It’s the Little Things that Count

I heard someone in the office use that quasi-Biblical phrase: It’s the little foxes that ruin the vineyard. I was thinking about that in comparison with friend Wendy’s blog (www.naturenuts.com) and the joy she manages to find in teaching nature to kids—little foxes all. Then I began contrasting Wendy’s ideas with the cliché of seeing the world through a child’s eyes and how it relates to my new-found role as grandpa.
I’m learning. Taking a walk with a four-year-old does open one’s eyes, that’s for sure. There’s an excitement in kids most people over 48-inches-tall have long gotten over—or forgotten. Our grandson picks up what I might think of as trash and tells me it’s material for his art project. Of course it is. He asks who or what; all the while my adult brain is trying to forget all the strangers I’ve met. Wendy’s kids learn that owls eat bones, then get off on the fact that their mothers would throw up if they knew that fact. How cool is that?
When we get to be adults, where’s our wonder? Most of us don’t even wonder about that name at the bottom of our pay check. Who is that person? We don’t care; only that the check arrives.
We don’t want to dream. We want the night to leave us alone. As writer Edward Abbey said, old men have guilty dreams. And writer/singer Patty Griffin says "Night only wants to kiss you deep and be on his way; pretend he don’t know you the very next day."
As Wendy frequently notes, nature can drive you to your knees. I thought that was kind of hokey. Now I get it. If we get down to that four-year-old’s eye level we’ll begin to see things as they really are—or the way they could (should) be.
And those little foxes? They’re just doing their fox thing. If losing a few grapes is a problem for you, get out of the whine business.

Things Happen in Threes

A co-worker was bemoaning something disastrous that had happened at her house this past weekend—hot water tank implosion or something. What caught my ear was that this was the third such trauma for her in as many days. I don’t put a lot of stock in that business of movie stars dying in threes, etc.
A couple nights ago we heard lots of scratching and squeaky noises along with something being banged around on our deck. We peered through the blind to see three young raccoons reenacting the World Cup Championships, using an empty whicker basket. There was a fair amount of head-butting going on, too.
Then last night we heard some scratching sounds near the bird feeders. With the aide of a flashlight we watched three young skunks dining on that expensive stuff that’s supposed to repel critters like skunks and raccoons. With this trio there was a lot of butt-butting which I feared might lead to something less pleasant than the smell of victory or agony of de feet. We cranked the windows shut and turned on the air conditioner.
And this morning, Susan calls me away from my delicious bowl of oatmeal and Kim Perez on the Weather Channel to see the final threesome. The raccoons had returned. Soccer, err, football, was not on the agenda. Today it was high-wire acrobatics. Larry, Curley and Mo had climbed the pole holding our feeder array. All were swinging from the feeders, acting like break-dancers trying to outdo each other with ever more elaborate moves. About the time Mo was going into his hand-stand head-spin I rushed out, doing my best imitation of a pterodactyl.
The crowed roared as the guys flipped, twisted and basically fell all over each other trying to get down.
No curtain call attempted. They dashed under the deck where, I’m afraid, they will eventually meet up with Huey, Dewy and Pewy. We can hardly wait for the time all six to provide act number four, which, when divided by eight hours of restless sleep, will equal yet another three.

Some—Not Many—Like It Hot

The temperature bumped its head against 95 degrees here in Cleveland today. Second day in a row. Al Gore’s right—we’re all toast.
I was looking at the birds in the yard, from the safety of my air conditioned house, and it was like watching a silent movie. Their beaks were flapping but there was no sound. I stepped out on the deck to see what a pair of crows, in particular, were so agitated about. Still no sound. Chickadees on the rim of the bird bath were active, mouths open, but no sound.
Ah, heavy breathing. Had to be the heat. Since they can’t sweat they must have been trying to get cool by venting heat through their mouths. I tried it and it didn’t work. In fact it made me sweat more.
So I decided to take an unscientific poll while on my bike ride. I noted all the birds I saw and whether they were singing. The grand total was 13 species. Some I could not tell if the mouth was open—like red-tailed hawks and great blue herons. Of those I could see, only two species were singing like they really enjoyed the sauna: indigo buntings and American goldfinches.
So the obvious scientific conclusion is that less than 10 percent of the birds in northeast Ohio enjoy this muggy buggy weather—about the same ratio as humans.

