Learning From the Wild Side

I had some of the audience laughing, even before I stepped onto the stage, or, bridge in this case. As I hesitated at what appeared the only way to cross this creek in Cuyahoga Valley National Park’s backcountry, two Pileated Woodpeckers loudly cackled at me from the cheap seats high above. The White-breasted Nuthatches were a bit more discreet with their low-keyed chortling.
I had two choices: cross here or turn back. The latter was not an option. I suppose a third choice was to hike along the stream bank and find another place to get across. For some reason, a 40-pound pack tells you to hike in the straightest line possible. The bridge it was to be.
From the tracks in the mud I could see I was not the first to use this span. In fact, the sheen on the bridge treads, left by the scuffling of many hiking boots, told me the bridge was safe. Or so I wanted to believe.
The treads were supported by two, unmatched trees, slightly bigger than what I’d call saplings. I was too high up in the forest for this to be a beaver project, although it had that random order about it. The 36 treads were obviously hand-hewn. No two looked alike. What was I to make of this rather unkempt, unpredictable link between my past and my future?
As with most wilderness situations, it’s best to go with your gut. I was skeptical of the bridge when I first spotted it from 100 feet back up the trail. On closer inspection, however, I could see that its strength and beauty were in its diversity.
There was no applause when I unceremoniously navigated the bridge; just my grateful thanks for helping me cross the stream—and for the life lesson.

A Special Visitor

It had been a good morning of birding. Susan and I, along with a volunteer army of about 60 like-minded folks, under the command and direction of General Dwight Chasar, had just finished the fall birding census in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Our mission: Count every species and every bird we saw.
Mission accomplished, survivors of the battle met for lunch. We were about to call it quits when fellow birder, Marc Nolls, gave us the word. A Northern Wheatear had been spotted in Holmes County.
If you want to see a Northern Wheatear in North America, pack your bags and head for Alaska. If you want to see one on its wintering grounds, pack your bags and head for Africa. Needless to say, having a Northern Wheatear—a life bird!—90 minutes from home is almost a no brainer when deciding whether to go.



Off we went. Thanks to the marvel of modern communications and great directions from fellow birders, finding the place was easy. Rarely is chasing birds this easy. We arrived at the Yoder farm and there stood the rare bird. It acted like being in central Ohio was no big deal. It posed. We oooed and aaaaed. The bird, a bit smaller than an Eastern Bluebird, shagged bugs, watched us and checked out the local bluebirds. Its long legs and upright posture make it appear larger than its 5.75-inch length.
The crowd of about 50 people were in a jovial mood. Birders get that way when we find a life bird. There was minimal speculation of how the bird turned up on this Amish farm in Ohio. Birders accept the reality that since birds have wings, they go where they damn well please. Young Mr. Yoder found the bird early Saturday morning. He (as are many of the Amish sect) is skilled enough in bird identification to realize he had something special. He went to a nearby shop and had the owner alert the birding community.

We are all indebted to his skills and willingness to have the birders invade his farm. His Amish neighbors had gathered, probably to watch us Englishmen (as they call us) as much as see the bird causing the ruckus. Also, I noticed Mr. Yoder was doing a brisk business selling tomatoes and grapes. As more people walked up his driveway, Mr. Yoder laughed when he told me it was a bit busier around the farm this Saturday morning than is typical.

There’s a Fungus Amongus

As kids growing up in the mid 1950s, we lived in the constant shadow of the mushroom cloud. Our fearless leaders were so fearful of people on the other side of the pond, we regularly practiced “duck-and-cover” drills in school. At the teacher’s signal, we would dive beneath our flimsy desks, safe from fallout of the atomic bomb. The symbol of evil was the mushroom cloud. The fallout we should have feared was the military-industrial complex that has really brought us to our knees.
The mushroom needs a better PR agent. Granted, about half of the mushroom species we find here in Ohio are poisonous, however, that does not distract from their beauty. The rule to obey is, look but don’t bite.



Walking through the woods it’s hard not to notice the variety of fungi—mushrooms and the like. There are thousands of varieties worldwide, and hundreds here in Ohio. Fungi are said to be among the most diverse groups of living organisms on earth. There’s a real lack of information on these because they’re tough to find. The mushroom, or fruit body of fungi, are often small and inconspicuous. And they get eaten, a lot.



Another challenge in getting a head count is the fact that the plants have good and bad years. There might be plenty to see this season; next year there is nothing. Many are specific to a tree species from which they draw sustenance. All are unique and deserve more than a casual glance. You might have to get down on your hands and knees to get the best view of a mushroom, but for those of us who grew up in the 1950s, ducking for cover is an easily remembered skill.

Rainy Days and Tuesdays

There’s a good reason that clichés become clichés. It’s because there is a grain of truth within, not just because clichés are easy to remember. For example, every sports coach tells his or her students, “You’ll play like you practice.” Or, the oft-heard lament along the Appalachian Trail, “No pain, no rain, no Maine.”
Thus is was, armed with these words of wisdom, that I headed out for a training hike, in the rain, this morning. And, like discovering the kernel of truth in a cliché, I rediscovered the beauty of hiking in the rain.
I needed a shake-down cruise in the inclement weather to be sure I remembered how to at least protect my gear, if not my body. There’s an extra tool set required for walking on slippery surfaces. A great way to sprain an ankle is to slip into a 40-pound pack and then slip on your ass when your foot hits the wet leaves.
The rain had lessened to a drizzle as I cinched the protective cover onto my backpack. Now I faced a choice of whether to don my rain jacket. The options were to get wet from the falling rain or get wet from the sweat I knew would come with wearing the “breathable” rain gear. I opted to put the jacket on—then took it off within the first mile.
Hiking in the rain I’m cognizant of birds, as always. A difference is, however, that I keep my head down more than up. I pay attention to where my feet land, and thus scan the multitude of plants and fungi that cover the forest floor.
While some might think hiking in the rain dampens the experience, I find the opposite the case. It adds new dimensions. The sounds of the forest change and the light is totally different. Colors become more saturated and, thinking about the cliché—gilding the lily—the rain adds a sparkle to many plants that would not otherwise be there.
My mother often said I didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain. I now see she meant that in a positive way.

Social Networking Revisited

‘Morning Sunshine!

