I was up a couple hours before sunrise this morning, taking a look at Mercury. A fast, elusive planet if there ever was one. Mercury has never been photographed by the Hubble Sky Telescope. Not because it’s fast. Because of its proximity to the sun. The folks in Baltimore who control the Hubble wisely don’t want to point the scope in the direction of Mercury, fearing even the slightest miscalculation would cause the sun’s rays to whack the delicate instrument.
Today, however, Mercury was at it’s widest elongation from the sun, about the width of two fists from an Earthling’s perspective. 100 minutes before sunrise, looking southeast, eye level, was the perfect time to view the planet. You missed it.
It got me to thinking about the effort we expend to see distant planets, while at the same time hide the Earth. Well, our small spec of Earth called America.
We make our land disappear by covering it with housing developments and shopping malls, while we search outer space for more land. What is also being lost as the land disappears, is the wildlife. And as the wildlife disappears, so do our hopes and promises for a better future.
To close the wound and hide the scars, we erect cement walls. These allegedly prevent the sounds of the highway from reaching people stupid enough to buy houses hard by the freeway. Then these folks stay inside their air conditioned homes (televisions spewing shows about NASCAR races and wild animals) sending e-mail to politicians demanding something be done about that noise from the highway. Or, skunks under the deck.
The sound barriers, paid for with our tax dollars, are like politician’s promises, never intended to be kept. They’re just to make people feel good.
If the sound barriers (Why not call them prison walls? Oh, prison walls are made of wire so prisoners can look out and be irritated by what they’re missing. I get it.) are not enough to block your view, we have plenty of billboards—litter on a stick. Or, signs declaring you’re crossing a river that’s been designated scenic, wild and beautiful. Of course, you never get to see that river. We create high walls of concrete to prevent people from driving over the edge of the bridge while attempting to get a better view of the scene. Don’t look, just read the sign at 70 miles per hour. That’s all you really need.
Have you noticed how many tire marks are on those barriers? Obviously, people are longing for a better look at what they’re missing.
All of this hiding of America is okay. It no longer matters. Kids have DVD players in the car to distract them from getting curious about those big birds sitting on a branch, or those animals grazing in the field. Adults have cell phones. When I was a kid, on our annual family vacation trip to my dad’s home in Indiana, I’d hang out of the car window like a dog for eight hours and hit the ground running as soon as I smelled the lake. Probably not safe. Too much fresh air might even account for my attitude fifty-some years later.
Well, trust me, America is still out there—someplace. Get off the highway, out of the car and onto your feet or a bicycle. Go to a park and just sit on a stump and see, smell and hear what the rest of America is missing.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Weather or Not
I suspect there is some correlation between the appearance of holiday decorations and complaints about winter weather. Christmas decorations began appearing sometime between Memorial Day and Fourth of July this year. And moaning about cold weather was close behind.
Grumbling in the office has become almost as intolerable as the obnoxious music in stores, clerks running around in red stocking caps and fake trees decorated with fake birds. And it’s only Armistice Day.
A couple of cellmates were complaining about the approach of winter and how there’s nothing to do. The whining sounded like a couple of eight-year-olds who don’t realize the sacrifice their parents made to take them to Disney Universe. To play the devil’s advocate, and because I know I’m right, I told them there is plenty to do if they can leave the confines of their television rooms long enough to get their feet cold. Winter is exciting.
A lot of great things happen in winter. NASCAR stops racing, for one. Another is that you can go for a walk in the woods and discover what happened. You find tracks in the snow and learn which animal passed this way, crossed the path of another or turned and followed that other. You find blood and guts and feathers or fur and learn who’s having whom for lunch.
In winter, trails are less crowded, birds more visible and air more refreshing.
Fishing is a bit tougher. When your reel is screaming as a steelhead trout slams your fly and takes off like a rocket, however, you’ll forget that your fingers and toes are frozen. So much adrenaline courses through your body that you’ll wish you weren’t wearing that second set of long underwear. Your mind races through all the things you know about fishing and in a split second you come to the realization that the instructor never taught you what to do if you actually hook a fish!
You’re on your own, just like all the other creatures in the woods in winter.
Grumbling in the office has become almost as intolerable as the obnoxious music in stores, clerks running around in red stocking caps and fake trees decorated with fake birds. And it’s only Armistice Day.
A couple of cellmates were complaining about the approach of winter and how there’s nothing to do. The whining sounded like a couple of eight-year-olds who don’t realize the sacrifice their parents made to take them to Disney Universe. To play the devil’s advocate, and because I know I’m right, I told them there is plenty to do if they can leave the confines of their television rooms long enough to get their feet cold. Winter is exciting.
A lot of great things happen in winter. NASCAR stops racing, for one. Another is that you can go for a walk in the woods and discover what happened. You find tracks in the snow and learn which animal passed this way, crossed the path of another or turned and followed that other. You find blood and guts and feathers or fur and learn who’s having whom for lunch.
In winter, trails are less crowded, birds more visible and air more refreshing.
Fishing is a bit tougher. When your reel is screaming as a steelhead trout slams your fly and takes off like a rocket, however, you’ll forget that your fingers and toes are frozen. So much adrenaline courses through your body that you’ll wish you weren’t wearing that second set of long underwear. Your mind races through all the things you know about fishing and in a split second you come to the realization that the instructor never taught you what to do if you actually hook a fish!
You’re on your own, just like all the other creatures in the woods in winter.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Loons and Luna(s)
When I checked my e-mail mid-way through Sunday I knew there was going to be trouble. If not a trouble, at least an unplanned birding adventure. The listserv was reporting 100 Common Loons along Lake Erie's shore opposite Rocky River.
Loons are one of the those birds you just can’t get enough of since they’re not a regular around here.
Off we went. Sure enough, at least 100 or more loons floating, diving, flying. Along with numerous Horned Grebes, Red-breasted Mergansers, Buffleheads and the countless gulls. Well, the single Great Black-backed Gull was easy to count. White-winged Scoters!
A non-birder, out enjoying the evening in the park stood by as we oooed and aaaed; talking with other birders in that code we often use. Finally he asked to look through my scope at something called a horned grebe. He couldn’t imagine what these crazy people were so excited about. Then he had to see a loon. And what is a Bufflehead?
So what was going on? Why all the loons when hardly any had been reported so far this fall? I think it had to do with that other object with the similar name. It was a full moon Sunday. Luna in all her glory. A day of high tides and unrealized pull on the fluids of the planet as well as our bodies.
That day when cops say things are a bit more loony than usual.
Loons are one of the those birds you just can’t get enough of since they’re not a regular around here.
Off we went. Sure enough, at least 100 or more loons floating, diving, flying. Along with numerous Horned Grebes, Red-breasted Mergansers, Buffleheads and the countless gulls. Well, the single Great Black-backed Gull was easy to count. White-winged Scoters!
A non-birder, out enjoying the evening in the park stood by as we oooed and aaaed; talking with other birders in that code we often use. Finally he asked to look through my scope at something called a horned grebe. He couldn’t imagine what these crazy people were so excited about. Then he had to see a loon. And what is a Bufflehead?
So what was going on? Why all the loons when hardly any had been reported so far this fall? I think it had to do with that other object with the similar name. It was a full moon Sunday. Luna in all her glory. A day of high tides and unrealized pull on the fluids of the planet as well as our bodies.
That day when cops say things are a bit more loony than usual.
Things that Go Clack in the Night
Things that Go Clack in the Night
I’ve started taking a regular, daily walk--minimum of three miles. Since I started this project before we made the shift back to Standard Time from Daylight Stupid Time, this evening was the first opportunity to walk my regular route along the Hike and Bike Trail in the dark.
Whole new world out there after the sun goes down.
The regular scurrying of various sparrow species, along with the occasional Dark Eyed Junco and Carolina Wren entertained me through the twilight minutes. Nearing the end of my walk only silhouettes were visible. An owl flew from the woods and landed on the crossbar of a high-tension tower 20 feet above me. I cranked my head around to look at it while it was doing the same, looking at me, as I passed beneath. Great Horned or Barred? Couldn’t tell. Sizes can be deceptive in the twilight.
The endorphins were pumping after that when I heard thrashing and thumping sounds coming from the nearby bushes. The loud grunting noises sounded like a 64-year-old man digging frozen-solid ice cream out of a container. Then the percussion section entered. Clack, clack, clack!
When I drew along side the noise I realized it was a pair of white-tailed bucks locked in combat! The animals were thrashing and butting heads about 15 feet away and must have picked up my scent. Suddenly they decided that it was a better idea to run than rut. Off they went in search of a car to jump in front of.
I walked about 50 yards down the trail and suddenly a sapling tree just off the trail started waving back and forth and violent thumping ensued.
I could just see the back shape of another white-tailed buck. This guy was using a tree as a punching bag.
It must have been boys night out in the woods. And even though I was one of them, and all for what they had in mind, I figured it best to make a hasty retreat. You just never can be sure about those hormones.
I’ve started taking a regular, daily walk--minimum of three miles. Since I started this project before we made the shift back to Standard Time from Daylight Stupid Time, this evening was the first opportunity to walk my regular route along the Hike and Bike Trail in the dark.