Living In a Time Warp

Birthdays, mine or those of people near to me, have a way of making me think I’m living in a time warp. Or, maybe they just make me think more about the span of time. Or, maybe it’s that time does not always seem to be flowing in the right direction. Well, that’s not it either. Time is not taking as much time to happen as it used to.
Here, let me explain. Just the other day the kid around the corner was having a graduation party. School’s out! That sort of thing. Then two days ago I walked into a local store and the shelves are groaning under the weight of “Back to School Specials.” What happened to summer?
Friday a friend invited me to fish at his private trout club. This is the kind of place guys like me can only dream of. Or, never dream of. Rockwell Springs Trout Club was established in 1900 and little has changed. Or maybe a lot has changed. I viewed the old photographs on the wall. The guys don’t wear white shirts and ties to go fishing. There were more women on the stream—none wearing long dresses, however. But when I stepped onto the immaculately cared for grounds, I felt like I was stepping into one of those pictures. The stream was the stream. The fish were the fish—maybe a bit smaller. It was a strange feeling. As my friend pointed out, never lose track of the thought that this [fly fishing at the club] is not real. I knew what he meant, yet, when hooked into a feisty brook trout, it seemed real enough.
And on Saturday evening we attended a friend’s birthday party. It was one of those birthdays that ends in 0, which can be tough on people. Among the guests were those philosophers who bemoaned the lost years, those looking forward to new things, and those sort of neutral and accepting of another year gone by.
In the end, the birthday signifies, no matter whether life is fast or slow, confusing or simple, boring or challenging, expensive or rewarding, it does include one free trip around the sun each year.

Messing With Mother Nature

There's a new housing development being built a few miles from our place. According to the signs it's going to be a swanky place. You've seen the ads, "Starting in the low $zillions$." That kind of stuff.
There had been an old house back in there before they started raping the land. The place was so wooded I didn't even know the house was there until they started ripping down the trees. This housing project will probably have some fancy name like Forests Forever. They scraped off all the topsoil so they can buy it back before they plant the lawns that will look like golf greens. They'll replant non-native species of trees in some monoculture that was never supposed to exist. Developers love to correct obvious errors nature has made.
But tonight we had a deluge. It rained as hard as I’ve ever seen it, except for a few years ago in Hong Kong when I watched in rain more than 16 inches in as many hours. That was scary. Today's storm was bad enough. Major flooding throughout the northeast Ohio area. When I stepped off my bus I could not see the street. Water, on a major thoroughfare was as high as the first step.
I got to my car, looking like the proverbial drowned rat and headed for home. Ooops, the road was blocked. Emergency flashers of various colors told the tale--no getting through that way. And that way was the only way I could go.
I waited in the parking lot of the strip mall, calling people on my cell phone in hopes of finding a sympathetic ear. Mostly I got laughs and "Wow. Must be bad." And comments referring to my mental powers and coming in out of the rain.
Finally the rain backed off, as did the rushing water. Through my binoculars I could see the cops were letting SUVs and trucks swim through the flood. Finally they let us little guys through. I was trying to figure how that particular dip in the road created such a flood. The water should have just drained into a creek that feeds into the river far below. This is the edge of a ravine, I thought.
Then I saw the problem. The huge scar on the land; the bald spot the construction people had created, when they chopped down all the trees and replaced a deer track with a ribbon of cement. It had all been had washed away. They had created the perfect, dehydrated landslide. All it need was for someone to add water. The huge mud slide that trees could have easily controlled, plowed the land, ripped up the man-made path, fancy signs and all. Even some construction equipment was washed nearly into the road.
I'll have to drop the developer a note and tell him to rename the spot "Mudslide Gulch." Seems more appropriate, now, however his marketing folks might not go for it.