I started out this drop-dead gorgeous morning, too fast and too hard. And I knew it. I had jettisoned some weight from my pack in favor of adding a few more miles to the trek. In the process, and in my rush to clear my head, I could hear all sorts of things banging and clanging as I humped up the first big hill. Midway I was huffing and puffing. When I reached the top I was nearly apoplectic. Whoa, partner. This is not why we go into the woods.
I stopped at the first friendly log. Time to rearrange things, including my head. I had taken a look at Face Book this morning and could not believe the comments of a camo-clad racist posted there. The issue was President Obama’s visit to an elementary school. Why was this even an issue? I read through other opinions in the poll. I could not believe people were so upset because Mr. Obama feels it important that children take responsibility for their own education and other critical issues. One person opined that Mr. Obama’s visit, to take his message to the children of this country, was unpatriotic!
Oh, my. My good friend, Dr. Pat Coy who directs the Center for Applied Conflict Management (http://www.kent.edu/cacm/, "Contesting Patriotism: Culture, Power and Strategy in the Peace Movement," Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2008, with Lynne M. Woehrle and Gregory M. Maney), has noted that patriotism is not just about guns, flag-waving and sticking yellow magnets on the ass-end of a gas guzzler. It’s about your relationship with your community. It’s about helping at the soup kitchen or taking a turn on the phones at the battered women’s shelter.
The first distraction that helped put me on the road to recovery came from four Dark-eyed Juncos. These birds were out of place and out of time for early September. They worked their way past me, chattering and discussing some issue of import—to them.
I shrugged into my near-30-pound pack. As I was fine tuning the fit, a House Wren popped up on the log where I had been sitting. He looked me over, rightly assumed I was not a threat, then began to chatter and chortle as only wrens can. Had this been spring I would have assumed he was warning me off his territory. But this is late summer and he’s probably heading south. So what was he vexed about? I took a few photos since he seemed to want to pose. That wasn’t it. He hopped back and forth with a sense of urgency; an important message for the big guy with the fuzzy face.
I listened closely to what he, and the voices in my head, were saying. I asked a few questions. Here is what the wren was telling me, I think: Anyone who wears his war wounds like a crown should not be followed. They are not leaders. Their defining moment is about them and death they have wrought. You cannot reason anything out of people when their opinions were not reasoned in. We can only hope they will die a natural death and their space on Planet Earth be occupied by children who do listen to the message of Barack Obama.


Listen to the wisdom of the wren

World Wide Webs

By the most recent count (not mine) there are more than 35,000 species of spiders in the world. About 3,000, give or take, live here in North America. I find it reassuring that there might be an equal number of spiders living out there without names, because names don’t matter to them.
Spiders were kind of on my mind this morning as I hiked a section of the Buckeye Trail that runs through the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This section is a favorite of ours. It’s sometimes called the Bluebird Trail because of the extensive number of nesting boxes installed along the way. Someone’s research project, I suppose. Susan and I refer to part of the trail as Warbler Ridge since we’ve had exceptional luck in the spring catching the northward movement of warblers over this spot.
Today it was just me, a nice selection of woodpecker species, a few Eastern Phoebes—and the spiders. Early morning is a great time to venture into the woods to see the vast array of webs, evidence of last night’s efforts. When you look over a field in the low morning light, it’s hard to imagine how many spiders must have been working to create this sea of webs. Or how many other insects were captured and eaten.
And while you might see the webs, rarely do you see the creatures that made the webs. Since most spiders have eight eyes and six legs, it’s understandable how they disappear before we see them. But left behind, we can see the canvas on which they’ve worked and the art they’ve created. Particularly, when covered with morning dew, there is a rich palette of clouds, waves and strings of pearls.

Fish Bites Man

Yesterday, Tom, his brother Ed and I made a trip out to the stream. It’s one of those things a person has to do from time to time to maintain a socially acceptable level of sanity. And if you have a fly rod in hand, so much the better.
For some, fly fishing is synonymous with frustration. You do the same thing over and over, expecting different results. That’s also a fair definition of insanity, I think.
The odds are against the fisher. In the course of casting, assuming he’s chosen the right fly and is casting to where a fish might actually be, there are a thousand mistakes waiting to happen. For the fish, he has only one mistake to concern himself with. And even a fish is smart enough to know, if he keeps his mouth shut he’ll stay out of trouble.
The three of us had a good day on the stream. As we were heading back to the car, I could not help but make another cast, or two, along the edge between a gravel bed and the stream bank. The water was about three inches deep and gin-clear. I could see there were no fish in the spot. I don’t know why I decided to cast there. Maybe just because I could. Much to my surprise, a black rock that I had been casting toward, grew fins and a huge mouth! Wham! He almost ripped the rod out of my unready hand.
While he held the advantage for the first 30 seconds, we both eventually won the match.
The gorgeous brook trout, when seen from the side, had been just another dark stone in the stream when viewed from above. There’s probably some important life-lesson in all of that. All I know is that while the fish might be nursing a sore jaw this morning, my left thumb is taking it easy since he nipped me as I released him back into the icy water.

Who’s That Knockin?

Primordial. Could there be pterodactyls?

As with most surprises in the woods, what I heard seemed out of context and grabbed my attention. Why would a roofing crew be working in the middle of a National Park? And, my first thought when they flew was, yikes, a family of pterodactyls!
I came to my senses and remembered I was not quite old enough to remember what pterodactyls really look like. So the noise, obviously, was the hammering of Pileated Woodpeckers.
I’ve seen countless Pileated Woodpeckers, yet, I’m always amazed at how large the bird is. And how colorful, even though it has only three colors, red, white and black. Seeing one is a treat. Sometimes you get lucky and see a pair. I was watching five! It appeared to be a family outing. A day to teach the kids how to make noise and get some eats in the process. True to form, the kids seemed more interested in what their siblings had found crawling under the bark of the huge oak than what their parents worked on. Mom and dad paid little attention; it was instruction time. You learn some life lessons or you get kicked out of the gene pool.
The hike would prove to be like any other day in the woods; that is to say, like no other day in the woods can be. As with never being able to step into the same stream twice, so it is with hiking even a familiar trail. I needed a hike so I set off on one of my favorite birding trails just to see what it was like in the depths of summer, a period considered the nadir of the birding season by some folks.
I hadn’t been in this section of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park since last spring. A productive wetlands spot, where in the spring the fallen logs are covered with birds, was now covered in green velvet. Plant life sprouted from where there had been only tree bark. A single female Common Yellowthroat probed in the bushes.
Higher up on the valley’s rim, a constant, albeit small, chorus of birds competed for my attention. Red-eye Vireos kept saying, “Look at me! Up here! Here I am!” The Eastern Wood-pewee called out his name, over and over.
I guess in terms of species count, the six-mile hike did not yield much. About a dozen species where active this morning. However, any time you can watch a flock of Wild Turkeys forage, or see an American Robin drink from a concave oak leaf on the trail, it’s hardly to be considered a “low point.” Fewer birds just means you can devote more of your resources and attention to the task at hand. It’s about education. Just like watching dad probe under the bark of a tree for something--anything.


What lies around the bend?

It’s Only a Name

Human-contrived names for birds don’t always make sense. A non-birder friend of mine was recently telling me he doesn’t understand how they get the common names for birds. I told him, the names are made up by the same people who generate names for shades of paint. Just what color is Belgian Waffle?
His problem was with the Red-bellied Woodpecker. It has way more red on its head than belly. True enough, I said, however, from the right angle, in the right light, you can see the red patch on the tummy. And besides, “Red-headed” was already taken.
The conversation, still in shades of red, moved on to the Ruby-throated Hummingbird. He agreed this bird was aptly named—most of the time. The male, with his iridescent ruby-red gorget (throat), does appear black under some lighting conditions ...
The conversation next turned to the industriousness of the hummers in their constant search for food—and defense of that food source. Then the conversation turned to watching—the best part of birding.

What’s in a Name?

