Category: Uncategorized

Pairing up for life

They’re paired up now, on the edge of lakes and rivers, where the cattails and grasses meet the open water, and in the marsh and ponds and wet fields. Canada geese are standing, walking, feeding, and floating, two at a time.

On a chilly day in early spring, I find warmth in this recurring scene of pairing and, we’re told, devotion. Canada geese mate for life or, taking the “death do us part” to heart, until they lose a mate to illness, accident or hunter’s gun. Only then will they choose another mate, and it may be a struggle to do so.

These birds are loyal to their mates over a dozen years or more of breeding and nesting. How long has that pair I’m looking at been together? Geese begin breeding as early as two years old, and can live more than 20 years.

But how does a goose that has lost its mate find another? Does it start looking in the flocks of fall and winter when the mating pairs are only loosely connected?

I saw three geese at the lakeshore the other day. Two floated close to each other while the other walked the shoreline. Suddenly the larger of the two birds in the water spread its wings and made a flapping, seemingly mad run at the bird on shore, chasing it off a ways.

Was the bird that was chased the odd goose out? Had it lost its mate and was looking to steal another’s mate? Where would it find companionship in its spring urge to nest, in its inherent obligation to sustain the species?

Later I walked next to a cornfield where ten geese intermittently watched me and picked at the waste grain atop the moist soil. As I drew closer I could tell the birds were loosely paired, even in feeding.

The female goose will soon be on her dozen eggs for nearly a month while the male stands and swims guard. For as long as it takes. For life.

Cloak of winter lifted

When the sun yawned on the eastern horizon on the first day of spring only one cloud stood in its wake-up way. That cloud, narrow and jagged, painted a temporary design on the reddish sphere. And then it went wherever clouds go.

The sun cleared the clutter and claimed the morning. And the day. It had already inhaled the snow over the previous weeks. Now it was intent on warming the nesting feelings in arriving birds. It was also awakening the flutter in our spring’s earliest butterfly.

By afternoon, mourning cloaks were flopping and flitting about in the yard. I had to check a butterfly guide to confirm what I was looking at. It all rushed back to me—the mourning cloak’s overall dark appearance making the cream-colored border on its wings stand out. The top of its wings are a deep brown, with a band of bluish dots on black tracing the golden rim.

Our best look at a mourning cloak is normally when it alights on something and folds its wings. The underside of those wings is dark charcoal, but again the creamy rim distinctly marks the butterfly’s 3-inch wingspan. Note that the wing edges may appear ragged from the wear of its long life in butterfly terms.

We admire monarch butterflies for their thousands of miles migration flight to winter in Mexico. But on the other end of the spectrum, we might want to give some love to the non-migrating mourning cloak. Yes, it overwinters in butterfly form, not as an egg or larvae. It stays out of the snow by tucking into a hole or crevice in a tree or unheated outbuilding.

This mild hibernation, called diapause, actually takes a fluttering pause on some unusually mild winter days. Say it’s a sunny afternoon well into the 40˚s in late winter. The mourning cloak may emerge for a short flight. For the most part, however, the butterfly stays sheltered, and it’s this winter adult form that makes the mourning cloak one of the longest living butterflies, even if that life is only 10 months.

We, too, like those rare thawing days in winter. But what finally brings us out are the spring days of sunshine, when sap leaks from the maple tree trunk and branches. That’s where I saw the mourning cloaks taking aim, and it all makes sense, for our first butterfly is a sap feeder, seeking out anything sugary.

I watched this marvel of the butterfly world. In the vernal equinox sun, the flight of the mourning cloak warmed me, knowing our winged creatures were reappearing in the reawakening countryside.

Ready for bluebirds

As March melts toward what we hope is the spring of April, anticipation must be building for gardeners. Though my parents had big and bountiful gardens on the farm, for some reason I don’t have the itch or niche for raising vegetables. I will let others enjoy the garden and will barter for their produce when it comes of age.

