Easy Is, As Easy Does

Kentucky Warbler

Sometimes birding, and its corollary activities—bird identification and bird photography—are easy, sometimes not. We’ve spent the better part of the last couple weeks chasing migrating warblers around the state of Ohio—and it was great.
Last weekend we were in southern Ohio with a group of kindred souls from the Kirtland Bird Club. Our leader, Bruce Simpson, by day a naturalist with the metro parks system in Columbus; otherwise an intrepid birder if there ever was one, is a one-man field trip. Bruce’s excitement and enthusiasm are infectious, to say the least. Occasional drizzle, which eventually turned into torrential downpour, slowed Bruce and our group only slightly as we scoured the Zeleski State Forest and the Lake Hope areas of Vinton County.
We closed out the weekend with 18 warbler species, 80 species total and 55 gallons of water in the tent. It was great to be birding an area we’ve never seen, but often heard of.
This week we spent three and half days birding a spot we know well—the boardwalk at Magee Marsh in Ottawa County at the opposite end of the state. If you’re the least bit interested in migrating warblers, and other species, this is the spot to be this month. Hundreds, if not thousands of people were there—or are there. We counted license plates on cars from half the states in the country. By Friday we only paused to catch our breath, do some laundry, replenish our supplies—and dry out the tent, again. Our warbler count is now at 21 (out of a possible 36) with a couple weeks to go. Can we hit the elusive 30 species? Stay tuned.
We got real lucky at Magee Marsh and had great looks at the Kentucky Warbler, one of those skulkers that rarely sticks its head above the level of the weeds. People were packed four or five deep at one section of the boardwalk for a couple days, based on the rumor that the bird was there—someplace. And it was. The rumor was true. All it takes is patience.
Another bird that challenged some top-flight birders, and all the technology they could muster, was the tiny Least Flycatcher. This wisp of a bird was in plain view, giving us ample opportunity to determine its identity. The challenge was that it looks like too many other birds. I counted eight different field guides popping out of bags, an array of identity programs on iPods and years of knowledge before the bird simply looked as us and dryly said, “CHEbek.” The collective, satisfying laugh by a couple dozen birders, was like a response to some inside joke. People who’ve not struggled with the identity of birds in the Empidonax genus didn’t get it.


Least Flycatcher

And then there’s the easy picture you almost miss. Rain had started Friday morning. We were headed to the boardwalk anyway. Susan was driving. I was fussing with the camera gear contemplating taking it out in the drizzle—wrapped in a trash bag. With a near-whiplash stop, Susan said, “Look!” An acre of dandelions spread before us. At the far end of the field were two Canada Geese discussing the merits walking into the field.
Click, click, click! I love this sport.


Canada Geese in field of Fluff-headed Earth Nails

Pink Snow

Rainy day. Wind out of the southeast (A strange direction for northeast Ohio. Wind from the east, fish bite the least.) gusting to 20 mph, brought with it a flurry of pink snow this morning, signaling the end of spring. That’s the bad news. The good news is, wood warblers are not far behind.

