So, Where’s the Answer?

Two related, yet not related, stories popped up in my local papers today. The theme of both is the same; harnessing the wind to produce electricity. One is a story about big money, the other about not so big money. One is about pumping money into the pockets of people we’ll never know—for who knows how long. The other, about pumping electricity back into the grid—now—on a manageable budget.
First, about the fat cats who need lots of food. According to a story in this morning’s Cleveland Plain Dealer, a new industry is about to launch here. The Lake Erie Energy Development Corp., was formed a year ago to seek developers for a wind turbine project off the shores of Cleveland. Today, they announced three major players have been signed up, headed by the Bechtel Development Company of San Francisco. These are the same folks that brought us Hoover Dam, the Chunnel and thousands of other major projects. They, and their partners, will build five turbines for a demonstration project, seven miles off shore at an estimated cost of $100 million.
Stay tuned. The above story will take a while to develop. The other story is about what’s happening now. That story appeared in my local paper, The News Leader, here in Sagamore HIlls. It’s about a local dentist who has installed two vertical wind turbines at his office to generate electricity, at a cost of about $15,000 for each. I saw these turbines a day or so after they were installed and first thought they were art work.



The 30-foot-tall vertical axis turbines will produce about 2,500 kilowatt hours per year in an average 12 mph wind. This equates to around a quarter of the average energy needs of a residential home.
According to the news story, Dr. Davidson figures that wind generated electricity will cover about 10 percent of his energy needs. But here’s the cool part, Ohio, like many states, has what’s called net metering. That means, if you are producing enough energy to reverse your meter, the energy companies credit your account. You’re essentially selling electricity back to the company when you’re on vacation, for example. Bundle that with a federal 30% tax credit and state rebate incentives and you recoup the cost of your wind turbine in about five years, according to IC Green Energy, Vermilion, Ohio, the producer of these vertical axis turbines (wwwicgreenenergyofohio.com). The company can install a complete system in five or six hours.
I know, not everyone can have a 30-foot-tall wind turbine in their front yard. Many people can, however, and they can also be pumping electricity back into the grid for the rest of us.
So what’s the answer? On one hand, we have a mega-cost project that will bring mega-watts of power, and hopefully mega-jobs to our area. On the other, we have a family-owned business, already producing machines that can help the average home owner cut energy costs—and with a good looking machine at that. As Bob Dylan pointed out nearly 50 years ago, the answer, my friends, to this and so many other problems, is blowin’ in the wind.

A Long Way to Flutter By

Monarch Butterflies pause during their 3,000 mile migration


When you find yourself running low on energy; or maybe lost without a map, consider the Monarch butterfly, please.
Susan and I made the hour-long trip to Mentor Headlands State Park along Lake Erie’s shores this morning to bird the fall warbler migration. Along with the birds, we found ourselves in the midst of a massive Monarch butterfly movement as the insects moved from northern territories—by the thousands!—to their wintering grounds in the Transvolcanic Plateau region of Mexico. Depending on how you measure it, many of these half-gram insects will travel nearly 3,000 miles before they hibernate.
When you start reading about these butterflies you bump into all kinds of words you might not otherwise associate with light-weight insects. “Hibernate in caves,” for example. That’s what they do. Like bears and other hibernators (chipmunks and groundhogs come to mind) they slow their heartbeat and take a nap—like some of my retired friends.
The principal tree they like in Mexico is the Oyamel fir. We’ve been fortunate to see the hibernating Monarchs in this country near Santa Barbara, California, when they over winter in the Eucalyptus trees near Goleta.
Here, in northeast Ohio, we’re fortunate to see the bulk of migrating Monarchs from the eastern part of this country, and Canada, pass right through. Most of the insects move east of the Great Lakes then turn a southwesterly direction. When we get strong winds from the north, as we’ve had the past few days, the butterflies flutter by in prodigious numbers.
Today, thousands of them rested on trees throughout the park. I thought it interesting that of the larger fly catcher species we saw, Great-crested Flycatcher for example, no one was eating Monarchs. It was as if the birds and insects made a pact: We’re all in this migration boat together, so let’s all pull on the oars. Something like that.
It’s been estimated that about 300 million Monarchs head to Mexico for the winter. Theirs is not an easy life. If they don’t get eaten or whacked by a car along the route, there’s all kinds of stormy weather and loss of habitat to deal with once they get to Mexico.
Unlike migrating birds, the Monarchs have never travelled the route they will follow. Previous generations have died off before the journey begins. Many that start are more than three generations away from those that previously made the trip. Since its wintering grounds were discovered in the high mountains of Michoacan State west of Mexico City, scientists have studied how this critter with a tiny brain, migrates out of Mexico in the spring, moves up to its breeding areas where it produces several generations, then migrates back again to an area that the year’s last generation has never been to.
The exact purpose of their migration and their ability to make the trip at all, remains an intriguing subject for scientists studying them today. I don’t understand the mechanics or biology of the Monarchs’ movement, however, I do appreciate its beauty. Seeing them, by the thousands, is a bonus, maybe our reward, for getting out and birding.