Blowin’ in the Wind

The other day I thought I’d extend my lunch hour a bit and visit the new Bob Dylan exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. It’s one of the few advantages of working in downtown Cleveland. It was a gorgeous day. As I approached the Rock, I noticed the newly installed wind turbine at the Great Lakes Science Center (next door neighbor of the Rock) was up and spinning.
I’ve seen these monsters at a distance elsewhere. This opportunity to see one up close and personal was too tempting.
The turbine needs a breeze of 8 mph to get cranking. In a wind of 31 mph it hits its peak output of 225 kilowatts—enough juice to power 300 refrigerators. At 56 mph the turbine has the good sense to shut itself down so it won’t be damaged. This one will provide about seven percent of the science center’s electrical needs.
As an environmentalist I have mixed emotions about these wind-powered electric generators. First, there are the aesthetics of the three-armed monsters and the blight on the landscape. And second, there are the birds that run into them.
This Vestas V27 model weighs more than 26 tons. Its total height is about 150 feet—60 feet taller than the science center and 13 feet short of the Browns stadium, its neighbor to the west. Each blade is 44 feet long.
I expected to be blasted by wind and noise as I walked beneath the spinning blades. Hmmm. Nearly dead silence. Traffic noise was more of a distraction. And there was no wind. No smoke. No one upping the price of anything with plastic numbers on a plastic sign. Nothing was being spilled on the ground. Nothing but sunshine, blue skies and the wind ruffling my hair.
Okay, maybe aesthetics aren’t an issue. I looked at this thing as a big piece of sculpture and it fit within the parameters of my definition of art.
I held my breath as two ring-billed gulls and a couple of rock pigeons prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice and headed for the spinning blades. All the birds veered off within 25 feet.
The Cleveland Museum of Natural History will be doing bird studies at the site. According to the folks at the science center, it’s unlikely bird deaths will exceed even one percent of those from other human-related sources—including house cats, buildings and autos. It seems the issue of bird deaths from collisions with wind turbines is site specific.
Cleveland Public Art has commissioned artists Allan and Ellen Wexler to create a permanent educational art installation surrounding the wind turbine.
I like the idea of clean energy. I don’t know how long the payback will be on this project, however it looks like a good deal for Cleveland and maybe elsewhere. Clean, renewable sources of power make a lot of sense. Why not use this technology where we can? Makes one wonder how many other kinds of clean energy this country could create if it wasn’t pouring sand down so many rat holes thought to contain oil.
To my knowledge, no lives were lost in the creation of the energy generated by this wind turbine. No press disinformation has been issued about weapons of mass deception. You look up at the clean white lines of the wind turbine cranking out energy and possibilities with every spin. And you can’t help but recall that famous Dylan line, “you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”

Some Trip

Road trip! Nothing like a road trip when you know the destination and opt to take a different path to get there. That’s what we did; Susan and I flying down the highway like a couple of low-level Canada geese. Wingtips barely touching. We were honking out Elvis tunes, caring less about the words than the rhythm. Mid-seventies and sun shining so bright we wore sunglasses dark enough that people thought we worked for Homeland Security.
Blue sky above. Mountains ahead. Trees and streams below. Birds all around zipping out of our path. White-tailed deer stopped by the sides of the road to gauge our progress. They had that look in their eyes like humans just told their jobs had just been outsourced to China.
The alarm startled me and I realized it was Monday morning. What a drag. Mondays must be god’s punishment for an enjoyable weekend. Where’s the damned oatmeal?