Earth Day 2010: Times Change, I Think

Reminder of Earth Day 1970

We hope you all enjoy the show.
With a nod to John Lennon and Paul McCartney—and the rest of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band …
It was 40 years ago today, Senator Nelson taught us all to play.
It’s been going in and out of style,
But it’s managed to stick around a while.
So may I introduce to you,
The day you’ve known for all these years;
Senator Nelson’s visionary—Earth Day!
And what have we learned since April 22, 1970? As with most first impressions, I remember the first Earth Day—and none of the rest. I was a student at Kent State University in those days. A non-traditional student, to use the current term. That means I was a bit older (but not much wiser) than most of the students. I had been in the Army. I had seen, up close and personal, what many of the students were rallying against. I was the ball lost in the high grass in those days—as were so many students. Kent was an edgy place that spring. Little did any of us realize how edgy it would get in the next couple weeks.
So, along with three other idealistic student journalists from the Daily Kent Stater, I headed for the nation’s capital to report on whatever this Earth Day thing was. It was billed as an Environmental Teach-in. Time has erased from my mind a lot of what happened in those few days. As the joke goes, if you can remember what really happened you probably weren’t there. I remember Pete Seeger as the “keynoter” since I was heavy into the folk music scene in those days. There was a large dose of anti-war rhetoric mixed with messages about the need to fix all the wrongs of our environment. I recall being interviewed about Cleveland’s burning river. (Hey! Who’s the reporter, here?) I was considered an “expert” on burning rivers, since I was from Cleveland.
I bought a tin badge to wear to proclaim my opposition to war and support for Mother Earth. I still have that button and drag it out every year about this time.
I don’t have a clue about how many people were there that day. There were a lot of us wandering around. Reports say something like 20 million people participated, nationwide. What good did it do?
So far, the legacy of that day 40 years ago has been legislation such as the Clean Air Act, the Environmental Protection Agency and a host of other critical, beneficial, laws we must respect and protect. And while we’ve won many battles, the fight is far from over. It was a 1969 oil spill in Santa Barbara—combined with the inertia of Congress—that outraged Senator Gaylord Nelson and set him in motion. Yet, 40 years later, we’re still talking about offshore drilling …
The goals of Earth Day remain as lofty as ever—yet still attainable. The movement has a snappy new logo—no suggestion of anti-anything like the older chicken-foot model. In the end, Earth Day is still a grassroots effort. Its successes and failures will be determined by what individuals do—not what politicians mandate.
Peace, man.


Official Earth Week logo by the 1970 Earth Week Committee of Philadelphia.

Words to Live—or Die—By

Photo by Susan Jones

"If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough," declared Robert Capa. As arguably the premiere war photojournalist, Capa stepped on a landmine in Vietnam in 1954—trying to get a bit closer. (Sidebar: Robert Capa was born André Friedmann in Hungry. He changed his name while living in Paris. He and his lover, Gerda Taro, invented the persona, Robert Capa. Capa means “shark” in Hungarian.)
As a photojournalist I’ve always liked those words. They define, for me, what photojournalism is all about. And they work well with other aspects of photography, too. I’ve noticed, however, in bird photography there seems to be a strange, inverse relationship between bird and camera. It’s this: The larger the bird, the more difficult it is to get close. I’ve had hummingbirds so close I couldn’t focus; eagles 100 yards away fly at the click of a shutter. Then there’s California.
Susan and I just got back from a week of pounding the sands and backwaters of Southern California. And while it’s good to be back in Cleveland where the temperatures fluctuate 50 degrees from day to day, California is the place for bird—big bird—photography. A joyous element of photography, for me, is the challenge of getting close. Occasionally, when the planets, moon and stars are properly aligned, and I’ve been a good boy, karma is on my side. The bigger (California) birds accept my intrusion into their lives for what it is—just a visit—and I get a picture.
Part of the art of getting close is watching where you step. Certainly, cleaning a bit of dog shit off your shoes is not as traumatic as stepping on a landmine. But getting too involved in the “moment” is most often what leads to bumps and bruises on photographers.
Susan and I were trying to enjoy a non-existent sunset on Hendrey’s Beach in Santa Barbara last week when a Snowy Egret approached us. Hey, I had the camera and I was there first. The bird acted like it was auditioning for American Idol. How could I say no? While shooting with the ocean and incoming tide to my left, I was okay. One eye on the ocean, one eye on the bird. It was when the bird walked between Susan and I, and I turned my back to the ocean, that things got interesting—and a bit damp.
So much for Capa’s advice on getting close. Maybe I’ll start to let some of his other words, those thought to be his last as he set out from the village of Nam Dinh, Vietnam, on day of his fateful assignment for Life Magazine in 1954, be my guidepost: "I will be on my good behavior today. I will not insult my colleagues, and I will not once mention the excellence of my work."