Way Off the Beaten Track

This summer, Susan and I developed a taste for getting off the interstate highways during our travels. Among our discoveries have been Lucas, Kansas, the Grassroots Art Capital of Kansas, with its Garden of Eden and other assorted oddities. But that’s another story. Recently we found ourselves (geographically speaking) in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky. This (really) tiny town is best known for its name and not much else. Well, it is known for having elected a dog as it’s mayor—twice.
Rabbit Hash’s population varies from four to 40 people, depending on how the city boundaries are drawn. There are a couple of antique stores and two, and I use the term loosely, cafes. The most intriguing store is the General Store (where one of the dog-mayors was banned from entering by the health department). Because of flooding (the town is literally on the banks of the Ohio River) there’s not an unwarped board in the building. I think there is probably one example of everything ever built in the world jammed into that building. There’s so much stuff, floor to ceiling, that there’s no room for anything. The nostalgic aroma of sandalwood incense permeates the place, a feature I’m sure, missing when the first settlers washed up on this south bank of the river in the mid-1700s.
What piqued my curiosity was that, without spending a penny, we had a fun hour or so poking around in history—indoors and out. While across the river, in Rising Sun, Indiana, was “anchored” the Grand Victoria riverboat casino. I wondered if the folks on the boat were looking across the river and enjoying their experience as much as we.

Thinking Green at Sunset

A few moments before the green flash, your basic sunset.

One of the many fun things to do in western Michigan at the end of summer, when the fish aren’t biting and birds have yet to start migration in any serious manner, is watch the phenomenal sunsets over Lake Michigan. So it was this evening, our third here. We had sore shoulders from casting to fish that had their own agenda, which did not include us. An occasional Caspian Tern would fly by and we saw two Sanderlings playing tag with the waves. So much for birding highlights.
Watching the sun set is a ritual we always participate in. Even on some cloudy evenings we sit and hope. This was about to be our third spectacular sunset and I was showing off, talking about the elusive “green flash” some people claim to see at sunset. Other than the name, I know little about this atmospheric phenomena.
Ever the optimist, I had a camera at the ready. A friend once told me I was the definition of an optimist: A guy who carries a camera when he goes fishing.
As the sun was dropping below the horizon (I know, that’s technically incorrect), we watched the fire-ball, hard to imagine it’s really 93 million miles away—give or take a few million depending on our orbit. Fully expecting the sun to disappear as it always does, just as the “red” edge sank, it turned green! To its right was a small shaft of green light as well.
Doing a bit of research, I learned this flash of green lasts only 1.4 seconds. Three of the other four people with me also saw it. That’s when I realized I had had the cognizance to keep my finger on the shutter release and blasted away at 4.5 frames per second. Thank you, Mr. Nikon.
There are pages and pages of scientific and not-so-scientific information about green flashes at sunset. Jules Verne's 1882 novel "Le Rayon Vert" (The Green Ray) popularized the green flash as: "A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce the like! If there is a green in Paradise, it cannot be but of this shade, which most surely is the true green of Hope."
Well, I have to add, in this digital age, I was unable to manipulate the color in the photos I took to match what we actually saw. Once again, Jules Verne was right.
If you want to learn more about the green flash, caused by the same atmospheric refraction and scattering effects which produce the red sunset, a good place to start is http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/atmos/redsun.html.
In uniform air, the dispersion of light rays is apparently so small that the separation of red and green images is not visible. It takes more unusual layering of the atmosphere to enhance the separation.
If you have an appetite for more information about green flashes, “An introduction to Green Flashes,” by Andrew T. Young, http://mintaka.sdsu.edu/GF/index.html, will give you more than you can digest in a single setting.
As Young explains, “Green flashes are real (not illusory) phenomena seen at sunrise and sunset, when some part of the Sun suddenly changes color (at sunset, from red or orange to green or blue). The word “flash” refers to the sudden appearance and brief duration of this green color, which usually lasts only a second or two at moderate latitudes. As the area that turns green is ordinarily near the limit of the eye's resolution, these are sometimes called “green dot” displays. Green flashes are by-products of the large variations in astronomical refraction near the horizon.”
And from Elton John’s, “Rocket Man,” let me steal the line, “And all this science I don’t understand.” You don’t have to understand to be amazed and enjoy.