My March days are full of anticipation of what’s coming to the fields, not the gardens, and I’m not talking about alfalfa, clover and corn. I’m dreaming of bluebirds on sunny, warm spring days. I’m working on their lodging so it’s ready when their flight arrives.

A few weeks ago, as March dawned like a house cat rather than a lion, I got at the task immediately, while the field was still covered with several inches of crusted snow. But considering the speed with which that snow was leaving, and the promising longe-range forecast, I knew bluebirds could arrive early. I usually note their return the first week in April. But March has been noted in my journal before, and could be again this spring.

I keep adding nesting boxes—there are now five—but the one the bluebirds prefer was the first I ever built. It was rather crude, made of weathered shed boards from an uncle’s farm. One spring I replaced it with something bigger and better (I thought) and moved the original a couple of hundred yards farther north on the edge of the field, where it meets the town road ditch.

When the bluebirds returned, they promptly found and claimed the box that I moved—their old home—proving new and improved isn’t always better. The tree swallows took over my new project, as they have at other boxes intended for bluebirds. So be it; the two species get along fine in the same neighborhood, which also has bobolinks nesting near the ground in the hayfield.

Several years ago I improved ventilation in all boxes in hopes of helping the birds and their chicks survive prolonged days of hot sun; one July I found dead bluebird chicks in the nest after a brutal stretch of heat. Last year, I repaired a rotted corner of the tree swallows’ box with a piece of aluminum cut from a Leinenkugel’s beer can. The swallows didn’t mind the advertising. This spring, the boxes pretty much needed only cleaning, though one roof required refastening.

During the inspection, I was pulling old grass and cottony seed balls of goldenrod from one box when something jumped from the nest mess. A short-tailed shrew hit the snow and scampered for long grass. A shrew shack! I was wearing gloves, but nevertheless found a stick to finish the clean-out.

After a walk through the woods, sinking several inches into the granulated, melting snow, I started back through the field toward the road. I passed the readied bird boxes, wondering when bluebirds and swallows will return to this field, along with bobolinks and meadowlarks. The day was warm enough, with a blue sky, that it felt it could be any hour. But I knew it was several weeks away. Spring will come; it always does. The bluebirds will tell me when.

Learning of larks

Horned larks are messing with my eyes and challenging my photography efforts. And now, these masked birds with horns are giving me a devil of a time wondering where they spend their winters.

A birding friend of mine used to let me know when horned larks started showing up along the roads. He was a birdwatcher and a bartender—I don’t know if the two have a correlation—and he was excited about this first sign of spring in the bird seasons of northern Wisconsin. I assumed he meant the horned larks were migrating here. He has passed, so my opportunity to ask has also passed.

It always seems too early to see the horned larks. And they are tough to see, fading into the brown grasses and dirty snowbanks along roads as early as the last days of February, and certainly by the first week in March. A horned lark is creamy-hued with streaks of tan and a yellow face. It has a black patch on its throat and a line of black above its bill, extending under its eyes and down its cheeks, giving the appearance of a mask or handlebar mustache.

And it has those tiny horns atop its head. The horns are, of course, feathers, but with the “mask” give the bird a menacing look. That is, if you can get close enough for a look. When I’m walking next to fields this time of year I normally don’t see the bird until it takes flight from a snowbank or patch of grass, sometimes only 25 feet away.

I hold my camera ready, but inevitably the camouflaged lark is taking off before I see it. Normally there’s a loose, spread-out flock of several birds. Every day I vow to see the horned larks before they fly. I don’t. The photo above? Well, I got sort of lucky but at long range, from one field to another across a town road.

Now, with more study of horned larks, I learn that some of the birds may overwinter here if there’s scant snow and they can find natural seeds. However, they prefer bare ground, so I’m sure most of the larks are following bare ground northward. When bird books show horned larks are year-round residents in Wisconsin, the part of the state being referred to is probably well to the south.

So, “our” horned larks in March are either migrating here or through here from areas to the south, or if some spent the winter here they are now more visible as they peck at seeds along baring road shoulders. Either way, horned larks lifting off from ditches in late winter is one of our earliest signs of spring. They will be nesting by April in northern Wisconsin and well into Canada.

