All’s Well That Ends

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

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

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

It’s Justa Sparrow

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

What’s Old is New Again

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

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

Thanks, Doobie Brothers and James Taylor.

The Birding Blues

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

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

Finding Closure

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

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

Think Spring

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

A Bird in the Nest is Worth …

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

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

Life is Golden

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

Global Warming

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

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

Signs of Spring

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

Inauguration Bird

I was driving north on I-77 this afternoon, listening to President Barack Obama's inaugural address. Movement to my left caught my eye. I glanced up and saw a mature Bald Eagle wheeling and turning in the sun-filled sky above me. The brilliant white head and tail, combined with the shining brown body to create a true symbol of America. What a great way to begin the Obama era.

Winter Treat

Along with the Arctic blast of cold weather, a special visitor arrived at our feeders today. A Common Redpoll (which is not all that common) was mixed in with a flock of Pine Siskins. Always a pleasure to see one of these little guys. It's just too bad we have to deal with the four-degree temperatures as well.

Wintering On The North Coast of America

Finally the big snow the weather prognosticators had been promising, arrived. I don't want to say the snow is deep, however, I took this picture of a grizzly bear from my front window to give you a feel for how deep it is.

It’s Raining Starlings!

There’s a school of thought in the nature world that birds and other animals predict impending storms and thus eat as much as they can in case they can’t get out during inclement weather. How they do this without benefit of the Weather Channel remains a mystery to ornithologists.
Here, on the North Coast of America, we’re awaiting, with bated breath, for a storm to whack us. The Weather Channel and the local weather prognosticators have been predicting inches of snow, blustery winds and weather chaos in general for the next couple days.
I took a break from my chores to monitor the bird feeders around mid morning and was astonished at the number of European Starlings covering the ground. I Guessitimated about 100 but was probably wrong. Mixed in with the starlings were American Robins.
The birds were in a feeding frenzy, attacking the seed feeders and, especially, the two suet cakes. I checked the water dish and there was four-bird deep waiting line! The trash truck arrived and the birds scattered. Only then did I see there were several squirrels on the ground also tanking up for the big storm. When the trash guys left, the birds returned, however, there were not as many. And the starlings were joined by a half dozen Cedar Waxwings, a single male Northern Cardinal—I mean he was unaccompanied, not his marital status—a number of Dark-eyed Juncos and most of the other feeder birds. When the female Red-bellied Woodpecker arrived to dine on her favorite suet block, I sensed trouble. Three starlings were squabbling over the suet already. She landed on the top of the pole that holds the suet and just stared the three speckled intruders down. It appeared they were taking measure of her beak and decided it might not be a fair dust-up if they continued. Off they went.
So what does this all mean? A dozen or so species of birds and assorted squirrels chowing down, all more-or-less in harmony; getting ready for the storm. There’s probably some ancient message here that we humans can’t seem to tune into. We seem to do a fair job of handling the disaster after it happens …
I think I’ll go make sure the snow shovel is near the door—and that we have an adequate supply of cookies for the weekend.

I Thought I Saw …

People around Cleveland either love winter or hate it. There seems to be no middle ground. I enjoy the snow and constantly changing views during a snow storm, so I set the laptop on the table overlooking our bird feeder array in hopes of getting some necessary work done—along with some quality time watching the birds come and go. I was about half successful.
Late this afternoon things were as busy as the Starbucks down the street, only my customers were all the fur and feathered types. No fewer than 20 Pine Siskins were on the feeders, along with some of the brightest-colored juncos I’ve seen this season. Black-capped Chickadees, titmice and no fewer than four species of woodpeckers added the occasional spot of red to the black-and-white winter tableau.
I glanced down at the screen to see if I had written anything and in a flash, all the birds disappeared. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the resident Cooper’s Hawk flashing overhead.
After a quiet period of a couple minutes the birds trickled back by ones and twos. Chickadees first, followed by House Finches, a single White-throated Sparrow and even some American Robins came to feed on the fruits of the Bradford Pear tree.
About the time the number of birds was back up to where it had been, the hawk flashed though again. This time it was so low to ground I could not believe it’s wings were not hitting the snow. Equally as fast the birds all disappeared, except for a Downy Woodpecker that was hanging to the block of suet. He probably thought he was out of the hawk’s line of vision. He glanced around the suet to be sure the hawk was gone.
This scene repeated itself two more times. The hawk made no attempt to strafe the feeder as I’ve seen it do in the past. So I’m left to try to figure out its strategy. It might have been demonstrating its ability to fly incredibly fast and low; work off some extra ounces gained over the holidays; or show all the other birds it’s really a good guy—in spite of what they might have heard about hawks dining on small birds.
I’m sure one of my naturalist friends has an explanation for this behavior, but why let the facts get in the way of a good story?