Snowy Egret

How Do They Do That?

American Robin--with lunch.


Even when there never seems to be enough hours in the day, I still mange to find myself with time on my hands—like a recent afternoon, for example. I guess it was a combination of things: The recent Full Worm Moon, warm sunshine, three miles of walking and no sign of the bird I was looking for, and hunger.
I sat on the first available bench near the edge of Indigo Lake in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park and watched an American Robin search for worms. Earlier I watched a Song Sparrow carefully selecting bugs from the edges of the lake. The sparrow paid no attention to me as it moved from stick to stem, gleaning for bugs. After it passed I got down on my hands and knees, and tried to discern what it had been after. I could seen nothing.
The robin was a different story. I watched it pull a half dozen juicy worms from the ground, all within a two-square-meter area. How do they do that?
This is one of those questions birders can discuss at length. It ranks right up there with, “How do you pronounce Pileated Woodpecker, or, Northern Parula?”
I know, this is not like arguing about the state of healthcare (or lack thereof) in America. The mindset of a birder can best be compared with that of a teenager. We constantly, perpetually, live in a state of denial. We thrive on it, actually. No matter what evidence is brought forth, you stick by your gut feeling on any of the above topics.
I asked a few people about this robin-catching-the-worm thing. Some argue that the robin hears the worm. Others claim it sees the ground move. A third group is certain the robin feels movement through its feet.
I already had the non-answer. I looked at a number of reports and experiments and was able to find supporting evidence for whatever answer people wanted. Here’s a quick summary: Audubon’s Nature Encyclopedia offers a description of robins and their behaviors that concludes, after it rains, worms rest with just the tips of their bodies showing at the mouth of their burrows. This makes the worm an easy target for the bird.
Another study, done in the 1990s, isolated each of the robin's various senses. This study concluded that hearing is the most important sense. Apparently, the robin listens for the small noises a worm makes while burrowing along in the ground. Researchers noted, the robin does use its other senses too—watching for movement, feeling for rumbling with its feet. But the main sense that helps out the most is the robin's hearing.
The guy who seems to have more time on his hands than me to explore this subject was a Dr. Frank Heppner. This ornithologist suspected sight was the most important sense robins use to find worms. He did a whole lot of things to discover how a robin found its lunch. My favorite tactic of his was to drill holes in the ground that looked exactly like wormholes. Robins ignored the holes unless a worm was inside the hole within visual range. Whether that worm was alive and normal, alive but coated with a bad-smelling odor, or dead, the robins found the worms and ate them. He concluded that sight is the key sense robins use to find earthworms.
So there ya go; nobody’s wrong if everybody’s right. Get out in the spring weather and blow off an afternoon watching robins pull worms from the soil. You might learn something.


Song Sparrow--so many bugs, so little time.

Early spring on the Cuyahoga River

This is one of those classic fishing stories that needs to be retold each time it happens. Every fisher thinks it has only happened to him, or her. I opted to fish the Cuyahoga River in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park this morning, in hopes of fooling a steelhead trout into thinking the fly pattern I was using was the real deal. I worked an area of Tinker’s Creek 150 yards up from where it dumps into the river. The spot has all the signs of being great steelhead water. Today was not the day. I did manage to catch one freshwater bonefish (i.e. a sucker) of about two pounds.
As I moved closer to the mouth of the creek, two guys in a kayak came ‘round the corner and wedged their boat into the bank so they could both cast into the confluence of the two streams. I was a bit envious of their spot, however, I figured they’d not have any luck, either.
Right on cue one of the guys tied into a nice smallmouth bass. Then the other guy picked up another smallie. Was it possible that they might know something about fishing I did not? Couldn’t happen. At about the same time, a grandfather/grandson combo moved in to fish the same hole from the shore, at a rather precarious spot.
The guys in the kayak drifted off. I heard the granddad (who must have been hard of hearing since he spoke so loudly) tell the kid, “Now don’t throw your line over by those logs ‘cause you’ll only get all fouled up.” He really did say, “foul” so I figured he was not a modern grandpa.
The kid, of course, did exactly as he was told not to do. He had some sort of spinning rod and appeared to be able to toss his bait a mile. I watched the line sail through the air, directly at, yet just missing, an overhanging tree limb. Gramps was upset. “Now there ya go! Now you’ll get all snagged and how are we gonna get ya off those logs?”
True to the tale, the kid hooks up with a fish—a nice fish. I watched his line running up and down stream. Gramps scampered for the landing net. The kid had a smile I could see from 100 yards away. I know he’ll always remember this sunny spring day. The time he was fishing with gramps and … And he’ll retell this story, just as I am doing now, 60 years after my dad told me not to toss my lure near a weed bed in some unnamed lake in Indiana, and I caught the largest northern pike I’ve ever caught.