The elusive green flash and a green “pillar” to the right.

Don’t Take Fishing Personally

Some days they wait in line to get caught


Fishing was not on the agenda this week. I had a full plate of other tasks. Susan is off having some quality time with her mom and I had … Well, I had (have) a lot to do. Then Tom called Sunday night and said he thought we needed some time on the stream—how about Tuesday. The heat had tapered off, the fish were probably active again, the stars were aligned, etc.
For almost 10 seconds I was tempted to say no. Then I rethought my position. I do have two fishing trips planned for August and another in September. It had been a couple months since the rods were out of the cabinet, however. Maybe I did need some practice. Hey, fishing is serious business. There are thousands of mistakes to be made on the human’s part while the fish has only to make one. Fish definitely have the upper fin in this game.
Loaded with enough tackle to open a small fly shop, Tom and I, along with new-found-friend Greg, headed off to one of our favorite streams. While distracted by birds and going through the ritual of stringing up the rods, that other ritual, choosing a fly pattern, surfaced. For me, I said, it’s easy. I’m just going to pick up where I left off the last time we were here. My theory was that the fish did not get any smarter during the intervening couple of months, and, hopefully, I did not get any dumber. Tom, brow furrowed, was changing and stretching leaders, looking at some if his beautifully tied flies, and deep into making the right choice. Greg, the only one of this trio with a job, was grinning. He was just happy not to be in the office or his car heading for a meeting on this morning when the sky seemed an unnatural shade of blue.
One of those great mysteries of fly fishing, and probably why we keep coming back, is how two fishers can be virtually side by side, using the same pattern, one catching fish and the other not.
And so it was to be. On this day I was the lucky one. Tom, who has out-fished me numerous times, could only become more flustered each time he watched me dance a rainbow or brookie around the pool. When I’d complain about a fly I had tied coming apart from all the abuse by the fish, he'd mutter something like, “Just keep it up, Bubb. It’s a long walk home.” I tried not to laugh. Honest, I did. And when he did get a fish into the net, he’d lecture it, suggesting that it was about time, etc.
Some days you’re the fisher. Some days you’re the bait.


Pretty, but too small.

Peace at the Watering Hole

Coyote photographed earlier this year in Rocky Mountain National Park.


It’s easy enough to make a case for climate change in northeast Ohio this summer. We’re going through one of our longer periods of extended hot weather. Anything above 90 degrees is a big deal around here. We’ve had a month of it. Television stations, nightly, cover the subject of summer heat in the city as if it didn’t just happen yesterday.
Even with last night’s rain the thermometer was bumping against 80 degrees at 7 a.m. this morning. I opted to get my bike ride out of the way early to beat the heat. Little did I realize, the heat had already won the competition before I even had my shoes on.
The bike trail was relatively cool, at least in the shady spots. Rain puddles dotted the asphalt in the shady spots as well, adding a bit of challenge—unless you’re an eight-year-old kid who goes looking for puddles to ride through. As I neared my turnaround point, I noticed a large, dark shape in the shadows at the middle of the trail. I slowed a bit when I realized I was looking at two coyotes, drinking from a puddle. When I was about 50 feet away, the one on the left looked up at me, took another drink, then both bolted into the nearby woods.
I was at the spot where they had been in a matter of seconds, yet I could not see them in the woods. Great stealth and camouflage, I thought.
I continued to my turn-around point about 100 yards further up the trail. I made a quick turn, pumped by this close encounter of the furred kind—the reason many of us head into the wilderness. Okay, a bike trail in semi-suburbia is not exactly the wilderness. Fortunately, some of the wilderness is coming to us these days.
I immediately focused on the spot where the coyotes had been. I saw a small shape now huddled over the same puddle. It was an opossum. It could not have been three minutes between the two sightings. And while coyotes tend to prey on smaller rodents, I suspect that opossum is sometimes on the menu.
The opossum did not play possum. No panic on its part. I slowed nearly to a stop as I drifted by, giving it plenty of space on the six-foot-wide path. It watched me glide by, maybe unsure of what this colorful creature was. Its attitude was the same as we might assume when viewing an alien from outer space. Out of morbid curiosity I looked around for the coyotes. I wondered if I’d witness what I was sure would be the opossum’s last drink of water.
Nothing happened. Unlike human coming’s and going’s, when nothing happens in the animal world, it’s news.