The Joys of Winter

The pine tree next to and above our bird feeder array was genuflecting to the gods of winter. A mix of rain, ice and snow wrapped its needles in crystalline cocoons. Our usual suspects were feeding with a frenzy at all the feeders and on the ground. Nine species, one food source, no fighting. It seems the bad weather brings out the best birds—as well as the best in birds.
The squirrels, of which we have too many, though their variety this year is better than at other times, were challenged by the ice. Fitting that well-used definition of insanity, which also applies to fly fishing, they were doing the same thing, over and over, expecting different results. Grey, red, black and brown, the kaleidoscope of squirrel fur went up the trunk of the tree, out onto the branch and, zippppp! They would either grasp in desperation for the hook that held the feeder, or accept their plight and imitate their cousins, the flying squirrels, and try to make a graceful landing.
Because I had to go out, I was hoping the ice storm would end. Because I was enjoying one of nature’s greatest shows on ice, I was considering another cup of coffee.

I’m Turning You In

He didn’t look like a criminal. I knew his whereabouts, however, was important and needed to be reported to the proper authorities. He wasn’t even acting like a bad guy, yet, I knew it was my civic duty to report his location, even if I had to take time from my hectic schedule that included a nap and some catching up on that stack of magazines on the table.
He was hanging out with a bunch of his type, all wearing the same colors. They hadn’t spotted Susan and I as we used the car as a blind. Or, maybe they had spotted us and, because they’re such a rough bunch, ignored us knowing their superior numbers made it a certain victory for their side should we attempt anything funny—like a citizen’s arrest for example.
Susan lowered her window. Chilling wind and rain whipped her in the face. She raised her binocular and gave me the description. I took extensive notes on the back of a freebie parking pass from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. “It’s white,” she said softly as she strained to see through the lashing drizzle, trying to read the numbers. “Okay, got it. It’s 2E1R, black letters arranged vertically.”
Who was 2E1R? This much we could discern: He was a Canada Goose, most likely from the Common population (of which there are at least six recognizable populations), and he was big. He looked to be the full 45 inches in length and his wingspan of 60 inches fit the pattern.
The white collar on his neck looked like a soda can. In fact, the first time I saw one of these tags on a goose, way back in the last century when I was a beginning birder, it was red and I thought it was a soda can.
So there he was, grazing with about 300 of his kind. His tag, or collar, attracted about as much attention as a tattoo on a human these days. The more I looked at the goose and thought about him carrying that tag for life, the more it did seem like a tattoo, only this marking has a purpose attached; it’s not a wannabe fashion statement.
He’s part of someone’s research project and needed to be reported. The way to do it, should you encounter a goose with a collar or any bird with a band on its leg, is to go to www.pwrc.usgs.gov/BBL/homepage/call800.cfm, the Web site of Patuxent Wildlife Research Center, where data is collected. If you leave your e-mail address they might get back to you with information about the bird you’ve seen. I’m hoping to learn more about 2E1R. If I do, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, feed the birds. It’s cold out there.
And as for you 2E1R, you’re now in the computer, buster, so just watch your step, or where others might step.

… And Not in Hand

Previously, I wrote about the close encounter Susan and I had with Northern Saw-whet Owls in Ross County. Petting an owl on the back of the head is an experience the defies description. You really do have to be there.
There are, however, other aspects to birding that even when you are there you hardly believe your eyes. The occasional view of birds from the car can have its challenges, and its rewards. For example, after our night at the banding station near Chillicothe, plenty of adrenaline and less-than-perfect rest in the No-Tell Motel, we headed north for home in an early drizzle of rain and snow. We opted to stay off the interstate highways and see a bit of Ohio’s rural charm. It’s a great experience and the only known cure for white-line fever. Passing through places that are slightly more than wide spots in the road, yet are birth places to Civil War generals or presidents, gives you a sense of connection not found out there battling with 18-wheelers.
Heading north on State Route 83 in Holmes County, Susan suddenly shouted, “sandhills!” There, high on a hill in the middle of a mowed field stood four Sandhill Cranes. After some maneuvers with our Saturn that might have been more easily accomplished with a VW bug, we zipped up a curving, one-way drive, around some out buildings and reached the top of the hill. Rats! The birds were blocked by a rise in the field we had not noticed. Before the residents of the nursing home (as we discovered it to be) could figure out what we were up to, we were flashing down the drive, back out onto the highway and looking for another angle to see the cranes.
We spotted a semi-paved road that should lead to the top of the hill and a possible view from the other side. As we pulled into a parking area at the top I noticed the building was a kind of semi-official looking. Susan was out of the car, binocular in hand, before I had come to a full stop. I was digging out a camera (Why is the wide-angle lens always on when you need the telephoto?) trying not to drop any expensive glass, nor strangle myself with a binocular strap caught in the door.
I dashed through the trees where Susan had gone. There they were, about 50 yards away. Two adult and two juvenile Sandhill Cranes. They looked at us through the drizzle, looked at each other, and in that way birds have of communicating without saying anything, lifted off in unison.
The beauty and grace of the birds is, in part, because of their size. It takes some effort to get that huge body elevated. The huge wings unfolded, and because of our nearness, we could see the wings ripple rather than flap. When they do take flight, we humans can only stand and watch and wonder what it must be like.
We walked back to the car, chattering like a couple of sparrows about our close encounter. I glanced up at the building where we had parked—not exactly between the white lines. It was the Holmes County Jail. I wondered if the prisoners had seen us or the birds that so freely flew from perceived danger.