In this summer that has yet to happen in northeast Ohio, working out on the deck has been a real pleasure. Usually it’s too hot, or the sun’s glare on the screen too much of a challenge. This year, however, I’ve been able to relax and enjoy the comings and goings at the bird feeders and plants that define our little piece of the globe, under the guise of working.
This afternoon I had a special visitor. And, as luck would have it, a camera within arm’s reach. The visitor was a Hummingbird Moth, Hemaris thysbe. These are strange creatures. They get their common name from their size and feeding habits. Some people think they’re looking at a baby hummingbird.
There are about 17 species of Hummingbird Moths in the world. We have four in North and South America. They are clear-winged moths and, lucky for us, diurnal.
I watched my visitor go about its business. It did not seem to mind my intrusion. The body was about two inches long and olive green with red bands across the abdomen. Its tail fans out, reminiscent of a lobster’s, or a hummingbird.
The fine hairs on its side looked a lot like feathers. It is a nectar feeder and its long proboscis worked all the flowers, just like a hummingbird. The really neat thing to watch was how the insect would roll that proboscis up, like a garden hose, when it moved from flower to flower. Then it would unroll the needle-like mouth part and probe the flower.
The Hummingbird Moth is an excellent pollinator and a great distraction from whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.

Join the Circus

I recall my dad saying, when things got stressful in our house of four boys, he was going to run away and join the circus. It always got a laugh. Having a couple grandkids around for a week can be stressful as well as exhausting. So when the circus came to our town this week, it seemed like the solution to several problems. (Older folks have problems; young folks have issues.)
It was an old-style circus—mud shows they used to call them. The smell of the animals. One-night stands. It was an opportunity to see how life was years ago in America. I thought it might be a challenge to convince the kids they should get up in the middle of the night, well, 7 a.m., to watch people work. Not so. They were actually excited at the opportunity to do something different—not that going to special gardens, kiddie parks and hikes in the National Park are everyday things for them.
When we got to the place where the circus was to be, there was nothing but an open field. We did notice some small yellow flags set in what was a huge circle. Colorfully painted trucks started arriving, along with RVs and trailers. It became obvious that the trucks did not park at random. A man in a bright yellow shirt with “logistics” emblazoned on the back waved and pointed until the trucks formed a huge ring outside the ring of flags. With uncanny precision and skill, the men attacked the trucks, unrolled the Big Top, drove stakes with a portable pile-driver, laced the overlapping layers of the tent material and managed to joke with each other in some foreign language.
The Kelly Miller Circus travels on a fleet of 25 vehicles as it has since 1938. It requires an area of some 90,000 square feet to set up. The Big Top, imported from Italy, has a seating capacity of 1,500 and is made of waterproof vinyl. The tent is 120 feet by 130 feet and is 40 feet high. It’s supported by more than a quarter of a mile of heavy gauge aluminum tubing as well as several miles of rope, steel cable and chain.
About 100 or so folks joined us to watch the tent emerge from where a few yellow flags had been only two hours before. Then, a fellow who looked a lot like Buffalo Bill Cody, appeared. He told us the history of the Kelly Miller Circus and how many hundreds of performances they do every year.
He asked us to join the tent master inside the sagging big top. As we entered, an enormous Asian elephant, Lisa by name, joined us. She was in harness. The tent crew fastened her harness to the pole rigging—the king pole. On command, showing virtually no effort, the 10,000 pound pachyderm took a few steps forward and the tent began to unfold like a giant piece of origami. We all stood there in awe as Lisa did her trick with three more huge poles. And the big top was—big—just as it has been for 200 years.

What You Don’t See Is What You Get

Even on rainy days, I’ve noticed, the hummingbirds keep their appointed rounds. That was my observation from having the laptop stationed by the window that offers a view of our hummingbird feeder array. I was working. Honest!
Recently, Susan was telling me of a study by ornithologists that suggests for every hummingbird you see at your feeder, you can assume there are actually six birds in the area. Here in northeast Ohio the hummingbirds are not good at sharing. There is a constant wrangling over the food source, complete with squeaky sounds and chasing. All the birds try to take possession of the feeder. We have four feeders set up in hopes of reducing the bickering and stress in the chow line.
Photographing these bejeweled creatures is the kind of thing photographers live for. The birds are elusive, to say the least. They come and go in a blur and buzzing of wings. They, tantalizingly, hover over the feeder until you raise the camera. Then, zip! They’re gone. You scratch your head and say, “If I do this or that …” You shoot 100 frames and there might be one keeper shot in the batch. You shoot 200 frames and you get one that makes you happy.
Ghostly images. You ask yourself unanswerable questions about what you might have seen. Or, didn’t see. Photographing hummingbirds is different from making images of other birds. You don’t know what you have until you see the image on the screen. And, even then, you can’t be sure.
Tomorrow, if it’s not raining, I’ll go for 300 frames and see what the birds deliver.

Racing the Eastern Kingbird

I knew there would be a sprint to the finish. I just didn’t know where the finish was. It didn’t matter. Since no money was involved, I knew it would be an honest sprint.
My opponent was an Eastern Kingbird. He had wings; I had my fancy red Raleigh racing bike. I was out doing my daily 20-mile training ride, coasting along about 14 miles per hour when he lifted off the top of a low bush, about three feet from the right side of the bike trail.
The Eastern Kingbird is a fine example of how, dressing in only black and white, one can look especially fashionable. If you untwist its Latin name, "Tyrannus tyrannus", it comes out something like King of the Tyrants. Cool name.
Typically, the bird’s body is about 8.5 inches long with a wingspan of about 14 inches. It puts on an amazing aerial display while catching bugs from a perch. Its flight is usually in a straight line with stiff-wing fluttering making up most of the action. How this neotropical migrant ever makes it to South America is amazing, as is all bird migration, actually.
This morning’s bird did not seem to have bugs on its mind when it launched into the sprint against its 160-pound opponent. Had my arm been a bit longer I could have reached out and given him a high-five, or the avian equivalent, at the end. For about 30 yards we raced, 15, 16, 17 miles per hour, head-to-head toward the next vertical twig. That was apparently the finish line and he knew it. With a choppy surge, and the thrust of his beak, he beat me! He gave me a high-pitched "dzeet", sound as I sped past.
In return I thanked him for the wind sprint. I needed that.

Who Needs California?

