Weds., Mar. 21, 2007
   Last night I was on a stake out.  I tried several times earlier to catch the suspects leaving their home. This time I was going to stick it out until sunset.  As the 7:30 pm hour passed, there was still no activity. The sun was dipping low in the west.  I eyed their door with my binoculars and spotted a movement off to the right.  False alarm, it was one of the little neighbors going for take out. 

  By 7:45 pm I was fighting boredom and beginning to think that the last night of winter would end up being a bust. I decided to leave when things got too dark- there are no streetlights here and I don’t have one of those fancy night vision things.  At 8:00 pm the sun had journeyed below the horizon and it was getting hard to see.  I glassed the entrance one more time and…there, a movement.  She was out in a flash and into the water before I could take in the scene.  She had a bunch of grass, or something in her mouth, but it all happened so quickly.  The water rippled and she was gone.

  My suspect, in this case was a female muskrat at a bank den along a nameless Monroe County ditch. I was trying to observe some of the family’s behavior.  But, this was all I observed.  Well, there was the Meadow Vole that scampered up the hill behind the den, but that was hardly front page news.

  I reached for the ignition but a faint sound prompted a pause.  It was a cooing sound from high above. I poked my head out the window and observed a flight of 16 Tundra Swans headed north. Their white bodies gleamed a ghostly white against the dark sky. They were arranged in a sloppy “V” and calling constantly.

  Our local Tundra Swans departed the region a week ago.  These large white birds come down from the high Arctic to spend their winters here on the Detroit River and further east on the Atlantic Coast.  The birds I now observed had to be migrants from the Chesapeake Bay area.  They follow a diagonal route across the Lower Peninsula and over to the Alberta prairies and then north to Alaska & the N.W. Territories.

  They were very high up, but I know that every one of the birds had exactly 20 tail feathers.  How do I know that? Well, I looked it up in Walter Barrow’s 1912 classic Michigan Bird Life.  It’s right there on page 121.  Although I knew it already, a little research confirmed that Adult Tundra Swans are solid white, with a prominent black bill with a yellow spot ahead of the eye.  They have a five and a half foot wingspan and weigh over 12 lbs or so. 

  Another thing worthy of mention is the scientific name – you know that fancy Latin thing right next to the common name.  In Barrow’s book, the scientific name of the Tundra Swan is given as Olor columbianus (Ord).  Since then, the first name (called the genus name) has been changed to Cygnus which is the familiar Latin for Swan.  The second name is the species name and the best translation of it means “of Columbus,” or something like that.  I don’t mean Columbus, Ohio but the guy.

  To find out why someone would name a bird after an explorer who never saw a Tundra Swan, you have to go to the third name in the parenthesis – Ord.  That stands for 19^th century naturalist George Ord who was responsible for naming the species in 1815. Unfortunately, he never explained why he chose the columbianus , and he has been dead since 1866 so we can’t ask him. 

  How did Mr. Ord get the opportunity to name this bird, you ask (or not)?  He was one of the naturalists who examined the specimens brought back by Lewis and Clark and the Corps. of Discovery.  They had observed this bird, and the larger Trumpeter Swan, while on their journey. The pair recorded in their journals that this “smaller swan”  made a peculiar call that “began with a kind of whistling sound and terminates in a full round note which is rather louder than the whistling, or former part.”  Because of this, they coined it as the “Whistling Swan” and that is how it officially entered into the science texts.

  Now that I have you thoroughly confused, I need to say that the Whistling Swan name was changed many years ago into Tundra Swan.  And there you have it…mostly (I won’t go into why the name was changed). 

  By the way, George Ord was a busy little science bee when in 1815.  He presented a description of a whole host of new species in addition to the Tundra Swan – many from the L & C expedition.  He named seven other species, including the Black-tailed Prairie Dog, Pronghorn Antelope, Ring-billed Gull, and Microtus pennsylvanicus.  Microtus is the fancy name for Meadow Vole. 

  Although my intended purpose for the stakeout was thwarted, at least I was able to see two of Mr. Ord’s critters.

March 19, 2007
 I have always been a road kill observer.  As such, it is not uncommon for me to pull off to the side of the road or execute a U-turn to re-examine a hastily viewed carcass.  This habit began from the day I could drive and continues to the present day.  My wife will tell you how I pulled over, while dating her many years ago, to retrieve the body of a cardinal (aside from being dead, it was in perfect condition, by the way).  Possibly with the hope that this behavior would stop, she married me and we had three kids.  Well, my kids will tell you about the times we pulled over to examine a fly ridden moose corpse in Canada, or stopped to collect quills from a long dead Porcupine, or examined a potential rattlesnake in Pennsylvania.  She is still my wife, by the way.