Whole new world out there after the sun goes down.
The regular scurrying of various sparrow species, along with the occasional Dark Eyed Junco and Carolina Wren entertained me through the twilight minutes. Nearing the end of my walk only silhouettes were visible. An owl flew from the woods and landed on the crossbar of a high-tension tower 20 feet above me. I cranked my head around to look at it while it was doing the same, looking at me, as I passed beneath. Great Horned or Barred? Couldn’t tell. Sizes can be deceptive in the twilight.
The endorphins were pumping after that when I heard thrashing and thumping sounds coming from the nearby bushes. The loud grunting noises sounded like a 64-year-old man digging frozen-solid ice cream out of a container. Then the percussion section entered. Clack, clack, clack!
When I drew along side the noise I realized it was a pair of white-tailed bucks locked in combat! The animals were thrashing and butting heads about 15 feet away and must have picked up my scent. Suddenly they decided that it was a better idea to run than rut. Off they went in search of a car to jump in front of.
I walked about 50 yards down the trail and suddenly a sapling tree just off the trail started waving back and forth and violent thumping ensued.
I could just see the back shape of another white-tailed buck. This guy was using a tree as a punching bag.
It must have been boys night out in the woods. And even though I was one of them, and all for what they had in mind, I figured it best to make a hasty retreat. You just never can be sure about those hormones.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Going It Alone
Naturalist, writer, friend, Wendy often squirrels away little messages about, or for, life in her blog, www.naturenuts.com. The blog is purportedly about life in the urban wilds.
Recently she mused about squirrels preparing for winter and how they hide nuts, managing to retrieve enough to survive the winter when the snow flies. It says much about self preservation and long-term survival.
It got me to thinking and searching my mental database for comparable things in nature that might be reflected in the business world. In business, these days, it's all about teamwork and cooperation for survival. That's survival of the company, of course, often at the expense of the individual.
I thought of a group of European Starlings I watched recently. A Cooper's Hawk approached the loosely flying flock. Immediately the flock of hundreds of birds took on the appearance of a distant thunder cloud—so tight you could not see a speck of light through it. No bird wanted to be on the outside of the cluster. Teamwork? Not hardly. It was every bird for itself. Someone on the outside was going to be Mr. Cooper's lunch, they were thinking, and it ain’t gonna be me!
So much for security in numbers, teamwork and all that group survival stuff. The question becomes, which, or what matters most?
Maybe the squirrels have it right--we're all in this alone.
Recently she mused about squirrels preparing for winter and how they hide nuts, managing to retrieve enough to survive the winter when the snow flies. It says much about self preservation and long-term survival.
It got me to thinking and searching my mental database for comparable things in nature that might be reflected in the business world. In business, these days, it's all about teamwork and cooperation for survival. That's survival of the company, of course, often at the expense of the individual.
I thought of a group of European Starlings I watched recently. A Cooper's Hawk approached the loosely flying flock. Immediately the flock of hundreds of birds took on the appearance of a distant thunder cloud—so tight you could not see a speck of light through it. No bird wanted to be on the outside of the cluster. Teamwork? Not hardly. It was every bird for itself. Someone on the outside was going to be Mr. Cooper's lunch, they were thinking, and it ain’t gonna be me!
So much for security in numbers, teamwork and all that group survival stuff. The question becomes, which, or what matters most?
Maybe the squirrels have it right--we're all in this alone.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Give ‘Em Leaves and Fishes
Getting a few hours on the stream is always a pleasure, even when the challenges make others think you’re nuts for going fishing. (Secret is, being a bit nuts helps.) Friday was crystal clear and so was the water in the Clearfork, a branch of the Mohican River known mostly to fly fishers and not many others. The wind was howling like it was Montana. The wind-chill made me think of Colorado.
I started at one of my favorite spots where I usually pick up a trout or three, then move on to someplace else. For whatever reason known only to the trouts, there always seems to be a brownie or a rainbow hanging around that particular stretch. And if I fished there all day I wouldn’t get more than two or three fish; a lesson I learned a few years back.
Since there were no fish rising and no bugs in the air, I defied the astronomical odds and tied on a size 16 Adams in hopes that some unsuspecting fish might be looking up. I know, a trout gets 80% or 90% of its diet from below the surface. There’s just something about catching a fish on a dry fly …
It took about 15 minutes for me to come to my senses and switch to pheasant tail nymph that would drift a few inches below the surface. After nearly an hour of casting and not catching (one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results), I began to wonder where my three fish had gone. I had been battling the wind, sort of letting it place my cast about every other toss. The result was hooking up with a leaf three out of four casts.
Further upstream is a gorgeous looking spot. Something you see in all the fly fishing magazines. The perfect bend. The perfect riffle leading to the perfect pool. In all my years of fishing this stretch of the river I’ve never caught a thing in that spot—yet I always give it a shot. It’s sort of like asking the prettiest girl in your high school class for a date. You know the answer before you ask, however, at least you’ve tried.
I studied the water as if I knew what I was looking for. The water was low, clear and choked with leaves. More leaves in the water than on the trees. I was about to head back to the car and another spot on the stream—but I just couldn’t. I bushwhacked my way up stream to get a half-decent angle on that good looking riffle that led to the perfect looking hole. On my third cast I hooked up with nice little brown trout. I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or the fish.
(Well, I thought, maybe she would have said yes had I asked her one more time some 45-odd years ago …)
I spent the rest of the windy afternoon working the spot as I never had in the past. Lots of leaves, too many for most fishers I suppose. And there was the occasional fish. All brownies with the largest stretched out to about 12 inches. There were the day dreams too—maybe the principal attraction of fly fishing. It lets you enter other worlds if only for a windy, blindingly bright afternoon in October in Ohio that will etch itself on the inside of your skull to become the daydream 20 years from now.
I started at one of my favorite spots where I usually pick up a trout or three, then move on to someplace else. For whatever reason known only to the trouts, there always seems to be a brownie or a rainbow hanging around that particular stretch. And if I fished there all day I wouldn’t get more than two or three fish; a lesson I learned a few years back.
Since there were no fish rising and no bugs in the air, I defied the astronomical odds and tied on a size 16 Adams in hopes that some unsuspecting fish might be looking up. I know, a trout gets 80% or 90% of its diet from below the surface. There’s just something about catching a fish on a dry fly …
It took about 15 minutes for me to come to my senses and switch to pheasant tail nymph that would drift a few inches below the surface. After nearly an hour of casting and not catching (one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results), I began to wonder where my three fish had gone. I had been battling the wind, sort of letting it place my cast about every other toss. The result was hooking up with a leaf three out of four casts.
Further upstream is a gorgeous looking spot. Something you see in all the fly fishing magazines. The perfect bend. The perfect riffle leading to the perfect pool. In all my years of fishing this stretch of the river I’ve never caught a thing in that spot—yet I always give it a shot. It’s sort of like asking the prettiest girl in your high school class for a date. You know the answer before you ask, however, at least you’ve tried.
I studied the water as if I knew what I was looking for. The water was low, clear and choked with leaves. More leaves in the water than on the trees. I was about to head back to the car and another spot on the stream—but I just couldn’t. I bushwhacked my way up stream to get a half-decent angle on that good looking riffle that led to the perfect looking hole. On my third cast I hooked up with nice little brown trout. I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or the fish.
(Well, I thought, maybe she would have said yes had I asked her one more time some 45-odd years ago …)
I spent the rest of the windy afternoon working the spot as I never had in the past. Lots of leaves, too many for most fishers I suppose. And there was the occasional fish. All brownies with the largest stretched out to about 12 inches. There were the day dreams too—maybe the principal attraction of fly fishing. It lets you enter other worlds if only for a windy, blindingly bright afternoon in October in Ohio that will etch itself on the inside of your skull to become the daydream 20 years from now.
Friday, October 06, 2006
How Do Some People Get Their Jobs
Aside from your co-workers, but including your boss, do you ever wonder how some people get their jobs? I was being stuffed into a van at Midway Airport in Chicago this week for a thankfully short trip to McCormick Convention Center. While they were jamming one more body into the vehicle, our driver was giving us a preview of what was to come, based on telemetry she had gathered over years on the job. She told us to the tenth of a mile how far it was, how many minutes it would take at this hour and how many hours those same nine-point-whatever miles would take on Friday.
She recommended that if we were going to try to get out of town after 2:30PM on Friday that we pack a lunch. We would be stuck in traffic so bad it will bring tears to your eyes, she said. At least she had a sense of humor.
We zipped onto the highway and she bobbed and weaved between cars, doing things with a van that I wouldn’t attempt in a VW bug. One of the sales-types up front decided to do the employment interview thing with her. He asked, “So, do they give you drivers a lot of training for this job?”
“Not me,” said the driver. “I ran the bumper-car concession at Six Flags for about three years and I watch a lot of NASCAR on TV, so I guess they figured I knew what I was doing.”
She recommended that if we were going to try to get out of town after 2:30PM on Friday that we pack a lunch. We would be stuck in traffic so bad it will bring tears to your eyes, she said. At least she had a sense of humor.