March produces the most sightings of horned larks in Wisconsin. I’ll keep my camera at ready and my eyes focused for a yellow face on the roadsides of March.

Stirrings of spring

So you think spring is stirring in your bones. Whatever fever you’re feeling, it’s probably not as strong as the migration tug in birds to the south of us these March days.

Spring is stirring in not only the bones of birds, but also in their brains—yes, bird brains—urging them to point their beaks northward and get on with what’s arousing their feathers, tingling their wings. It’s the stirring of migration and nesting, the need to nuture a family. It’s the awakening once again to get on with the survival of the species.

A migration study has found that birds’ urge to fly north in the spring has such an urgency that they make their spring return journey to our yards, fields and forests two to six times faster than their southward flight in fall. Scientists are now tracking entire migration routes, speeds and stopover locations of individual songbirds, using tiny geolocators, the first tracking devices small enough and light enough for songbirds to carry.

Weighing a fraction of an ounce, geolocators don’t slow the flight, say scientists. One female purple martin was tracked averaging 358 miles a day while winging northward more than 4,500 miles in only 13 days. That’s nearly four times faster than scientists previously thought. (Come to think about it, translating wings to tires, the 358 miles a day would also be pretty good for traveling cross-country by car or RV.)

Not only are we finding that birds migrate at a faster flight speed in spring than previously thought, we are also finding that the fall migration is more leisurely, with long layovers. Could it be that after all the hustle and bustle of nesting is over the birds simply slow down, take a breather and enjoy themselves?

But come spring, they feel the overwhelming urge to travel and stake a claim in the northland (as was the scarlet tanager in the above photo from a past spring). They’re feeling the urge to build a nest and raise young. They’re feeling it right now, a thousand or more miles away. Your bluebird, your robin, your oriole, your hummingbird—yes, all of them and more—are booking a flight to travel swift and light.

Pull of the moon

I kept watching the clock this afternoon. At 3:51 p.m., the moon was rising. Not a full moon, but only a night away from full, and the sky was cloudless. Maybe not so tomorrow night. And so it was tonight, the time to go. My anticipation rose with the moon.

Winter normally affords only one, maybe two, opportunities to snowshoe or ski comfortably by the light of a full moon. For me, the necessary trifecta is the right temperature, a cloudless sky, and, of course, the full, or nearly full, moon.

That all came together tonight, with the temperature barely dropping below freezing as the sun slipped away from a springlike late February afternoon. I would leave the house at 6:51 p.m., exactly 3 hours into the moon’s night ride. It was nearly halfway up in the eastern sky when I strapped on snowshoes and put them to the trail.

I hoped to see animals moving in the moonlit meadow or across the large field as I crossed from the wide snowmobile trail to my narrow path in the forest. But the melting and freezing of the past few days created a crust atop the snow. Crunch, crunch, crunch spoke my snowshoes. I would not be sneaking up on any animals tonight.

The full moon was behind me to begin with, a slight breeze in my face. My shadow danced in front of me—a snowshoe waltz. I crossed the open field, the wide expanse allowing me to study the sky—Orion the Hunter and Sirius the Dog Star high in the south, the Big Dipper standing on its handle in the northeast, and halfway up in the east was the moon, 250,000 miles away but seemingly riding on my shoulders as I headed west.

The dark, jagged form of the hilly forest was a half mile away. It wasn’t that dark when I got there. Of course, that was the point, this full moon jaunt. The path was easily visible in front of me as a white ribbon tinged in blue, though always trailing into a dark curve. I’d reach the curve and see the next stretch of ribbon awaiting me. I paused to listen for an owl, perhaps a coyote or fox, but heard nothing.

I took photos—a tough assignment at night without the aid of a tripod—and then pushed on again. I realized I hadn’t put my gloves back on, but my hands were comfortable. There was no breeze here, only the sifting of the moonlight through the bare branches and portals in the pine boughs. I saw rabbit tracks, and wondered how the cottontails adjust to the lighted night, their nocturnal rounds more visible to peering owls.