Attack of the Wild Coyotes

Living on the edge of a national park has its advantages and its moments. You accept the challenge of wild white-tailed deer eating your hostas (and anything else that’s green) and wild cotton-tailed rabbits threatening whatever the deer miss. There’s an occasional encounter with the wild skunk you’ll laugh about five years from now when the smell finally gets out of your house, and the clever raccoons seeking a sweet-treat who manage to wreck havoc on your hummingbird feeders.
The payback is an occasional over-flight by a pair of majestic bald eagles, or witnessing the mating ritual of wild turkeys in an open field. Nothing like uninhibited sex in the early morning to stop traffic.
Last night we had about the best nature can offer in this part of the land. It started at 1:45 AM. A single, distant winnowing howl woke me. At first I thought it was the Eastern screech-owl. I was hoping, at least, because we’ve not heard them this spring and fear the urban sprawl has driven more of these essential predators further afield.
I sat bolt upright as the winnowing rose to a more fevered pitch. The single voice was joined in chorus by another soprano and a couple of altos doing the harmony parts. The rhythm section came alive and soon the whole pack was yipping, barking and crooning to some primeval—make that atavistic—melody. Coyotes! It sounded like all the coyotes in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park had arrived for a sing-along outside our condo. Actually the number was probably closer to six. And the coyote’s cry can have a ventriloquist’s bent to it, making you think they’re in one spot when actually they’re 180 degrees the other direction.
It’s intriguing how the primal, quavering cry of the coyote evokes an equally tingling sensation of primitive danger in humans. When the animal finally emits its short, high-pitched yips, you realize you’ve been holding your breath and begin to relax. The hair on your arms settles down and you stop clinching your teeth. Only then, when you realize you’re safe from attack (they have more to fear from us than we do of them), do you really listen to what this little wolf, as its name from the Aztec language suggests, has to say.
Howling coyotes usually do so in two seasons; January and February when searching for a mate (they mate for life), and September and October when the mother is calling her young and they answer back in unison.
So what was this pack howling about in mid-June? Just for fun, probably. Bunch of guys leaving the watering hole late at night who felt like howling; your basic animal stuff.

Close Encounter

We had a close encounter with nature at our place this weekend. For the uninitiated it was one of those things fraught with peril. For a former amateur bee keeper is was like looking at an old photo album, stashed away in a box and only vaguely remembered.

We were sitting on the deck mid-afternoon on Saturday, trying to figure ways to avoid all the things that needed doing and that we've been putting off. I heard traffic noises, which was unusual since our condo sits back a decent distance from the road. I said something brilliant, like, "I know that's traffic I'm hearing, however if I didn't know better I'd say it was bees swarming."

Sure enough, it was a honey bee swarm; thousands of them, almost right over head. As a bee keeper I had witnessed bee swarms many times. Always with mixed emotions. The bad news is, as that swarm leaves your hive, the bee population, thus honey production, is greatly reduced. The good news is that this is the manner in which bees naturally reproduce and expand their species for their critical role in the grand scheme of things.

I have no idea where this lot came from. They were feral, probably, and looked healthy. We watched them settle into a safe spot in a decorative cherry tree. Thousands of bees surrounding their newly anointed queen while the scout bees went looking for a suitable hive spot. It was getting dark and cool and damp so I knew the bees would sit tight for the night.

Morning dawned with clouds and rain. The bees had settled down and I was a bit concerned that if the scouts did not find a hive spot soon, and the sun did not warm things up so these ladies could start finding nectar, this swarm might be in trouble. They stayed in place all day until late afternoon when the sun broke through the drizzle and clouds.

Unfortunately we missed the leaving. I checked on them and everything was as it had been; an hour later they were gone. The arrival of a swam appears about as disorganized as anything you can imagine; thousands of bees flying in every direction. The departure is the opposite. As if of a single mind, the bees fly off in a solid cloud, the destination whispered to the queen in some bee-like manner by the scouts.

I Guess I Shouldn't Ask

Recently, while making a hasty retreat toward home following a multi-tasked trip to Lexington, Kentucky (that included too-little fishing), we passed a camper-trailer being pulled by a gas-hog SUV. I looked at the contraption this family was hauling, and would probably tell friends they use for camping.