What’s Old is New Again

A silly way to manage stress

About a quarter century ago, I was attending a thoroughly boring business trade show when a conference-session sign caught my eye. The topic, “Managing Stress,” had nothing to do with why I was on this assignment. Sitting in just seemed like a good idea. In retrospect, I’m unsure if that session was part of the convention I was attending, or one of the other business meetings going on in the mega-plex hotel.
The room was full of people who needed to manage their stresses. I was, in part, captivated by the title of the session: Who would want to manage stress? I wanted to know how to get rid of it.
Here’s where I save you the $200 some 75 people in the room had parted with to hear this guru of stress management cast his pearls of wisdom. I’ll reduce the one hour of hocus pocus to a sentence or two. You manage stress, first, by putting a rubber band on your wrist. When you feel stress coming on, snap the rubber band and it “shocks” the stress out of you. Or, it snaps you back to reality, which is somehow not as stressful.
This memory came back to me earlier this week when Susan returned home with a bag full of distractions and rewards to use on our grandchildren who were coming for a week’s stay. In the bag were what looked like colorful rubber bands.
“What’re these for,” I asked.
“They’re silly bands.”
“Hmmmm. So, whatda they do?”
“Do? They really don’t do anything. Kids wear them and trade them. It’s a fad. It’s a fun thing.”
Okay, I’m all for fun. These silly bands come in a plethora of shapes, sizes, colors and themes, I learned from my grandson. Some glitter, others glow in the dark. Some are mundane while others are highly sought after. He then pulled out a shopping bag and revealed some of his collection of silly bands he had brought with him. He assured me he had plenty more at home. Apparently, the trading of these things has gotten so hot and distracting in schools, they’ve been banned in many places. Zero tolerance for rubber bands.
Throughout the week, as we’ve visited various museums, swimming pools and public events, I’ve paid some attention to what young kids had on their arms—other than tattoos, I mean. Sure enough. From a single silly band to dozens, kids of all ages were decorated in these colorful rings of plastic. Only they’re not rings. They’re shapes of everything from numbers, to buildings, to animals to foodstuff. There seems to be no end to the variety of silly bands a kid can find and wear.
I noticed that when they are on the wearer’s arm, they all look alike. I mentioned that to my grandson and got the full eye-roll that said volumes about the generation gap of 60 years we share.
After several hours at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History today, he asked if he could put his silly bands—stretching from his wrists to his elbows—into one of my pockets until we got home. I agreed, then asked why. He said they were getting too tight and causing him stress. I told him to snap out of it.

Beating the Heat

Northern Watersnake

Susan and I were wondering if there would be enough juice in the thermometer this morning. We’re having a heat wave here. The red stuff (What do they use in this modern-day world since mercury is probably banned?) was at the 80-degree mark and it was only 8 a.m. With two grandkids here for a visit, we knew the solution to keeping cool on a day like this: creek walk!

After loading a lot of stuff we wouldn’t need into a backpack, and forgetting things we would need, plus a light lunch, four of us headed for Chippewa Creek in the Brecksville section of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Forgetting the binoculars definitely added to the challenge.

Although water level was down, the stream was pleasantly cool. There seemed to be more fish in the stream than I can remember. I took that to be a healthy sign. About five minutes into the hike, we encountered a first for us on this small creek, a northern water snake. It was the first of two we’d see by day’s end.

To the credit of the grandkids, neither got all scared and screamy. In fact, they were curious about the snake and all the other creatures we encountered on our five-hour cooling off hike. Hiking in a creek not only cools the body, it awakens an interest in nature for kids like nothing else can—except maybe a bird walk. Fish, however, seem to tolerate the incessant chatter and rock tossing of an eight year old and a 3.5 year old more than birds.