An Unreal Walk in the Woods

The sky is falling!

It was a kind of science fiction day, Friday, in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. I had a new piece of photo gear I wanted to get familiar with, so I headed down to the Station Road Bridge area. The thermometer was bumping against 33 degrees, sun so bright it hurt my eyes, sky was bluebird blue, and light snow was falling. What?
I walked about a half mile, finding and photographing only a frustrated White-throated Sparrow who couldn’t seem to figure out the weather, either. Suddenly, a chunk of the blue sky fell, right before my eyes. I thought, “Where’s Chicken Little when you need him?” That piece of the sky landed on a moss-covered branch in the middle of a newly forming beaver pond. Turns out, it was in fact an Eastern Bluebird. He looked back over his shoulder at me—through the snow and sunshine. “What’s next,” I asked.
As Lance Armstrong says, “There are no bad days. Some days are just better than others.”

Eastern Bluebird

Playing the Name Game

Red-winged Blackbird in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park

As a kid, I had some trouble with birds’ names, probably because I didn’t listen well enough. I recall the challenges of the Mourning Dove. When I asked my dad the name of the bird that was always calling for rain when we went fishing (his contention), he said it was the Morning Dove. Later, I thought he meant Moaning Dove. Years later I learned it as Mourning Dove—kind of a cool compromise when you think about it.
Another species that challenged me was the Red-winged Blackbird. As a kid, I called it Red-shouldered Blackbird because the bird’s wing was obviously black and it had a red patch on its shoulder. I finally got that one sorted out—until I went to Cuba. There it was, bigger than life; the Red-shouldered Blackbird. And, guess what? It looks exactly like our Red-winged Blackbird. At least the males look alike. The females are completely different in the blackbird species.
Here, the Red-winged Blackbirds, at least the males, are conspicuous and noisy. In Cuba, we hunted long and hard until we found a pair. As an aside, it says something about the non-traffic in Cuba that our bus driver just stopped the bus in the middle of the highway so we could all pile out to see the bird. This tactic was quite common since you more often had to watch for hay-burning horses than gas-burning horses.
So, there he was, a single male Red-shouldered Blackbird, squeaking a bit, not acting out as our Red-wing Blackbirds do at this time of the year. The female, all black, was nearby, darting in and out of the high grass, obviously trying to frustrate anyone with a camera in hand.
Though the males might look similar, there are differences. Whereas our Red-winged Blackbirds are ubiquitous at this time of the year, their Cuban cousins are limited in where they can be found; just a few areas on the whole island. Their voices are a bit different, as well. And even though their voices are different and non-musical to the human ear, both birds’ songs translate into, “welcome to spring time!”


Red-shouldered Blackbird in the Zapata region, Cuba.

