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.

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!