Some words strike fear into one's heart, such as, "Hey Papa! Is this your other camera?"

Step Into the Future

Early morning in the Cuyahoga Valley backcountry


If you could plan a trail in a national park, what would be your criteria?
Last evening the Greater Akron Audubon Society chapter hosted Lynn Garrity, trail planner for the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Garrity has the monumental, and somewhat envious job of putting together a new trail management plan for our 33,000-acre gem. The last plan, such as it is, was done 25 years ago. It’s time for a makeover.
Times have changed, people have changed and national parks have to change. Change is, allegedly, good. The challenge is preserving the historic reason for the park, yet satisfying the needs of its visitors.
The CVNP, one of 50 national parks (there are many more sites administered by the National Park Service) and consistently in the top 10 of “Most Visited” with its 1.5 million annual visitors, has 106 miles of trails. Add in connecting trails of county and city parks that surround this outstanding facility between Cleveland and Akron, and you come up with about 184 miles of recreation trails. Currently, there are multi-use trails, bridle paths, specific hiking trails, plus the waterway itself.
“In the last 25 years,” said Garrity, “things like mountain bikes and trail running have come into existence. Things that planners could not foresee.”
Her mission, which she has enthusiastically accepted, is to come up with a plan that will make everyone happy—or make as few people as possible, unhappy.
“Our number one goal,” she said, “is to provide a trail network that creates a high-quality visitor experience for a variety of trail users.”
Her job sort of reminds me of a juggler who balances six spinning plates on five different sticks. On one hand is preservation of historic sites, while on the other hand is preservation of the natural beauty of the park; non-consumptive use, I’ll call it. On the third hand is the need to provide space for activities that (aaaammmm, I have to be careful here) tend toward consumptive use, in the sense of damaging trails or distracting from the experience of others. Right, I’m talking about off-trail bicyclists and equestrians. It’s an application of the 80/20 rule: 80% of the problem is caused by 20% of the people.
So, what do you think? How should Garrity and her team tackle, and wrestle with this octopus? Some public hearings have been held and more input is needed. If you’ve hiked, or biked, or ridden your trusty steed in this, or any park, you’ve no doubt said, “why don’t they …” or, “If I was designing a trail …” Well, here’s your chance. For more on the planning process and how you can participate, check out the Web site, www.parkplanning.nps.gov/cuva. If you want to contact Garrity and get on her newsletter and email list, drop her a line, with your ideas, at lynn_garrity@nps.gov.
Meanwhile, get out and enjoy the summer. Daylight only gets shorter after June 21st, you know.


Yellow Warblers abound in the CVNP

Just One of Those Days

Peregrine Falcon, up close and personal


It started out to be just another day of bird census work in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park for Susan and me. It turned into one of the more exciting days of the summer—so far.
Heading south on Riverview Road near Peninsula, we spotted some of our birding friends standing in the middle of the road where it passes beneath I-80. This is a spot known for nesting Peregrine Falcons the past three years, so our assumption was that they were looking at a bird high above in the superstructure of the bridge.
Not so. The bird was sitting on the guard rail next to Riverview Road. I have to remember to wait for the car to stop rolling before I jump out at one of these exciting happenings. Especially when I’m the driver. But that’s another story. Sitting there, posing like it was an everyday happening for Peregrine Falcons, was a fledgling. The bird seemed to be mostly talons and big eyes. Terrifyingly cute like most juveniles. Cautiously blocking any attempt the bird might make to get on the road, was Cuyahoga Falls resident Pat Haddad. Along with Pat were veteran birders Bill Osborne, Bob Furst and Judy Tisdale.


Chad and Chris Saladin approach—cautiously

The bird seemed unconcerned about our concern for its welfare. While we discussed what to do and who to call, it checked out the local starling population that seemed to be part of the brunch menu. Bob jumped in his SUV and headed for the park ranger station at the nearby Boston Store. Far below, on the valley floor, we saw two people photographing something above them on the bridgeworks. We discerned it was Chad and Chris Saladin, Peregrine Falcon nest monitors in this area. After more jumping and yelling on our part than the Cleveland Browns do in a daily workout, we got their attention.