The trailer unit was one of those pop-up things. After it's all settled and leveled on its cement pad in some ghetto of a campground, they crank it up, plug in the electric, get the kids watching television and then--the part I really don't understand--turn on the air conditioner. This thing had an air conditioner on its roof. Think about it: If you're going camping, isn't the outside, unconditioned air what you're after? And on the practical side of the issue: If it has canvas sides, you obviously have to seal the windows and doors. But then doesn't that conditioned air leak through the canvas and pollute the unconditioned air? And wouldn't the sound blot out the singing of the birds?

What we need is a new word for "camping" that applies only to these folks with "campers." Their definition of the activity is too divergent from mine and I'm kind of stingy when it comes to sharing definitions.

In Defense of Pigeons

Pigeons--rock pigeons--need a good PR person. Maybe we should have kept the name, rock dove. Sounds more peaceful. Granted, occasionally while doing what comes naturally, a pigeon's course will intersect with human's in a manner humans would not prefer. Everyday, however, we stand in their food dish and should be prepared to pay the consequences--and the dry cleaning bills.

A co-worker came back from lunch the other day, justifiable upset about "those rats with wings" that had pooped on her fashionably correct blouse. Summer had finally made its arrival in Cleveland so it was time to shed dark blues and greys we usually wear and get out the pinks and yellows in her case.

I thought this might be a good opportunity to give a biology lesson and strike a blow for my avian friends. When you start by saying, "Rats don't have wings ..." and then move on to, "They're just scavengers, you know, so if we ..." you immediately loose your audience.

Later that day, out of the eyeshot of co-workers, I took a look at the infinite variety of colors and patterns in pigeons. They are really attractive birds. If they lived in the woods we birders would get sweaty palms trying to identify them. However, since they live in the city we choose to ignore and degrade them, like many other things in the city.

So when those multitudes of rock pigeons get their act together and hire a good PR agent, I suggest her first duty should be to designate a "Take A Pigeon To Lunch Day." They seem to like to do lunch.

Bugs and Birds

Fly fishers and birders have a lot in common. One thing is that we go on vacations, or enjoy days, when there are an abundance of bugs around. Earlier this week in Cleveland we had one of those days. Since I couldn’t be fishing, I made the most of birding. It was one of those days in May when we get an enormous hatch of insects out of Lake Erie. Not being an entomologist I’m not sure what the creatures are—other than abundant. People call them everything—some names not suitable for a family blog.
They’re called midges, muckleheads and pains-in-the-butt. Birds call them lunch. My office window was covered with them so I knew the birding would be good. At noontime I headed to a nearby green space. I stood in one spot and watched one tree. Along with the usual suspects, I had 16 other species of birds. Notable among these was a single brown thrasher, 41 blackpoll warblers, two black-throated blue warblers, three chestnut-sided warblers, three veerys, two hermit thrushes, seven Baltimore orioles, two orchard orioles, six ovenbirds and more. Sorry no partridge, but then it was a sycamore, not a pear tree.