We zipped onto the highway and she bobbed and weaved between cars, doing things with a van that I wouldn’t attempt in a VW bug. One of the sales-types up front decided to do the employment interview thing with her. He asked, “So, do they give you drivers a lot of training for this job?”
“Not me,” said the driver. “I ran the bumper-car concession at Six Flags for about three years and I watch a lot of NASCAR on TV, so I guess they figured I knew what I was doing.”
Global Warning
It was a no-win argument. Global warming. And it was generated by a newscast running on a television set designed to intrude into your pores while standing in line to get on an airplane—a time when you’re wishing for something more relaxing than the day’s news.
I only got into it because I didn’t like the guy’s smarmy attitude. He was wearing a big, shit-eating grin, shaking his head at the newscaster as if she could see—or care. I just kind of smiled. I don’t think I really said anything. He must have sensed, however, that I agreed with Dr. Whatshername; global warming is a reality.
He started with, “You Democrates …” And that’s what lit my candle. I was off to the ozone before I knew what happened.
No such thing as global warming, he said. “You Democrats and the liberal news media are making the whole thing up because you can’t accept the simple fact that President Bush’s administration has been right on all its other issues. No evidence.”
Right is right I muttered. I had at least two strikes against me with this fellow who was able to make such great leaps in judgment he could probably go over buildings in a single bound. Why I even responded when I should have been working on the life-plan for my dress-sock drawer at home, I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping to make that one small step for mankind thing.
My fear, suddenly, was that he might want to sit next to me on the plane. (Hmmm. Nice doggy, nice doggy. Now, where’s that stick?)
I focused on his “no evidence” idea. Since we were into name calling (“You Democrats”) I figured melting glaciers might be too large of a concept for his pea-size brain. “The evidence,” I calmly said with hardly any spittle at the corner of my mouth, “is the smoking gun in the hands of insensitive, greedy company owners that’s been pointing at the sky for decades.”
(Oooo, that felt good.) I noticed a slight tic begin at the corner of his left eye. His lips were locked but they moved a bit. I bet he had been preparing for the iceberg gambit. (Follow the money stupid. Nothing happens without money attached to it. And the more you make the less you are to blame, or so it seems.)
I only got into it because I didn’t like the guy’s smarmy attitude. He was wearing a big, shit-eating grin, shaking his head at the newscaster as if she could see—or care. I just kind of smiled. I don’t think I really said anything. He must have sensed, however, that I agreed with Dr. Whatshername; global warming is a reality.
He started with, “You Democrates …” And that’s what lit my candle. I was off to the ozone before I knew what happened.
No such thing as global warming, he said. “You Democrats and the liberal news media are making the whole thing up because you can’t accept the simple fact that President Bush’s administration has been right on all its other issues. No evidence.”
Right is right I muttered. I had at least two strikes against me with this fellow who was able to make such great leaps in judgment he could probably go over buildings in a single bound. Why I even responded when I should have been working on the life-plan for my dress-sock drawer at home, I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping to make that one small step for mankind thing.
My fear, suddenly, was that he might want to sit next to me on the plane. (Hmmm. Nice doggy, nice doggy. Now, where’s that stick?)
I focused on his “no evidence” idea. Since we were into name calling (“You Democrats”) I figured melting glaciers might be too large of a concept for his pea-size brain. “The evidence,” I calmly said with hardly any spittle at the corner of my mouth, “is the smoking gun in the hands of insensitive, greedy company owners that’s been pointing at the sky for decades.”
(Oooo, that felt good.) I noticed a slight tic begin at the corner of his left eye. His lips were locked but they moved a bit. I bet he had been preparing for the iceberg gambit. (Follow the money stupid. Nothing happens without money attached to it. And the more you make the less you are to blame, or so it seems.)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
A New Way of Seeing
Birding in winter months is either tough in the extremis, or boring to tears. Our part of the world here in northeast Ohio offers little middle ground. Watching House Finches at the feeder every day is not exactly challenging. Feeling tears freeze to your face while standing on the shores of Lake Erie looking for gulls is more challenge than many people want.
Well, here’s a dimension to birding I suspect you’ve not tried. It offers an opportunity to see things you’ve not seen before. Or, more accurately, to see them in a different light. I call it astrobirding. Here’s how it works.
It so happens that winter months offer excellent opportunities for astrobirding. On nights with a full moon, or near-full moon, haul your spotting scope out and focus on the nearest astronomical object we have. If you have an eyepiece that gives you 30X magnification you’ll see sights you might not expect. Although looking at the moon before and after the midpoint of its near-monthly trip through the sky yields more exciting moon views, it’s when the moon is full that you have the best chance of spotting birds.
Actually, the moon’s not really full. It’s a half moon since we can’t see the backside, but that’s another story.
This time of the year, with clear, stable air, is ideal for astrobirding. Birds in the night sky drift overhead. Our nearest celestial neighbor makes the perfect backdrop. The next couple months provide us with some great opportunities. You’ll have about seven hours of full-moon time to stare through your scope and watch owls, swans, cranes, flights of ducks and whatever else might be slashing through the late-fall night sky. Check an almanac or your local paper for moon rise and set times. The next three months will be great because the moon rises in the late afternoon or early evening, perfect timing.
Birds crossing the face of the moon move fast, or so it seems. They appear more as impressions than actual sightings. When you see something, back away from the eyepiece, reflect on what you saw—or thought you saw—and take an educated guess.
Silhouettes, fleeting as memories. Elusive as dreams.
Any night, two or three nights on either side of the full moon work for astrobirding. In October we hit the full moon on the 6th. Toward the end of the month, on Halloween night, we have an eight-day moon, perfect for watching for witches on broomsticks. November 5th we might see some early flights of Tundra Swans, though they usually fly over later in the month when we have another good opportunity on the 30th. December offers some great opportunities. Full moon is on the 4th and a nearly full moon on the 31st. Great way to end one year and start another.
I keep watching and hoping for a loon.
Well, here’s a dimension to birding I suspect you’ve not tried. It offers an opportunity to see things you’ve not seen before. Or, more accurately, to see them in a different light. I call it astrobirding. Here’s how it works.
It so happens that winter months offer excellent opportunities for astrobirding. On nights with a full moon, or near-full moon, haul your spotting scope out and focus on the nearest astronomical object we have. If you have an eyepiece that gives you 30X magnification you’ll see sights you might not expect. Although looking at the moon before and after the midpoint of its near-monthly trip through the sky yields more exciting moon views, it’s when the moon is full that you have the best chance of spotting birds.
Actually, the moon’s not really full. It’s a half moon since we can’t see the backside, but that’s another story.
This time of the year, with clear, stable air, is ideal for astrobirding. Birds in the night sky drift overhead. Our nearest celestial neighbor makes the perfect backdrop. The next couple months provide us with some great opportunities. You’ll have about seven hours of full-moon time to stare through your scope and watch owls, swans, cranes, flights of ducks and whatever else might be slashing through the late-fall night sky. Check an almanac or your local paper for moon rise and set times. The next three months will be great because the moon rises in the late afternoon or early evening, perfect timing.
Birds crossing the face of the moon move fast, or so it seems. They appear more as impressions than actual sightings. When you see something, back away from the eyepiece, reflect on what you saw—or thought you saw—and take an educated guess.
Silhouettes, fleeting as memories. Elusive as dreams.
Any night, two or three nights on either side of the full moon work for astrobirding. In October we hit the full moon on the 6th. Toward the end of the month, on Halloween night, we have an eight-day moon, perfect for watching for witches on broomsticks. November 5th we might see some early flights of Tundra Swans, though they usually fly over later in the month when we have another good opportunity on the 30th. December offers some great opportunities. Full moon is on the 4th and a nearly full moon on the 31st. Great way to end one year and start another.
I keep watching and hoping for a loon.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Time Waits, Writers Waste
We’re getting into that ideal time of the year here in northeast Ohio. It’s a small space, wedged between humidity of summer and chills of winter. Since someone else chose the name we’re stuck with calling this season fall. Seems like a negative term for such an uplifting interval in the passage of time. Must have been named for the direction leaves travel, not spirits.
Yesterday was one of those glorious days when all the things I’ve been meaning to do didn’t seem so critical as they had a few months ago. Some duties seem plenty happy to be left alone in the been-meaning-to-do-that stage. Sunday was a day meant for a walk in the woods. I found myself with time to burn and time to bend. And when you live a quarter mile from a trailhead into a national park it’s easy to find ways to bend time.
When I’m hiking in the park I prefer the beaten path; beaten by white-tail deer, foxes and coyotes. Paths beaten by humans are another story. Sometimes, however, those paths intersect and lead to interesting conclusions, if not destinations.
With 90 minutes of hiking stuck to the bottom of my boots, I began looking for a log to sit on. Finding the perfect log to fit your butt is one of the essentials of hiking most people are not aware of. Then they put in a few hundred miles on the Appalachian Trail. There, your day starts by thinking of how long before you’ll stop for the night, your next meal or finding the perfect sitting log, not necessarily in that order.