Bird in the Hand

I’m frequently asked why I’m a bird watcher. Well, “watcher” is hardly what it’s all about any more. This past weekend, Susan and I spent a spectacular evening/night in Chillicothe, Ohio, with Kelly Williams-Sieg, a master bird bander. Kelly’s working on her PhD, documenting (along with a network of others) the migration of Northern Saw-whet Owls through Ohio. These little creatures, about the size of the palm of your hand, are little known in this area. All that is changing. Kelly started banding the birds in 2003 at the Earl H. Barnhart Buzzard’s Roost Nature Preserve in Ross County—and the body of knowledge grows a bit every night from October to January.
Bird banding is a demanding sport. Banding owls takes that to another level. Although Kelly says the nip of a Northern Cardinal can be more painful than a saw-whet, the owl’s primary tool, its talons, demand a lot of respect.
When we weren’t climbing or descending the hills checking the nets, we sat and watched a glorious sky, filled with more stars than you believe possible. Orion, in his warrior garb, slowly lifted as we sat and talked about birds and this small piece of a much larger puzzle. The sky was so filled with stars on this near-moonless night, that all the regular constellations were a challenge to find. The 30-degree temperatures were not even an issue.
After a couple hours of checking the nets we hit pay dirt. Or rather a female saw-whet hit the net. This owl must like the Ohio countryside. It was a repeat. Kelly had banded this girl in October. The owl still got her check-up to see if she was gaining weight, etc.
It was amazing to see how the owl accepted all of our probing and photographing. She seemed as curious about us as we of her. When we finally released her I could not help wonder if, when she returns to her own kind, does she tell them the tale of her second alien abduction in as many months; and how she was examined by these friendly creatures with long limbs and no feathers …

What’s For Dinner?

Humans have much to be thankful for on this day. Many of nature’s other critters do, also. I suppose the thing they are most grateful for—on any given day—is that they are not on the menu.
The Bald Eagle was spared the oven and the Wild Turkey was not. So, what does the eagle have for dinner on this day? Susan and I spent the morning at Burke Lakefront airport in downtown Cleveland, along with a few other intrepid birders. And while we all noted that our holiday behavior was normal, we wondered what those people on the three sailboats were thinking. We were there to check on a gorgeous visitor from the Arctic—a snowy owl. By its mottled gray coloring we’re assuming it’s youngster. Through the spotting scopes we could see its yellow eyes set in the white disk of its face, and its huge feet when it scratched behind its ears. It seemed little concerned about the airplanes that passed within a few feet of its position at the end of the runway.
Oh, this was supposed to be about eagles and Thanksgiving dinners. After checking the billions of Bonaparte’s Gulls at the nearby marina, hoping for something out of the ordinary, we spotted an eagle heading straight at us from the vicinity of downtown. As it circled, gaining altitude, we realized it had something in its talons. It eventually passed almost directly over us. We could see it was preparing dinner as it moved. Feathers from its prey fluttered away in a continuous stream. It turned slowly, not unlike a Boeing 747, and came in for a landing in the grass at the end of the runway, almost opposite our position. It only pecked at its meal and appeared to be resting. Then, with great effort, it took off, heading east. We debated what was on the menu this day for the Bald Eagle. Maybe a duck; maybe a pigeon. Judging from the amount of blood we could see on its massive beak, we hoped it did not have too large of a family to feed when it got to where it was going.