Busy is as Busy Does

There we were, face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball (well, not exactly) with a wild beast. Its dark shape loomed directly in our path. Susan and I were literally stopped on our tracks—sort of. Its beady eyes occasionally glanced at us; assessing us as a potential meal I figured. We, in turn, were more curious than terrified.
Without saying a word we glanced at each other when the creature flashed its orange-stained incisors. They were huge! Yet, here was this magnificent animal, chocolate-colored fur gleaming in the twilight, quietly coming to dinner. How did it maintain such a wonderful coat on a diet of dandelions?
What did it see when it took our measure? We watched the animal glide effortlessly through the wetlands pond. This is a favorite spot of ours in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, walking along the railroad tracks just north of Station Road Bridge. From the tip of the animal’s rounded muzzle, back nearly to its undersized ears, it was covered with duckweed. The neon-green colored weed contrasted with the brown fur, giving the animal an other-worldly appearance.
It maneuvered to the pond’s edge. It was now less than 25 feet away. We held our breath. Prothonotary warblers and red-headed woodpeckers darted about, vying for our attention. As it emerged from the water its size astonished us. This guy was at the upper end of its species-average (30-inches long and 40 pounds) for North America.
As the beaver slowly munched on the vegetation, I could not help but think about the boys with Lewis and Clark from the Corps of Discovery. Numerous mentions are made in diaries from that adventure describing how tasty the beaver’s tail was. To me, it looked like a deflated automobile tire—21st Century thinking I suppose.
Occasionally the beaver raised on its haunches to its full height and looked at us. What did it see? Two bipeds, one mostly blue with a flesh-colored topknot; the other purple and blue with a black topknot. Did it care to separate male from female? Both aliens would appear to have huge eyeballs, perfectly round and cylindrical in shape, black in color.
The beaver watched us; we watched the beaver. It didn’t care; we were enthralled. Eventually it made its way back into the pond. It cruised about 15 feet and stopped for dessert of moss and bark from a tree stump. Maybe the most fascinating part of this close encounter of the furred kind was that as the beaver removed the bark from the tree, it made no noise. We had expected, having seen numerous piles of chips around beaver-felled trees, that it would make plenty of chopping sounds. Woodpeckers of all species—particularly pileated—sound like thunderstorms compared with this guy.
It seemed to pry the bark from the tree, making an eight-inch diameter shield-like design. Then, off it meandered toward some raucous Canada geese, hardly living up to its billing—busy as a beaver.

Heat Impacts the Brain

A break in the business action gave me a free afternoon in the Orlando area. Wildfires prevented me from heading for the beach area so I opted for some inland birding at Kissimmee Lake State Park, twice selected (and the only facility to receive the honor) as the nation’s most admired state park.
It’s a cool place. Well, cool in the sense that it’s hot. Err, hot meaning heavily frequented. On this day in early May, it was hot in the sense of temperature, actually, not people. In fact, I saw few other humans in the park. I guess the 94-degree temperature with humidity off the charts kept the slugabeds in their air conditioned houses and cars. Only truly dedicated birders, three of us, were out there pishing in the bushes.
As I approached the entrance to the park I was welcomed by a pair of sandhill cranes with two juveniles. The little ones were 25% body and 75% legs. Young sandhill cranes look like footballs balanced on bent card-table legs. They were all gleaning bugs out of a roadside ditch so I moved to the left to give them plenty of room. I stopped opposite the quartet and one adult looked at me as if to say, “So, what did you expect?” One juvenile approached the car, stuck its head nearly into the open window and looked at me like a dog looks at a ceiling fan.
After walking about three miles, spotting a variety of birds and other animals, and consuming a gallon of water, I decided to sit in the shade and let the birds come to me. The plan worked. Coming across an open space I spotted a tom turkey dressed in full regalia. This guy was the definition of “strut-yer-stuff.” I could not figure out who he was showing off for until I spotted the dark silhouette on the edge of the field—also in the shade.
He bobbed and weaved, tail flaring, turning and twisting. He spun around so many times I thought he’d screw himself into the ground. If birds could sweat this dude was in a lather. And the female? Not interested. Too hot for sex, seemed to be her message. Finally she perked up and stepped out of the shadows to have a closer look at Prince Charming and his finery.
Poof! Old Tom imploded. I’ve seen balloons at birthday parties stay inflated longer when stuck with a pin than this guy did. I thought he had been shot at close range with a silencer-equipped rifle. I focused on his hoped-for-intended and understood. Seems that it was a black vulture, not a hen turkey.
Have you ever seen a bird sulk? He, too, headed for the shade.