The log I found was good news and bad news. It fit my butt, however, it was within earshot (but not eyeshot) of the all-purpose trail. All-purpose trail—as long as your purpose is to ride a bike wearing headphones and talk with six other people of varying distances from you. The guy that came up with that name—all purpose—is the same dude what named turnpikes freeways. We should rename them "without-purpose" trails. They’re a hazard to health and sanity. Sunday’s crowd looked like a non-motorized version of a NASCAR event.
Trying to make the worse of a good situation, I listened to what folks were saying as they zipped past. I’m proud to say not once did I try to accost anyone and tell them to stop and listen to the birds instead of their own fatuous drivel. Sorry if that’s redundant.
For 15 minutes I listened. Here are the results of my unscientific research. Probably half the conversations involved computers or doing something on, to, or with a computer. What does that say about us? Go to a park and talk about computers. Beam me up Scotty!
And a lot of those "conversations" were rants by one person or another about someone in their office, boss or underling, who was "totally, I mean guys, like totally," illiterate.
Another big batch were couples engaged in various depths of dispute. When folks are just zipping by you have to fill in some blanks. It seems that a number of conversations involved the man telling the woman she needed this or that piece of equipment for her bicycle. Meanwhile, she’s pedaling faster to get out of the sound of his voice. You go, girl.
I looked over at the two chipmunks who reluctantly shared their log with me and asked, "Why don’t these people sit down and dream about missing the bus to work tomorrow?"
Yesterday was one of those glorious days when all the things I’ve been meaning to do didn’t seem so critical as they had a few months ago. Some duties seem plenty happy to be left alone in the been-meaning-to-do-that stage. Sunday was a day meant for a walk in the woods. I found myself with time to burn and time to bend. And when you live a quarter mile from a trailhead into a national park it’s easy to find ways to bend time.
When I’m hiking in the park I prefer the beaten path; beaten by white-tail deer, foxes and coyotes. Paths beaten by humans are another story. Sometimes, however, those paths intersect and lead to interesting conclusions, if not destinations.
With 90 minutes of hiking stuck to the bottom of my boots, I began looking for a log to sit on. Finding the perfect log to fit your butt is one of the essentials of hiking most people are not aware of. Then they put in a few hundred miles on the Appalachian Trail. There, your day starts by thinking of how long before you’ll stop for the night, your next meal or finding the perfect sitting log, not necessarily in that order.
The log I found was good news and bad news. It fit my butt, however, it was within earshot (but not eyeshot) of the all-purpose trail. All-purpose trail—as long as your purpose is to ride a bike wearing headphones and talk with six other people of varying distances from you. The guy that came up with that name—all purpose—is the same dude what named turnpikes freeways. We should rename them "without-purpose" trails. They’re a hazard to health and sanity. Sunday’s crowd looked like a non-motorized version of a NASCAR event.
Trying to make the worse of a good situation, I listened to what folks were saying as they zipped past. I’m proud to say not once did I try to accost anyone and tell them to stop and listen to the birds instead of their own fatuous drivel. Sorry if that’s redundant.
For 15 minutes I listened. Here are the results of my unscientific research. Probably half the conversations involved computers or doing something on, to, or with a computer. What does that say about us? Go to a park and talk about computers. Beam me up Scotty!
And a lot of those "conversations" were rants by one person or another about someone in their office, boss or underling, who was "totally, I mean guys, like totally," illiterate.
Another big batch were couples engaged in various depths of dispute. When folks are just zipping by you have to fill in some blanks. It seems that a number of conversations involved the man telling the woman she needed this or that piece of equipment for her bicycle. Meanwhile, she’s pedaling faster to get out of the sound of his voice. You go, girl.
I looked over at the two chipmunks who reluctantly shared their log with me and asked, "Why don’t these people sit down and dream about missing the bus to work tomorrow?"
Friday, September 29, 2006
Birder’s Nightmare
What’s a birder’s worse nightmare? Missing a plane connection from East Jesus Island back to the mainland and having to stay an extra day? Not hardly.
Paying a godzillion bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime trip only to discover it’s monsoon season when you arrive? Any day bad for flying is a good day for birding.
No. I think the thing we fear most is being alone and coming upon a totally out-of-place bird; or one that has been extinct since white men invaded the North American continent.
I rank this scenario just above being alone and finding a body stashed in the bushes of some remote park. I must say, the body thing used to really bother me. I often bird alone in places I’m unfamiliar with. Then the other day I crossed paths with a live, very live, alligator in Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge. The Zen moment was that in most places, any body would have been recycled by the time I found it. Except for maybe the baseball cap part. This enlightenment, resolving the mystery of how caps (and maybe shoes) turn up in remote places, took my mind off finding bodies.
My out-of-place bird is a yet-to-be-resolved problem. I easily studied a number of small birds working the trees in front of the nature center at Loxahatchee NWR last Tuesday. The center was closed. Even had it been open no one could have found it if they followed the directions given on the center’s Web site. As for maps of Florida, they might as well have provided a map of Nebraska. The directions were more than 10 miles off from the closest intersection noted. But that’s another story.
The point is, I was alone—except for the birds. Oh, and the ‘gators. So, leaning against my car I was ticking off warblers like I was walking the boardwalk at Magee Marsh. This was too cool. The most brilliant Prairie Warbler I’ve seen since … well, in a long time; Black-throated Blue; Common Yellowthroat. Man, this was easy.
Hmmm, Hermit Thrush, that seems odd. Then the nightmare. I of course did not realize it was a nightmare until I woke up. It was one of those tiny, nondescript birds working in the deep shadows. I applied my best pishing techniques and out he popped to see what all the silly noise was about. Oooo, a Red-breasted Nuthatch! Wow, that’s great!
Then it hit me—like getting out of an air conditioned car into the 96-degree heat and humidity too high to measure: Boy, you are way too far south to see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, especially at this time of the year. I watched the bird flit about the branches and disappear into the dense south-Florida underbrush.
A quick look at my field guide brought me up short. No nuthatch, red, white, brown or pygmy was to be found here. I checked the Loxahatchee list. None, as in zero, found here.
Oh boy, now what? My 2K memory bank searched for what else, anything else, it could have been. All the obvious birds were eliminated because this bird looked like what it was. Maybe it’s some exotic that flew over from the Bahamas? Nothing in the field guide qualified. I’ve seen an albino Yellow-bellied Sapsucker and partially albino American Robin that drove me to hours of page turning in field guides. This bird, however, left no (or little) doubt.
When I got back to my room I shot an e-mail off to friend Mauri Peterson, president of the St. Pete (Florida) Audubon Society, describing my dilemma. She was stumped as well. (I’ll leave out the part where she called me a weenie because I complained about the incessant heat.) She posted the sighting for comment to the Florida birders’ hot line. Nothing I’ve received from the folks down there has yet to change my mind about what I saw.
The bright point in all of this is that I no longer have to lie awake at night wondering what will happen if (when) I encounter an out-of-place bird. Maybe I should sign up for one of those group trips searching the swamps of Arkansas, looking for the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. I have nothing to fear—now—but why chance doing it solo?
Paying a godzillion bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime trip only to discover it’s monsoon season when you arrive? Any day bad for flying is a good day for birding.
No. I think the thing we fear most is being alone and coming upon a totally out-of-place bird; or one that has been extinct since white men invaded the North American continent.
I rank this scenario just above being alone and finding a body stashed in the bushes of some remote park. I must say, the body thing used to really bother me. I often bird alone in places I’m unfamiliar with. Then the other day I crossed paths with a live, very live, alligator in Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge. The Zen moment was that in most places, any body would have been recycled by the time I found it. Except for maybe the baseball cap part. This enlightenment, resolving the mystery of how caps (and maybe shoes) turn up in remote places, took my mind off finding bodies.
My out-of-place bird is a yet-to-be-resolved problem. I easily studied a number of small birds working the trees in front of the nature center at Loxahatchee NWR last Tuesday. The center was closed. Even had it been open no one could have found it if they followed the directions given on the center’s Web site. As for maps of Florida, they might as well have provided a map of Nebraska. The directions were more than 10 miles off from the closest intersection noted. But that’s another story.
The point is, I was alone—except for the birds. Oh, and the ‘gators. So, leaning against my car I was ticking off warblers like I was walking the boardwalk at Magee Marsh. This was too cool. The most brilliant Prairie Warbler I’ve seen since … well, in a long time; Black-throated Blue; Common Yellowthroat. Man, this was easy.
Hmmm, Hermit Thrush, that seems odd. Then the nightmare. I of course did not realize it was a nightmare until I woke up. It was one of those tiny, nondescript birds working in the deep shadows. I applied my best pishing techniques and out he popped to see what all the silly noise was about. Oooo, a Red-breasted Nuthatch! Wow, that’s great!
Then it hit me—like getting out of an air conditioned car into the 96-degree heat and humidity too high to measure: Boy, you are way too far south to see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, especially at this time of the year. I watched the bird flit about the branches and disappear into the dense south-Florida underbrush.
A quick look at my field guide brought me up short. No nuthatch, red, white, brown or pygmy was to be found here. I checked the Loxahatchee list. None, as in zero, found here.
