Tag: bird feeding

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.

A hardy half-ouncer

Weighing heavy on my mind these days is a bird that weighs next to nothing. Over the next week, the black-capped chickadee will help perk up slow hours on the deer stand as small flocks of the small bird suddenly come incredibly close, pick at buds on twigs and then move on. Once a chickadee even landed on my nocked arrow. Indeed, keeping matters interesting.

The well-dressed bundle of feathered nervousness, in black, white and gray, with pale chestnut flanks, doesn’t even weigh half an ounce. I would show some nervous energy too if Mother Nature sent me into Ol’ Man Winter weighing about the same as that quarter in your pocket.

But Mother Nature provided the chickadee with feathers full of insulation. That, and its ability to shut down its body temperature at night makes the lightweight bird a heavyweight in matters of survival.

I used to think that chickadees were too high-strung, too cautious, to loiter at the platform feeder. Cardinals and finches settle in for a meal. Chickadees grab and scurry away. But I’ve learned that chickadees often hide seeds, each one in a different spot, and can remember thousands of hiding places. So they flit about in the tree limbs and bushes—their storage units—as much as they visit the feeder.

On a winter’s night the little bird is in a tree cavity, notching down its body temperature and fluffing up its feathers. A half-ounce bird with a half-ton heater. And a mighty good memory.