Chad and Chris do a quick inspection to be sure the bird is not injured. Bill Osborne looks on.

They immediately recognized our plight and headed up to resolve the issue. With expert handling, including really thick gloves, Chad and Chris captured the wayward fledgling, a female Chad said, then released the bird. He said she just started flying two days before and this was the fifth time he had to rescue her from the guard rail. The bird flew off as best it could in the general direction of its parent who waited above with a tasty Rock Pigeon treat.
When most of your views of this species are while it’s perched hundreds of feet away, or flying at 200+ miles per hour, having one sit for a portrait turns any day into something special. Chad and Chris are just a couple of the many unsung heroes in this area helping to protect these special birds.


Happiness is freedom of flight in a national park as Chad releases the falcon

Rainy Days and Mondays …

Rainy Monday morning solitude


I glanced at the leaden sky as I loaded on my gear. I rationalized the dreary weather with the thought that it was not quite 7 a.m. and maybe the sun decided to sleep in. It was Monday, after all. Today was day-four of the annual Akron Audubon/Summit County Nesting Bird Census. And while any excuse to get into the Cuyahoga Valley National Park is good, this study is particularly important. It’s been going on for more than 30 years and is beginning to show some trending data regarding birds in this region.
Since birds can’t do much about weather, I figured the least I could do was play the game on their terms. Most people take a rain check when it comes to birding in the rain. I think it offers a whole different perspective and provides another window on nature.
Although it wasn’t raining as I started, I prepared. These days, I carry so many electronic gadgets, I feared if it rained hard enough, I might electrocute myself. In the end, I did not have enough small plastic bags to protect all my stuff. I opted to sacrifice my wallet since the plastic cards will endure and what little bit of paper money I had could be laundered—so to speak.
The first hour went well. Adequate numbers of birds were about, including an Orchard Oriole, always a special sighting in this park. About the time I reached the furthest extent of my tether, so to speak, the rain started. It was just a light drizzle, the kind that lulls one into thinking maybe rain gear isn’t necessary. Next thing you know you’re soaked and scrambling to protect your valuables.
I was glad that I paid the few extra bucks for the GoreTex rain jacket. It actually seemed to be working as advertised. Although the humidity was certainly rising, I seemed to be relatively dry, at least from the waist up.
While most birding activity shut down, or moved to the interior of the forest where it was more sheltered, it seemed obvious that life goes on, even in the rain. A Yellow Warbler stood on a branch with a large insect; lunch for the kids. A Gray Catbird passed in front of me with nesting material. Two American Robins copulated on a wood fence post.
I thought of the many times, fishing with my dad in the rain (he never stopped) when he’d respond to my whining, saying, “You won’t melt.” And he was right, of course. He was also wise enough not to add, “and you might learn something.”


In case anyone shows up today ...

Learning from the Locals

Hmmmm, looks like dinner.


On our way home from the recent trip out west, Susan and I stopped in St. Louis for a few days to visit with her relatives. As a way of keeping me happy (We have a prenuptial agreement that I do not have to go to St. Louis in June, July or August when heat and humidity are off the charts.), I was invited to fish a private lake while in town. And since it doesn’t take much to lure me into fishing, I graciously accepted the invite. According to my host, the fish in this lake were (alternately) dying of old age or had to take turns swimming there were so many.
I was hoping one of the locals might be about so I could ask what the fish were hitting, but as luck would have it, I was fishing alone that first morning. Apparently I’d have to fall back on my 60-plus years of experience, not always a reliable source.
As I lined my rod I was keeping one eye on the dark clouds scudding overhead, one eye on a Great Blue Heron at the end of the earthen dam, and one eye on a Scarlet Tanager that had flown into the tree above the heron. The lightning-strike flash of the heron, instantly followed by the clap of thunder splash made by the fish it had just pinioned with its beak, served to focus my attention on the task at hand.
The heron seemed to be out matched by the large catfish. The bird wisely tossed the fish to its side, higher up on the dry land at the top of the dam. At nearly the same instant, two young raccoons dashed out of the cover of weeds at the edge of the woods. The frightened heron bobbed when it should have weaved, as one raccoon nimbly grabbed the fish in its mouth. The pair of thieves, both wearing black masks so identifying the perpetrators will be tough, dashed into the woods.
Not to cave in to personification, however, the heron looked right, then left and seemed a bit bewildered.
Okay, I thought. First lesson from the locals is not to toss onto the bank any fish you’re planning to have for dinner.