It was a great day to be astream. What day isn’t? Susan and I were fishing the Clearfork, a branch of the Mohican River in north-central Ohio. It’s one of the few places in the state where you can chase trout in a more-or-less wild setting.
Susan managed the first fish of the day with no trouble. I had barely worked my way up stream and started casting when I heard her exclaim, as all fishers do with the first fish of the day, “Hey, I got a fish on!”
It’s no surprise that she’d get into fish right away. She’s quiet. Her cast is slow and precise. She doesn’t thrash the water. And she often pays more attention to what the birds around her are doing than to what the fly on the water should be doing. She just lets it happen, the way fly fishing should be.
For about an hour I worked up and around what I thought was perfect water. All I had to show for my efforts was the fun of catching a couple river chubs. I decided to leap-frog to the other side of the pool Susan was working because she was paying more attention to a family of noisy Baltimore Orioles. Hmmm, more chubs.
Time for a lunch break.
After lunch we moved further down stream to spot that had yielded some trout in the past. After a few hours I managed to pull a couple unsuspecting brown trout out of a deep spot, along with countless river chubs. Susan, meanwhile, was getting plenty of chub action, and lots of laughs, as well.
We decided to call it a day and do some exploring. We wanted to see where the river went further down stream. About a mile from where we had been fishing we saw a large group of tents and RVs on the other side of the stream. We both commented on what a great camping spot it was. Then Susan said, “And there’s a couple guys cleaning fish in the river!”
Whoa, there! Back up. Not only is that a bad idea, it’s hard to imagine anyone pulling fish out of this river large enough to clean.
We found a short dirt road that led toward the campsite and checked out the guys sitting in the stream. In unison we said, “They’re panning for gold!”
A quick reality check showed we were still in Ohio. We pulled into the opening of the campsite and, posted on a little guard house, was a sign, “Swank Claim. Buckeye Chapter of GPAA [Gold Prospectors Association of America].”
These were modern-day prospectors. The camo-colored neoprene waders were a dead giveaway; as were their gas-powered water pumps for the sluice. There were plenty of authentic looking guys running around sporting long beards and floppy hats, however, somehow, the NASCAR T-shirts didn’t fit the picture.
And like most things these days, they have a Web site (www.buckeyegold.com). Here’s what I learned: The Swank Claim covers approximately one mile of the Clear Fork river on the upper claim and one mile of Clear Fork river on the lower claim. This claim is known for burgundy colored garnets and fine flour gold. This claim has also produced, two quartz rocks with gold nuggets layered in them. One valued at $50,000.
The Buckeye Chapter of the Gold Prospectors Association of America was started in 1996. People from all over the state came together to pan for gold. There are three claims in the state. Along with the Swank Claim, there’s the Frazee Claim near Zuck, Ohio, and the Lewis Claim located below Lucusville in the southern part of Ohio.
Although gold is not as plentiful in Ohio as in some of the other states it does exist, you just have to work a little harder for it. Usually gold in Ohio is in the form of flour gold and takes a little more skill to uncover.
Well, who’d a thunk it? And all these years I thought the beauty of the stream was in the scarlet spots of a brown trout or the vivid pink stripe on the side of feisty rainbow trout. Or, the iridescent blue of an Indigo Bunting. Maybe the flash of orange as a Baltimore Oriole flew across the stream.
As we watched the plum of sand, silt and mud created by the prospectors’ activities flow downstream, I realized the fly fisher’s non-consumptive use of the resource was still best—for now and for future generations.

How birders fly fish

How Procrastination Leads to Understanding

While preparing for a trout-fishing trip this weekend and a bluegill-fishing trip next week, I faced the usual dilemma. Thousands of fishing flies, yet I couldn’t find what I needed. I knew the ones I wanted were there, I just couldn’t see the hooks for the feathers, so to speak.
It’s a never-ending conundrum for many fly tier/fishers. Like the mystery of dust bunnies under the bed, boxes of flies seem to appear from nowhere. When a trip is pending, rather than dig through countless cluttered boxes to find what you want, you tie more flies, thus perpetuating the problem. In extreme situations, I’ve been known to purchase more boxes rather than try to empty ones I have.
Now, I had to get a grip on this problem. I don’t fish for bluegills (bream to you readers south of Cincinnati) often enough, so I like to get it right. As fighters, pound for pound, a bluegill is a formidable foe. If they grew as large as large-mouthed bass, we’d probably never land them on a fly rod.
Bluegill are the first fish I can remember catching. It’s that way with most fishers. A few years ago my mother declared the bluegill was our “family fish.” If we had a Coat of Arms there would probably be crossed fins on it.
About the same time as mom declaring the bluegill our family fish, I made a silent celebration of what would have been my dad’s 100th birthday. I took his now-restored bamboo fly rod and drove over to a small lake in Indiana near his home town. The picturesque spot I remembered from my childhood was surrounded with paved roads and houses. I found a break in the trees and proceeded to catch 101 bluegills. It’s not that I’m good, it’s more a function of the fish being easy. Those 101 (one for each year of his life and one to grow on) fish, if laid tail to head probably would not have stretched to 10 feet.
My current challenge was to prepare a box or two of flies for a day’s outing. I decided to finally do it right. Clean out the old stuff, rearrange the usable flies, and bring some sort of order to the chaos I call my fishing vest.
The end of the story is that I feel much better now, thanks. My breathing has returned to normal. Had I been cleaning up after anyone other than myself, I would have considered tossing the lot and starting over.
What I had tagged to be a two-hour project stretched over two days. When Susan arrived home from work and observed what I had gotten into (on the commandeered dining table) she succinctly observed, “You’ll never have to make another fly—ever.”
If only that were true. Herein lies the dilemma. After all the sorting and categorizing and weeding out the damaged or poorly made flies, I find that many of the basic bugs, the ones I use most often, are missing. A keen observer will note an important fact of fishing, here. I have, probably, thousands of flies, yet tend to fish the same patterns over and over. Why? Because those are the ones that catch fish!
So, why tie up all that exotic stuff?
Because they’re better at catching fishermen, I suppose.



Bringing chaos to order.

Emergency Call

It was one of those calls that comes in the middle of the night, about 9:30 p.m. in my case. I had just finished a fairly descent glass of Riesling; it was perky without being pretentious. We were sitting on the deck enjoying the reluctant sun as it headed for California, when the phone rattled and danced on the patio table.
Caller ID said it was Tom, which meant it was probably fishing related and safe to answer. He had an emergency brewing. Dinner guests would be arriving at his place in less that 24 hours and he was under the gun to have some trout on the table. Could I make a supreme sacrifice, tomorrow morning, and go fishing.
Hmmm, this was a tough call. I made a mental rundown of the things on my to-do list and told him fishing might fit right in. I had planned to rearrange my sock drawer on Thursday, however, for him and the cause, I’d bite the bullet and pack up my rod, etc.,
After I committed to go he told me John would be going along, too, and, by the way, could I bring that bamboo rod I had restored this winter. They felt the rod needed some thorough testing on some real fish—trout in other words.
The rod is a real beauty. My guess is, it was built in the early 1900s and It is destined to go on the wall as an art object, like several other restored bamboo rods I have. I have a lot of mixed emotions about antique rod restoration: these things were made to catch fish, not hang on the wall. However, a lot of hours (pleasure-filled hours I should say) go into a project such as this and … What the heck. Better to burn out than rust out, I say.
There was a lot of the good-natured joking around as we lined up the rods in the parking lot at Rockwell Springs early Thursday morning. The bamboo rod (a gift from Susan) is a three-piece, 10-footer, not built in the usual hexagonal form, but in a round shape. Like a really long willow branch. Rods and lines of the past do not match up with current equipment. I was guessing at the proper line weight for this baby, but felt I was in the ballpark by choosing a line from the middle of my collection of reels and lines.
The best way to describe casting with this beauty is to imagine throwing a line with a 10-foot-log piece of spaghetti. And that noodle would weigh three or four pounds—or so it seemed. After three casts I knew why fly fishing was slow to catch on in the last century. It was proof that it’s not always about catching fish. Sometimes it’s about the beauty of the day and the tackle …
After managing two rainbow trouts, I deemed the rod well broken in and ready to take its place on the wall. Tom and John each took a turn and we all agreed, fishing with today’s stiffer, lighter rods made the sport more enjoyable. These fine old bamboo rods fit the era in which they were designed, when the pace of life and the pace of living were slower and more deliberate. As best we could tell, the fish didn’t seem to react any differently, no matter what we used. And our skills, as fishers, had to be the same as the person who lined up this old rod—when it was the new rod.
I thought about how the original owner, maybe 100 years ago, faced the same challenges we face today, which is another part of fly fishing’s appeal for me. Our tackle, today, is certainly technologically superior, however, the fish don’t know that.

