on the water as far as I could see. Through my binoculars I discovered it was not snow. It was more American Avocets than I ever dreamed were on the planet! Tens of thousands of them, all virtually in basic plumage. As far as I could see, and here I think you can safely measure the distance in miles, were avocets. I pulled out the scope (Why we need confirmation of what we already know remains a mystery to me.) and the view, distorted by a shortening of perspective, was even more spectacular.
When the ranger walked up to me and asked if I was going to pay my $9 entry fee I jokingly said, “I think I’ve seen the whole show already.”
She looked at the avocets as I do European Starlings and said, “Well, the big flock is at the West end of the causeway.” Yikes!
She was about half right. The flock at the end of the causeway was enormous, however, what made it seem larger was that tens of thousands of the birds in the flock were Black-necked Stilts! Here the massive white covering of the lake was punctuated with black of their necks and backs.
I figured I had already squeezed more than my $9 out of this place, however I should drive around to see if there were any bonus birds about. Mid-September is the nadir of the birding season in this part of the West. I got lucky. A Burrowing Owl who should have been on his way south played peek-a-boo with me until he figured I was less of a threat than the Northern Harrier who kept passing overhead. His golden eyes, the color of the turning aspen leaves in the mountains behind him, stared at me, never blinking. We chatted a bit about the changing season, going to Mexico for some warmer weather and did I think the global warming thing would change his migration patterns. Birds of the feather ...
By the time I arrived at Park City, my destination, most of the snow had melted. It hung on in places hiding from the sun. The mountains at 6,700 feet were awash in golden aspen leaves and snow. The air up here is so clean you can’t even see what you’re breathing. Just like Cleveland will be in a couple months. Well, maybe not exactly, however it was a nice preview of coming attractions.

For a Better America

When President Bush calls to ask me what’s needed to get this country back on track, I’m ready. It occurred to me this morning, while waiting for the bus in a torrential downpour, that what this country needs is not a really good five-cent cigar, as the forgettable Thomas Riley Marshall, vice president from 1913 to 1921, said, but a mandatory walk in the woods. (As an aside, Marshall’s other great line was, "Indiana is the mother of vice presidents, home of more second-class men than any other state.")
An annual three-day backpacking trip should be a requirement for U.S. citizenship, right up there with a mandatory driver’s license re-exam every three years—and a five-year suspension of all NASCAR events and merchandise sales.
What prompted the thought was all the grousing by my bus-buddies, and all the crap we carry just to get through the day in a dry office.
I’ve done about 800 miles of the Appalachian Trail over the years, and numerous other hikes and camps. Out there (where ever "there" happens to be) you carry all you need for a week or so on your back. Everything. You learn if you get wet, you’ll dry. If you get hungry, you’ll fix something to eat. You won’t need newspapers because what happens doesn’t really matter and effects you even less.
All you really need to survive is on your back and in your pockets. If you need entertainment you stop to examine the bark of a tree. You stand still, stare at the ground and bust your brain trying to remember a bird’s song. You talk with people you’ll never see again so you’re free to tell the truth. Danger is not some druggie in a car, it’s your imagination: Was that a bear or a crazed Wild Turkey? Oh, another hiker taking a pee.
A backpacking trip brings life down to it’s most basic common denominators. At the end of the trip you swear you’ll never do it again. Two weeks later, hassling an umbrella, coffee cup, lap top computer case and deadlines, you start planning next year’s hike. It makes you focus on what matters most, something that’s missing from most political agendas.

Her Name is Luna

Some days are not meant for working. Today is one such.
6:28AM. Dark. Head north to the bus stop. Challenges of the office tax my brain.
6:30AM. Moon-roof open. Dylan crooning on the CD player. Zip across the architecturally spectacular bridge that spans the Cuyahoga River. Helps us commuters sail through the air along Route 82. Cleveland, if not in my sights, is in my mind.
6:31AM. There hangs the moon—just hours past its full stage. Closing in on apogee in a couple of weeks. Only 238,855 miles away today. I could reach out and touch her. We measure her orbit against the stars. Humans try to do the same with themselves. Our future is in the stars.
6:32AM. Now is when I need to run out of gas. Maybe a flat tire. Please Ra! Grant me this one wish and I’ll never again … Luck is not with me. More unanswered prayers.
6:33AM. The river, somewhere down there 145 feet below, looks like it’s smokin’. I’m a wishin’ and a hopin’. If this is not the top of the world, I can, at least, see the top of the world from here.
6:33.5AM. Luna’s golden buttery color belies her minus-387-degree- and maximum-253-degree temperatures.
6:34AM. Who decided it was a "man" in the moon, then gave it a feminine name? Sorry Luna, white guys rule—or at least they used to—which is how we got to where we are.
6:34.5AM. Summer’s over. You want the world to just let you be. Let the fog wrap you in its coolness. Cool sheets. Whispered good-byes.
6:35AM. A flock of geese honking. Heading south. No! It’s the line of cars behind me. Forming the letter I, not the letter V. Follow.
6:35.5AM. Some day I’ll learn to read lips in the rearview mirror. For today, however, I’m going to work on my internal compass; contemplate an attitude adjustment and figure a way to break Luna’s gravitational pull to achieve an escape velocity of 5,324 miles per hour.
6:36AM. Or, maybe I'll do that tomorrow.