… More Than You Bargain For

Mystery bird

My dad used to give me the sage advice: Sometimes ya get more than ya bargain for. This was usually in reference to my ending up on the short end of a fight I picked with some bigger kid, and, later in life, in reference to cars or girls—or both. But there’s a positive side to the saying and, often enough, it applies to birding.
Tuesday was one of those days when Susan and I had full schedules that kept us passing likes ships in the night, so to speak. Late in the afternoon she suggested we make a really quick trip down to Indigo Lake in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park where, the day before, six Long-tailed Ducks had been sighted. The Long-tailed Duck is a bird we don’t see often—or often enough. It’s a sea duck, so having them inland is a treat—though not unprecedented. It’s also a quite vocal bird (thus its former name, Old Squaw) that nests on the Arctic tundra. Monday will go down in the Ohio record-keeping books as a good day for Long-tailed Ducks. They were reported in bunches (that’s a technical ornithological term) all over the state.
I suggested we use my car because my spotting scope was still bouncing around in the trunk with fishing gear. Equipment from two or three excursions often gets jumbled in my trunk. I thought about grabbing the camera, but it was down stairs and, besides, we wouldn’t see anything special enough to justify lugging the gear along. (Saying that is the one sure way to guarantee the picture of a lifetime—missed.)
About a half mile north of the lake Susan yelled, “Look at that bird!”
To my credit, I managed to keep the car only slightly out of the ditch while looking at a huge white bird atop a tree, making a U-turn and scrambling out of the car—all without taking the binoculars away from my eyes. We looked up in amazement at what appeared to be a Snowy Owl. After we blinked our eyes we realized we were looking at a partially albino, or leucistic, Red-tailed Hawk. It was not a true albino because we could see some black on it. In fact, as it soared with three other red tails, its wing pattern was a spectacular alternating black and white.
If you’re thinking this was the photo op of a lifetime, your right. I did have my handy point-and-shoot camera, with which I took the (I hesitate to call them pictures) photos shown here. I think you’ll get the idea, however, that this was a special bird, the chance of a lifetime—and more than we bargained for.


Leucistic Red-tailed Hawk

Getting Back to Reality

Since my head and heart were still birding in Cuba, I decided the best way to get back to the reality of northeast Ohio was to go fishing. The temperatures were in the low 60s and reports that steelhead trout were heading upstream did not seem to be exaggerated.
The end of this story is that I did not catch any fish. Among the millions of excuses and rationalizations a fisher has is that it’s not always about catching fish …
It seemed that I was doing all the right things, and others around me, who were catching, were doing all the wrong things. How could that be? Didn’t the fish know what they were supposed to do under specific conditions?
Apparently not. And, apparently, they didn’t care.
I passed through all the mental hoops as I tried to figure out why I remained fishless. Bad luck, wrong fly choice, water, sun, wind … I soon ran through the gamut of reasons.
It’s really not about me (this time). It’s about the fish. The fish is neutral. It swims, eats and tries to procreate. End of story. I watched some of the other fishers who were catching. A grandfather/grandson team just down stream from me caught three nice steelies in about five minutes. I couldn’t contain myself. I got out of the water, walked to their position and politely asked what pattern they were using. The kid just chuckled. The old guy (probably my age) said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m using a muddler minnow and he’s using some sort of white thing. I think the fish’d hit a bare hook, today.” I hate it when another fisher says that.
I walked back to my position trying to figure out if that was good or bad advice. Well, whatever. It didn’t help my catching. I did realize, however, I was making fishing more complicated that it needed to be, or is. I suspect the 80/20 rule applies here as it does with much of life: 20 percent of the fishers catch 80 percent of the fish, regardless.
I watched a kid, maybe 10 years old, fight and land a steelhead that was about half as long as he. I thought, I should turn that kid in to the truant officer, then reconsidered. He was out fishing with his dad on a gorgeous spring day. He’d learn more here than anything taught in some stuffy classroom.