Deserved Recognition

Well, it’s been a long time coming, four billion years or so, however the stick has finally been recognized for what it is—and made it to the Hall of Fame. That’s the National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York.
Let me back up a bit. Sometimes news is slow getting out here to Ohio. Just today I learned that the stick was inducted into the Toy Hall of Fame last November.
Right, the stick, the play toy of millions and millions of generations of kids. Now it’s right up there with the heavy hitters like Mr. Potato Head and Barbie. The stick. Any stick. The toy that can be anything to any one.
I am a bit upset that the Toy Hall bestowed the honor before the American Museum of Fly Fishing had a chance to recognize the stick for virtually the same reasons. I’ve had many a day when I caught more sticks than fish—and was happy for the tug on the line.
It often works like this: You’re up or downstream from a fishing buddy. You hear his occasional whoop and holler and see his line dancing all over the stream. You’re doing nothing. Then you feel the big strike! Whoa there, this is serious stuff. The fish swims out into the stream and is headed downstream with huge effort. You fight as carefully as you can, hoping the tippet will hold because this lunker certainly surpasses whatever rating the manufacturer had written on the spool.
Even with your best efforts you can’t turn him. He keeps heading downstream. That should be your first clue. But you’re Fishing the Denial River and disregard the obvious. You're making progress. You have him on the reel and he’s moving closer. Out of the corner of your eye you’ve seen your buddy casting a glance in your direction, hoping to see the fish. You fumble around your back for the landing net as you control the line with one hand. Your first glimpse of this whopper makes your heart sink. It’s a stick. A stick. My dad used to tell us kids it was a grass pike he had on the line. We, of course believed him.
Your mind kicks in as you realize you have to save face with your buddy. The best strategy is to get your body twisted into a really awkward position, hopefully with your back to your friend. You lunge for the “fish” and break it loose with the top of the net. Sometimes this means sacrificing the fly, however, you also salvage your reputation. Cursing and swearing, even pounding the water with the net is required at this point.
You turn to your friend, who has been watching all of this, and shout, “Huge brownie! Broke him off with the damn net!” A bit more pounding the water to emphasize your frustration might be required.
Tie on a new fly and hope for a return of another big one.
So, while it’s great that someone has recognized the stick’s ability to fill the imagination of children around the world since forever, it’s equally important for the fly fishing community to rise to the occasion and give the stick it’s due for it’s ability to raise the expectations and fill the imaginations of fly fishers the world over.


A Future Hall of Famer

Just Another Day at the Office

The sun was lightening the sky as I backed out of the drive. The brightest object in the sky, however, was the last quarter moon about 30 degrees above the horizon in the southeast. It looked like a great day to be heading for the office.
I tuned in the local NPR station to catch up on the latest world trauma I can do nothing about. Sounded like the same news cast that’s been going on for 10,000 years. Will we ever get smart?
As I cruised down Oak Hill Road in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park I caught the local traffic report. Jams here, problems there. My traffic stopper was a Wild Turkey that dashed across the road. Then two white-tailed deer, a button-buck and a doe, politely waited for me to pass before they crossed. Did those deer look both ways before crossing? I think so.
I love traffic problems like this. As I unloaded (Or is that uploaded?) a backpack filled with camera gear in the parking area near Everett Road Bridge, a guy in a really cool Lexus convertible, red, slowed and looked (wistfully?) at me. His white shirt and tie told me he was not going to be heading for the back country this morning as I was about to do. The temperature had dropped to 48 degrees, great for hiking.
The first half mile is all uphill. I worked my way up and over to where Susan and I had spotted a family of Scarlet Tanagers yesterday. We had watched as the parents fed three youngsters—and me without a camera! We found the nest by accident. We had been led to the spot by a Veery, singing. The flute-like sounds of a Veery are not common around here. At Susan’s suggestion we sat on a log and waited as the Veery moved up the ravine and, eventually, to within 20 feet of our spot. I nearly ground my teeth down to the gums as the bird performed for us. It was activity almost above our heads, however, that distracted us from the Veery. We could hardly believe our eyes when we saw a pair of tanagers. We watched as they cautiously took food to their nestlings. After 15 or 20 minutes, one of the nestlings left the safety of its home and ventured out into the world. The parents were not happy about this, however, they continued to feed the brave one.
I feared that they might all be gone when I returned Monday morning. Grrrr, I hate it when I’m right sometimes. The nest was abandoned. The female and one of the youngsters were high in the canopy above me, too well hidden for a decent shot. The Veery, however, was singing like a champ. In fact, there were two songsters, joined by a pair of Wood Thrushes, numerous Eastern Wood Pewees, several species of vireos and plenty of percussion provided by woodpeckers. I sat on the log for 45 minutes as the sun pushed through the leaves, warmed the bugs, which in turn got the birds feeding for the day. It was the final movement of the dawn chorus.
I might have briefly thought about the guy in the red Lexus, probably stuck in traffic on I-77.

The Rewards of Getting Lost

Well, I wasn’t really lost. It’s tough to get lost in a park in America. There’s always a road or path intruding on what passes for wilderness. Besides, I was virtually in my own backyard, the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I knew if I headed west I’d run into the creek. If I headed north I’d eventually get to Route 82. So it was more like I was hiking in an area yet to be mapped—not lost.
Here’s what happened: I had to make a deposit at the bank (like they really need my money), which is about three miles from home if one wants to burn some fossil fuel. I was looking over a map, as I’m want to do, and decided it would be more fun to just head out through the woods, cut here, climb there, pop out on a trail near that spot and eventually work my way back to the parking area near the bank.
I grabbed my gear and went, fully expecting to do six or so miles round trip. The end of the story is that I did more than 10 miles. I sort of miscalculated all the twists and turns, and side trails to interesting sounds in the woods.
Getting off the beaten path is well worth the effort. I was in a park, in a metropolitan area and yet, the woods was as dense as one could wish for. A Hooded Warbler sang from a nearby bush. I stood still and he eventually worked to within 10 feet of where I watched him. Gorgeous views of a bird usually found in the tree tops. And more often heard than seen.
A Scarlet Tanager flash in front of me as I stopped to consider how wet I wanted to get crossing a creek. He landed on a branch on the other side and watched as I splashed through ankle-deep water, minnows scattering in all directions.
It was the singing of a Swainson’s Thrush that stopped me short, however. The fluting, smooth sound is rarely heard in this area since most of this species nests much further to the north. I followed the unmistakable sound of a thrush singing, deeper into the woods. And there he was, at eye-level, not 20 feet away. He seemed not to care that I was listening to his concert. His song was rolling and complex, not something I could whistle as I bushwhacked back to so-called civilization. It is a tune I’ll long remember, however.