Oh boy, now what? My 2K memory bank searched for what else, anything else, it could have been. All the obvious birds were eliminated because this bird looked like what it was. Maybe it’s some exotic that flew over from the Bahamas? Nothing in the field guide qualified. I’ve seen an albino Yellow-bellied Sapsucker and partially albino American Robin that drove me to hours of page turning in field guides. This bird, however, left no (or little) doubt.
When I got back to my room I shot an e-mail off to friend Mauri Peterson, president of the St. Pete (Florida) Audubon Society, describing my dilemma. She was stumped as well. (I’ll leave out the part where she called me a weenie because I complained about the incessant heat.) She posted the sighting for comment to the Florida birders’ hot line. Nothing I’ve received from the folks down there has yet to change my mind about what I saw.
The bright point in all of this is that I no longer have to lie awake at night wondering what will happen if (when) I encounter an out-of-place bird. Maybe I should sign up for one of those group trips searching the swamps of Arkansas, looking for the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. I have nothing to fear—now—but why chance doing it solo?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
And Why Not
Currently, birding for me is a pause; a break in the action of daily life. It’s the white space between the notes that define the music. It functions well in that capacity, particularly when I’ve been around folks who think wearing a tie can actually improve what you do or what you say.
These are the kinds of people who allow societal pressures define what they call a normal life. And they grow up to become corporate CEOs and the like. Maybe even lawyers and NASCAR drivers. I take pleasure in knowing I’ll never be burdened with unearned income, or tangled in the lines of golden parachutes. You only need a parachute when you’re on the way down, right?
So if you pass up a chance to play golf and talk more about what you’ve been talking about, incessantly, since you ate the quiche this morning, you’re suspect. And if you say you’re going birding, they look at you, not often straight on, but out of the corner of their eye. Their heads turn a bit, trying to assess the danger level. Flight or fight?
Yesterday I had just finished a speaking gig in West Palm Beach and was heading for Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge and a few hours of birding. One of the conference attendees ambushed me in the lobby of the overly plush Breakers Hotel. I never saw him coming. His green cap with matching logo shirt and shorts proved to be great camouflage. He stood behind the potted plants used to make the inside of the place artificially look like the outside. Why do they do that, then go to great efforts to keep out the bugs and other creatures?
“Great talk this morning. Wanna join us for some golf?”
“Ah, thanks. Nope.”
“We’ve got room for one more. We’re playing on the Ocean (something) course this afternoon.”
They never listen to your first answer.
“No, thanks. I’m going birding.”
And there was that look. He wanted to be sure no one saw him talking with a birder—whatever that was, or is.
“Aaaa, like bird watching? Why would you want to go out in this heat [96 degrees] and watch birds?”
The greatest of all philosophical questions—why.
And it’s so easily answered with the greatest of all philosophical answers—why not.
I had a lot of smart-ass answers I could have used, such as, you’re going to go hit a little white ball around in this heat … That kind of stuff.
I’ve learned that just saying “why not” is usually enough. It gives the asker enough space to nod his head and slip away, feeling like he won the discussion, which is what it’s all about for these corporate-leader types—winning.
This guy didn’t cave. He hadn’t grappled to the top of his corporate heap by not knowing all the answers. “So, what do you expect to see out there?”
Hmmm. Was this an opportunity to educate, or just some dude passing time, waiting for a more likely golfing prospect?
Let’s educate, I thought. “Well, Loxahatchee is about the only place you can still find the endangered Snail Kite,” I said in my most pleasant, instructional tone of voice.
Oops, that did it. His eyes narrowed. He furtively glanced around, kind of bird-like. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “A bird called a snail?”
I could pull out the field guide … No, let’s quit wasting time. Go directly to smart-ass. “Nope. The bird is a kite. It eats snails. Apple snails, actually.”
Now he was cooked. He had to get in the last word, however. That’s what bosses do best. He knew he was dealing with someone who was loosely wrapped; potentially dangerous. “Ya know, none of those words make a bit of sense if you’re really talking about birds.”
I just grinned, raised my shoulders and bid him a tolerable day on the course.
He certainly made my day. So, maybe I bird to be able to have a bit of fun with corporate leaders.
These are the kinds of people who allow societal pressures define what they call a normal life. And they grow up to become corporate CEOs and the like. Maybe even lawyers and NASCAR drivers. I take pleasure in knowing I’ll never be burdened with unearned income, or tangled in the lines of golden parachutes. You only need a parachute when you’re on the way down, right?
So if you pass up a chance to play golf and talk more about what you’ve been talking about, incessantly, since you ate the quiche this morning, you’re suspect. And if you say you’re going birding, they look at you, not often straight on, but out of the corner of their eye. Their heads turn a bit, trying to assess the danger level. Flight or fight?
Yesterday I had just finished a speaking gig in West Palm Beach and was heading for Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge and a few hours of birding. One of the conference attendees ambushed me in the lobby of the overly plush Breakers Hotel. I never saw him coming. His green cap with matching logo shirt and shorts proved to be great camouflage. He stood behind the potted plants used to make the inside of the place artificially look like the outside. Why do they do that, then go to great efforts to keep out the bugs and other creatures?
“Great talk this morning. Wanna join us for some golf?”
“Ah, thanks. Nope.”
“We’ve got room for one more. We’re playing on the Ocean (something) course this afternoon.”
They never listen to your first answer.
“No, thanks. I’m going birding.”
And there was that look. He wanted to be sure no one saw him talking with a birder—whatever that was, or is.
“Aaaa, like bird watching? Why would you want to go out in this heat [96 degrees] and watch birds?”
The greatest of all philosophical questions—why.
And it’s so easily answered with the greatest of all philosophical answers—why not.
I had a lot of smart-ass answers I could have used, such as, you’re going to go hit a little white ball around in this heat … That kind of stuff.
I’ve learned that just saying “why not” is usually enough. It gives the asker enough space to nod his head and slip away, feeling like he won the discussion, which is what it’s all about for these corporate-leader types—winning.
This guy didn’t cave. He hadn’t grappled to the top of his corporate heap by not knowing all the answers. “So, what do you expect to see out there?”
Hmmm. Was this an opportunity to educate, or just some dude passing time, waiting for a more likely golfing prospect?
Let’s educate, I thought. “Well, Loxahatchee is about the only place you can still find the endangered Snail Kite,” I said in my most pleasant, instructional tone of voice.
Oops, that did it. His eyes narrowed. He furtively glanced around, kind of bird-like. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “A bird called a snail?”
I could pull out the field guide … No, let’s quit wasting time. Go directly to smart-ass. “Nope. The bird is a kite. It eats snails. Apple snails, actually.”
Now he was cooked. He had to get in the last word, however. That’s what bosses do best. He knew he was dealing with someone who was loosely wrapped; potentially dangerous. “Ya know, none of those words make a bit of sense if you’re really talking about birds.”
I just grinned, raised my shoulders and bid him a tolerable day on the course.
He certainly made my day. So, maybe I bird to be able to have a bit of fun with corporate leaders.
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Lot Can Happen Between Here and There
We were about half way between here and there, maybe 60 minutes outside of Baltimore flying to West Palm Beach. The flight attendant calmly asked for a doctor or medical person. Chimes dinged in a couple spots. I cranked my neck around to see what was happening.
Seems there was a woman in distress two rows back and across the aisle.
A young woman across the aisle from me, without hesitation, climbs over the two people next to her and gets to the woman in distress about the same time as another young woman from the back of the plane. Turns out the first is a nurse, an EMT, and the second a doctor.
In a case of life-imitating-art (at least what passes for art on television), or maybe it’s the other way around, the doctor had caught my eye while waiting on line for the flight. I think she had captured just about everyone’s eye. About 5’ 10”, blond and fresh off the pages of some fashion magazine. Now she looked like a new character for ER. (Sexist! ((Who said that?)))
The crew of the Southwest flight 881 is incredibly efficient. While a couple of the attendants work to get the aisle clear and the doc to the patient, another opens the first overhead bin and plugs in a special headset to talk with … ? Well, talk with someone, probably the pilot. She also has a diagramed yellow sheet with instructions and procedures to be followed. She gives a running commentary to someone, and now I have the feeling it’s someone with medical experience since she seems to be answering questions.
The doc is making a quick assessment. The nurse helping as they talk things through. The woman in distress is getting more so. The doc tells the flight crew to get the defibrillator handy. Just get it out. And she also says something with her eyes that I can’t understand.
Out comes the red bag and cords.
The doc calls for some orange juice as she tries to communicate with the patient. She doesn’t seem to be giving the doc the answers the doc wants.
Doc calls for oxygen and it’s there faster than I can type the word.
More orange juice. Aspirin? Aspirin.
More oxygen.
Patient’s looking better, but the doc wants everyone to hold their places.
A decision is made to move the woman up a half dozen rows to the front bulkhead seats. More space for the doc to work on her.
Looking better by the minute the doc says. Nurse and doc sit with her and comfort her. Lots of elderly people on this flight paying close attention.
These airplane people are good! No panic. The crew acts like it’s an everyday occurrence. I’ve been flying for 45 years and it’s the first time I’ve seen this.