I headed home, my shadow tagging along behind. All I heard were my snowshoes and the rhythm of my jogging steps. For a moment, it was nature’s night song, the wings of a migrating bird, the flow of a creek, the call of an owl and all the intricacies and mysteries of a winter’s night.

I traversed the meadow and turned onto the wide trail that leads me home. Sirius was my guide, high and straight ahead. Yes, Sirius the Dog Star, whose spirit I always told my good dog was in him. I stared at Sirius, with the glowing moon on my left shoulder. Soft and peaceful was the night.

Our buds of winter

They’ve been there all winter, you know, those buds on the trees. Perhaps we will notice them more now as temperatures moderate and we get outside to look for signs of winter giving up. When we see the buds, we can appreciate that they’ve survived below-zero days and nights to give us hope for spring and all its greenness.

Buds form in late summer at the base of leaf stems. As soon as colored leaves fall in autumn, the new buds enveloping next spring’s new leaves, flowers and stems are visible. But we may be too busy raking leaves to notice the infancy of next year’s crop.

It’s more fun to take a look now as we search for signs of approaching spring. Against a blue sky of February, the buds of birch, maple, box elder and lilac trees in the back yard are easily revealed. So when we say trees are “budding” in spring, what we actually mean is that the buds that have been there all winter are “bursting.” Yes, in spring, the buds will be warmed and swell to a point that they burst from the outer scale that protected them in their dormant state of winter.

I snipped off a twig from the birch tree and slit open the scale with a sharp knife to reveal a tiny green bud—a leaf—about a quarter-inch long. Imagine, these little green leaves wrapped up tight and protected from the days and nights of below-zero temperatures. These miniscule oblong buds, now tucked inside the hard cover of the bud scale, will emerge as tiny leaves and grow and grow and grow into our summer shade and fall colors.

So take a look this winter at the tree buds and wonder at the precision of nature in protecting what will be the beauty of trees through spring, summer and fall. These buds over the next couple of months will be teased to burst open with spring fever, much the same as every one of us. But we will all have to wait until the time is right.

Trails for life

The first trails I followed were cow paths. They were pretty safe routes for a little tyke because they all led back to the barn and farmyard. Safe at home.

I’d run along the narrow paths with a dog following, making up names for the paths that the cows slowly plodded along single file in their daily routine. The names originated from my latest childhood fascination, perhaps a television show or a day trip with my parents.

I would continue to follow trails, being engaged while on them and enthused by what they offered as my outdoor explorations expanded. So, too, did my days of more hunting freedom, as in hunting solo. Cow paths turned to deer trails, and I’d follow logging roads, past and present.

Later I found myself winding through the woodlands on cross-country ski trails. On ambitious days I’d ski on groomed trails—sometimes snowmobile trails—for 20 miles or more. I’d also blaze my own snowshoe trails where nobody else ventured. Still do.

At a settling point in my life, new trails of a whole different plan and purpose came along. They were in the back yard, for my wife and I had taken on two four-legged boys who needed a route to stretch their legs and exhaust their energy in the winter. The dogs’ play trail was in the shape of a triangle, starting and ending at the foot of the deck (again, safe at home). After every snowfall I’d shovel the 300 linear feet of dog trails and then smile at wagging dog tails.

I’d toss their ball and it would roll quickly down the slight and slick incline, sending the dogs hurdling into deep snow if they caught up to it too late. They didn’t care. With gusto and white noses they’d retrieve the ball from the powder and get back on track, one chasing the other to the triangle’s next point. One of the dogs played his own game of ball, setting it at the top of the incline and nose-nudging it until it picked up steam.

Those trails are no longer, as the boys are gone now. So my energy goes back into the trails of exploration and recreation while running, hiking, snowshoeing and skiing. I miss the trails of the past, but am grateful for the memories and the hours of learning and laughing along those paths. I am still learning and laughing on the trails of the present, all the while wondering but not worrying about the trails of the future. I look forward to them, wherever they take me, whatever they teach me, whenever they call me.