Migration Madness

Here, along the north coast of America, neotropical bird migration is in full flight. We’re fortunate to have the premiere stopping spot for wood warblers, and other species, as they make their way to nesting grounds in Canada and beyond.
We joined the annual migration this past weekend at Magee Marsh in Ottawa County. As always, we headed to the spot where friends and birds will accumulate—the famous boardwalk trail. Some of us have been going there before the boardwalk was built and have thus earned the right to talk about the good old days when the birds virtually dripped from the trees. Well, I don’t exactly remember that, however, birders, like fishers, golfers and many others, tend to reminisce about things they aren’t really sure happened in the first place.
Not to put too fine a point on it, however, the birding was slow. In three days we tallied less than 100 species, not too hot by Magee Marsh standings. Birds, however, are only part of the story. For many, hitting the boardwalk during warbler migration season is as much a social event as anything else. A stroll through the parking lot can reveal license plates from at least half the states in the union—California to Maine to Florida to Texas. It’s an international event. The polyglot of languages can test your ear with French, German, Spanish, even New Jersian and Kentuckian.
I’ve seen days during migration when the best descriptive adjective would be frantic. Birds come at you from all directions and you need a visit to the chiropractor to get your head on straight. And while I like to tally as many of the colorful feathered gems as anyone, this year I appreciated the slower pace. It gave us a chance to study and appreciate the birds we did find—some uncommon to our area.
Our first morning, first bird was a Summer Tanager, not seen often in these parts. And the Veery, more often heard than seen, put on a great show. It was as if the birds sensed the slower pace, maybe less competition for food, and could afford to pose a bit and study the humans.

All’s Well That Ends

Our spur-of-the-moment, impromptu, fly-fishing trip to the East Coast, which we had been planning for about a year, got off to a rather auspicious beginning. Some whacky directions from the GPS unit I set up the day before proved the theory of “garbage in, garbage out.” Four days later the trip ended with a dead car battery. In between, things got real interesting.
All in all, for a fishing trip, the birding was wonderful.
We had been invited to a friend’s home on Cape Ann, Massachusetts. This drop-dead gorgeous spot sits right on the ocean, Ipswich Bay to be more precise. It carries the name Red Rock, because of the huge granite boulder that seems to anchor the entire spit of land where the classic thirties-era beach house rests.
We’ve been there before. In fact, we took our wedding trip there a decade ago. More than one striped bass has been caught and released in the surrounding waters. I’d not fished the salt for nearly three years, so I was looking forward to this trip. I spent the previous week tying fancy new flies for the occasion. Had I known one of those 2/0 Clousers was going to whack me in the back, I might have created something smaller.
Motoring south from Manchester, New Hampshire, Susan and I chattered away, not paying a lot of attention to road signs because: A, We knew where we were going, and B, we had the GPS. When the skyline of Boston loomed ahead, we knew something was amiss. Fortunately, Susan was driving and exited as soon as we realized we were going the wrong way. She stopped at the first convenience store so I could ask directions. When I had to explain to the lady behind the counter what a map was, I figured we were in real trouble.
We found our route, in spite of all the nasty things the GPS unit was saying and thinking.
Fishing on Thursday was a bit less than impossible. On Friday it got worse. The wind provided a gentle breeze of 30 knots, with gusts hitting 50 knots that could rip the flesh from your face. Not a chance of making a cast. But I tried, anyway. Two days into a four-day trip and I had hardly gotten a hook in the water.
Saturday the wind dropped and I headed for a favorite spot—after I figured out the tide movement thing. When you live in Ohio, all you have to know about Tide is that it comes in a box and you do the laundry with it. When you’re fishing in the ocean, you have to learn about tidal movement.

At “the spot” I noted that there was hardly another fisherman around. Two guys talking, not fishing, about 200 yards down stream. Not a good sign. I stepped off the bank to head out to the deeper water when I had my first near-death experience of the trip (neither gale force winds, getting lost, nor an over-priced lunch, count). What appeared to be relatively solid sand was muck with the texture of quicksand. Fortunately I was still near to the stream bank and was able to extract myself. Damage done? The Earth had reclaimed the soul of one wading boot and had ripped the other to the point where I’ll have to pry it off and get replacements. I think I also managed to add a couple inches to my overall height. Talk about something that sucks!
The two guys from down the way were now standing nearby. (Had I been screaming for help?) They were friendly locals and suggested I follow them to a better beach for some surf fishing. “Something wrong with the bottom here,” one of them offered. No kidding?
Saturday ended with high tide and a beach full of running kids and dogs. The chances of hooking either were good, however it might make for some bad PR for fisherman.
Back at the house, the simple task of disassembling my rod proved daunting. Sections two and three were jammed and were not about to be taken apart. I tried every trick in my near 40-year-old book of fly fishing knowledge to no avail. I was without computer access so Googling my plight was not possible. I called the good folks at L.L. Bean. They have a great fly fishing help line, 800-347-4552, that stays open until 10 p.m. for guys like me. I talked with anyone and everyone available. We tried every possible trick and still the rod would not separate. Well, finally it did. You don’t want to hear how. It’s too painful to even think about if you’re a fly fisher. Suffice to say, repairs are in order …
In hopes of cheering me, we opted for a lobster dinner. In this part of the world the lobster is relatively inexpensive—and alive. To get dinner on the table, a fight to the death must ensue. If you’re lucky, the guy with the biggest pinchers ends on the plate.
On Sunday, as I stared at my broken rod, I couldn’t help but think of what an ideal fishing day it would be—for someone. We switched gears, or gear, and went birding. Rewards were aplenty with great views of Savannah Sparrows, Brant, Long-tailed ducks, two species of scoters, and a couple of Blue Grosbeaks, particularly rare in this place and at this time.
Monday morning broke with the promise of another beautiful day. The downside was we had to head for Cleveland and our wonderful hostess, Cindy, had to get to work. What was beginning to look like a sad-faced good-by turned into a smiley faced opportunity. The good/bad news was that the battery in her car was deader than the lobster we had for dinner the night before. The fishing road trip got a reprieve and extension!

Did I mention that not a fish was caught? Or even seen? We did, however, log 59 species of birds, using only about seven gallons of gasoline.

