Packing Our Bags

We're outta here!

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

I Ain't Lying

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

Ya Gotta Do, Whatcha Gotta Do

Malicious destruction perpetrated by a single Pileated Woodpecker

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



Have no fear ...

Are We Safe, Yet?

Pass me the night-vision glasses.

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


Did you hear a twig snap?

No Smoke and Mirrors

Basic camo

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



Eastern Screech-owl

What’s Black & White and Red All Over

Dark-eyed Junco

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


Hairy Woodpecker

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


Red-bellied Woodpecker

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


Northern Cardinal

Past, Present and Future

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

Pinch Hitting For Punxsutawney Phil

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

A Night To Howl

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

New Feeder Bird

Red-shouldered Hawk

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


Red-shouldered Hawk

Birds In Winter

Long-eared Owl

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


Long-eared Owl

Sure Cure for Cabin Fever

Snow Bunting

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



Horned Lark

Winter’s Day Challenge

House Finch

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


Red-bellied Woodpecker

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


European Starling

Once In a … While

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

It Was a Dark and Gloomy …

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

Let’s Do Lunch

Saturday was one of those days when I was so busy I barely had time to do anything. It was bright and sunny. I wanted to be outside playing. Instead, all of the inside things I had neglected during the week caught up with me.
Around noon I decided to take a lunch break. It seemed like a good time to stop doing whatever it was that I was suppose to be doing and watch the birds, who were also having lunch. Lots of activity happening with the usual suspects coming and going. I wanted to get some pix of the current visiting Red-breasted Nuthatch since he had a lot of color for a bird at this time of the year. Camera in place, I headed to the kitchen to see what I could scrounge up.
Walking back to my favorite spot for photographing the feeder activity, I noticed a total lack of birds at the array. Without even looking I knew the reason. D.B. Cooper (aka Cooper’s Hawk) was in the neighborhood. I glanced over at the deck railing and … Whoa! No peanut butter and jelly sandwich for this guy. House Finch seemed to be the special of the day.
Science tells us, on first arriving at a feeding station, a Cooper's may take three or four birds in quick succession. The smaller birds rapidly become wary, forcing the hawk to locate a nearby hiding place. On Sunday morning, Susan and I watched for nearly a half hour as D.B. perched in the rain, within 10 feet of the feeder. He seemed to have a confused expression, as if to ask, “Where are all the birds?”. Usually, hawks only visit a feeding station for a short period of time each day and take a bird or two. If a feeding station is especially busy or there is an exceptionally good hiding place nearby, the hawk may continue to visit for a week or two. Eventually the prey birds stay away and the hawk moves on to find another location.
Not so in our case. D.B. has become part of the landscape at our place. Our birding acquaintances have mixed emotions about hawks raiding the feeder. It does seem like dirty pool to attract songbirds, only to have them find themselves on the menu. I contrasted that thought with a recent encounter with a person who feeds birds as well as three feral cats. Talk about dirty pool. At least the hawk eats what it kills—and kills to eat.
Feral cats kill hundreds of millions of birds, according to the American Bird Conservancy, National Audubon Society and many other organizations that have studied the problem. There are more than 90 million pet cats in the U.S., the majority of which roam outside at least part of the time. In addition, millions of stray and feral cats roam our cities, suburbs and rural areas. If you have a cat, keep it indoors. Solutions to this crucial and unnecessary problem of feral cats can be found at www.abcbirds.org, and www.audubon.org.

Sharp Air, Sharp Beaks

After 11 days out of town, mooching rooms and meals from relatives, it felt good to be back on the home patch this morning. The feeders were virtually empty so Task One was to refill the array. The air was a brisk, a sharp 23 degrees as I poured seed into the hoppers and shouldered some minor abuse about my dereliction of duties from the chickadee population.
I could tell winter was in the air, or at least in the ground, as I walked around. For the first time this season the earth felt as hard as concrete. Little humps and ridges left behind by the various creatures that eat beneath our feeders did not give way under my shoes.



It’s curious to me how things, like frozen earth, which seem so daunting to humans, are taken in stride by birds that must find their eats regardless of the time, temperature or anything else thrown at them.
Earlier in the week, while in St. Louis, I watched a female Northern Flicker, the ant eater of the avian world, as she inspected what had probably been a chipmunk, vole or maybe a snake, hole. No ants around at this time of year, yet she seemed quite interested in what might be down there. With caution she slowly lowered her head, and kept an eye on the two-inch opening. Finally, when sure nothing was going to have her for breakfast, she began hammering away. She pummeled the hole’s entrance until she eventually unearthed a … what?
Whatever she found, it was tasty enough to carry off into the trees.