Crew member writes down how much oxygen was consumed.
Smiles all ‘round. What looks like an exchange of names and addresses is going on! Lots of conversation, like they’re talking with a groggy prizefighter.
Doc stands to let the attendant climb on the seat and put the oxygen bottle back in its cradle. Doc flashes a killer smile to the guy who got on the plane with her.
He returns a knowing smile. Damned proud of you, he’s thinking. All in a day’s work, her eyes say.
Situation under control.
Then the grumbling about slow service starts. And just when I thought the human race might be worth saving …
Seems there was a woman in distress two rows back and across the aisle.
A young woman across the aisle from me, without hesitation, climbs over the two people next to her and gets to the woman in distress about the same time as another young woman from the back of the plane. Turns out the first is a nurse, an EMT, and the second a doctor.
In a case of life-imitating-art (at least what passes for art on television), or maybe it’s the other way around, the doctor had caught my eye while waiting on line for the flight. I think she had captured just about everyone’s eye. About 5’ 10”, blond and fresh off the pages of some fashion magazine. Now she looked like a new character for ER. (Sexist! ((Who said that?)))
The crew of the Southwest flight 881 is incredibly efficient. While a couple of the attendants work to get the aisle clear and the doc to the patient, another opens the first overhead bin and plugs in a special headset to talk with … ? Well, talk with someone, probably the pilot. She also has a diagramed yellow sheet with instructions and procedures to be followed. She gives a running commentary to someone, and now I have the feeling it’s someone with medical experience since she seems to be answering questions.
The doc is making a quick assessment. The nurse helping as they talk things through. The woman in distress is getting more so. The doc tells the flight crew to get the defibrillator handy. Just get it out. And she also says something with her eyes that I can’t understand.
Out comes the red bag and cords.
The doc calls for some orange juice as she tries to communicate with the patient. She doesn’t seem to be giving the doc the answers the doc wants.
Doc calls for oxygen and it’s there faster than I can type the word.
More orange juice. Aspirin? Aspirin.
More oxygen.
Patient’s looking better, but the doc wants everyone to hold their places.
A decision is made to move the woman up a half dozen rows to the front bulkhead seats. More space for the doc to work on her.
Looking better by the minute the doc says. Nurse and doc sit with her and comfort her. Lots of elderly people on this flight paying close attention.
These airplane people are good! No panic. The crew acts like it’s an everyday occurrence. I’ve been flying for 45 years and it’s the first time I’ve seen this.
Crew member writes down how much oxygen was consumed.
Smiles all ‘round. What looks like an exchange of names and addresses is going on! Lots of conversation, like they’re talking with a groggy prizefighter.
Doc stands to let the attendant climb on the seat and put the oxygen bottle back in its cradle. Doc flashes a killer smile to the guy who got on the plane with her.
He returns a knowing smile. Damned proud of you, he’s thinking. All in a day’s work, her eyes say.
Situation under control.
Then the grumbling about slow service starts. And just when I thought the human race might be worth saving …
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Fishing for Stripers
Fishing for striped bass (sorry, all you guys who Googled a similarly spelled word hoping to see scantly clad women) is always a treat and like-new experience for us fresh-water fly fishers.
I’m just finishing a four-day trip to the ever-changing scenic Cape Ann area of Massachusetts, where the end of the striper migration is happening. These big-shouldered fish are heading south for a while, some as far as Florida.
The fish I got into are referred to as “schoolies.” I don’t know why they carry that tag, however, it’s what the locals call the little guys. Little, in this case is a relative term. Most of the fish I landed (the biggest one got away, honest!) were in the range of 18 inches to 20 inches and weighed in around three or four pounds.
As a trout fisher, that’s getting close to record size, and if you’re a trout fisher from Cleveland, steelhead excluded, a 20-inch, four-pound fish is enough of an excuse to call off going to work on Monday.
The schoolies here were great fighters (as any of us would be with a hook in our jaw) and all were returned to the ocean, traumatized I’m sure, but no worse the ware. One fish in particular is telling an unbelievable tail to its buddies. It was the second fish I caught yesterday. I was playing it for a few minutes (Playing is the human’s term; fish, I’m sure call it something else. You really can’t call fishing a sport since the opponents don’t know they’re even in a game.) and I began to see it flashing a red color. I knew it wasn’t blood and thought I had hooked up with some other species.
I landed the fish and discovered it had a huge artificial lure stuck in its jaw. The lure was fuchsia-colored creature and about 10-inches long, equipped with more hooks than a small tackle shop.
I carefully got the hooks, mine included, out of the fish’s mouth and put the confused creature back into the ocean. It waved good-by as it sped off to tell a tale of capture, rescue and release.
Hmmm. Same story as I’m telling.
I’m just finishing a four-day trip to the ever-changing scenic Cape Ann area of Massachusetts, where the end of the striper migration is happening. These big-shouldered fish are heading south for a while, some as far as Florida.
The fish I got into are referred to as “schoolies.” I don’t know why they carry that tag, however, it’s what the locals call the little guys. Little, in this case is a relative term. Most of the fish I landed (the biggest one got away, honest!) were in the range of 18 inches to 20 inches and weighed in around three or four pounds.
As a trout fisher, that’s getting close to record size, and if you’re a trout fisher from Cleveland, steelhead excluded, a 20-inch, four-pound fish is enough of an excuse to call off going to work on Monday.
The schoolies here were great fighters (as any of us would be with a hook in our jaw) and all were returned to the ocean, traumatized I’m sure, but no worse the ware. One fish in particular is telling an unbelievable tail to its buddies. It was the second fish I caught yesterday. I was playing it for a few minutes (Playing is the human’s term; fish, I’m sure call it something else. You really can’t call fishing a sport since the opponents don’t know they’re even in a game.) and I began to see it flashing a red color. I knew it wasn’t blood and thought I had hooked up with some other species.
I landed the fish and discovered it had a huge artificial lure stuck in its jaw. The lure was fuchsia-colored creature and about 10-inches long, equipped with more hooks than a small tackle shop.
I carefully got the hooks, mine included, out of the fish’s mouth and put the confused creature back into the ocean. It waved good-by as it sped off to tell a tale of capture, rescue and release.
Hmmm. Same story as I’m telling.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Seesawing of the Seasons
Summer’s running on empty. From 38,000 feet above the surface of Planet Earth, it’s easy to see the changes when you head west and back to the future. By the time I arrived in Salt Lake City I was only an hour late for lunch, which I had eaten in Chicago a couple hours before, which was an hour earlier than it was in Cleveland. Or something like that.
But above it all the changing colors dominate the landscape and your mind. Ohio, from that altitude still has an attitude of green—mossy green, but green nonetheless. There are the occasional punctuation marks of orange and red, reminding us that the sentence has to come to an end. The unsure yellow spots seemed more like question marks.
Iowa this day was decidedly tan, punctuated by a bit of gray here and there. Few and far between were barns, water towers and other evidence of human habitation. Gray/brown was the color today in Iowa and will be the color in Cleveland in the future. Thank goodness for Northern Cardinals and Blue Jays.
As we moved over the mountains in Colorado it was suddenly white, bright white with fresh snow capping the rocks. Lower down was the bumpy grayish brown of last season’s leftovers, not unlike that piece of meatloaf you found in the back of the fridge last week.
And on to Utah. More incredible shades of tan and gray and again, snow. Lots of snow. It was Cleveland’s future. Well, okay, minus the mountains.
I made a quick three-hour trip out the Antelope Island State Park, located in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. I was amazed to see snow floating on the water as far as I could see. Through my binoculars I discovered it was not snow. It was more American Avocets than I ever dreamed were on the planet! Tens of thousands of them, all virtually in basic plumage. As far as I could see, and here I think you can safely measure the distance in miles, were avocets. I pulled out the scope (Why we need confirmation of what we already know remains a mystery to me.) and the view, distorted by a shortening of perspective, was even more spectacular.
When the ranger walked up to me and asked if I was going to pay my $9 entry fee I jokingly said, “I think I’ve seen the whole show already.”
She looked at the avocets as I do European Starlings and said, “Well, the big flock is at the West end of the causeway.” Yikes!
She was about half right. The flock at the end of the causeway was enormous, however, what made it seem larger was that tens of thousands of the birds in the flock were Black-necked Stilts! Here the massive white covering of the lake was punctuated with black of their necks and backs.
I figured I had already squeezed more than my $9 out of this place, however I should drive around to see if there were any bonus birds about. Mid-September is the nadir of the birding season in this part of the West. I got lucky. A Burrowing Owl who should have been on his way south played peek-a-boo with me until he figured I was less of a threat than the Northern Harrier who kept passing overhead. His golden eyes, the color of the turning aspen leaves in the mountains behind him, stared at me, never blinking. We chatted a bit about the changing season, going to Mexico for some warmer weather and did I think the global warming thing would change his migration patterns. Birds of the feather ...
By the time I arrived at Park City, my destination, most of the snow had melted. It hung on in places hiding from the sun. The mountains at 6,700 feet were awash in golden aspen leaves and snow. The air up here is so clean you can’t even see what you’re breathing. Just like Cleveland will be in a couple months. Well, maybe not exactly, however it was a nice preview of coming attractions.