It’s Justa Sparrow

Here’s one of those questions to which there is probably no answer: Why is it that a person with no binoculars and the ability to accurately identify only two birds—American Robin and Fried Chicken—feels compelled to educate the equipment-laden birder? And the corollary is: Why do I take it personally?
I was peacefully observing an outstanding alternate-plumaged White-throated Sparrow this morning along the trail when I was accosted, well that’s too strong of a word, bothered, by Mr. Knosmorthnu. He was out walking his dog. At least I think it was a dog. It looked more like a creampuff on a string. One of those dogs that appears to have run into a wall going top speed. If it was a kid, the grandmother would constantly be saying, “go blow your nose!”
Mr. K: “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
Okay, I admit, I was a bit high and pumped on adrenaline. It’s that time of the year. A birder’s nerves are on edge; every sense turned up to full-tilt-boogie. Figuring that I had the perfect opportunity to educate this chap, I said, “Well, it’s a …
Mr. K: “Oh, I see it. It’s justa sparrow.”
He started to yank on Puffy, or Muffy’s string and grumbled something about rain. I was not ready to let him go as yet. This dude certainly needed some education. I pushed on.
“It’s a White-throated Sparrow,” I said with my know-it-all authoritarian voice.
Mr. K: “Who cares? They’re all alike. Seen one ya seen ‘em all. Brown birds.”
I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Yeah, just like dogs. All alike.”
He gave me a strange look and pulled the dog in closer to his side. I don’t know if he was protecting the dog or guarding himself. He quickly moved on. I noticed he glanced over his shoulder at me several times.
I wanted to tell him sparrows are not all alike. Depending on how you count, we have at least 20 species in this area with sparrow in their name. Toss in the juncos, towhees and other relatives and their family reunion can be quite an interesting, and colorful event.
With all the positive energy flowing, I told myself it’s okay; he’s outside enjoying the trail. And he's paying his taxes so others can enjoy the trail, too.
I should have said, up front, it's never justa sparrow.

What’s Old is New Again

The Cuyahoga Valley National Park has a lot of hidden treasures. Many you have to get off the trail, or at least out of your car, to find. Some are so obvious that thousands of people drive by without giving them a second , maybe a first, thought. One I rediscovered is Wilson’s Mill, located on Canal Road in Walton Hills.
This feed mill is a working operation, unlike many of the “exhibits” in the park, which are only relics to educate people on how life was 150 years ago. We stopped in at the mill a few days ago so that Susan could buy some supplies for the bird-feeding stations where she works. While she was talked with the owners, I roamed around the interior.
I’ve read someplace that there are 60 million people in the U.S. who consider themselves birders, or at least feed wild birds sometime during the year. From the looks of the interior of Wilson’s Mill, I think about half that number must buy supplies here. Then there are supplies for virtually all the other two- and four-legged creatures.
The cramped quarters inside this building, built in either 1855 or 1853 depending on which historical text you read, is lined with bird feeders and paraphernalia. I tried counting the number of bird feeders hanging from the ceiling and gave up when I hit 100.
There are no straight aisles inside the store. Neither are there any software hands in the hardware store, as John Gorka says. These are working people. The kind of guys who put a 50-pound bag of seed on each shoulder and carry it out to your car for you—with a smile and a thanks attached.
The mill’s original name was Alexander’s Mill, built to grind wheat into flour. It was built at Lock 37 on the canal and used water from the nearby Cuyahoga River to drive (and here history is a bit clouded as to the style of power generator) the grid stones. It probably used the typical over-shot under-shot style waterwheel. The mill converted to turbines in the late 1800s. This was the last mill in Cuyahoga County to use water for power, and continues as the only mill in the county.
Pieces and parts of those old turbines are still in place, mostly for nostalgic reasons. As I watched the sun come up over the eastern ridge of the valley one morning, I looked at one of those structures and could not help but think that maybe its time has come again: Free power to the people.

Give me the warm power of the Sun.
Give me the steady flow
of the waterfall.
Give me the spirit of living things
As they return.

Thanks, Doobie Brothers and James Taylor.

The Birding Blues

Birders in Ohio and surrounding states have got themselves into a lather this week with confirmation of a Mountain Bluebird in our state. The cooperative bird (at this writing) is located near Oak Openings, not far from Toledo and an outstanding birding location. People from all over have been flocking to the spot to see this gorgeous critter; only the second time it’s been recorded in our state.
Susan and I kicked around the idea of going over to see it, however, common sense prevailed and we spent the day closer to home. We’ve both seen the Mountain Bluebird in its natural habitat, and the thought of 10 hours in the car on such a pretty day seemed a bit daunting.
We found all the shades of blue in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, our 33,000 acre backyard. We first stopped at the Beaver Marsh where Tree Swallows have returned in abundance. Their iridescence sparkled as they seined the air for bugs we could not see.
Our next stop was the heron rookery on Bath Road. Things were on the quiet side, compared with only a week ago when the Great Blue Herons were pairing off, gathering nesting material and, I suppose, catching up on local gossip. Today we watched one clever male extract a stick from a jumble of grape vines and offer it to his mate. The stick was apparently to her liking because she tucked it into the nest.

We ended the day with a hike around the Bath Nature Preserve. People have already been reporting Eastern Meadowlarks from this spot, however, we could find none. Our attention was drawn, time and again, to the brilliant Eastern Bluebirds.
Blue skies and blue birds. Certainly days like this are a cure for the blues.

Finding Closure

Back in December I wrote about a Canada Goose Susan and I spotted during our day of counting birds as part of the Greater Akron Audubon Society's participation in the Annual Christmas Count. The bird was tagged 2E1R with a neck collar the size of a soda can.
Who was 2E1R? We now know, thanks to the good folks at the U.S. Geological Survey (www.pwrc.usgs.gov). These are the people you report banded birds to.
What we knew then was that he (an assumption we made about sex that turned out to be correct) was a Canada Goose, most likely from the Common population (of which there are at least six recognizable populations), and he was big. He looked to be the full 45 inches in length and his wingspan of 60 inches fit the pattern.
Yesterday I received a Certificate of Appreciation from USGS for helping it with its North American bird banding program. Turns out that 2E1R was tagged June 23, 2003 in Willoughby, Ohio, by Nathan Strickler of the Ohio Division of Wildlife. 2E1R was a juvenile bird in those days, too young to fly.
About 58 million birds representing hundreds of species have been banded in North America since 1904. More than 3.1 million bands have been recovered and reported. Data from the banded birds are used in monitoring populations, setting hunting regulations, restoring endangered species, studying the effects of environmental contaminants and many other issues.
Among birders, the banding process is one of those things that gets hotly debated; good for the scientists—stressful to the birds, etc. No doubt, a few birds do die in the process. I think, however, in general the birds—and the humans—are better for the banding.

In May 2008 Susan and I, along with a group from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, were in Madera Canyon, Southwest Arizona, on a birding/astronomy adventure. We watched in fascination as wildlife artist/bird-bander George West attached microscopic-size bands to the legs of humming birds. I wondered if—how—anyone would ever find those bands given the fact that the bird was the size of his thumb. George said much of the benefit comes from recapture of the bird, not finding the band when the bird is dead.
The more we know, the more we know we don't know all that much. And that's good to know, too.

Think Spring

Here in Northeast Ohio, the American Goldfinches, like the rest of us, assumed that because we had one of the warmer month’s of March on record, it was time to toss off the drab winter coats and get ready for spring. Time to clean the closets and get ready for visitors coming out of hibernation. Maybe even head north for spring break.
Nature can be a cruel mother, and April is her month to shine. Bright sunny days turn to sleet and rain; rain to snow and snow to …
Well, snow turns to some beautiful photo opportunities, if nothing else. It’s the kind of weather we hope for in November. Gorgeous outlines on the trees; ugly brown leaves covered and the streets remain clear, if only a bit wet.
One of these years we’ll figure it all out. For now, however, it’s time to enjoy the beauty of snow, which is also part of spring.