Put Your Trust In …

I've been fishing for more years than I can remember. Never in all that time have I been asked for my license. This incredible run of luck has never encouraged me to not buy a license. It’s a small price to pay, I think, for all the good it does. So I had my non-resident license in my pocket this time, as usual.
I was in the middle of the Batten Kill, on the New York state side, west of the border with Vermont, working the four miles of catch and release water, dazzled by the scenery and beginning to wonder if my toes had fallen off since my feet no longer seemed attached to my legs. I had not seen another human for hours. I had that creepy feeling on the back of my neck, however, like someone was about to criticize my backcast. I looked over my shoulder and there stood a guy from, I think, U.S. Fish and Wildlife!
He asked how the fishing was going, that sort of stuff. Then we exchanged small talk about the weather and how gorgeous this place was. The usual stuff guys do, but less obvious than dogs. Then he says, “Ya know, I have to ask you about your license, but first I'd like to ask you to do a favor for me.”
Hmmm. “Sure,” says I. Then he says, “I really don't want to climb into my waders and walk out there, so would you take this thermometer and hold it about a foot below the surface and tell me the temperature?”
“Sure,” says I. It was 47 degrees! No wonder my feet were so cold. And no wonder the trout weren't moving. They're too smart to expend much energy below 50 degrees.
So the guy records the temperature then says, “You do have a license, right?”
“Sure,” says I. And before I could remember which of the 27 pockets on my fishing vest it was in, he says thanks and was gone.
Now, given that fishermen have an undeserved reputation for stretching the truth on occasion, this guy was either quite trusting or he was a fly fisher.

A Day on the Stream

The first gift my granddaughter, Ruby, gave me was the opportunity to fish the Batten Kill. (The second was a gift card to Starbucks. At 10-days-old, this kid really has my number.) She had the good sense and good fortune to be born in Saratoga Springs, New York.
Her grandmother and I headed north with the spring migrants as soon as time and vacation arrangements allowed. Rain and unseasonably chilly temperatures for mid April kept me inside the first couple days, doing all the things a grandpa is supposed to do—like staying out of the way doing home repair chores.
The weather broke by midweek and I was off to the Holy water of the famed Batten Kill, or Battenkill, take your pick on the spelling.
The beautiful river has its start in the Green Mountains of Vermont and follows a winding course of about 50 miles in its rush to get to the Hudson River. About half that distance is in New York state.
I opted to fish the sections around Eagleville and Battenville—early home of Susan B. Anthony—in the shadow of covered bridges and freshly budding maple, willow and sycamore trees.
As writer John Gierach has said, any guy who starts a fishing story by telling you how beautiful the place is, probably didn’t catch any fish. And so it was. The Batten Kill is a dry-fly fisher’s dream. Incredibly clear water. Long, smooth runs. Pools so deep they appear bottomless. Riffles that go for a quarter mile. Not another human in sight—which should have been a clue.
Late in the afternoons the blue-wing olives and Hendricksons started hatching. Swarms of insects that created a frenzy of activity among the tree swallows, Eastern phoebes and some empidonax fly catchers I could not identify.
One afternoon I was treated to some music by a nearby barred owl. It sounded close but I could not find it. I watched a pileated woodpecker hammer out its nesting cavity and happened upon a half dozen common megansers sunning themselves on a gravel bar.
All-in-all a successful day or two on the stream. Anyone who thinks fly fishing is about catching fish misses the point. It’s about not doing what others expect of you.