Somehow, life’s trails always lead back home. Safe, and warm, at home.

A little winter’s help

It’s 5˚, and with a healthy northwest wind there’s a -15˚ wind chill, or “feel like” temperature as the weather folks like to say these days. No matter the shrill chill chasing 5 inches of new snow, the corn delivery must go through. You see, it’s this point of winter when I worry about game birds—pheasants and ruffed grouse to be exact—as they take a survival test in the snow, cold and wind.

So I’m taking corn and bird seed to the pheasants and grouse I have seen along my snowshoe trail, where I wind through the meadow grasses and next to thickets along a field. These spots hold birds, and I have seen them flush from one brushy spot to another many times, escaping the perceived threat I present on snowshoes.

A couple of winters ago five pheasants got up from the narrow thicket bordering a corn field. The birds flew northward a couple of hundred yards. It happened again at the start of this winter—not five birds but a single colorful ringneck. It flew to the same spot. So I headed that direction, to a confluence of meadow, creek, brush and fallen trees on the edge of a woods.

I was drawn to a downed tree in a tangle of brush. It was a foot or so off the ground, with pheasant tracks going back and forth from it to where long grass was deposited by the creek’s high waters. The thick clumps of grass are hung up on fallen branches, creating tent-like shelters, perhaps perfect for the wintering pheasant. By the log there was little snow, so the next time I came I brought shelled corn to the sheltered patch and also cleared a plot spot by the first thicket.

The trips are nearly daily now. The corn and seeds keep disappearing. There are bird tracks in both spots. I hope I’m helping both species; maybe there will be one more brood of each this spring because of my deliveries.

The grouse caught a break this week with 5 inches of fluffy snow falling. They now have the 10 inches of snow required to burrow into for warmth. The snow’s insulation factor provides the birds conditions 30˚ warmer than the air temperature. I’ll never forget the first time I scared a grouse from its snow roost. I had stopped to rest while cross-country skiing when suddenly the snowbank next to me exploded with feathers and snow. A grouse winged away into the blue winter sky as snow softly settled on my skis.

I worry more about the pheasants now as, like turkeys, their scratching for waste grain is limited by snow depth. They feed on what they find, even the seeds of the dead and bronzed tansies, goldenrod and thistles in the meadow and at the edge of the field. Of course, “my pheasants” are also feeding on shelled corn delivered via snowshoe express.

I stand between the food plot and field, letting the February sun find me fully as I turn my back to the wind. I see pheasant and grouse tracks leading to the gift of corn and sunflower seeds. It all disappears by the next day, only to be replenished. For now, these birds are well fed. So, too, is my soul.

Escape of the ghosts

There were white ghosts and gray ghosts above, and black shadows of ghosts dancing on the snow. It was an hour before sunrise, and in the gathering light of dawn the ghosts were racing for cover.

Was it their past the ghosts sought after escaping the chimney on the bone-chilling morning in January? However, the smoky ghosts had no bones, so probably no chill, either. With dizzying fluidity they swirled, rose and fell as if avoiding invisible obstacles.

They were wood stove ghosts. I wondered if their release from the firewood and hot coals sent them looking for the forest where they once lived in maple, oak and ash trees, among the birds and squirrels and seasons of all degrees. Will they now spend the rest of their days hiding high in the branches, wisps of the past watching secrets of the present?

I stood in the warm house and stared at the cinema of winter—a snow-covered back yard lit dimly by the advancing dawn. There were fuzzy, fixed shadows—the birdhouse, trellis, deck posts. But there were also moving shadows. I stepped into the cold morning and looked up to watch the ghosts leaping from the chimney in white and gray flickers against a murky sky giving up its stars one at a time. On the ground, racing past my feet the ghosts were dark shadows, changing shapes with the whims of the slight breeze.

The ghosts raced over the herb garden, bounced off the yard shed, climbed its roof and disappeared into the pine boughs above. They were free, no longer standing in the forest or stacked in a pile, but now dancing in the branches.