A Bird in the Nest is Worth …

I was trying to explain my excitement of recently finding a Red-shouldered Hawk’s nest to a non-birding friend. He didn’t get it. His response was, as best I recall, “What’s the big deal? Isn’t that where birds are supposed to be? In the nest?”
Well, sort of. We’re well into the time of year when some of the larger birds—owls, hawks and others—are on the nest, even feeding young in some cases. The time a bird spends “on the nest” is actually quite short. Depending on the species it can range from a couple weeks to almost a month that one of the parents is on the nest, incubating the eggs. And the bird’s instinctive thermostat tells him or her when the eggs might need a bit of cooling. Plus, you have to eat, so time on the nest can be interrupted.
Then, with all those hungry mouths to fill, it’s virtually non-stop activity for weeks as the adults come and go with the variety of food stuffs for the young. Some birds are easier to observe, like eagles and Osprey bringing home the bacon—or a nice fish dinner in the case of these two. What’s for dinner is more of a challenge with other species.
Take hummingbirds, for example. If you can even find the silver-dollar-size nest you’ve made a major discovery. And to watch an adult, usually the female, coming in with microscopic bugs or whatever for the young is a bonus. The real treat of watching an adult hummingbird feed the young is to see that incredibly long beak slide into the youngster’s throat. The beak looks longer than the bird.

On a recent trip to California Susan and I found two Allen’s Hummingbirds nesting. These three-gram dynamos have no fear. In one instance, we stood directly beneath the nest while the female came and went with who-knows-what for her youngster. The youngster seemed too large for the tiny nest and was more interested in licking the underside of the leaves of the live oak where it nested.
Certainly all the trappings of nesting season provide birders with excitement and challenges, however, seeing the end result—a bird on the nest—can bring new and different rewards.

Life is Golden

As Lance Armstrong says, “There are no bad days. Some days are just better than others.” That holds true when birding outstanding places like Killdeer Plains near Harpster, Ohio (40.42’09 N 83.17’35 W).
On our annual winter birding trip to the wildlife area, Susan Jones and I, along with our friends Karin Tanquist and Pat Coy, fully anticipate finding three, maybe four species of owls. It’s almost a tradition that we find wintering owls there. This year, on March 15, it was not to be. One species, Short-eared Owl, was all we could locate.
The unbelievable news is that we saw not one, but two Golden Eagles, along with a plethora of Bald Eagles. In fact, we had more eagles than sparrows.
Golden Eagles are somewhere between rare and unheard of in this part of Ohio. Occasionally, like this past winter, one will show up at the Wilds in east-central Ohio. We went there in January to see it. The temperature was a balmy minus 14 that day and through frozen eyeballs we saw the bird about three miles distant.
Yesterday was a different story. It was Pat who first spotted the juvenile golden. We’re all better-than-average birders, so, as he calmly talked through the identifying marks of a bird miles away, visible only through his spotting scope, we were all coming to the same conclusion. As we all got our scopes on the bird, two Bald Eagles rose to meet their larger cousin. The three put on an aerial display that had us oooing and aaaaing like it was the Fourth of July. (In the photo, the top bird is a Bald Eagle, as is the one on the left. The larger, Golden Eagle is on the right.) After what seemed like an hour, however, it was probably only 10 minutes, of soaring, the three birds parted company. As we kept looking, afraid to take our eyes off the spot, in amazement, another huge dark shape came into view. An adult Golden Eagle! The lighting was so good that it was the first time any of us clearly saw the spectacular shade of gold on the bird’s head for which it is named.
Some days are just better than others. March 15 was one of those for us birders. For documentation I’m posting these two photos. For a larger view, click on the photo.

Global Warming

Right, global warming. It’s been a tough sell for the concept of global warming this winter in northeast Ohio. We’ve had so many Pine Siskins at our feeders this season—a bird we rarely see—that I’m ready to write these critters a check instead of hauling that seed out every day. Then, the White-wing Crossbills showed up in such overwhelming numbers that birders throughout the state were hyperventilating. Now, signs of love are in the air of the avian world. For example, two Downy Woodpeckers that have been regular singles at our feeders all winter, showed up the other day as a pair. The male was all cleaned and polished and showing off his best and most-attentive manners to the female. She seemed responsive to all the flattery as well.

There’s almost as much science for global warming as against it. I recently read that the North Atlantic is forecast to be in a cold pattern for the next 10 years or so, meaning things might cool down. Will that bring the glaciers back to Glacier National Park? Will it close the holes in the Arctic Ocean and bring back polar bear habitat? Probably not. Will it slow down the warbler migration we were more accustom to seeing in mid-May rather than late April as has been the case for the past several years? Who knows.
If you enter the subject of global warming into your favorite search engine, you get about two million pages on the subject; multiply that times 10 for the number of listings per page and it’s mind boggling—and those are just references to the real books and articles.
I’ve come to the conclusion that global warming—or the threat thereof—has been a good thing, regardless of its validity. It has caused the world to focus more on how we use—or misuse—fossil fuels. It has made more people aware of the environment and human impact on the animals and plants that share this limited rock we call Earth. It has focused engineering on reusable energy sources, which in the long run will make this a better place for my grandkids whom I can regale with stories of how tough it was when I was kid.
So, the time being, let’s emulate the birds and think love and peace for a while.

Signs of Spring

After yesterday’s challenging hike in the national park, where snow still dominates the trails in spite of our Spring-like temperatures, today I opted for something a bit less physical. I headed for the bike-and-hike trail that offers relatively good birding and lots of flat pathways.
Turns out there was a challenge of a different sort. A friend used to say, “When winter’s snow melts, the first signs of Spring; the first things to come up, are cigarette butts and dog shit.” Oh, so true.
Navigating around the telltale brown piles and not slipping on the melting ice proved worthy of the category—challenging.
This was all offset by the first dawn chorus of the season. The musical was dominated by Northern Cardinals in their cheerleader-red outfits. Close behind were the many Pine Siskins that have been wintering in the Cleveland area, finding it more to their liking than the Arctic tundra. The chickadees and titmice, which sing year round, were vocal as usual. Song Sparrows and American Tree Sparrows were joined by an occasional Field Sparrow and melodic White-throated Sparrows. Percussion was ably handled by Down Woodpeckers with the occasional drumming of a Red-bellied Woodpecker. A laughing commentary was offered by a pair of out-of-sight Pileated Woodpeckers. A voice I do not usually hear in the dawn chorus turned out to be a Cooper’s Hawk. When the Carolina Wren jumped in with his part, things really got hopping. Song Sparrows I had not noticed began to sing. I even heard a few tentative notes from the resident Northern Mockingbird, which signaled to another mockingbird I had not seen, to jump up and take notice. When I reached the 2.5 mile point I sat down to just listen and quit fighting the ankle-twisting ice—and the afore mentioned poop. I dug deep into my daypack for that energy bar that’s been in there someplace, all Winter. I found it. Damn! Turns out to have peanut butter in it and I know it’s on the recall list.
The words of (I think) singer Robbie Roberson, formerly of The Band, came ringing through. He once told a class of graduating college seniors to, “Watch what you eat and where you step.” Still good advice.