Teeth marks on your thumb at the end of the day is the best indicator of some great bass fishing.

Gimmie the Road Less Traveled

Some roads are not built for sissies

When I told a friend we were going to be birding in the Pawnee National Grasslands in northeastern Colorado, his comment was a distinct, “humph.” That can translate several ways: Why? What’s there? Or, don’t you have something better to do with your time?

Western Meadowlarks for entertainment

It is a stark, desolate and beautiful place. The day Susan and I spent in this windswept corner of the country was gorgeous. We saw one van full of what might have been birders, two women on horseback and a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer. We also watched a majestic Golden Eagle on its throne that looked like a windmill, numerous Swainson’s Hawks hunting, Pronghorns doing their Pronghorn thing, and a colorful array of a couple dozen bird species. It was a busy day for that part of the world.
As usual, the beauty is in the details. From 30,000 feet above, the area does look rather abandoned. Even from five feet above it’s tough to see much. You have to get down and dirty to see the real thing.


Beauty in the details

And, as with most other things in life, if you stop and look and listen, it’s a whole different story.


Rattlesnake playing defense. Photo by Susan Jones

Curing White-line Fever

Scissor-tailed Flycatcher at sunset. Something you won’t see from the Interstate.

There’s something great about driving the Interstate highways across America—I just don’t know what it is. Susan and I were hardly out of St. Louis a week ago when a serious case of white-line fever hit us.
We looked up all the antidotes and discovered there is only one that seems to really work—get off the road as soon as possible. It worked like a charm. Before we reached Kansas City we were kicking up dust; not worried about gravel tattooing the underside of our car. We bagged our first Scissor-tailed Flycatcher on the main street of a little town in east-central Kansas. We managed all of Kansas (except for a few miles on I-70) and most of eastern Colorado all the way into Boulder, on roads that kept us in touch with the real world.
There are many wonders to be seen in the backcountry. For me at least, the best of the best is the lack of litter on a stick, i.e. billboard advertising. But that’s a whole ‘nother rant I’ll save for the future.
Let me add my voice to those who recommend getting off the highway—and out of the car for that matter—to see what’s so great about America. Theme parks and DizzyWorld places are just fine—if you have no imagination, or want your kids to live someone else’s dream.
The real world is sitting on a swivel stool in Hoxie, Kansas, having a root beer float made by a lady who has been working in the store for longer than she cares to remember. The real world is about crawling around on your hands and knees, eyeball to eyeball with a collard lizard in the Tall Grass Prairie Preserve in Strong City, Kansas. You’re going to get hot and dirty, however, you are also going to build memories that will last a lot longer than a T-shirt.



A real soda fountain in Hoxie, Kansas.

Matching the Hatch

Looks like dinner

Matching the hatch is one of those things fly fishers do to separate us from other, more sensible fishers. The object of the exercise is to determine what trout are feeding on, then search through the endless number of flies we carry in the multitude of pockets of our fishing vests, in hope of having a pattern that matches, exactly, the trout’s chosen food.
The end result is that we more often than not, fall back on one of three basic fly patterns since matching the hatch takes a considerable amount of skill and patience, two things you’re supposed to have as a fly fisher, but seldom do.
So it was that fishing buddy, Tom, and I struck off into the wilderness of a private fishing venue recently, laden with all the possible fly patterns any sensible fisher would, or could, carry. This was our initial spring fishing trip. I’ve been birding like crazy this spring and Tom is getting ready to climb onto the cutting board to repair a rotator cuff problem, so fishing has been put on the back burner of late.
While walking back to a special spot on the stream we both took note of any bugs flying near the water. There was the occasional flop of trout rising to pick off bugs, a sound that makes any fly fisher’s heart pump a bit faster. We arrived at the spot and, without ceremony, each took a favored position. Actually, I stopped walking first because I could not bear to watch those fish jump and me not have a hook in the water. Tom scurried across a wood bridge and took a place a bit further up stream.
I made a dozen casts with no success while Tom had a hookup on his second or third throw. Suddenly, he was into his second fish. I was beginning to wonder what I had done wrong in my life that I should receive such severe punishment. Then, things shut down for Tom. No fish for either of us for too long. We tried an array of patterns, seeking to match the hatch, even though there was no hatch and we did not have a clue about what the fish were feeding on.
As a birder, you’re never at a loss for something to do when the fish aren’t biting. I watched several Common Grackles search for food on the opposite bank, then head off to the bushes where they probably had nests. I noted that when they made a low pass over the stream, fish swarmed in a line beneath them. Curious behavior, I thought. I paid closer attention. On more than one occasion, as the grackles passed over the stream, they defecated. Is that what the trout were rising to eat?
I searched through my fly boxes, looking for something white and stringy. I found the perfect match for this hatch, a well-used white wooly bugger pattern. It took two casts and I was into fish—big time. By the time I had caught and released a half dozen fish, some rainbows, some brownies, Tom had moved closer so see what all the action was about. I shouted over, “Switch to anything white.” Then I briefly explained my theory. Bang! Another fish.
Without a word he started digging through his fly boxes looking for anything white. A few minutes later I looked up and he, too, was hauling in a nice fat brown trout.
He shouted back, “You made a believer out of me!”