Choosing a National Bird

Cuban Trogon


When it comes to bling, I think Cubans invented the word. Forget about the olive-drab clothing pictured in the not-so news media. Although the majority of our time was spent in the rural areas of the country during our recent bird survey research, we did stop in Havana on our way in and out.
Fortunately, two of the days we were in town were Sundays, the day Cubans come out to play. The kids playing in the streets were like ragamuffin kids anywhere. Surprisingly, at least to me, was the fact that teenagers, at least in Havana, dressed like teens in America. It was the adults who really put on a show. It might have been Sunday on the calendar, but it was Saturday night on the street. From the guys with the six-pack abs to the women in four-inch spike heels, Cubans know how to dance and play.
All this appreciation for aesthetics spills into other aspects of daily life as well. Pastel-color buildings punctuate the drab gray streets with buildings in need of rehabilitation. Vintage US automobiles (sometimes called Yank Tanks) drift like butterflies through the narrow passageways of Habana Vieja (Old Havana), adding bling among the tiny, dull Russian Ladas. In many cases the original paint has long vaporized from these denizens of Detroit’s design boards, only to be replaced with whatever paint the owner can find; colors Detroit never dreamed of. How they keep these 60-year-old cars running is a well-kept secret and a tribute to the ingenuity of the people.



A day on the streets in Habana Vieja

In the field, when I saw my first Cuban Trogon, I was flummoxed by the brilliant colors. We had been observing a Cuban Tody when the trogon, not to be outdone, flew in over our heads. The Cuban naturalist with us explained how the colors of the bird are reflected in the country’s flag—red, white and blue.


Cuban Tody

It was easy to see how this species was chosen as emblematic of a struggling nation, yet I’d hate to have been a judge if other birds, like the Cuban Tody, or Cuban Emerald had been in the competition.


Cuban Trogon

All Roosters Crow in the Same Language

Cuban Bee Hummingbird—the world’s smallest bird.

Trying to write about our recent bird research study in Cuba in 600 words--or less--is a fool’s task. I’ll just give you a few impressions—lessons—I’ve carried home. I have about 2000 images to edit, however, those can wait.
Susan and I were fortunate to participate in the Caribbean Conservation Trust’s study of endemic and migratory birds of Cuba from March 1 through 12. And although it was about Cuban birds, it’s impossible not to encounter politics. We read the suggested books beforehand and felt somewhat prepared. Lesson one: Don’t believe much of what you read about Cuba. The people we met looked at us in the same way we looked at them; both trying to see the horns, pointy tails and pitchforks of the other.
While our primary mission was bird surveying, we had ample opportunity to meet with and talk to kids and adults on the street. Lesson two: Cubans are highly literate. Kids go to school from 7:30 AM to 4 PM. Among their stated education goals is the challenge for all children to learn two languages besides Spanish.
It’s a mistake to hold an American measuring stick up to the physical structures, or infrastructure, of Cuba: Lesson three: The outside of a building might appear shabby (by our definition), however, inside you’ll find simplicity and comfort; lives free from the incessant need to have more. Yet, we kept wondering if they had enough …


Orlando Garrido talks with us, surrounded by specimens of Cuba’s endemic birds.

We read that one thing people of Cuba appreciate about the current United States’ embargo is that it keeps Americans from visiting their country. Lesson four: Everywhere we traveled we were welcomed; into the home of Cuba’s premiere ornithologist, Orlando Garrido, in Havana as well as into the front seat of a proud kid’s beautifully restored 1956 Chevy in Playa Largo.


A 1956 Chevy in all its glory.

Not only would the birds we sought be different, we were gently warned that the people would be, too. In both cases this was true. Lesson five: The world’s smallest bird, the Cuban Bee Hummingbird is certainly a contender in the most glamorous category; people ride bicycles through city streets carrying sheet cakes—singlehandedly. Now that’s different.
It was noted that once we got away from the large cities, we’d experience the poverty of the land. Since our mission was surveying birds, we were away from cities most of the time. What we discovered was verdant rural farmland, unfamiliar crops, and roosters that begin crowing at 4 AM.

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.