Off the Beaten Path

Sunday, Susan and I took a hike into the Cuyahoga Valley National Park to check an area we'd never visited—which is easy enough to do in this huge gem we call our backyard. Our hike took us straight into the arms of the park. It was one of those areas we drive by all the time and always say, "Someday we're going to have to climb that hill and ..."
Someday finally arrived. This was not a trail you'll find on the map. We just followed the path of least resistance. Everywhere it was evident that winter had marched out with its heavy boots on. Left behind were wounds that Nurse Spring was doing her best to heal and hide. Spring beauties, cut-leaf toothwort and coltsfoot blanketed the hillside. May apples poked up through last year's long-dead grasses and weed stalks. And garlic mustard. Everywhere was invasive garlic mustard.
Another invasive species was the amount of trash. Several balloons from some gala had drifted in. We resolved to bring a trash bag with us next time to haul out the trash mindless people left behind. How can people leave their trash in a spot that is preserved for its beauty?
We followed a deer track to the top of a hill. Along the way ruby-crowned kinglets oblivious to us humans busied themselves. More than a half dozen noisy red-breasted nuthatches gleaned what they could from the bark of walnut and conifer trees. Flitting all around us was a large flock of brown creepers.
We paused for lunch on top of another hill that offered a commanding view of the Cuyahoga River. A cooperative yellow-bellied sapsucker provided us with an excellent study opportunity. We noted how his legs seem to be set wider on his body than most birds so that he "hugs" the tree as he climbs. To compare and contrast, we had a steady stream of red-bellied woodpeckers, northern flickers, a downy woodpecker and pileated woodpeckers to keep us entertained. We ended the day with 46 species and the warblers have yet to arrive.
That's the way to spend a Sunday morning.

Mysteries of Spring

Susan and I went for an early spring bird walk with our favorite naturalist, Wendy, to our favorite spot in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. We call the spot Warbler Ridge. Don’t look at the map, you’ll not find the name. We gave it that designation years ago after a great day of birding there.
The real benefit of birding with a naturalist, as opposed to an ornithologist, is that she makes you look at things other than the birds—the ground for instance.
This spot is a bit off the trail and I suppose, if everyone strayed from the straight and narrow path, the place would begin to look like downtown Cleveland. However, we try to walk gentle on the land.
While watching where to put my feet and looking for wildflowers, I was stunned to see the corner of a $20 bill peaking out of the grass! On closer inspection we realized the bill was part of a field mouse’s nest. I gently removed the $20. One small nibble in the corner—not even as much deterioration as inflation—was the only damage.
How did a $20 bill get out here? We looked around for more. Nope, just the one and no sign of the mouse, either.
Who says birding doesn’t pay?

Early Bloggers

I’ve recently been reading "Saratoga," written by Richard L. Ketchum. The book is a fascinating, in-depth look at the Revolutionary War battle that changed American history.
In this age of instant communications, the fact that it took letters weeks and months to go from one place to another—assuming they arrived at all—is hard to believe. Even more interesting are the challenges faced by people who created those communications.
For example: Where did they get ink with which to write home? It was challenge enough to find paper and quill pens. The ink was a special situation in which nature played a major role—more so in those days than it does now.
Powdered ink was carried by most soldiers. With it they recorded the important and mundane moments of the life of a soldier in the field. From the letters they wrote and diaries they kept, we get a glimpse of what life must have been like. The terror of soldiering, however, rarely filters through.
Ketchum says the ink was known as gall ink, made of ferrous sulfate (or copperas) and galls from the bark of oak trees. Both contain tannic and gallic acid. The two substances were mixed with gum arabic from the Middle East to give body to the ink and keep it from flowing too fast. The ingredients were then reduced and sifted through cloth to make a fine powder.
When a soldier wanted to write a letter, he mixed the powder with rainwater (something all soldiers have always had an abundance of, except maybe our current crop of warriors), or he used white wine or beer—always in short supply.
And we complain about hard drives crashing and servers going down.

Time Machine

Someone turned on the time machine last night. Fortunately, I had drifted back just a month or so, into February, before the alarm propelled me into my day. A cool number on the calendar – 4/5/6.
A couple inches of snow surrounded the daffodils, which only a couple days ago had been struggling to make an appearance and had finally broken through the frozen earth. Now this – again. Some greeting for them after so long an absence.
I surveyed the tracks in the yard as my coffee maker finished its daily death rattle. The whiteness of the snow looked so melancholy. Here and there the daffodils and brave hyacinths looked like they had been planted in snow instead of soil. Crocuses, like the local baseball team, were saying, “wait ‘til next year.”