Looks like … Renamed: The Poop Fly

Lessons From an Endangered Species

Kirtland's Warbler 14 May 2010 Magee Marsh

How do you handle the paparazzi when you’re a major star and everyone wants a piece of you? Be polite, ignore them, eat your fill and be on your way.
Birders from all over the country are stalking our neck of the woods these days looking for, and enjoying, elusive wood warblers and other migrating species. We are fortunate to have, geographically speaking, a world-famous migrant trap only a couple hours from where we live. Magee Marsh in northwestern Ohio (aka for old timers as Crane Creek) is known throughout the birders’ world as the best spot in the country to see a majority of the members of the wood warbler family.
Our spot in Ohio has recorded 36 members of that family which numbers about 56 nationwide. Some species never reach the east or north; some are extinct. Since they all have wings, potentially, they could all join the party.
The rarest of these colorful birds is the Kirtland’s Warbler. It’s rare because it nests primarily, almost exclusively, in the Michigan jack pine forests. It’s endangered because of habitat loss and predation from Brown-headed Cowbirds. Kirtland's Warbler is dependant upon fire to provide small trees and open areas that meet its rigid nesting-habitat requirements.
The jack pine requires fire to open its cones and spread its seeds. The warbler first appears in a nesting area about six years after a fire when the new growth is dense and about 1.5 to 2.0 meters high. After about 15 years, when trees are 3.0 to 5.0 meters high, the warbler leaves the area. The female Kirtland's Warbler is more selective than the male in her choice of habitat, consequently, the best areas attract more females than males. The last residents of a tract that is getting too old are always unmated males. Sometimes guys are slow to figure these things out.
Because of its specialized home range and unique habitat requirements, Kirtland's Warbler probably has always been a rare bird. Scientists did not describe the species until 1851 when a male was collected on the outskirts of Cleveland. The species, eventually, was named in honor of Dr. Jared P. Kirtland, a physician, teacher, horticulturist and naturalist who authored the first lists of birds, mammals, fishes, reptiles and amphibians of Ohio.
All of which brings us around to May 14 this year. Breeding male Kirtland's Warblers typically arrive back in Michigan from the Bahamas between May 3 and May 20. So, having one drop into our region at this time is something all of us birders wish for—but never believe will happen. Occasionally, we get lucky. And the odds are in our favor when you have some of the best eyes of the birding world on the lookout. We’re fortunate to have Kenn Kaufman, birding author and lecturer, living in our area. Kenn was checking the bushes that border Lake Erie at Magee Marsh on that morning when he found the bird.
Quickly, he was on the phone, and other lines of social networking communications, to tell the world that a Kirtland’s was in the neighborhood. It is also a happy coincidence that the Black Swamp Bird Observatory, headquartered at Magee Marsh, was sponsoring a major birding festival that had attracted thousands of birders, giving hundreds of people a look at this endangered species.


Bird's eyeview of the paparazzi

The bird proved to be more than just cooperative. It stayed in virtually the same bushes, eating bugs to fuel the rest of its trip to Michigan. It ignored the hundreds of photographers vying for the perfect shot, as well as the gawkers watching its every move. Like the best of stars, it kept about its business, knowing that in the morning it would be on its way, satiated and happy—just like all those photographers and bird watchers.


Kirtland's Warbler shows crowd his best side

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