But above it all the changing colors dominate the landscape and your mind. Ohio, from that altitude still has an attitude of green—mossy green, but green nonetheless. There are the occasional punctuation marks of orange and red, reminding us that the sentence has to come to an end. The unsure yellow spots seemed more like question marks.
Iowa this day was decidedly tan, punctuated by a bit of gray here and there. Few and far between were barns, water towers and other evidence of human habitation. Gray/brown was the color today in Iowa and will be the color in Cleveland in the future. Thank goodness for Northern Cardinals and Blue Jays.
As we moved over the mountains in Colorado it was suddenly white, bright white with fresh snow capping the rocks. Lower down was the bumpy grayish brown of last season’s leftovers, not unlike that piece of meatloaf you found in the back of the fridge last week.
And on to Utah. More incredible shades of tan and gray and again, snow. Lots of snow. It was Cleveland’s future. Well, okay, minus the mountains.
I made a quick three-hour trip out the Antelope Island State Park, located in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. I was amazed to see snow floating on the water as far as I could see. Through my binoculars I discovered it was not snow. It was more American Avocets than I ever dreamed were on the planet! Tens of thousands of them, all virtually in basic plumage. As far as I could see, and here I think you can safely measure the distance in miles, were avocets. I pulled out the scope (Why we need confirmation of what we already know remains a mystery to me.) and the view, distorted by a shortening of perspective, was even more spectacular.
When the ranger walked up to me and asked if I was going to pay my $9 entry fee I jokingly said, “I think I’ve seen the whole show already.”
She looked at the avocets as I do European Starlings and said, “Well, the big flock is at the West end of the causeway.” Yikes!
She was about half right. The flock at the end of the causeway was enormous, however, what made it seem larger was that tens of thousands of the birds in the flock were Black-necked Stilts! Here the massive white covering of the lake was punctuated with black of their necks and backs.
I figured I had already squeezed more than my $9 out of this place, however I should drive around to see if there were any bonus birds about. Mid-September is the nadir of the birding season in this part of the West. I got lucky. A Burrowing Owl who should have been on his way south played peek-a-boo with me until he figured I was less of a threat than the Northern Harrier who kept passing overhead. His golden eyes, the color of the turning aspen leaves in the mountains behind him, stared at me, never blinking. We chatted a bit about the changing season, going to Mexico for some warmer weather and did I think the global warming thing would change his migration patterns. Birds of the feather ...
By the time I arrived at Park City, my destination, most of the snow had melted. It hung on in places hiding from the sun. The mountains at 6,700 feet were awash in golden aspen leaves and snow. The air up here is so clean you can’t even see what you’re breathing. Just like Cleveland will be in a couple months. Well, maybe not exactly, however it was a nice preview of coming attractions.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
For a Better America
When President Bush calls to ask me what’s needed to get this country back on track, I’m ready. It occurred to me this morning, while waiting for the bus in a torrential downpour, that what this country needs is not a really good five-cent cigar, as the forgettable Thomas Riley Marshall, vice president from 1913 to 1921, said, but a mandatory walk in the woods. (As an aside, Marshall’s other great line was, "Indiana is the mother of vice presidents, home of more second-class men than any other state.")
An annual three-day backpacking trip should be a requirement for U.S. citizenship, right up there with a mandatory driver’s license re-exam every three years—and a five-year suspension of all NASCAR events and merchandise sales.
What prompted the thought was all the grousing by my bus-buddies, and all the crap we carry just to get through the day in a dry office.
I’ve done about 800 miles of the Appalachian Trail over the years, and numerous other hikes and camps. Out there (where ever "there" happens to be) you carry all you need for a week or so on your back. Everything. You learn if you get wet, you’ll dry. If you get hungry, you’ll fix something to eat. You won’t need newspapers because what happens doesn’t really matter and effects you even less.
All you really need to survive is on your back and in your pockets. If you need entertainment you stop to examine the bark of a tree. You stand still, stare at the ground and bust your brain trying to remember a bird’s song. You talk with people you’ll never see again so you’re free to tell the truth. Danger is not some druggie in a car, it’s your imagination: Was that a bear or a crazed Wild Turkey? Oh, another hiker taking a pee.
A backpacking trip brings life down to it’s most basic common denominators. At the end of the trip you swear you’ll never do it again. Two weeks later, hassling an umbrella, coffee cup, lap top computer case and deadlines, you start planning next year’s hike. It makes you focus on what matters most, something that’s missing from most political agendas.
An annual three-day backpacking trip should be a requirement for U.S. citizenship, right up there with a mandatory driver’s license re-exam every three years—and a five-year suspension of all NASCAR events and merchandise sales.
What prompted the thought was all the grousing by my bus-buddies, and all the crap we carry just to get through the day in a dry office.
I’ve done about 800 miles of the Appalachian Trail over the years, and numerous other hikes and camps. Out there (where ever "there" happens to be) you carry all you need for a week or so on your back. Everything. You learn if you get wet, you’ll dry. If you get hungry, you’ll fix something to eat. You won’t need newspapers because what happens doesn’t really matter and effects you even less.
All you really need to survive is on your back and in your pockets. If you need entertainment you stop to examine the bark of a tree. You stand still, stare at the ground and bust your brain trying to remember a bird’s song. You talk with people you’ll never see again so you’re free to tell the truth. Danger is not some druggie in a car, it’s your imagination: Was that a bear or a crazed Wild Turkey? Oh, another hiker taking a pee.
A backpacking trip brings life down to it’s most basic common denominators. At the end of the trip you swear you’ll never do it again. Two weeks later, hassling an umbrella, coffee cup, lap top computer case and deadlines, you start planning next year’s hike. It makes you focus on what matters most, something that’s missing from most political agendas.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Her Name is Luna
Some days are not meant for working. Today is one such.
6:28AM. Dark. Head north to the bus stop. Challenges of the office tax my brain.
6:30AM. Moon-roof open. Dylan crooning on the CD player. Zip across the architecturally spectacular bridge that spans the Cuyahoga River. Helps us commuters sail through the air along Route 82. Cleveland, if not in my sights, is in my mind.
6:31AM. There hangs the moon—just hours past its full stage. Closing in on apogee in a couple of weeks. Only 238,855 miles away today. I could reach out and touch her. We measure her orbit against the stars. Humans try to do the same with themselves. Our future is in the stars.
6:32AM. Now is when I need to run out of gas. Maybe a flat tire. Please Ra! Grant me this one wish and I’ll never again … Luck is not with me. More unanswered prayers.
6:33AM. The river, somewhere down there 145 feet below, looks like it’s smokin’. I’m a wishin’ and a hopin’. If this is not the top of the world, I can, at least, see the top of the world from here.
6:33.5AM. Luna’s golden buttery color belies her minus-387-degree- and maximum-253-degree temperatures.
6:34AM. Who decided it was a "man" in the moon, then gave it a feminine name? Sorry Luna, white guys rule—or at least they used to—which is how we got to where we are.
6:34.5AM. Summer’s over. You want the world to just let you be. Let the fog wrap you in its coolness. Cool sheets. Whispered good-byes.
6:35AM. A flock of geese honking. Heading south. No! It’s the line of cars behind me. Forming the letter I, not the letter V. Follow.
6:35.5AM. Some day I’ll learn to read lips in the rearview mirror. For today, however, I’m going to work on my internal compass; contemplate an attitude adjustment and figure a way to break Luna’s gravitational pull to achieve an escape velocity of 5,324 miles per hour.
6:36AM. Or, maybe I'll do that tomorrow.
6:28AM. Dark. Head north to the bus stop. Challenges of the office tax my brain.
6:30AM. Moon-roof open. Dylan crooning on the CD player. Zip across the architecturally spectacular bridge that spans the Cuyahoga River. Helps us commuters sail through the air along Route 82. Cleveland, if not in my sights, is in my mind.
6:31AM. There hangs the moon—just hours past its full stage. Closing in on apogee in a couple of weeks. Only 238,855 miles away today. I could reach out and touch her. We measure her orbit against the stars. Humans try to do the same with themselves. Our future is in the stars.
6:32AM. Now is when I need to run out of gas. Maybe a flat tire. Please Ra! Grant me this one wish and I’ll never again … Luck is not with me. More unanswered prayers.
6:33AM. The river, somewhere down there 145 feet below, looks like it’s smokin’. I’m a wishin’ and a hopin’. If this is not the top of the world, I can, at least, see the top of the world from here.
6:33.5AM. Luna’s golden buttery color belies her minus-387-degree- and maximum-253-degree temperatures.
6:34AM. Who decided it was a "man" in the moon, then gave it a feminine name? Sorry Luna, white guys rule—or at least they used to—which is how we got to where we are.
6:34.5AM. Summer’s over. You want the world to just let you be. Let the fog wrap you in its coolness. Cool sheets. Whispered good-byes.
6:35AM. A flock of geese honking. Heading south. No! It’s the line of cars behind me. Forming the letter I, not the letter V. Follow.