An Easy Way to Find a Rare Sparrow

Way back in the last century, when I used to work for a living (as compared with playing for a living as I do now), I came to St. Louis on business—and birding as was my want. St Louis was, and still is to a degree, the only place in the country where a birder can find the Eurasian Tree Sparrow.
A lot of mysteries surround the diminutive bird, the greatest for me is why the bird does not expand beyond its current range. Twenty years ago there was an article in the American Birding Association newsletter about the sparrow and how to locate it within a well-defined neighborhood in St. Louis. As luck would have it I was going to St. Louis that very week so the newsletter was on top of my business papers.
I recall that wintery day when I first saw the bird. Most of the streets in what I now know as the Dog Town area are one way. Piles of snow hampered travel. I was not to be denied. I eventually parked and walked the neighborhood until I finally spotted a flock of sparrows on a backyard feeder. As I was studying the bird, a resident of the house came out and I thought I’d have some explaining to do.
Turns out the man was quite friendly. He asked me where I was from, then looked up “Medina, Ohio” in a large notebook he was carrying. No one from Medina in his book. I was a “lifer” for him! He’d been ticking off birders for years, he said.
We talked about the birds for a while, then I had to go. He seemed equally as happy that I had seen the Eurasian Tree Sparrow.
How the bird got to St Louis is not a mystery. In the 19th century, south St. Louis was the home of many European immigrants who wanted to see familiar birds from their homeland. So, on April 25, 1870, 12 Eurasian Tree Sparrows were released in Lafayette Park in south St. Louis. Numbers of other European birds were also released (European Goldfinches, Eurasian Bullfinches, Chaffinches, Greenfinches, and Linnets), but only the Eurasian Tree Sparrow successfully established a breeding population.
The birds have expanded their territory, however, not as fast or as far as one might expect of non-native bird. Since my wife hails from St. Louis and many of her relatives still live here, our trips to the area always include a search for the sparrow. It’s not a physically remarkable bird, only rare—which makes it remarkable, I guess. In that silent language birders often adopt, Susan, while talking on the phone, got my attention by clicking her fingers. I looked up from the book I was reading and she was pointing to the bushes in her mother’s suburban backyard. There sat a Eurasian Tree Sparrow! The search for the bird this year was the easiest ever.

You Can Do a Lot With Spit

If you’re a paper wasp, home is where you hang it.
A great reason for getting into the woods at this time of the year is the opportunity to see the variety of nests animals build, then abandon, only to do it all again next year.
Highly visible are the nests left behind, sort of, by paper wasps. Paper wasps and hornets are social creatures. They live in colonies of workers, queens and males.
Only the inseminated queens overwinter, thus my hesitation to say the nests are abandoned. Queens might also winter over in any protected place; structures such as hollow logs, stumps, under bark and leaf litter.
The first warm days of late April or early May bring the queens to the surface. They select a nest site and build a small paper nest in which eggs are laid. One egg is laid in each cell. As she adds more cells around the edge, eggs are deposited.
Larvae in the center are older with the younger larvae further out. Cells at the rim of the nest contain eggs. After eggs hatch, the queen feeds the larvae. When larvae are ready to pupate, cells are covered with silk, forming little domes over the individual openings. Larvae pupate, emerging later as small, infertile females called "workers." This happens by mid-June. The first adult workers emerge and assume the tasks of nest expansion, foraging for food, caring for the queen and larvae and defending the colony.
The initial nest of the paper wasp is the work of a single female. It has a single layer or "tier" of cells and is not enclosed by envelopes. In hornets, the nests usually consist of a number of stories or "tiers," one below the other and completely enclosed by spherical walls. Each cell may be used for two or three successive batches of brood.
There are 22 species of paper wasps in North America and approximately 700 species world-wide. Most are found in the tropics of the western hemisphere.
The nests of most species are suspended from a single, central stalk and have the shape of an upside-down umbrella. Plant and wood fibers are collected by the wasps, mixed with saliva, and chewed into a papier-mâché-like material that is formed into the thin cells of the nest.
The next time you’re whining about a home repair job, imagine trying to complete it—even make the material you need—using only your mouth.

How to Spend Time You Don’t Have

Red-bellied Woodpecker

In spite of more tasks than we could ever complete on our “Get-Ready-for-Thanksgiving” list, Susan and I could not stay focused. Yet another gorgeous day landed here in Northeast Ohio. These are truly bonus days and must not be wasted inside, doing absolutely necessary things.
The day started out gloomy and fog enshrouded. It promised to be a perfect day to stay inside. Then it happened. The sun popped out about 2 p.m. and we were finished working inside.
Off we went to a favorite spot in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, not shown on the maps. We call it the Ridge Walk. At this time of the year, when trees have dropped their leaves to show their true nature, you can see for miles to the southwest over the park.
Birding was slow, except for the woodpeckers. This species was not loafing on this late fall day. Most interesting were the Red-bellied Woodpeckers. We watched one guy in particular as he stashed acorns into cracks and crevasses of the shagbark hickory trees.
Red-bellied Woodpecker is a species we see year round. They are regulars at the suet cakes of our feeder array. When one is feeding it has no challengers. One look at that chisel-like beak and other birds find something else to do. The birds probe more than hammer like other woodpeckers, preferring to quietly get at those insects. Red-bellieds are omnivorous. Whatever’s on the menu seems to fit their needs. Their preference for insects and insect larvae provide a valuable natural control for insect pests.
As its name implies, there is a red patch edged with a yellowish wash on the belly of both the male and the female. Good luck seeing it.
And, from the Too-Much-Information Department comes this: A Red-bellied Woodpecker can stick out its tongue nearly two inches past the end of its beak. The tip is barbed and the bird’s spit is sticky, making it easier to snatch prey from deep crevices. Males have longer, wider-tipped tongues than females.