  Please understand that the pavement specimens in question are always assessed for their educational value.  Some are frozen for later taxidermy work, others are only good for, shall we say – “parts”, while others make me sorry that I stopped at all once the breeze shifted (the Pennsylvania rattlesnake, for instance). Most serve as population assessment tools.  I’ve always been a natural history educator, even before I actually was one, so the opportunity to examine road kill is a natural thing. 

  Whether they mention it in proper company or not, everyone notices road kills.  You swerve around them and pinch your nose when passing the black and white ones. It is as a public service, therefore, that I feel the need to point out some recent road kill trends and what they mean. 

  That Raccoons and Opossums are not born dead along the side of the road, may be a surprise to some.  Within the last month, the raccoons have far outdone the opossums and rather put them to shame.  Both of these creatures become especially active in late winter – especially after the end of this bitter cold February.  Neither animal hibernates, but they do hole up for extended periods.  Both emerge hungry and find carrion much to their liking.  Put the two facts together and you have the Ted Nugent scenario of “Whack ‘em and stack ‘em” as they seek carrion in the form of fresh road kills and are whacked by automobiles.  This is why roadkills are often in “sets.” There’s a lot more to say about these beasts, but I’ll save it for another time.

  Within the last week or so, Muskrats have made their appearance as roadside décor.  Although I am tempted to say that they were just trying to show the ‘possums and ‘coons how to properly cross the road, that would be an unscientific observation.  With their huge hind feet and tiny front paws, muskrats are ill suited for land travel and can only manage an accelerated waddle while on land (or tarmac).  They are water creatures fit for swimming.  So, why would they “try to cross the road?”  The answer – “to get to the other side.”

  Muskrats turn their thoughts to making little muskrats in late winter.  The males begin to compete for the attentions of the females and the females become territorial.  Biting fights frequently result and the young, weak, or inexperienced muskrats are forced to seek greener pastures.  They pack up their musk glands and spread out from their home range.  The lucky ones find habitable marsh space only a short swim away, but the unlucky ones are forced to wander far and wide. Many become victims of coyotes, fox, mink and hawks while others are sent to their maker by the likes of a Lincoln, Land Rover or a Lexus. Major roadways like I-75 or Telegraph have to be crossed by these hapless refugees in order to reach fresh habitat on the other side. Most of them make it, but many don’t.

  Locally the muskrat population is at high point, so there is the expectation that there will be a lot more little muskrat carpets to be seen this year before spring settles down.  The period is relatively brief and the raccoons, ‘possums and rabbits will soon return to sole ownership of the centerline and the muskrats will stick to their marsh.

  There are two things to draw from this discussion.  First of all, you can now consider muskrat road kill as a sure sign of spring.  Perhaps you can mark it on your calendar next year (remember, its right around the time the muskrat meals are advertised).  Secondly, use this as a memory trick to remember the Algonquin Native name for the Muskrat.  In that tongue he is called “Musquash.”

March 18, 2007

  The advent of spring has nothing to do with the weather or with the calendar really. This morning it was bone-chilling cold, although the equinox is very near. A fresh layer of clear ice covered the open water of the marsh.  It was just a few days ago that the old winter ice had finally retreated to the cat-tail edge.  The new pane of ice was just enough to support the weight of a large male mink as he gingerly picked his way across the surface. He had announced himself moments ago as he crashed through a patch of paper thin shelf ice. The brief dunking sent him back up onto the firmer surface to continue his journey.   As he disappeared among the cat-tail stems, a curious Red-wing Black bird watched from above, but showed no alarm.

  The Red-wing wasn’t terribly worried about the potential predator.  He was far more concerned with the matter of fence building. The male red-wings had arrived around the first of March. They were now laying out territories in preparation for the arrival of the females. The birds vie for space by calling and displaying to rival males.  His song, therefore, is more akin to a stream of profanity and threats rather than a bubbly font of joy. He let out a distinctive “Ook-ka-leah-a” call (expletive deleted) and winged his way to my side of the marsh. Other males responded in kind.

  Upon arriving at a cat-tail stem positioned between me and the bright rising sun, he ignored me as thoroughly as he had the mink.  Puffing up his rich black feathers, and flaring his wings to flash his bright red epaulettes, he opened his mouth for another measure of “Ook-ka-leeeeeeeeeah-a.”  At the point of reaching the “leah-a” part, the sun highlighted a puff of steam coming out of his throat.  It was a sinuous feathery puff that dissipated as quickly as it was issued.  Several times in succession the scene was repeated – each time with the puff to accent the last half of the declaration.  Then he left for another portion of the marsh.

  As many times as I’ve heard the call of this marshland bird, I’ve never been treated to this sight.  Seeing a bird’s breath is a rare and fleeting thing, and up until now not something that I ever thought of. My breath vapor formed a thick mammalian cloud in the crisp air, while his was as light and airy as the feathers that covered his body. I had seen a breath of spring.