6:35.5AM. Some day I’ll learn to read lips in the rearview mirror. For today, however, I’m going to work on my internal compass; contemplate an attitude adjustment and figure a way to break Luna’s gravitational pull to achieve an escape velocity of 5,324 miles per hour.
6:36AM. Or, maybe I'll do that tomorrow.
Friday, August 25, 2006
It’s Never Just an Owl
Last night I was awakened at 1:00 AM by the mesmerizing voice of a Great Horned Owl. I had to wake Susan since owls are her favorite species. This bird was right outside our bedroom window, later discovered in the tamarack tree.
It sang for about 15 minutes, then stopped. It returned for an encore performance about 5:30 AM. This time it opted for the copper beach, also right outside our bedroom window. Later in the morning, after the sun was up, I saw the bird fly from the tamarack with only a quick glance over its shoulder as it headed for the national park to its left.
The great thing about owl songs is that they’re so easy to remember. When you live in an area that has only four species of owls, it makes it even easier. Yet, there’s something magical, haunting and to some folks frightening about the owl.
It’s interesting that here in America, maybe I should say Western cultures, we view the owl as “wise.” Other cultures find the owl as varied as the cultures themselves. No other bird species has drawn global and historical significance like the owl.
Native American religions use the owl a lot. The Cree believe the whistle-sounds of a Boreal Owl are a summoning call to the spirit world. If an Apache dreamed of an owl, it was thought death was on the way. This is a similar belief to Native Americans in the Northwest and Alaska. Cherokee tribes consulted Eastern Screech-Owls on punishment and sickness. Other practitioners of Native American spiritual traditions claim the owl represents vision and insight.
In the culture of the Hopi tribes, a number of taboos surround owls. The birds are associated with evil sorcery. Possession of owl feathers is considered an indication of witchcraft.
Hinduism uses the owl as a symbol of cosmic spirituality.
To the Bantu natives in Africa, the owl is thought of as a friend of the wizards. In Eastern Africa, tribes believe owls bring illness to children. Zulus in Southern Africa regard the owl as a bird of sorcerers. Other tribes in the western parts of Africa consider the bird a messenger for wizards as well. In Madagascar it is believed that owls gather with witches to dance on the graves of the dead.
Ancient Egyptians used an owl representation for their hieroglyphs. They would draw an owl hieroglyph with its legs broken to keep the bird of prey from coming to life.
It used to be, in Japanese cultures, the owl was a symbol of death. Seeing one was considered a bad omen. Times change, however. Currently, the bird is considered a bird of luck.
In India, a white owl is considered the companion of the goddess of wealth. It’s a harbinger of prosperity.
In Greek mythology, the owl, and specifically the Little Owl, was often associated with the Greek goddess Athena—a bird goddess if there ever was one—who often assumed the form of an owl. She was also the goddess of wisdom, art and skill. That’s probably how owls became symbols of learning.
Susan and I just love to hear them hoot, even at 1:00 AM.
It sang for about 15 minutes, then stopped. It returned for an encore performance about 5:30 AM. This time it opted for the copper beach, also right outside our bedroom window. Later in the morning, after the sun was up, I saw the bird fly from the tamarack with only a quick glance over its shoulder as it headed for the national park to its left.
The great thing about owl songs is that they’re so easy to remember. When you live in an area that has only four species of owls, it makes it even easier. Yet, there’s something magical, haunting and to some folks frightening about the owl.
It’s interesting that here in America, maybe I should say Western cultures, we view the owl as “wise.” Other cultures find the owl as varied as the cultures themselves. No other bird species has drawn global and historical significance like the owl.
Native American religions use the owl a lot. The Cree believe the whistle-sounds of a Boreal Owl are a summoning call to the spirit world. If an Apache dreamed of an owl, it was thought death was on the way. This is a similar belief to Native Americans in the Northwest and Alaska. Cherokee tribes consulted Eastern Screech-Owls on punishment and sickness. Other practitioners of Native American spiritual traditions claim the owl represents vision and insight.
In the culture of the Hopi tribes, a number of taboos surround owls. The birds are associated with evil sorcery. Possession of owl feathers is considered an indication of witchcraft.
Hinduism uses the owl as a symbol of cosmic spirituality.
To the Bantu natives in Africa, the owl is thought of as a friend of the wizards. In Eastern Africa, tribes believe owls bring illness to children. Zulus in Southern Africa regard the owl as a bird of sorcerers. Other tribes in the western parts of Africa consider the bird a messenger for wizards as well. In Madagascar it is believed that owls gather with witches to dance on the graves of the dead.
Ancient Egyptians used an owl representation for their hieroglyphs. They would draw an owl hieroglyph with its legs broken to keep the bird of prey from coming to life.
It used to be, in Japanese cultures, the owl was a symbol of death. Seeing one was considered a bad omen. Times change, however. Currently, the bird is considered a bird of luck.
In India, a white owl is considered the companion of the goddess of wealth. It’s a harbinger of prosperity.
In Greek mythology, the owl, and specifically the Little Owl, was often associated with the Greek goddess Athena—a bird goddess if there ever was one—who often assumed the form of an owl. She was also the goddess of wisdom, art and skill. That’s probably how owls became symbols of learning.
Susan and I just love to hear them hoot, even at 1:00 AM.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A Voyage of Discovery
I’ve been reading a lot about Meriwether Lewis, William Clark and the Corps of Discovery this past year. Maybe devouring is a better word. After reading a plethora of books I decided to go to the source and this summer have been working through the journals of Lewis, Clark and others whose notes on that great adventure of 1804-06 survive.
It’s fascinating to read the daily musings, rants and descriptions from these adventurers. Since they lacked spell checkers in those days (or even dictionaries) it’s slow reading. That slowness, however, lets you savor their moments of terror, starvation and discovery.
Their listings of birds previously not seen or described by white men are intriguing. Because the journals where not published for nearly 100 years after they returned (and that’s another fascinating story) many of the birds they named, now carry different names. (As any academician will tell you, it’s not who makes the discovery, it’s who publishes first that gets the credit.) Here’s Meriwether Lewis’ jottings from 1805 while sitting in soaking clothes in a leaky hut in Oregon: “… a small Crow, the blue crested Corvus and the smaller Corvus with a white brest, and the little brown ren, a large brown sparrow, the bald Eagle and the beatifull Buzzard of the columbia still continue with us.”
Some we can figure out: Steller’s Jay, Winter Wren, California Condor (which they ate); others we can only wonder about.
It’s fascinating to read the daily musings, rants and descriptions from these adventurers. Since they lacked spell checkers in those days (or even dictionaries) it’s slow reading. That slowness, however, lets you savor their moments of terror, starvation and discovery.
Their listings of birds previously not seen or described by white men are intriguing. Because the journals where not published for nearly 100 years after they returned (and that’s another fascinating story) many of the birds they named, now carry different names. (As any academician will tell you, it’s not who makes the discovery, it’s who publishes first that gets the credit.) Here’s Meriwether Lewis’ jottings from 1805 while sitting in soaking clothes in a leaky hut in Oregon: “… a small Crow, the blue crested Corvus and the smaller Corvus with a white brest, and the little brown ren, a large brown sparrow, the bald Eagle and the beatifull Buzzard of the columbia still continue with us.”
Some we can figure out: Steller’s Jay, Winter Wren, California Condor (which they ate); others we can only wonder about.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Mystery of the Barking Dog
Every morning as Bill (his real name) walked to his commuter train he heard a barking dog. It was always in the same spot, deep in a wooded patch not far from his house. Only this dog barked unlike any he had heard. And it was so regular you could almost set your watch by it. There were times when he heard it in the evenings, around dusk. He determined it was some sort of time or motion activated mechanical device the homeowner used to frighten off deer, or burglars, since they do about equal damage.
Then the other evening he and his wife, Kate (also her real name) went for a walk. Right on schedule the dog started barking, thus proving to his wife that while he might occasionally hear voices in his head, barking dogs were for real.
Kate quickly analyzed the situation and noted that it was an owl hooting, not a dog barking.
These folks do not consider themselves birders. (They’re hooked, they just don’t know it yet.) They are computer savvy so when they got home they did the modern-birder thing and headed straight for the information highway. That’s where I come into this scene. Bill (a real co-worker) told me (office resident all-things-nature-guy) about a great Web site he found, www.owlpages.com, where you not only see great photos of virtually every owl species, you can click on a button and listen to the vocalizations, often the key identifier when determining which owl is hooooo.
Then the other evening he and his wife, Kate (also her real name) went for a walk. Right on schedule the dog started barking, thus proving to his wife that while he might occasionally hear voices in his head, barking dogs were for real.
Kate quickly analyzed the situation and noted that it was an owl hooting, not a dog barking.
These folks do not consider themselves birders. (They’re hooked, they just don’t know it yet.) They are computer savvy so when they got home they did the modern-birder thing and headed straight for the information highway. That’s where I come into this scene. Bill (a real co-worker) told me (office resident all-things-nature-guy) about a great Web site he found, www.owlpages.com, where you not only see great photos of virtually every owl species, you can click on a button and listen to the vocalizations, often the key identifier when determining which owl is hooooo.
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